a Journal for Greek letters

Transcription

Vol. 16-17 B
2013 - 2014
Introduction
Crisis, Criticism And Critique In
Contemporary Greek Studies
E d i t o r s Vr a s i d a s K a r a l i s a n d P a n a y o t a Nazou
1
Vol. 16-17 B
Crisi s, Criticism And Critique In
Contemporary Greek Studies
E d i t o r s Vr a s i d a s K a r a l i s a n d P a n ayota Nazou
2013 - 2014
The Modern Greek St u d i e s
Association of Aust r a l i a a n d
New Zeala nd (MGSA A N Z )
President - Anthony Dracopoulos
Vice President - Elizabeth Kefallinos
Treasurer - Panayota Nazou
Secretary - Panayiotis Diamadis
The Modern Greek Studies Association of Australia and New
Zealand (MGSAANZ) was founded in 1990 as a professional
association by those in Australia and New Zealand engaged in
Modern Greek Studies. Membership is open to all interested
in any area of Greek studies (history, literature, culture, tradition, economy, gender studies, sexualities, linguistics, cinema,
Diaspora etc.).
The Association issues a Newsletter (Ενημέρωση), holds
conferences and publishes two journals annually.
Editorial board
Vrasidas Karalis (University of Sydney)
Maria Herodotou (La Trobe University)
Panayota Nazou (University of Sydney)
Anthony Dracopoulos (The University of Sydney)
Panayotis Diamadis (University of Technology)
Elizabeth Kefallinos (Maquarie University)
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Correspondence a n d p a y m e n t s
Department of Modern Greek A18,
University of Sydney, NSW 2006 Australia
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Published for the Modern Greek Studies Association of
Australia and New Zealand (MGSAANZ)
Department of Modern Greek, University of Sydney NSW
2006 Australia
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E d i to r s
Vrasidas Karalis
Panayota Nazou
Cover Image
source: National Gallery of Athens website
artist: Κωνσταντίνος Παρθένης
Πλαγιά, 1908
Design
Marietta and Martin Buikema
Two Minds
Printing
Blink Print
Ty p e f a c e
Museo Sans,
Chaparral Pro and
Scotch Modern
T he e di tors wo uld like to ex press the ir g rat i tude
to the Estate o f the l ate N ichol a s A nthony A rone y
for i t s genero u s a ssistance
Dedicated to the memory of
Professor Manuel James Aroney AM, OBE
31st August 1932 - 15th February, 2011
Contents / Part B
Part A
-
Cinema
Theo Angelopoulos and the Cinema of
Contemplation / p . 1 1
Andrew Horton
Addressing the Lemnos Heritage of Gallipoli
and its forgotten foundations
/ p . 1 05
John N. Yiannakis
Investigating the Death of a Legend / p .127
Martyn Brown
‘Whose Is This Song?’
Nationalism and Identity through the lens
of Adela Peeva / p . 2 1
Eleni Elefterias-Kostakidis
The invasion of Greece in 1941 and the Nazi
hordes that never were.... / p .147
Craig Stockings and
Eleanor Hancock
From the archives of Oblivion:
the first female Greek director Maria Plyta
(1915-2006) / p . 4 5
Vrasidas Karalis
Re-imagining nationhood during the Second
World War / p .165
Anna Efstathiadou
History
Money, Sovereignty and the modern Greek
state / p .185
Peter Prineas
‘A brief and personal account’:
the evidence of Charles Dobson on the
destruction of the city of Smyrna in
September 1922 / p . 6 9
Joanna Hyslop
Migration
Κυθήριοι ομογενείς στην Αυστραλία
και στην Τασμανία.
Προσωπικές αφηγήσεις και
αναπαραστάσεις σε έναν
παγκοσμιοποιημένο κόσμο
(20ός-21ος αι.)
Kytherian Emigrants in Australia and
Tasmania: personal narratives and
representations in a globalized world
(20th-21st c.) / p . 9 1
George N. Leontsinis
The first Greek-Australian Review:
re-organisation in the Greek-Australian
communities of the post-mass migration era
/ p . 2 01
Toula Nicolacopoulos and
George Vassilacopoulos
Tales of glory boxes, suitcases and dreams: An
investigation of cultural and social changes in
the dowry practices of Greek and Italian postwar migrants in South Australia / p .215
Maria Palaktsoglou, Daniela Cosmini-Rose,
Diana Glenn, Eric Bouvet
Migration, Integration, Acculturation:
Greek-Australian women across
generations / p . 2 3 7
Elizabeth Kefallinos
Greek, Australian, Greek-Australian or
something else?
Alternative identities and communities in
John Charalambous’ Furies (2004)
/ p.253
Catalina Ribas-Segura
Greek Embroidery and the Making of
Heritage / p . 2 7 5
Cheryl Simpson
Part B
-
Language
Commemorating the decipherment of
Linear B and the discovery of Mycenaean
Greek / p . 2 9 5
Stavroula Nikoloudis
The acquisition of grammatical gender in
Greek / p . 3 0 7
P. P. Koromvokis and
I. Kalaitzidis
Culture
Hume’s Lucianic Thanatotherapy / p . 3 2 7
George Couvalis
Contemporary Greek Philosophy at the
Crossroads:
Neokantianism – Existentialism –
Phenomenology / p .345
Golfo Maggini
Alexandros Papadiamantis:
A Passionate Saint / p .369
Nicolas Evzonas
Who is Kazantzakis’ God? / p .387
Nick N. Trakakis
Επιθυμία, Έρωτας, Συναισθήματα:
Μια Φιλοσοφική Ανάγνωση του
Κίτρινου Φακέλου του Μ. Καραγάτση
Desire, Love, Emotions:
A Philosophical Reading of M. Karagatsis’
Kitrinos Fakelos / p .419
Eleni Leontsini
Αυτοαντίληψη και αυτοπαρουσίαση: η
Αυτοβιογραφία της Μελίνας Μερκούρη,
Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα
Self-perception and Self-presentation:
Melina Mercouri’s Autobiography I Was
Born Greek / p .457
Panayota Nazou
C. P. Cavafy: Anthonism / p .485
Michael Tsianikas
The Body of a Political Masochist:
Torture, Performance and Power in Elias
Maglinis’ The Interrogation / p .505
Tatjana Aleksic
continues next page
Contents (continued)
Η Περιπέτεια του Αντρέα Κορδοπάτη
και ο Ενδιάμεσος Χώρος του Θανάση
Βαλτινού
The Adventure of Andreas Kordopatis and
the Interstitial Space of Thenanis Valtinos
/ p .52 5
Anthony Dracopoulos
Parody and National Crisis:
Thanasis Valtinos’ Three Greek One-Act Plays
and its critical reception / p . 5 4 5
Dimitris Paivanás
Greece in Italy, or, A Great Silence
Sections X-XVII
Piero Bigongiari
On the Sacred Way / p . 5 6 3
Eugenio Montale
Translated with introduction and notes by
Theodore Ell
Con tributors / p . 5 9 6
Vo l . 1 6 - 1 7 B
Introduction
2 0 1 3 - 2 0 14
Language
Commemorating the decipherment of Linear B and the discovery of
Mycenaean Greek / p . 2 9 5
The acquisition of grammatical gender in Greek / p .307
I. Kalaitzidis
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L a n g u a ge
St Cecilia
Κωνσταντίνος
Παρθένης, 1938
294
L a n g u a ge
St av ro u l a N i ko l o u dis
Th e U n i v e r s i t y of M e l b o u r n e
Commemorating the decipherment
of Linear B and the discovery of
Mycenaean Greek
Abstract
Linear B is the writing system used by the Mycenaean Greeks during the Late Bronze Age, roughly between 1450 – 1200 BCE. Clay tablets
inscribed in the Linear B script had been unearthed at the excavations of
Knossos, Crete, in the early 1900s and subsequently at Pylos and Mycenae
on the mainland of Greece,1 but they had remained largely unreadable for
decades, until a British architect by the name of Michael Ventris, who had
always had a keen interest in languages, announced on a BBC radio programme, that was aired on 1st July 1952, that he had deciphered Linear B
and that it represented the earliest surviving form of the Greek language.2
This was a major breakthrough, complementing the archaeological investigations of the time by giving scholars access to the textual information
recorded in the Linear B tablets about the socio-political, economic and
religious facets of life in the Mycenaean world. This paper commemorates
the 60th anniversary of this important achievement in two ways: first, it
outlines the unique contributions of the four main pioneers involved in the
decipherment (Michael Ventris, Alice E. Kober, Emmett L. Bennett, Jr. and
John Chadwick); second, it focuses on a small section of Linear B tablet PY
Ep 704 in order to illustrate the detailed information contained in these
texts and to consider the diachronic development of the Greek language by
pointing to several key similarities and differences between Mycenaean and
Modern Greek.
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L a n g u a ge
The decipherment revealed that the Linear B tablets were economic
documents. They include landholding and taxation information, they indicate what was coming into the central administrative centres, usually called
‘palaces,’ in the form of raw materials and what was going out as finished
products or as material to be worked into finished products. They include
lots of inventories of items such as vessels, chariot equipment, animals, garments, food and drink, as well as personnel. They were the Mycenaeans’
accounting records, used for administrative purposes.
The term ‘Linear’ in the name ‘Linear B’ refers to the linear shape of
the signs inscribed on to the clay tablets (not wedge-shaped like the cuneiform of Mesopotamia) and the ‘B’ distinguishes this script from the Linear
A script, found on Crete, which shares some features but is distinct and
remains undeciphered. The Linear B clay tablets were intended only as temporary storage devices.3 Once the information they contained was no longer
required, the clay itself would be moistened and re-moulded to create new
writing surfaces. The tablets were preserved by being baked accidentally in
the fires that destroyed the Mycenaean administrative centres at the end of
the Bronze Age.
For a long time, Ventris was convinced that the language behind Linear B was Etruscan, a non-Indo-European language, later spoken in Italy
(768-264 BCE), possibly originating in western Anatolia.4 Sir Arthur Evans,
excavator of the palace at Knossos, also believed that the writing of the tablets from Knossos on Crete was not Greek. In his view, since the material
culture of the Minoans on Crete was different from that of the Greek mainland at Mycenae, the language of the Knossos tablets also had to be different. However, in 1939, when Carl Blegen discovered Linear B tablets on the
Greek mainland site of Pylos, the idea that the Linear B writing system was
the exclusive prerogative of the Minoans on Crete had to be abandoned.5
Michael Ventris became a qualified architect in 1948, but he never gave
up his love for languages or his interest in the puzzle of Linear B. During his
architectural training (1946-1948), he practised a method of architectural
design that proved very useful in his approach to the decipherment. This
was the concept of ‘group working,’ popular at the time, which involved a
group of architects collaborating and exchanging ideas with one another, instead of following the instructions of a single, inflexible employer. Furthermore, Ventris encouraged clear and thorough note-taking and said that an
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L a n g u a ge
architect’s thought processes during the design process should be recorded
as concisely and as accurately as possible. Everything should be transparent
and open to critique by colleagues and, if necessary, should be modified accordingly.6
Research on Linear B during the 1940s was difficult. This was partly
due to World War II. The tablets were generally inaccessible, in storage in
Athens and Crete, so their study was usually based on unclear photographs
or Evans’ personal drawings of them. In Oxford, Sir John Myres was examining the unpublished Knossos tablets entrusted to him by Evans (who
died in 1941). In London, Ventris could only work with the relatively few
published tablets. In the USA, Alice Kober in New York similarly focused
on the published texts until she started to help Myres with the Knossos
tablets, while Emmett Bennett in Cincinatti and then Yale University had
the unpublished Pylos material left to him by Blegen. There was very little in
terms of scholarly exchange between these individuals. Eventually, in 1949,
Bennett was shown the Knossos tablets in return for showing the Pylos tablets to Kober. Despite these obstacles, both Bennett and Kober carried out
independent analyses that became crucial elements of Ventris’ own work on
the decipherment.7
Emmett Bennett contributed to the decipherment in two major ways:
he worked out the Linear B fractional system of measurement, and he produced an impressive sign list of about 89 signs which he believed (but could
not yet prove) were phonetic in function.8 This involved studying the individual signs thoroughly, trying to distinguish between scribal variation and
actual, distinct signs. As Chadwick later remarked: “How difficult the task is
only those who have tried can tell.”9 The number of 89 phonetic signs suggested that Linear B was a syllabic script (where one sign represents a syllable), since syllabic scripts typically have more signs than alphabets. Ventris
immediately incorporated Bennett’s impressive sign list into his own work.
Using a statistical technique of frequency analysis of signs and sign
combinations, Bennett also noted that if a particular sign occurred only
with numerals and was iconic in nature, it was almost certainly an ideogram
–i.e., not a phonetic sign used to write words, but a picture-like sign that
represented an object or an idea. So, it seemed that Linear B included both
phonetic signs and ideograms. These were invaluable insights at this time.10
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L a n g u a ge
Alice Kober, a Classicist from Columbia University, who taught at
Brooklyn College, was an instrumental driving force behind the decipherment with her focus on searching for patterns in the Linear B documents,
which she believed could assist in determining the nature of the script and
its underlying language. She demonstrated that there was evidence of inflection in Linear B (a suggestion originally made by Evans).11 She identified five particular groups of words in the published tablets from Knossos
on Crete, each group containing three slightly different endings (dubbed
‘Kober’s triplets’), which suggested to her the presence of Declension.
She did not know what the words meant, but their contexts in the tablets
seemed to be the same and they looked to her to be nouns, possibly personal names or place-names. Using these five word groups, Kober developed
a tentative phonetic pattern. The actual phonetic values of these signs were
still unknown, but she established their interrelationships (e.g., by thinking
about how declensions operated in known languages and by pinpointing,
according to their relative position in a sign-group, or word, which syllabic
signs were likely to contain the same consonant and vowel or the same consonant but a different vowel, and so on). This analytical principle, which
Ventris and others called a ‘grid,’ with consonants arranged on one axis and
vowels on the other, was critical in helping to organise and make sense of all
the signs encountered in the inscriptions.12
At the end of 1949, Ventris sent a questionnaire that he had compiled
to about twenty scholars in Europe and the US who had been working on
the Aegean writing systems, asking them to exchange their views on the
scripts. Based on the replies he received (not everyone responded), he typed
up the “Mid-Century Report” which contained very little consensus on the
nature of the Linear B script and seems to have left Ventris feeling somewhat disillusioned about the prospect of decipherment.13
However, after meeting Bennett in 1950 and learning of the impending publication of the Pylos tablets and other Knossos material, which
would finally give him access to more tablets (more material to analyse and
compare), Ventris was inspired to continue working on Linear B. He wrote
up 20 Work Notes, almost 200 pages in total, in which he recorded his linguistic analyses, hypotheses, and experimentation, and many references to
inscriptions from other ancient languages and neighbouring civilisations,
all of which contributed to his success. Ventris explained later that there
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L a n g u a ge
were basically three phases to the decipherment: (1) an exhaustive analysis
of the signs, sign-groups (words) and contexts in the available texts to obtain every possible clue as to the spelling system and language structure, (2)
an experimental substitution phase – in which phonetic values were tested
to see if they could give possible words, and (3) a decisive check – with new
material.14
So, how did Ventris decipher Linear B?15 To begin with, he employed
Kober’s methodology of a grid to record the interrelationships of the (unknown) vowels and consonants in the syllables of Linear B (Work Note 1).
Initially, he was also very careful not to identify Linear B signs with Cypriot syllabic signs (the Cypriot syllabic script was in use between 800-225
BCE to write a Greek dialect) simply on the basis of superficial resemblances
(Work Note 1). He searched the texts for scribal variation, as Bennett had
done (Work Note 9), and he continued Kober’s search for patterns of Inflection (Work Note 11), confirming evidence of gender distinction in the texts
(which helped to rule out Etruscan as the underlying language16). Gradually,
he started to think more seriously about a possible connection between Linear B and the Cypriot syllabic script (Work Note 15).
In early 1952, Ventris updated his Grid of syllabic signs and carried
out a telling experiment. He too suspected (as had Myres and Kober) that
the Knossos tablets contained place-names. Tablets from neighbouring
civilisations, especially ones containing lists as many of the Linear B texts
seemed to do, often featured the names of the objects that were recorded,
the personal names of the contributors or the recipients of those items, and
town names that were either the origins or intended destinations of the
items. Having now studied the mainland Pylos tablets published by Bennett
(1951), Ventris noticed that Kober’s triplets (the five word groups she had
isolated that had different endings) occurred only in tablets from Knossos
on Crete, and not from mainland Pylos. So, he wondered whether each of
those word groups from Knossos, might refer to a town in Crete. If he adjusted his phonetic values slightly (in some instances by using values for the
Linear B signs based on similar-looking signs of the Cypriot syllabic script
– something he had explicitly warned against doing earlier on!), the Greek
names of well-known cities in Crete emerged, including Knossos (ko-noso) and Amnisos (a-mi-ni-so). If correct, this meant that Linear B reflected
Greek. Ventris titled his final Work Note No. 20, written 1st June 1952:
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L a n g u a ge
“Are the Knossos and Pylos Tablets written in Greek?”
He wrote to Bennett, saying: “…I have, I think, great news for you. You
must judge for yourself, but I think I’ve deciphered Linear B, and that Knosos and Pylos are both in Greek.” 17 As he explained on the BBC:
“For a long time I, too, thought that Etruscan might afford the clue we
were looking for, but during the last few weeks, I have come to the conclusion that the Knossos and Pylos tablets must, after all, be written in Greek
– a difficult and archaic Greek, seeing that it is 500 years older than Homer
and written in a rather abbreviated form, but Greek nevertheless.”18
After several months, Myres and Bennett accepted Ventris’ conclusion. It took several years for other scholars, while a few never accepted
it. Some of the resistance may have had to do with the fact that Ventris,
only 30 years of age at the time, was not a professional academic and had
never attended university. He was an outsider to their field. To convince the
experts, Ventris needed to explain (1) how he had arrived in a logical way
at his phonetic values for the Linear B signs – but some of his steps were
simply guesses that turned out to be correct, and (2) how this Mycenaean
Greek was related to Classical Greek and where it belonged in the broader
context of Indo-European linguistics.19
On this second point, he received the help of John Chadwick, a Classical philologist from Cambridge University, who had the linguistic background required to make sense of Ventris’ results. When Ventris explained
to Chadwick his concern that there was still much that he could not satisfactorily explain, such as the absence of the definite article in Mycenaean
Greek, Chadwick replied: “… The definite article ought not to be present, as
it is not yet fully developed in Homer... I should have been much more worried if you had found an article.”20
The fruitful collaboration between Ventris and Chadwick led to the
publication of Documents in Mycenaean Greek (1956),21 still considered
the ‘Bible’ of Mycenaean Studies, with an explanation of the script and an
analysis of about 300 tablets.
An example of the rich and detailed information that the decipherment made instantly accessible to researchers is offered by Linear B tablet PY Ep 704.22 This tablet belongs to the E-series of texts from the mainland site of Pylos recording the landholdings of the damos (this entity is
discussed below) that were leased out to various groups and individuals.
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L a n g u a ge
The tablet contains several entries, each with the following information
listed in a fixed order: (a) the name of the landholder, (b) his or her occupational title, (c) the kind of plot he or she holds, and (d) a numerical
figure that is considered to indicate the amount of seed grain needed to sow
that particular parcel of land, used as a way of measuring and recording its
relative size / surface area. The landholding documents of the E-series were
found stored in the Archives Complex of the Palace of Pylos, suggesting that
the Palace administrators expected a tax or contribution from these landholders, possibly in the form of agricultural produce based on the size of the
plots or service of some kind (e.g., human labour in the industrial activities
that the Palace monitored), in return for the use of the land.
Lines 5-6 of tablet Ep 704 represent the longest surviving sentence
in Linear B. Their transliteration and translation are as follows (note that a
syllable in the transliteration represents a distinct sign in the script, so that
in line 6, the Greek word toso meaning ‘so much’ is rendered in the Linear B
script by two signs, to and so):
.5 e-ri-ta , i-je-re-ja , e-ke , e-u-ke-to-qe , e-to-ni-jo , e-ke-e , te-o ,
da-mo-de-mi ,
pa-si , ko-to-na-o ,
.6 ke-ke-me-na-o , o-na-to e-ke-e , to-so pe-mo GRA 3 T 9
.5-.6 Eritha, (the) priestess, has/holds [e-ke: ekhei, 3rd singular verb]
and [–qe in the Linear B script meaning ‘and’] claims to hold [e-ke-e: ekhehen, Infinitive] an e-to-ni-jo plot (a special kind of plot) for the deity [te-o,
theoi Dative singular] but [de: particle de ‘but’] the damos says [pa-si: phasi,
3rd singular verb] that she [mi: anaphoric pronoun min] holds a (regular)
o-na-to lease of communal plots, so much seed: 374 litres WHEAT.
The word da-mo, damos, is certainly related to the later Classical demos, but it does not seem to have developed yet the wider, more inclusive,
meanings of ‘citizen body’ or ‘people’ of later times. In the Mycenaean period, the term damos appears to refer to a local group of landowners and
administrators involved in the distribution of land (cf. its Indo-European
verbal root *deh2- ‘divide, distribute’).23
The terminology used in these tablets suggests that leases of land were
generally thought of as benefits in the Mycenaean world (the key word ona-to, onaton, possibly related to a verb /oninemi/ meaning ‘to profit’ is
understood to denote ‘a portion (of land) enjoyed’ or a land plot given as a
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L a n g u a ge
benefit, for which some kind of tax or contribution was nevertheless probably expected in return. In contrast, an e-to-ni-jo plot, hetonijon, seems to
have been a special kind of landholding associated with a divinity, potentially related to the word etos ‘true’, suggesting that it was a ‘truly beneficial’
landholding in the sense, perhaps, of being tax-exempt.24 If so, the priestess
is claiming that she has a tax-exempt parcel of land, while the damos is arguing, on its own behalf or on behalf of the Palace, or both (this particular
point continues to be debated), that she holds a regular parcel of land and
needs to pay the tax due on it.
From tablet PY Ep 704 we learn that some women held positions as
priestesses in the Mycenaean period and that a complex landholding system
was at work. Moreover we observe the interplay between three major coexisting bureaucratic powers: the religious sector, represented by the priestess Eritha, the damos (local land administrators) and the Palace, in whose
archives the E-series was stored. Such information, made available by the
decipherment, instantly enhances our picture of Mycenaean society, even if
we do not learn how the dispute about the legal status of Eritha’s land was
eventually settled.
This tablet also contributes to our understanding of the diachronic
development of the Greek language. Proto-Indo-European features preserved in Mycenaean Greek include the labiovelar phonemes: q-series to denote *kw, etc:25 for example, the Mycenaean enclitic particle kwe (rendered
by the script as –qe, as in line 5 of PY Ep 704) becomes te in Classical Greek,
whereas it remains –que in Latin (e.g., in the phrase Senatus Populusque
Romanus ‘the Senate and the people of Rome’).
It has already been noted that Mycenaean Greek lacks the definite article, which seems to have developed gradually over time (note the absence
in Ep 704 of the feminine definite article before the priestess Eritha’s name
and occupational title).
Interestingly, Mycenaean Greek does not correspond exactly to any of
the historical Greek dialects [West Greek (=Doric), Aeolic (including Boeotian, Thessalian and Lesbian), Attic-Ionic, Aeolic, Arcado-Cypriot]. Of these,
it has most in common with Arcado-Cypriot. This is probably due to events
following the breakdown of the Mycenaean palace system, when Mycenaean
speakers are believed to have congregated in areas such as Arcadia and Cyprus, retaining some elements of the Mycenaean dialect in those regions.26
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L a n g u a ge
This phenomenon is reflected in PY Ep 704, where the Present Medio-Passive form e-u-ke-to, eukhetoi, ‘(she) claims,’ has the Arcadian ending -toi
(indicated in the script, without the final iota, as –to) instead of the Attic
ending -tai (which would be rendered in the script as –ta).27
Tablet PY Ep 704 also provides a glimpse of the remarkable similarity
between the core vocabulary of Mycenaean and later Greek,28 as in the case
of common verbs such as ‘to have, hold’ (3rd singular ekhei) and even terms
related to state organisation although, given changing political and historical contexts, it is reasonable to expect some degree of evolution in the
meaning of these, as with Mycenaean damos, Classical and Modern Greek
demos. Some words pertaining to family (‘father,’ ‘mother,’ ‘son,’ ‘daughter’), personal names (including ‘Achilleus,’ ‘Theodora’), clothing (‘sandals’)
and food (‘cheese,’ ‘honey’), to mention just a few examples from other tablets, are identical in Mycenaean and later Greek and testify to a long and
enduring linguistic legacy.
The decipherment of the Linear B script was the result of group work:
Emmett Bennett, with his thorough analysis of the Linear B signs, and Alice Kober, with her identification of patterns, laid the methodological foundations for the decipherment, while John Chadwick, with his philological
training, later helped to confirm its validity. Michael Ventris saw the potential in the work of Kober and Bennett, immersed himself in their work,
questioned some of it, adopted most of it and, in the
end, succeeded in demonstrating that the language behind the Linear B script was an early form of Greek. The decipherment allowed scholars
to penetrate deeper into the Mycenaean world by revealing the language
spoken by the Mycenaeans, thereby making accessible their administrative
documents and the complex bureaucracy that lay behind them. It is this
achievement that this paper has sought to celebrate on the 60th anniversary of the decipherment of Linear B.
Notes
1 Since then, Linear B has been found at a number of other sites. To date, Linear B tablets have
been discovered at Knossos and Chania on the island of Crete, and on mainland Greece, at the
sites of Pylos, Mycenae, Tiryns, Thebes, Midea, Iklaina, and Aghios Vasileios.
2 Andrew Robinson, The Man Who Deciphered Linear B. The Story of Michael Ventris (New York:
Thames and Hudson, 2002), 104-106.
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L a n g u a ge
3 This is evident from references in the texts to ‘last year’ or ‘this year.’ Such references would
not be meaningful beyond the span of a year. John Chadwick, The Decipherment of Linear B.
The Key to the Ancient Language and Culture of Crete and Mycenae (New York: Vintage Books,
1958), 128.
4 On the Etruscans originating in western Anatolia, see Herodotus, The Histories 1. 9394; on the enigmatic Lemnian inscription that might be written in a language related to
Etruscan, see Robinson, The Man Who Deciphered Linear B, 37. At the age of eighteen, Ventris
had published an article outlining his thoughts on this matter: “Introducing the Minoan
Language,” American Journal of Archaeology 44 (1940): 494-520.
5 Robinson, The Man Who Deciphered Linear B, 33, 63.
6 Ibid., 48-51.
7 Ibid., 63-64.
8 Ibid., 64; Chadwick, Decipherment, 44-45.
9 Chadwick, Decipherment, 39.
10 Robinson, The Man Who Deciphered Linear B, 65-66; Chadwick, Decipherment, 44.
11 Alice Kober, “Evidence of Inflection in Linear Class B: I - Declension,” American Journal of
Archaeology 50 (1946): 268-276; Robinson, The Man Who Deciphered Linear B, 68. Inflection
is the change a word undergoes in form to express different grammatical categories such as
Case, Number and Gender in Nouns, and Person, Number and Tense in Verbs, as occurs in
Greek and Latin.
12 Robinson, The Man Who Deciphered Linear B, 69-71; Chadwick, Decipherment, 57-59.
13 Robinson, The Man Who Deciphered Linear B, 74-76.
14 Ibid., 76-79.
15 Ibid., 81-101.
16 The Etruscan language features gender distinction in its proper names but not in common
nouns. Ibid., 90.
17 In Robinson, The Man Who Deciphered Linear B, 104.
18 Ibid., 105-106
19 Ibid., 107
20 Ibid., 112.
21 Michael Ventris and John Chadwick, Documents in Mycenaean Greek (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press: First Edition 1956; Second Edition 1973).
22 The abbreviation ‘PY’ in the tablet’s label refers to its findspot (Pylos) and ‘Ep’ indicates its
subject matter (a set of landholdings). A discussion of this tablet is contained in Ventris
and Chadwick, Documents 1973, 252-254; Relevant linguistic features and interpretative
difficulties are further examined in Yves Duhoux, “Mycenaean Anthology,” in A Companion to
Linear B: Mycenaean Greek Texts and their World, Vol. 1, ed. Yves Duhoux and Anna Morpurgo
Davies (Louvain-la-Neuve: Peeters, 2008), 300-302.
23 Michel Lejeune, “Le dāmos dans la société mycénienne,” in Mémoires de philologie mycénienne.
Vol. III (Rome: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 1972), 146; Carl Watkins, ed. The American Heritage
Dictionary of Indo-European Roots (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 2000), 14.
24 Duhoux, “Anthology,” 301.
25 Duhoux, “Anthology,” 293, 300.
26 John Chadwick, “Mycenaean Greek,” in A History of Ancient Greek. From the Beginnings to Late
Antiquity, ed. Anastassios-Fivos Christidis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010),
401-402.
304
L a n g u a ge
27 Ventris and Chadwick, Documents 1973, 253; Duhoux, “Anthology,” 301.
28 Chadwick, “Mycenaean Greek,” 400.
References
Bennett, Emmett L. “The Landholders of Pylos.” American Journal of Archaeology 60
(1956): 103–133.
Chadwick, John. The Decipherment of Linear B. The Key to the Ancient Language and
Culture of Crete and Mycenae. New York: Vintage Books, 1958.
Chadwick, John. “ Mycenaean Greek.” In A History of Ancient Greek. From the Beginnings
to Late Antiquity, edited by Anastassios-Fivos Christidis, 395-404. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2010.
Christidis, Anastassios-Fivos, ed. A History of Ancient Greek. From the Beginnings to Late
Antiquity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010.
Duhoux, Yves. “Mycenaean Anthology.” In A Companion to Linear B: Mycenaean Greek
Texts and their World, Vol. 1, edited by Yves Duhoux and Anna Morpurgo Davies,
243-393. Louvain-la-Neuve: Peeters, 2008.
Duhoux, Yves, and Anna Morpurgo Davies, eds. A Companion to Linear B: Mycenaean
Greek Texts and their World, Vol. 1, Louvain-la-Neuve: Peeters, 2008.
Kober, Alice E. “Evidence of Inflection in Linear Class B: I – Declension.” American
Journal of Archaeology 50 (1946): 268-276.
Lejeune, Michel. “Le dāmos dans la société mycénienne,” in Mémoires de philologie
mycénienne. Vol. III, 137-154. Rome: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 1972.
Palaima, Thomas G., Elizabeth I. Pope and F. Kent Reilly, III. Unlocking the Secrets
of Ancient Writing. The Parallel Lives of Michael Ventris and Linda Schele and the
Decipherment of Mycenaean and Mayan Writing. Catalogue of an Exhibition. Austin:
Program in Aegean Scripts and Prehistory, 2000.
Robinson, Andrew. The Man Who Deciphered Linear B. The Story of Michael Ventris. New
York: Thames and Hudson, 2002.
Ventris, Michael. “Introducing the Minoan language.” American Journal of Archaeology
44 (1940): 494-520.
Ventris, Michael and John Chadwick. Documents in Mycenaean Greek, Second edition.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973.
Watkins, Carl. ed. The American Heritage Dictionary of Indo-European Roots. Boston:
Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 2000.
305
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la temperanza woman holding a knife
306
L a n g u a ge
P.P. Ko ro m v o k i s
Ma c q u a r i e U n i v e r s i t y
I. K a l a i t z i d i s
Th e N o t t i n g h a m U n i v e r s i t y
The acquisition of grammatical gender
in Greek
Abstract
Greek is a language with rich gender system. Greek nouns are classified into three genders (masculine, feminine and neuter) and there are three
possible clues (semantic, syntactic and morphological) that speakers can
use to determine the gender of a noun and the agreement of other variable
elements accompanying it. In this study 120 monolingual Greek-speaking
children participated. They were tested in their ability to recognize the gender of a noun upon hearing it in a particular frame and, consequently, to
establish the agreement of adjectives accompanying it. The aim of this study
was to determine the relevant importance of intralinguistic (morphology
and syntax) and extralinguistic (semantics) cues as evidence by the ability
of Greek children to use these cues. The materials that were used in this
experiment were non-words and coloured drawings of imaginary beings,
animals or things. The experiment was a (3X2X2) factorial three way mixed
analysis of variances. The findings indicate that Greek children pay far more
attention to intralinguistic information than to extralinguistic, giving support to the theoretical view claiming that grammatical gender is based on
the characteristics of the language and not on a more general understanding of the natural gender.
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L a n g u a ge
Introduction
Studies that have been carried out on the acquisition of gender and
gender agreement in different languages oscillate two theoretical positions.
According to the first position the gender differentiation is established on
the basis of semantic features coming from extralinguistic information
(natural gender theory). Children will primarily attribute the gender of
words on the basis of information given by semantic features. Therefore,
the child will first recognise the linguistic distinctions as relevant to nonlinguistic gender distinctions (semantic features) (Mulford, 1985) (Pinker,
1982) (Mills 1986). The natural gender theory is based on a more general
position that language consists of establishing correspondences between
forms and meanings (Mulford, 1983, 1985). The alternative position considers that gender is a phenomenon of the internal laws of language. When
establishing the gender of the words, children do not rely on extralinguistic
reality (semantics), but on information coming from the linguistic context
(syntax/morphology) in which words appear (Karmiloff-Smith 1979). The
child discovers grammatical gender as an organising principle by noting regularities in the intralinguistic properties of the linguistic system. The child
comes to recognise, for example, that nouns with particular endings always
co-occur with particular articles or pronouns. Such regularities serve as a
basis for the child’s developing gender system even before the child is able
to make natural gender distinctions. This strategy almost dominates the
children’s gender classifications. This account has been argued by Maratsos
& Chalkley (1980) and it has been supported by studies in many languages
(Levy, 1980, 1983) (Perez-Pereira, 1991) (MacWhinney, 1978).
On the area of gender acquisition two types of studies have been carried out, longitudinal or cross sectional and experimental (Perez-Pereira,
1991). Longitudinal studies consist on observations of children’s speech
in natural situations. The strengths of those types of studies are the designation of time of acquisition and the analysis of children’s errors. The
main difficulty on these researches lies on the aspect of generalisation. On
the other hand experimental studies consist on testing the importance of
extralinguistic and intralinguistic clues on children’s gender acquisition.
The weaknesses on these studies lie on their methodology. Different experimental manipulations can produce different and questionable results.
Levy (1988) has pointed out methodological problems in some studies.
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L a n g u a ge
Research on the acquisition of Modern Greek as a native language started
in the early 1970s.
Children at the age of 2;6 have acquired gender identity, they are capable to identify an animate as a man or a woman, also at this age they are
capable to classify themselves in one of those categories (Paraskevopoulos,
1985). Therefore they can extract information about gender from sexual
dimorphism from this age (2;6) (Lopez, 1988). This ability is greater when
the child acquire the knowledge that sex is a permanent condition and that
does not change over time and according to the context that someone appears (Paraskevopoulos 1985). Therefore children can and do pay attention
to extralinguistic gender information from very early on.
In languages with complicated morphology morphological elements
can be found very early on (Stephany, 1981). Especially in Greek all of the
grammatical categories inflectionally expressed begin to emerge before the
end of the second year (Stephany, 1997). Due to the dependence of case
inflection on gender, case marking establishes gender distinctions (Theophanopoulou-Kontou, 1973). Also, Tucker, Lambert & Rigault (1977) have
demonstrated the capability of French-speaking children to identify the
gender of nouns on the basis of their morphological endings. Also it has
been proved that children pay attention to the distributional patterns of the
words. Greek children use systematically the correspondence between noun
and article gender from the age of 2;3 (Stephany, 1997). In longitudinal
studies it has been observed that Greek children make the adjective agree
with its referent noun (Stephany 1997). Syntactic gender cues and, specifically, gender agreement between the definite determiner and the noun appear to be the strongest factor for gender assignment to novel nouns (Mastropavlou, 2006). Other studies have showed that the lexical route may be
predominant since learners have built their lexicon on the basis of gender
classifications of noun stems (Tsimpli, 2011). Therefore children are able
to use morphological and syntactic (intralinguistic) information from very
early on. However the most interesting question is the importance of these
clues and especially in Greek (concerning the issue that morphology and
syntax are very important in Greek).
As the Indo-European language family is concerned, there are no entirely uniform semantic classificatory criteria, which would make it possible
to predict the gender of more than a handful of lexical groups (Lyons 1968).
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L a n g u a ge
However studies like Mulford’s (1983, 1985) provide strong support for the
natural gender theory. She studied Icelandic children on the comprehension
of pronouns. Mulford assumes that the availability of the cognitive notion
of gender is independent of language; the prediction of the early formal
learning is that differences in the time and rate at which gender is acquired
should be the result of the complexity and predictability of the formal aspects of the system. Therefore children appear not to succeed in figuring out
a stable formal basis for gender categorization before their non-linguistic
cognitive development has led them to attend to natural gender distinctions (Mulford, 1985). However, Levy (1988) pointed out that Mulford’s
study has methodological problems.
There is sometimes a mismatch between formal gender and natural
gender, for example in German “mouse” is feminine gender but may be male
in the context of a story. Where this occurs, there is a general tendency to
switch to the natural gender (Mills, 1984). It is obvious that the concept of
natural gender distinctions must be acquired before the linguistic system in
the cases where it directly reflects those distinctions. There is evidence that
the concept of natural gender may precede the acquisition of the linguistic
system but that it does not facilitate it. Also languages have different requirements as to the elements that must have syntactic gender agreement
and which can have natural gender agreement.
Mac Whinney (1978) tested gender assignment in children. He found
that age affects positively children’s performance; also he claimed that German children made little use of semantic information and were mainly using formal features of the noun ending to determine syntactic gender. Also
Bohme and Levelt (1979) in an experimental study about the acquisition of
gender forms in German, found that the participants made extensive use
of intralinguistic information and did not attend to the obvious sex of the
proper names. For example suppose children are shown a new type of person or animal which is clearly masculine or feminine, but which is referred
to by a conflicting grammatical determiner. They apparently produce other
combinations with the noun on the basis of its grammatical gender, rather
than its conceptual gender. Both studies (Mac Whinney and Bohme & Levelt) showed that children, even at the age of 4, tend to use intralinguistic information even when there is in conflict with semantic information (Levy,
1983 a).
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L a n g u a ge
In Hebrew Levy (1983 b) showed the importance of morphological information rather than semantic information, also she has pointed out that
morphological regularities in Hebrew nouns may serve as the basis for the
child’s gender system even before the child is able to make natural gender
distinctions. An experimental study with Czechoslovak children (Henzl,
1975) confirms the saliency of phonological endings in gender attribution.
The children tend to assign gender to noun according to the morphological
information and not according to semantic information.
In Polish while gender in inanimate is semantically arbitrary, the sex
of the referents of animate nouns fully determines their linguistic gender.
Therefore Polish seems to be the most sex-biased of all Indo-European languages. However, other studies have showed that the child fails to use the
necessary semantic distinction, (Levy, 1983a).
Popova (1973) argued that in places where the formal marker on the
noun did not correspond to the sex of referents, the children were acting
predominantly on the basis of the formal properties of the noun, ignoring
the natural gender of their referent.
In French, Karmiloff-Smith (1979) showed the predominance of morphological information up to the age of nine. Wherever a morphological
clue is available, it tends to override both natural gender clues and clues
from the gender of the article. She also found that the importance of morphological information is gradually replaced by the natural gender and by
syntactic information. Furthermore, the morphological information is the
last to become explicit and the last to be exploited when children create
words.
Perez-Pereira (1991), found that Spanish children pay far more attention to intralinguistic information than to extralinguistic information in
order to recognise the gender of a noun and to establish gender agreement
with adjectives, even in cases where the information is conflicted.
Regarding the acquisition of gender in Greek morphology represent
one of the language learner’s major challenges. In spite of this, all of the
Greek grammatical categories inflectionally expressed begin to emerge before the end of the second year (Stephany, 1997). Although Greek nominal
inflection is by far less complex than verbal inflection, there is a considerable number of noun suffixes types to be mastered. Theophanopoulou-Kontou (1973) found that the adult system is not fully mastered by 6;6 years.
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L a n g u a ge
The reason for this low input frequency and complicated stress shift rules.
In Greek, children tend to use the definite article with at least some
nouns from 2;3 years on and, a month later, there are instances of the article in all singular case forms of all genders, even in younger children (1;10
years) article gender is mostly correct, and some apparent gender errors are
probably best explained by vowel harmony. Longitudinal studies showed
that gender errors in articles don’t necessarily mean that the child does not
know the noun’s gender because in other cases the use of noun’s gender was
correct. From the age of 2;4 years the child can use the three way gender distinction of the indefinite article in the nominative. Also longitudinal studies showed that article form might serve as a kind of rescue in the absence
of case while the same children don’t tend to use articles (Stephany, 1997).
Theophanopoulou-Kontou (1992) found that gender inflection of the adjective occurs only at 2;4 and by the age of 2;10 the three genders of adjective
are in use. Although most adjectives agree with their referents in gender
this occurs systematically only after the age of 2;10.
Overall these studies in Greek indicate that children pay attention to
gender suffixes and syntax agreement by early on but they are not so useful
in identifying the relevant importance of extralinguistic and intralinguistic
clues in the acquisition of the linguistic gender system.
The aim of this study is to determine the relative importance of intralinguistic (morphology and syntax) and extralinguistic clues (semantic), by
the ability of Greek children to recognize the gender of a noun upon hearing
it in a particular frame and to establish agreement adjectives accompanying
it. This study examined the acquisition of grammatical gender in children
and the effect of gender variation.
Method
Design
The experiment was a (3X2X2) factorial three way mixed analysis of
variances, for the within groups the first factor had 3 levels (type of clue:
syntactic, semantic and morphological information), the second factor
had 2 levels (gender variation: masculine, feminine) and for the between
groups, the factor had 2 levels (age: group of younger and group of older). Therefore each participant was examined in 6 conditions and in each
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L a n g u a ge
condition there were four items. The dependent variable was the number of
participant’s correct answers on the noun’s gender; the range of the scale
was 0 (none correct answer) up to 4 (all correct answers). The criteria which
the children used to determine the attribution of noun gender were made
apparent by the gender agreement they used on the adjectives they themselves produced in order to accompany each given noun. The first and the
second group received the same material.
Participants
In this study 120 monolingual Greek-speaking children participated.
All of them were students of schools in the Attica County. The 120 participants were divided into two groups. The first group was constituted by the
young ones (first grade students), the mean age at this group was 6 years.
The old ones constituted the second group (fifth grade students), the mean
age at this group was 10 years. There were an equal number of boys and girls
(60-60). The students in each group were selected randomly. None of the
participant had any learning difficulties related to language (e.g. dyslexia).
At the pilot study, which carried out, 10 children participated.
Apparatus and Materials
The materials that were used in this experiment were 24 non-words
and 24 pairs of identical but different coloured drawings of imaginary beings, which accompanied each noun. Therefore 24 items were produced
(each item was constituted by one non-word noun and a pair of drawings).
Eight of the represented beings had secondary sexual features and the rest
sixteen lacked natural gender. The colours of the twenty-four pairs of drawings had a clear morphological differentiation for masculine and feminine
gender. The twenty-four non-word (examples of the invented nouns are
presented in Table 3.) nouns obeyed the phonemic combinations in Greek,
all had the same number of syllables and the children had not heard them
before. The non-sense noun endings were either typically masculine, typically feminine, or had a suffix, which gave no indication of gender. For the
syntactic information (provided in eight items) indefinite articles were
used instead of definite articles because children are more capable to do
finer gender distinctions with indefinite articles (Teophanopoulou-Kontou,
313
articles because children are more capable to do finer gender distinctions with
articles because children are more capable to do finer gender distinctions with
indefinite articles (Teophanopoulou-Kontou, 1973). From the total number of the
indefinite
(Teophanopoulou-Kontou, 1973). From the total number of the
L a n g u aarticles
ge
twenty-four items, eight of them had an indefinite article typically masculine (four of
twenty-four items, eight of them had an indefinite article typically masculine (four of
them) or feminine (four of them), they had no natural gender (the imaginary being in
them) or feminine (four of them), they had no natural gender (the imaginary being in
each picture had no sexual dimorphism information) and no typical masculine or
1973).
From
total number
of the
twenty-four
eightmasculine
of them had
each
picture
had the
no sexual
dimorphism
information)
anditems,
no typical
or
feminine
suffix.
In
eight
of
the
items,
each
picture
had
a
natural
gender
but
there
was
an indefinite
article
masculine
(fourhad
of them)
or feminine
feminine
suffix. In
eight typically
of the items,
each picture
a natural
gender but(four
thereof
was
they hador
nomorphological
natural gender
(the imaginary
eachitems,
picture had
notthem),
any syntactical
information.
At thebeing
otherin
eight
not any syntactical or morphological information. At the other eight items,
no sexual (suffix)
dimorphism
and for
no typical
masculine
or feminine
morphology
was theinformation)
only information
the noun’s
gender discrimination.
morphology
(suffix)
onlyeach
information
for the
noun’sgender
genderbut
discrimination.
suffix. In eight
ofwas
the the
items,
picture had
a natural
there was
The clues of selected items at random are described in Table 4.
anyofsyntactical
or morphological
information.
At the
Thenot
clues
selected items
at random are described
in Table
4. other eight items,
Morphologically
Morphologically
marked
marked
masculine
masculine
gender
gender
πιφάρος
πιφάρος
κατάλος
κατάλος
Morphologically
Morphologically
marked
marked
feminine
feminine
gender
gender
πικόβα
πικόβα
τεράβα
τεράβα
Syntactically
Syntactically
marked
marked
masculine
masculine
gender
gender
ένας τενάτεν
ένας
ένας τενάτεν
κεπάκερ
ένας κεπάκερ
Syntactically
Syntactically
marked
marked
feminine
feminine
gender
gender
μία τερέλεκ
μία
κοπίτερ
μία κοπίτερ
Unmarked
Unmarked
gender
gender
κεκατέμ
κεκατέμ
καρατέμ
καρατέμ
3. Examples
of invented
nouns
Table 3.Table
Examples
of invented
nouns.
Table 3. Examples of invented nouns.
Syntactical
Semantically
Morphological
Invented noun
Syntactical
Semantically
Morphological
Invented noun
information
information
information
information
information
information
πιφάρος
O
O
M
πιφάρος
O
O
M
πικόβα
O
O
F
πικόβα
O
O
FO
ένας
τενάτεν
M
O
ένας
τενάτεν
M
O
O
F
O
O
μίακαρατέμ
τερέλεκ
FO
O
O
M
O
καρατέμ
O
M
O
βοπολέκ
O
F
O
βοπολέκ
O
F
O
Table 4. Gender clues presented in selected items at random (M=masculine, F=feminine and
Table
4. Gender clues presented in selected items at random (M=masculine,
O=absent)
Table 4. Gender clues presented in selected items at random (M=masculine,
F=feminine and O=absent).
F=feminine
and O=absent).
morphology
(suffix)
was the only information for the noun’s gender dis-
crimination. The clues of selected items at random are described in Table 4.
Procedure
Procedure
Procedure
The procedure was inspired by Karmiloff-Smith (1979). The experimenter presented a picture giving syntactic, semantic or morphological
information. The experimenter presented a picture with the following instruction pattern: “τι βλέπουμε εδώ;” “What’s this?” “να ένας ταλάζος” “
here a talazos” or “ονομάζεται ταλάζος” “his name is talazos”. After that,
another picture exactly the same, but in different colour, was presented,
and the child was asked “να μία άλλη φωτογραφία” “here you have another picture” “τι βλέπουμε εδώ;” “What’s this?” at this stage the child
314
L a n g u a ge
named the imaginary being specifying also its colour (e.g. “ένας κόκκινος
ταλάζος” “a red talazos”). Prior to the experiment, and in order to introduce the technique, some existing nouns with their corresponding pictures
were used;
Results
The analysis of the results was done on the statistical programme
for social sciences (SPSS). Analysis of variances (ANOVAs) was carried out.
In Table 5. the descriptive statistics are presented for all the participants
performance in the six conditions: syntactic information with masculine
Table 5. Descriptive statistics for all the participants in the six conditions
Graph 1. Means of participants' performance in the six conditions
315
L a n g u a ge
Table 6. Descriptive statistics for the average performance of the two age groups
Graph 2. Means of performance in each age group
Table 7. Descriptive statistics for the general performance in the factor of information
Graph 3. Means of performance in the type of information
316
L a n g u a ge
gender (SYNT.M), syntactic information with feminine gender (SYNT.F),
semantic information with masculine gender (SEM.M), semantic information with feminine gender (SEM.F), morphological information with masculine gender (MOR.M) and morphological information with feminine gender (MOR.F). Also theses means are presented in Graph 1.
The descriptive statistics for the general performance of the tow age
groups (young and older) are presented in Table 6 and in Graph 2.
Table 7 contains the descriptive statistics for the general performance
in the factor of information (syntactic, semantic and morphological) controlling for both age groups and for both masculine and feminine gender
variation. This information is presented also in Graph 3.
Because the factor of information had more than two levels, it had to be
ensured that there was not violation of the assumption of sphericity (Mauchley test of sphericity was interpreted). Therefore assumptions of normality,
homogeneity of variance and sphericity were met. The ANOVA revealed
that the main effects due to type of information factor (F(1,118)=16.407
MSe=8.008 p<.001), age factor (F(1,118)=6.98, MSe=7.606, p<.05) and
the interaction between the factor of type of information and the factor of
gender variation (F(1,118)=11.824, MSe=5.208, p<.001) were unlikely to
have arisen due to sampling error. The main effect of the age group suggesting that the older children perform better than the young (Means 3.1 and
2.6 respectively and partial Eta Squared=.2) this shows 20% of the overall
variance was attributed to the influence of the age. The main effect of the
type of information had a partial Eta Squared=.36, thus 36% of the overall variance was due to the information manipulation. Finally the interaction between gender variation and type of information had a partial Eta
Squared=.29 thus it accounts for 29% of the overall variance. Also ANOVA
showed that there was not a significant main effect of the factor of gender
variation (F(1,118)=3.451). There was no significant interaction between
the factors of gender and age group (F(1,118)= .059), also no significant
interaction between the factors of information and age group (F(1,118)=
.154). Finally there was not a significant interaction between the factors of
gender, information and age group (F(1,118)= .473).
Because the factor of information had more than two levels a post-hoc
test had to be carried out. Pairwise comparisons were carried out between
all types of information (syntactic information Vs semantic) (syntactic Vs
317
L a n g u a ge
morphological) and (semantic Vs morphological). There was a significant
difference between the conditions of syntactic information Vs semantic
(means 3.6 and 1.9 respectively, the effect size was (d)=1.99 p<.001) syntactic Vs morphological (means 3.6 and 3.1 respectively, the effect size was
(d)=.75 p<.001) and semantic Vs morphological (means 1.9 and 3.1 respectively, the effect size was (d)=1.03 p<.001). Thus the children have a better
performance when they deal with syntactic information than semantic or
morphological and they perform better when they deal with morphological
information than with semantic.
The interaction between gender variation and type of information was
further investigated using t-tests. The simple effects analysis showed that
the effect of gender variation in morphological information was unlikely to
have arisen due to sampling error (t(119)=3.096 p<.05 2-tailed). Thus the
children perform better when they deal with morphological information
and masculine gender (mean= 3.5) than when they deal with morphological information and feminine gender (mean=2.7). There was no significant
difference between masculine semantic information and feminine semantic information (t(119)=.31). Also there was no significant difference between masculine syntactic information and feminine syntactic information
(t(119)=.63).
Discussion
The comparisons between studies in English (a language with very
poor gender system) and German (with richer gender system) indicate that
English children acquire the gender of pronouns later than German children
(Mills, 1986). This seems to indicate that the more extensive and productive
the system of gender marking in a language, the easier is the learning of the
gender notion in language, since it furnishes more frequent and concordant
information to be used by children. Therefore the nature of Greek language
(language with rich gender system) must facilitate its learning.
Cross-linguistic comparisons of the stage at which children master gender-marking suffixes give support to Slobin’s claim (1985). Slobin
argued that the acquisition of gender marking system depends in a high
degree on the nature of the language. Therefore, children who are learning systems with three genders, and with ambiguous, barely transparent
and scarcely predictable morphological markings appear to learn later than
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L a n g u a ge
those children learning languages with two genders, and with clearly differentiated and systematic marking of gender. Greek children although acquire
and use very early the gender system, they have problems with morphological markings. This is due to different categories of noun inflections and the
overlapping of cases.
From the analysis of the results, it appeared that children take into
account and process morphological, syntactical and semantic information
but with different salient. As it was expected older children performed better than younger. The mean age at the group of young was six years old;
Theophanopoulou-Kontou (1973) found that the adult system is not fully
mastered by the age of 6;6, therefore it was expected and proved that the
younger group will not perform as good as the older in all conditions and especially in the condition of morphological information. Similar results had
all the experimental and longitudinal studies on gender acquisition in other
languages and in relevant studies to Greek.
Young children face problems with articles and they do not pay much
attention to semantic information, as do older children (Karmiloff-Smith,
1979). It is also important that the older children use better the language
and they do less mistakes, it is always possible to consider a response as
a mistake not because the child do not know the gender of the noun but
because he/she cannot express properly his/her knowledge. This possibility is not impossible in Greek (Theophanopoulou-Kontou, 1973). Restricted
experience with language and ensuing limits of inflectional knowledge are
most likely to become evident when, in an experimental situation, learners are obliged to express a given category of a given noun. However, the
strain of such situation may also cause artificial linguistic behaviour. Thus,
Theophanopoulou-Kontou (1973) found that, in the picture test she administered, some children created inflectional forms by analogy or “overgeneralization,” whereas the same children used standard forms in free conversation with her.
Regarding the relevant importance of clues, the results of the present
study indicate that children pay far more attention to intralinguistic clues
(morphology and syntax) than to extralinguistic (semantics). These findings seem to oppose the natural gender theory (Mulford, 1985). It is clear
that Greek children not only make more use of intralinguistic elements but
they face problems with extralinguistic clues. They do not use semantic
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L a n g u a ge
information as a reliable factor and because of this; they make mistakes by
ignoring this type of information. Therefore the outcome of this study supports the theoretical position that considers that gender is a phenomenon
of the linguistic system. Relevant results revealed studies in different languages such as Spanish, French, Hebrew, Russian, Czechoslovakian (PerezPereira, 1991), (Karmiloff-Smith, 1979), (Levy, 1983 b), (Popova 1973),
(Henzl, 1975).
The results of this experimental study revealed that Greek children
rely more on syntactic clues than to morphological ones from the age of five
years old. Perez-Pereira (1991) found that this is observed also in Spanish
children, even though Spanish nouns present less variety of gender suffixes
for nouns and adjectives than in Greek where there are many exceptions
and types of inflections. Karmiloff-Smith (1979) found that the same predominance of semantic clues exists in French; the difference only exists on
earlier ages. In French children, there is a developmental trend towards an
increasing importance of the determiner while that of the word ending is
decreasing. This case seems to exist also in the case of Greek children but
not so clearly observational data (Stephany, 1997) suggest that gender is
first marked on the noun ending in the earlier stage of inflectional development; children do not rely on the determiner for distributing gender. This
study has not participants from small ages, therefore it is difficult to discuss
any similarities or differences with these studies, although these longitudinal studies have methodological problems and they did not clearly and
experimentally examined the relevance importance between syntactic and
morphological information. This tendency of Greek children toward syntactic information could easily be explained by the nature of Greek gender system. There are exceptions in noun endings and overlapping cases, therefore
morphology is not an exclusive factor for the noun gender distinction as it
is the syntax, also despite the frequent exceptions to the phonological rules,
there are patterns in the exceptions since they co-occur with other gender
marked words. Older children know that there are exceptions, they are in
some extend familiar with these and because of this they tend to use more
reliable factors such as syntactic information (e.g. article). Young children
especially before the age of 6;5 have not fully mastered the adult inflectional system (Theophanopoulou-Kontou, 1973), also they tend to use an
avoidance strategies in cases where they face problems with noun endings
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L a n g u a ge
(Mackridge, 1985), in other words they use survival techniques using reliable and well mastered elements of the language. The combination of those
two findings can easily explain this tendency toward syntactic information.
The quantitative analysis of this study revealed that there is significance difference between the two levels of gender variation (masculine and
Feminine) only in the condition of morphological information. This indicates that natural gender theory cannot explain how children recognize the
gender of a noun. It is mostly a matter of the characteristics of the language.
The statistical analysis of the errors in the condition of morphological
information with feminine gender revealed that when older children make
a mistake concerning gender attribution, they tend to attribute masculine
gender to nouns more often something that does not happen with younger
children (57.7% of the wrong attributed nouns at the group of older were
attributed as masculine nouns, this percentage for the young children is
18.9%). Older children tend to perceive wrongly the suffix of the feminine
noun as a suffix typical for masculine. Therefore they produced adjectives,
which could co-occur with the specific noun (they do not violate rules of
gender agreement) but not in the specific context. On the other hand when
young children make a mistake concerning gender attribution, they tend to
attribute neuter gender to nouns more often than older children. The suffix “-α” of the singular nominative case of the feminine nouns is the same
with the plural nominative case of the neuter. Therefore old children are
aware that at any case the adjective should agree in gender and case with
the noun and they do use this rule even when this conflict with syntactical
rules. They follow the linguistic rules even when the sentences they produce
have no meaning. On the other hand young children do not use the rule of
agreement. This might happens because they do not have yet mastered the
adults’ inflectional system (Theophanopoulou-Kontou, 1973).
Conclusion
Generally the results of the present study indicate that Greek children
rely on intralinguistic clues (syntax and morphology) than extralinguistic
information (semantics) to recognize the gender of the noun and to establish gender agreement. The relevant importance of the clues is syntax
> morphology > semantics (starting from the most important). This predominance of the intralinguistic information and especially the syntactic
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L a n g u a ge
clues seems to exist from early on and continue latter. Features such as regularities, lack of exceptions and reliable information seems to facilitate the
early and correct acquisition of the Greek gender system. Natural gender
theory cannot explain the results of the present experimental study. It is
clear that children pay attention to and work on the linguistic information
in their effort to master language. The theoretical position that is defended
by Karmiloff-Smith (1983), Perez-Pereira (1991) Levy (1988) et al. seems to
give a better explanation about the acquisition of the noun gender system.
The result of the present study may give a clear view of the acquisition
of gender but much of the serious foundation-laying for grammatical gender must go on at younger ages, especially between two and four years old.
Also it would be very useful to examine the awareness of gender problems,
the children’s awareness of the differences between phonological, semantic
and syntactic clues.
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virgin mary with a book
Παρθένης
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C u l t u re
Vo l . 1 6 - 1 7 B
2 0 1 3 - 2 0 14
C u l t u re
Hume’s Lucianic Thanatotherapy / p .327
George Couvalis
Contemporary Greek Philosophy at the Crossroads:
Neokantianism – Existentialism – Phenomenology / p .345
Golfo Maggini
A Passionate Saint / p . 3 6 9
Nicolas Evzonas
Who is Kazantzakis’ God? / p . 3 87
Nick N. Trakakis
Μια Φιλοσοφική Ανάγνωση του Κίτρινου Φακέλου του
Μ. Καραγάτση
A Philosophical Reading of M. Karagatsis’ Kitrinos Fakelos / p .419
Eleni Leontsini
Αυτοαντίληψη και αυτοπαρουσίαση: η Αυτοβιογραφία της
Μελίνας Μερκούρη, Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα
Self-perception and Self-presentation: Melina Mercouri’s
Autobiography I Was Born Greek / p .457
Panayota Nazou
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C u l t ure
Vo l . 1 6 - 1 7 B
2 0 1 3 - 2 0 14
C. P. Cavafy: Anthonism / p . 4 8 5
Michael Tsianikas
Torture, Performance and Power in Elias Maglinis’ The Interrogation
/ p.505
Tatjana Aleksic
Η Περιπέτεια του Αντρέα Κορδοπάτη και ο Ενδιάμεσος
Χώρος του Θανάση Βαλτινού
The Adventure of Andreas Kordopatis and the Interstitial Space of
Thenanis Valtinos / p . 5 2 5
Anthony Dracopoulos
Thanasis Valtinos’ Three Greek One-Act Plays and its critical reception
/ p.545
Dimitris Paivanás
Sections X-XVII
Piero Bigongiari
On the Sacred Way / p . 5 6 3
Eugenio Montale
Theodore Ell
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C u l t u re
G e o rg e C o u v a l i s
Flin d e r s U n i v e r s i t y
Hume’s Lucianic Thanatotherapy
Abstract
The eighteenth century philosopher David Hume was much influenced
by Greek philosophy and literature. His favourite writer was the satirist Lucian. What is David Hume’s thanatotherapy (therapy of the fear of death)?
Is he an Epicurean or Pyrrhonian thanatotherapist? I argue that, while he is
in part an Epicurean who is sceptical about his Epicureanism, he is primarily
a Lucianic thanatotherapist. A Lucianic thanatotherapist uses self and other
deprecating irony as a form of therapy. He also ruthlessly satirises religious
consolations. I use Hume’s deathbed allusions to Lucian’s Kataplous (floating downwards) and the Dialogues of the Dead to explain my view.
Introduction
It is the year 1776. The British philosopher David Hume is on his deathbed. He is a major intellectual and is regarded as the chief enemy of Christianity. Theists, atheists and agnostics alike are interested in his manner of
death. Everything he does and says will be quickly reported to the salons.
The dogmatic Christian critic Dr Johnson sends his biographer Boswell to
Hume, hoping for a last minute recantation (Fieser 2005, 288-291). Hume
composes his autobiography, My Own Life for publication (Hume 1980).
Soon after his death, Hume’s friend Adam Smith writes a letter for publication. In it, he stresses Hume’s cheerfulness and reports that Hume has been
reading Lucian’s Dialogues of the Dead (Fieser 2005, 296-302).
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According to Smith, Hume said that he could find no excuses he could
give to Charon, the ferryman of the dead, for not going to Hades. “He had
no house to finish, no daughter to provide for, he had no enemies upon
which he wished to revenge himself”. Nevertheless, he diverted himself by
inventing excuses to present to Charon. “ ‘Good Charon, I have been correcting my works for a new edition. Allow me a little time, that I may see how
the public receives the alterations’”. After quoting Charon politely rejecting
this excuse saying “ ‘when you have seen the effect of these, you will be for
making other alterations. There will be no end of such excuses’”, Hume presented his final excuse, saying “[H]ave a little patience, good Charon, I have
been endeavouring to open the eyes of the public. If I live a few years longer,
I may have the satisfaction of seeing the downfal of some of the prevailing
system of superstition”. Smith reports that Hume said Charon “would lose
all temper and decency” and say “[Y]ou loitering rogue, that will not happen
these many hundred years. Do you fancy I will grant you a lease for so long a
term? Get into the boat this instant, you lazy loitering rogue” (Fieser 2005,
299-300).
Hume’s doctor William Cullen tells of having heard a similar or the
same story from one of Hume’s friends. The friend is perhaps Smith. However, his version of Hume’s remarks differs from what Smith reports in two
important ways. First, he says that Hume’s excuse was that he “had been
very busily employed in making his countrymen wiser, and particularly in
delivering them from the Christian superstition, but that he had not completed the great work”. Second, he reports that the dialogue Hume was reading and imitating was Kataplous (floating or sailing downwards), in which
the tyrant Megapenthes (great suffering) gives his excuses for not going to
Hades (Fieser 2005, 294).
Annette Baier has shown that Hume was indeed imitating Megapenthes in Kataplous and not something from the Dialogues of the Dead (Baier
2008, 100-110). Further, she points out that Smith, unlike Cullen, was
timid about offending the religious establishment. It is likely that Hume referred explicitly to his project of delivering his countrymen from the Christian superstition. Indeed, in a letter he did not intend for publication, Smith
quotes Hume as saying “[G]ood Charon, I have been endeavouring to open
the eyes of people; have a little patience only till I have the pleasure of seeing the churches shut up, and the clergy sent about their business...”1.
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The scene in Kataplous Hume was imitating is one in which Megapenthes gives a series of excuses for not going into Charon’s boat which are
rejected in succession by Clotho, one of the fates. Megapenthes’ excuses are
that he has to finish a house, to give his wife directions about buried money,
to build a town wall and set of docks for his town, and, finally, “to live only
long enough to subdue the Pisidians and subject the Lydians to tribute, and
to build myself a huge mausoleum and inscribe on it all the military exploits
of my life”. Each excuse is more hubristic than its predecessors. Commenting on the final excuse, Clotho says “[W]hy, man, you are no longer asking
for this one day, but for a stay of nearly twenty years!”. (Lucian 1915, 21)
Despite the plausibility of Baier’s argument, Hume’s remarks do not
fit the scene in Kataplous closely. Cullen reports Hume excusing himself to
Mercury (Hermes, not Charon), but in Kataplous Megapenthes excuses himself to Clotho. However, in one of Lucian’s Dialogues of the Dead, Hermes is
involved in a discussion with two philosophers. We will see that aspects of
that dialogue help us understand Hume’s behaviour better. Hume may well
have had in mind both Kataplous and the Dialogues of the Dead.
Epicurean or Pyrrhonian Thanatotherapist?
The dying days of important intellectuals were imbued with significance
in eighteenth century Europe, as indeed they were in antiquity. The dying
person was meant to be setting an example through word and deed (Miller
2001). Much that has been published about Hume makes clear that he conformed to his role. Various people noted his remarkable composure and his
attempt to calm his friends in the face of his impending death. He clearly was
trying to imply that being dead is of no great importance. It is also clear that
he would have expected his behaviour and his words to be widely reported.
What was he trying to say by imitating characters in Lucian?
Hume was a central figure of the enlightenment. He is now known as
a philosopher. However, in his time he was known principally as the author
of a popular History of England. Through much of his work Hume criticised
religious, and in particular, Christian claims. Recently, Paul Russell has argued that Hume was in part a modern Lucretian; a follower of the Greek
philosopher Epicurus, whose views are best known via his Roman disciple
Lucretius. Epicurus is well known for his criticisms of the role of pagan
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religion in human life. For Russell, Hume’s philosophy and history were
intended as part of an Epicurean style program of liberation from Christianity (Russell 2008).
Martha Nussbaum and others have shown that Epicurus thought that
philosophy is a form of therapy by means of rational argument - it aims
to liberate us from troubled emotional states of mind by helping us attain
ataraxia, mental tranquillity (literally absence of emotional disturbance).
Indeed, Epicurus declares that “Empty are the words of that philosopher
who offers therapy for no human suffering. For just as there is no use for
medical expertise if it does not give therapy for bodily diseases, so too there
is no use in philosophy if it does not expel the suffering of the soul” (Epicurus 1987, 155). On Epicurus’ account, an irrational fear of death blights
our lives and leads us into religious belief that empowers priests to terrify
us and manipulate us. Epicurean philosophy aims to liberate us from the
dangerous influence of religion principally via making us see that the fear
of death is irrational. Thanatotherapeia is a central element in Epicureanism
(Nussbaum 1994; 13-15, 195-238).
A striking feature of Epicureanism is its reversal of common judgements about materialism. It is common to believe that the religious person
is in a more hopeful situation than the materialist as she believes in a life after death. By contrast, in a letter he wrote shortly before his death, the materialist Epicurus argued that “that most frightful of evils, death, is nothing
to us, seeing that when we exist death is not present, and when death is
present we do not exist” (Epicurus 1987, 150). That is, as we have ceased to
exist when we are dead, death cannot be bad for us. Indeed, nothing can be
good or bad for us when we have ceased to exist. On the Epicurean story,
once we realise this we can begin the process of liberating ourselves from
religion. This means that we can re-organise our lives to enjoy the present
rather than organising it around a non-existent future.
It is also common to believe that religious people will be better people, but Epicureans try to reverse this judgement. They think that fear of
death not only allows us to be manipulated by money-grubbing and fanatical priests - it can also lead us to engage in a senseless and dangerous desire
to pile up enormous wealth and to conquer others to leave absurd posthumous monuments to ourselves (Lucretius 1999; 5, 71-2). Epicureans claim
that, by contrast, they pursue only very moderate wealth and power as they
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see that the pursuit of these things is pointless. We will never live to enjoy
them, and what happens after our death is of no relevance to our welfare.
Now Russell does not claim that Hume strictly followed Epicurean
doctrine. Indeed, as he notes, Hume was attracted to ancient scepticism
both as a philosophy and as a therapy (Russell 2008, 204-222). The ancient
sceptics wanted to attain ataraxia, but they wanted to attain it in a different
way to the more dogmatic Epicureans. Our best account of the strategy of
ancient sceptics for attaining ataraxia comes from the sceptical disciple of
the Greek philosopher Pyrrho, Sextus Empiricus. Sextus says that “scepticism is an ability to place in antithesis, in any manner whatever, appearances and judgements, and thus - because of the equality of force in the objects
and arguments opposed - to come first of all to a suspension of judgement
and then to mental tranquillity [ataraxia]” (Sextus Empiricus 1985, 32-33).
So if he were trying to deal with someone’s fear of death, the Pyrrhonian
might put equal arguments for and against a benign afterlife to her until
she reached a suspense of judgement, thereby eliminating much of her fear.
Hume is, however, critical of Pyrrhonism. In his Treatise he argues
that the state of mind “that fantastic sect” want to attain is unattainable
(Hume 2007, 123). In an anonymous pamphlet that defends his views, he
calls Pyrrhonism “a kind of Jeux d’Esprit”. He declares that, unlike Pyrrhonians, he merely wishes “to abate the pride of mere human reasoners, by showing them, that even with principles which seem the clearest … they are not
able to attain a full consistence and absolute certainty” (Hume 2007, 425).
The point is elaborated in his first Enquiry (Hume 2000, 119-121). Nevertheless, he does seem to want his method of pursuing philosophy to be one
which involves something like ataraxia. He describes himself later in the
Treatise as wanting to “contribute a little to the advancement of knowledge,
by giving in some particulars a different turn to the speculations of philosophers, and pointing out to them more distinctly those subjects, where alone
they can expect assurance and conviction”. He notes that if this manner of
doing philosophy comes more into fashion, he can avoid both spleen and
indolence. He appeals to the reader who finds himself in the “same easy disposition” to follow his future speculations. He claims that “[T]he conduct of
a man, who studies philosophy in this careless manner, is more truly sceptical than that of one, who feeling an inclination to it, is yet so over-whelm’d
with doubts and scruples as to totally reject it. A true sceptic will be diffi331
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dent of his philosophical doubts, as well of his philosophical conviction; and
will never refuse any innocent satisfaction, which offers itself, upon account
of either of them” (Hume 2007, 177)2.
Baier points out that when Hume uses “careless”, he does not use it
in the sense of not giving a damn, but in the eighteenth century sense of
pursuing life and letters without unnecessary cares brought on by an overwrought imagination (Baier, 1991, 1-27). So it seems as if Hume saw himself as a true sceptic who sees one of the advantages of his scepticism to be
the careless pursuit of innocent intellectual satisfaction. The carelessness
is not a result of considering opposing arguments, but a way of pursuing
philosophy.
Despite what I have said in the previous three paragraphs, Hume’s
remarks to Boswell are Epicurean. Boswell reports that Hume “said flatly
that the morality of every religion was bad, and, I really thought, was not
jocular when he said that when he heard a man was religious, he concluded
he was a rascal, though he had known some instances of very good men being religious”. In responding to Boswell, Hume also produced a variant of a
Lucretian argument, often called the symmetry argument. (The symmetry
argument is the argument that if being dead is bad for us, so too is the mere
fact that we were not born earlier. The reason is that the loss of life is symmetrical at both ends of a life. Being born earlier would give us a longer life
just as living longer with the same birth date. However, no rational person
would be filled with woe at the mere fact of not being born earlier. Hence,
it is irrational to fear being dead (Lucretius 1999, 96-97; Nussbaum 1994,
203).) Boswell reports that he “asked him [Hume] if the thought of annihilation never gave him any uneasiness. He said not the least; no more than
if he had not been, as Lucretius observes” (Fieser 2005, 288-289). Hume
stressed that he has no fear of being dead and no belief in an after life.
Hume’s making himself into an exemplar also reflects Epicurean practice. Epicurus is well known for having written letters to his disciples that
he intended for release to a broader public about how well he was dying.
Hume’s composure in the face of death and his attempts to calm his friends
fit the Epicurean life style (Long and Sedley 1987, 149-151).
Does what I have said above support the view that Hume is a Lucretian who pursues Lucretian aims in a “careless” manner? Hume’s remarks to
Boswell should be put into context. Hume would have known that Boswell
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was sent by the orthodox Christian Dr Johnson who hoped for a last minute
recantation by a man he saw as a dangerous atheist. Playing the role of an
extreme Lucretian would have been a way of sending up Johnson. While
Lucretians want to eliminate the influence of religious beliefs, we will see
that Hume indicates that he thinks that it is unlikely or impossible, even if
he feels it to be desirable3.
In any case, Hume’s other remarks to Boswell indicate a degree of selfmockery which is not consistent with the serious role of a Lucretian. Epicurus and his followers converted Epicureanism into a soteriological cult.
Their stance was hardly “careless”, and there is nothing of sceptical doubt,
let alone humour or self-mockery, in it. Indeed, without a trace of irony,
Lucretius goes so far as to say that Epicurus is worthy of being a god (Lucretius 1999, 138)4. Boswell reports that he asked Hume “if it is not possible
that there might be a future state. He answered it was possible that a piece
of coal put on the fire would not burn; and he added that it was a most unreasonable fancy that we should exist forever…” (Fieser 2005, 288). Careful
readers of Hume will understand. Hume struggles through much of book 1
of his Treatise to explain how inductive inferences can be proved. He argues
in detail that the fact that every piece of coal we have encountered so far
burns cannot prove that a future piece of coal will burn, nor can it be shown
to make it probable that a future piece of coal will burn. He also stresses in
Book 1 that he cannot show an inductive inference to be even reasonable.
Rather, on his account, inductive inferences themselves rely on the imagination, that is, on what he calls “a seemingly trivial property of the fancy”
– while objecting to Boswell’s “fancy” he cannot show Boswell wrong by using reason alone (Hume 2007, 174). Boswell failed to understand the irony.
So is Hume playing the role of an Epicurean with a whiff of careless
scepticism about his Epicureanism? Is that his thanatotherapy? I will argue
that this is too simple. He is, rather, a Lucianic thanatotherapist.
Hume and Lucian
When talking to his close friend Smith, Hume imitates Lucian. This
is not peripheral to Hume’s life and thought. Some years before, the Abbe´
Morellet, a friend of Hume, sent his French translation of one of Lucian’s
dialogues to Hume seeking his opinion about the quality of the translation.
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In his letter, he described Lucian as Hume’s favourite author (Grieg 1939;
157-8, footnote 1). There are also many references to Lucian in Hume’s published work. We also know that he admired Jonathan Swift who in turn
imitated parts of Lucian5. Nevertheless, Hume’s admiration of Swift was
qualified by comparison to his admiration of Lucian. Understanding the
ways in which it was qualified gives us a better understanding of the nature
and style of Hume’s satire.
In one of his essays, Hume describes Swift as the author of “the first
polite prose” in English, though the praise is somewhat backhanded, as he
makes clear that he thinks French and Classical authors are far superior to
many of those writing in English (Hume 1987, 91). In a letter he says that
he “can often laugh with” Swift and “can even approve” of his style, but surely “can never admire” it. “It has no harmony, no eloquence, no ornament,
not much correctness, whatever the English may imagine” (Grieg 1939,
194). Another limitation Hume sees in Swift is that Swift takes his priestly
role far too seriously. In another letter, Hume says “I have frequently had
it in my intentions to write a supplement to Gulliver, containing the ridicule of priests. Twas certainly a pity that Swift was a parson. Had he been
a lawyer or physician, we had nevertheless been entertain’d at the expense
of these professions. But priests are so jealous, that they cannot bear to be
touch’d on that head; and for a plain reason: Because they are conscious that
they are really ridiculous. That part of the Doctor’s subject is so fertile, that
a much inferior genius, I am confident, might succeed in it” (Grieg 1932,
153)6. These remarks give us clues as to Hume’s satire. Its object is primarily
religion and it is more classical than that of Swift. Lucian is more of a model
for him than Swift.
Who was Lucian? Lucian of Samosata was an influential second century satirist. He was very much a figure of the so-called second sophistic, a literary movement in the Eastern part of the Roman Empire that wrote in the
Attic of the 5th and 4th centuries BCE. It peppered its work with allusions to
classical Greek literature and imitated its style. While Lucian knew classical
Greek literature well, it has been very plausibly argued that his central concern is contemporary life. One of his central targets is frauds and hypocrites
of various kinds, particularly religious frauds and hypocrites (Jones 1986).
Hume showed a particular interest in one of Lucian’s critiques of a
religious fraud, his Alexander the false prophet (Alexandros i Pseudomantis),
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C u l t u re
which is the story of how Lucian exposed the various frauds of the false pagan miracle worker Alexander of Aboneteichos (Lucian 1925). It is useful in
understanding Hume’s allusive uses of Lucian to examine his use of Lucian’s
Alexander in his “Of Miracles”.
Hume points out that it is useful for a religious impostor to start his
impostures in a remote and ignorant place. By the time the story arrives at
a place with wiser people it will have been magnified and better information
will be difficult to find. So it was, according to Hume, that Alexander was able
to proceed gradually to Rome itself with his impostures. He now argues “[B]
ut had Alexander fixed his residence at Athens, the philosophers of that renowned mart of learning had immediately spread, throughout the Roman empire, their sense of the matter; which, being supported by so great an authority, and displayed by all the force of reason and eloquence, had entirely opened
the eyes of mankind. It is true; Lucian passing by chance through Paphlagonia,
had an opportunity of performing this good office. But though much to be
wished, it does not always happen that every Alexander meets with a Lucian,
ready to expose and detect his impostures” (Hume 2000, 90-91).
Some readers of these remarks in Hume’s time would have been well
aware that Jesus’s miracles were reported from Judaea, a relatively ignorant
and backward part of the Roman Empire. Further, as far as we know, there
was no Lucian to investigate Jesus’s miracles. Hume has implied that those
miracles might well have been fraudulent without mentioning Jesus7.
There is, however, a slyer strategy involved in Hume’s remarks on
miracles. This becomes clear when we read a part of it that was cut out of
some later editions, perhaps because it made the point too obvious. The
section says “[I]t may, perhaps, be objected, that I proceed rashly, and form
my notions of Alexander merely from the account, given by him of Lucian,
a profess’d enemy. It were indeed to be wish’d, that some of the accounts
publish’d by his followers and accomplices had remained. The opposition
and contrast betwixt the character and conduct of the same man, as drawn
by a friend or an enemy, is as strong, even in common life, much more in
these religious matters, as that betwixt any two men in the world, betwixt
Alexander and St Paul for instance” (Hume 2000, 175).
To Hume’s largely Protestant audience, St Paul is a central figure in
Christianity. Yet all we have about St Paul is written by himself or by his
followers and possible accomplices. We do not have an account by written
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C u l t ure
by one of his enemies. Neither do we have an unbiased and rigorously researched account. Further, Hume has stressed that had Alexander started
his impostures in Athens, he would have been exposed. Readers of Hume’s
time would have known that even according to the writings of his acolyte
who produced the Acts of the Apostles, Paul’s preaching in Athens before an
audience which included Epicurean and Stoic philosophers was hardly received with uniform enthusiasm. Some treated him as a babbler or scoffed
at him (Acts, 17.18, 17.32). Although the author of Acts describes many
supposed miracles produced by Paul, even he does not describe a Pauline
miracle in Athens. Paul, of course, also started his preaching in a relatively
ignorant and backward part of the Roman Empire. The implication is obvious. Just as we have no account that defends Alexander from Lucian, we
have no account that criticises Paul to place against the account of Paul’s
Christian acolytes. Had Paul started his miracle working and preaching in
Athens, he would likely have been exposed as a fraud.
I should emphasise, however, Hume shows pretty clearly elsewhere
that he does not want to totally undermine an established religion, even
if it is as preposterous as Christianity. Consider a remark Hume makes in
his History of England. In discussing the reformation, he considers the issue
of whether there should be state funded established religion. He considers the argument that just as artisans improve their goods in a free market
economy, religion would be improved if there were a free market in religious
preaching. However, he rejects the claim, arguing that what will happen is
that “[E]ach ghostly practitioner, in order to render himself more precious
and sacred in the eyes of his retainers, will inspire them with the most violent abhorrence of all other sects, and continually endeavour, by some novelty, to excite the languid devotion of his audience. No regard will be paid
to truth, morals, or decency, in the doctrines inculcated. Every tenet will
be adopted that best suits the disorderly affections of the human frame.
Customers will be drawn to each conventicle by new industry and address
in practising on the passions and the credulity of the populace. And, in the
end, the civil magistrate will find, that he has dearly paid for his pretended
frugality, in saving a fixed establishment of the priests; and that, in reality
the most decent and advantageous composition, which he can make with
the spiritual guides, is to bribe their indolence, by assigning stated salaries
to their profession, and rendering it superfluous for them to be farther ac336
C u l t u re
tive, than merely to prevent their flock from straying in quest of new pastures. And in this manner ecclesiastical establishments, though commonly
they arose at first from religious views, prove in the end advantageous to
the political interests of society” (Hume, 1778, 90-91)8.
Baier has emphasised the extent to which Hume is willing to praise
religious hypocrisy for some greater good. As she notes after a survey of
various comments in Hume’s history, he thinks religious sincerity is often
more dangerous than religious hypocrisy (Baier 2008, 35-99). Indeed, in
his history, Hume is also hypocritical. In his discussion of Charles I of England, he is wary of explicitly stating that doctrines that make the person of
the monarch sacred are false. He states “[T]hat illusion, if it be an illusion,
which teaches us to pay a sacred regard to the persons of princes, is so salutary, that to dissipate it by the formal trial and punishment of a sovereign,
will have a more pernicious effects on the people, than the example of justice can be supposed to have a beneficial effect on princes, by checking their
career of tyranny” (Hume 1778a, 545). Careful readers of various works of
Hume would conclude that Hume must think that the view that the persons
of princes are sacred is an illusion. Indeed, in his essay “Of the Original Contract”, Hume quite clearly says that “Almost all governments, which exist
at present, or of which there remains any record in story, have been founded originally, either on usurpation or conquest, or both ...” (Hume 1987,
471). He also explains how the illusion of legitimacy and sacredness arises
through habituation and various artifices.
As we can see from one of his letters, Hume does not apply this praise
of religious hypocrisy merely to matters of state. James Edmonstoune
wrote to Hume about a Mr Vivian. He says that Mr Vivian may be able to
get a good living by taking a Bishoprick. However, Vivian now apparently
thinks he ought not to take it because of his religious scepticism. Edmonstoune describes Vivian as a “sort of disciple” of Hume who has “given him
notions not very consistent with his priestly character” (Grieg 1939, 3534). He asks Hume to advise Vivian. Hume advises Edmonstoune to tell Mr
Vivian to take the Bishoprick because “civil employments for men of letters
can scarcely be found...” He continues “It is putting too great a respect on
the vulgar, and on their superstitions, to pique one’s self on sincerity with
regard to them ... If the thing were worthy of being treated gravely, I should
tell him that the Pythian oracle, with the approbation of Xenophon, advised
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everyone to worship the gods - nomo poleos [ie according to the customs
of one’s community]. I wish it was still in my power to be a hypocrite in
this particular. The common duties of society usually require it; and the ecclesiastical profession only adds a little more to an innocent dissimulation,
or rather simulation, without which it is impossible to pass through the
world” (Grieg 1932, 439). Citing Apollo’s oracle as an authority to a potential Christian bishop is laced with irony; particularly when coupled with the
conditional “[I]f the thing were worthy of being treated gravely”. Nevertheless, the remarks Hume makes about the place of religion in society indicate that he is ironically serious. As Baier says, “Hume’s attitude to religion
and established religion is a mix of realism, irony, despair, and moral satire”
(Baier 2008, 96).
Lucian may have influenced Hume’s attitude to religion, though there
is no sign of despair in Lucian. Hume lived in a world recently devastated by
religious fanatics. Lucian did not. Some scholars have been puzzled by Lucian’s On the Syrian Goddess (Peri tis Syrihs Theou), in which he apparently
quite credulously describes miracles, while elsewhere regarding such stories
as absurd. Yet Lucian elsewhere provides a key to the puzzle. In The Lover
of Lies, or the Doubter (Filopseudis i Apiston), two characters both marvel at
lies, particularly lies told by the superstitious. It turns out that the lies that
they think are bad are those that are useless or outright fraudulent. Lies
told “to deceive the enemy, or a matter of life and death” are excused (Lucian
1961a, 196). Further, poets who seek to seduce with fables are excused, as
are liars who “tell such stories from patriotic motives. Besides if you abolished such stories throughout Greece, all the official guides would starve to
death, for foreign tourists (xenoi) have no wish to hear the truth about anything, even if they’re not paying for it” (Lucian 1961a, 198). Lucian is a patriotic Syrian who is willing to fudge the truth a little for patriotic motives.
In any case, Lucian gives the game away to the intelligent reader by writing
On the Syrian Goddess as a parody of Herodotus written in Herodotus’s Ionic
dialect9. Literary figures of Lucian’s own time wrote in Attic Greek. (Herodotus has been regarded by many as an arch liar (e.g. Plutarch 1965)).
Lucian’s strategy in On the Syrian Goddess is similar to the much more
explicit strategy that he adopts in A True Story (Alethon Dihgimaton), in
which he distinguishes himself from all the other liars by telling the truth
that he is lying. He there says “I myself thanks to my vanity, was eager to
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C u l t u re
hand something down to posterity, that I might not be the only one excluded from the privileges of poetic licence, and as I had nothing true to tell, not
having had any adventures of any significance, I took to lying. But my lying
is far more honest than theirs, for although I tell the truth in nothing else, I
shall at least be truthful in saying that I am a liar” (Lucian 1913, 253). Nevertheless, in a later part of A True Story, he encounters liars on the isle of the
damned, including Herodotus, and he comments “[O]n seeing them, I had
good hopes for the future, for I have never told a lie that I know of” (Lucian
1913, 337). He thereby damns himself by lying about his earlier admission
that he is lying. He also undermines his lying claim to have encountered
Herodotus et al in the isle of the damned - in this way, he undermines his
claim to having demonstrated that Herodotus is a liar while still asserting it.
A shallow reader of On the Syrian Goddess might take it to be an old
fashioned patriotic work or perhaps a genuine arcane text. (Lucian seems to
have written fake ancient philosophical texts to trap pretentious scholars
(Jones 1986, 19).) A subtle reader would get the parody while indulging
herself in some harmless patriotism.
Lucian shows himself to be sympathetic to Epicureanism. However,
there is little sign that he is an Epicurean. The philosopher he presents most
sympathetically is the Cynic Menippus, who wrote centuries before Lucian
(Jones 1986, 26-32). In the Double Indictment (Dis Kategouremenos) Lucian puts into the mouth of Dialogue, one of his two accusers, the claim
that on top of his many insults to Dialogue, “he even dug up and thrust
upon me Menippus, a prehistoric dog (palaion kynon), with a very loud
bark, it seems, and sharp fangs, a really dreadful dog who bites unexpectedly because he grins when he bites” (Lucian 1921, 147). In his Dialogues of
the Dead, Lucian presents Menippus as eager to go to the land of the dead
and to satirise villains who want to avoid punishment. Menippus also sends
up various human vanities as preposterous in the light of death. Menippus
does not appear in Kataplous, but Cyniscus (puppy) appears. Lucian often
seems to take up a Menippean role.
Lucianic Thanatotherapy
We understand Hume better by understanding his allusion to Kataplous and his Lucianic techniques. Hume dug up a prehistoric dog in the
form of Lucian, though he here uses it in part to bite himself. Let me remind
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the reader: in Kataplous, the tyrant Megapenthes tries to talk Clotho (one of
the fates) out of shoving him into Charon’s boat by stressing his important
plans. Clotho is outraged that he will want nearly twenty years. In Smith’s
published version of the story about Hume’s death, Hume says that he will
tell Charon he wants to open up the eyes of the public about the prevailing
superstition. Charon annoyedly tells him “that will not happen these many
hundred years” and tells him to get into the boat (Fieser 2005, 300).
Hume’s tyrannical attempt to hang on to life by bringing about the
downfall of the Christian religion is shown to be absurd. First, it is more
impossible to complete than Megapenthes’ hubristic projects. It will, at best,
take hundreds of years. Second, materialists should not be worried about dying, so it is hypocritical of Hume to hang on to life indefinitely. Third, eliminating religion is something no true sceptic would aim at. Hume plays both
the role of Megapenthes and of the god who, by divine intervention, prevents him from causing further great suffering. He thereby is forced by literary divine intervention to see through Epicurean soteriology and take up the
role of a “true sceptic” who enjoys the advantages of “careless” scepticism.
We get a greater insight into Hume’s thanatotherapy by considering
the behaviour of Menippus in Lucian. Menippus delights in bringing out
the absurd vanities of the vain and powerful. However, Lucian not only does
that through Menippus. He also brings out how meaningless the vanities
of ordinary people are in Hades by depicting them in their final state. The
beautiful are now mere skulls. The strong now have no muscles. And so on.
There is a lovely section of Lucian’s Dialogues of the Dead in which Menippus
is sending up a pompous and corrupt philosopher who has to strip off his
vanities. In response, the philosopher tells him to strip off his independence, plain speaking, nobility, laughter and cheerfulness - presumably because they are also meaningless in Hades. Hermes, however, tells Menippus
that he should keep these things, as they are useful to us in floating down
(kataploun) because they all carry well (eufora) (Lucian 1961, 112-115).
Hermes’s speech has a touch of irony; for his praise of Menippus’s character
traits is coupled with him calling them koufa - which can mean buoyant, but
literally means empty or hollow. So it may be that there is a divine joke here
at Menippus’s expense10. Note that, in any case, we are not being told that
these character traits are useful when we arrive, for nothing is useful when
we arrive. That, however, does not matter for we have ceased to exist.
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Afterword
Is Hume right? To decide that question, we would have to engage in
further discussion. We would also have to try his thanatotherapy. Will we
dare to try it?
Notes
1
In his letter, Smith has Hume saying things that are very close to Kataplous, except that he
says that Hume talked about three ghosts in Lucian pleading for more time. In Kataplous, only
Megapenthes’s ghost pleads for more time (Mossner and Ross, 1977 203-4).
2
Potkay argues that one of Hume’s primary aims is to be a therapist in the Hellenistic
tradition (Potkay 2000, 12-16). However, in a dialogue Potkay quotes, Hume puts into the
mouth of “The Sceptic” an argument against the therapeutic power of philosophy. He then
puts an argument for its therapeutic power in a footnote correcting “The Sceptic”. Hume was
probably ambivalent on the matter (Hume 1987; 169, 177 footnote 17).
3
Perhaps in this respect Hume is closer to Epicurus than the fanatically anti-religious
Lucretius. Epicurus, perhaps as a way of deflecting attacks on his supposed atheism, trod a
fine line on the existence of the gods and the value of religious ceremonies (Long and Sedley
1987, 144-149).
4
For a jaundiced view of Epicureanism, see Green 1990, 618-630. For a more nuanced
discussion, see Mistsis 2003, 467-471. Hume would not have known the details, but would
have been aware of Lucretius’s nauseating attitude to Epicurus.
5
The library of Baron Hume, Hume’s nephew, contained a 12 volume edition of Jonathan
Swift published in 1736. It had probably previously belonged to Hume (Norton and Norton
1996; 131, number 1227).
6
For a discussion of Hume’s satiric style and his relation to Swift and Lucian, see Ross 1995
and Phiddian 2011. Those authors underestimate the degree to which Hume distances his
style and targets from those of Swift.
7
I am using the notion of implying here to mean what Grice, in a wonderful turn of phrase,
calls “implicating” (Levinson 1983, 97-118).
8
Hume is careful to say that he excepts the true religion from his remarks, but that is
something he had to say to get his work published and read.
9
The arcane style is captured in Harmon’s translation of Lucian into the style of the fake
fourteenth century traveller John Mandeville (Lucian 1925a).
10 Lucian’s (and Hume’s?) point here may be similar to one Thomas Nagel makes in a discussion
of the absurdity of human life. He says “[I]f sub specie aeternitatis there is no reason to believe
anything matters, then that doesn’t matter either, and we can approach our absurd lives with
irony instead of heroism or despair” (Nagel 1981, 161). Joel Relihan seems to be correct in
arguing that Menippus’s (and Lucian’s?) own vanities are in part the target of the Dialogues of
the Dead (Relihan 1987).
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Baier, Annette. 2008. Death and Character: Further Reflections on Hume. Cambridge
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Levinson, Stephen. 1983. Pragmatics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
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* I would like to thank Robert Phiddian and various philosophers for helpful
comments on an earlier draft of this paper.
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virgin mary with a book
Παρθένης
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G o l fo M a g g i n i
Un i v e r s i t y of I o a n n i n a
Contemporary Greek Philosophy at the
Crossroads: Neokantianism – Existentialism
– Phenomenology
Abstract
During the first two decades of the 20th century, Greece’s philosophical
scene was dominated by neokantianism. In the so called “Heidelberg group”
of philosophers we come across a company of people educated in post-WW
1 Germany, close to some of the most influential philosophers of their time.
Immersed in neokantianism, the triad Theodorakopoulos-Tsatsos-Kanellopoulos served the spirit of this philosophical school not just within the university classroom, but also for a much wider public. Within this dominant
framework, what was the role and significance of other philosophical trends,
such as phenomenology, in the genesis of contemporary Greek philosophy?
The main working hypothesis of our research is that the phenomenological
movement in Greece was caught since its beginning in the tension between
two dominant philosophical currents, neokantianism and existentialism. A
more serious effort to cope with phenomenological thought on a systematic
basis began in the 1980s. It was accompanied by the increasing recognition
of phenomenology as an autonomous field of European philosophy within
the Greek academic community. We will then try to demonstrate that this
was contingent to the way in which Greek philosophy evolved in the 20th
century, inside as well as outside the academia.
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C u l t ure
I
Small has been the number of publications on the evolution of 20th
century Greek philosophy. This is due to many factors, including the obvious gap between the ex cathedra philosophy teachers, who determined the
identity of Greek academic philosophy, and the dynamism and profusion of
many “paraphilosophical” occurrences. Those latter are difficult to classify
and evaluate, as it is not always easy to draw the line between neighbouring discursive practices, for instance, between philosophy and literature
or poetry. Questions related to the intellectual identity of contemporary
Greece have been quite often debated on the grounds of literature,1 but not
much on the grounds of contemporary Greek philosophy, academic or not.
The first two decades of the 20th century have been dominated by Greek
university professors, such as Alexander Kotzias, Constantinos Logothetis,
Margarites Evanghelidis and Nikolaos Louvaris who have been influenced
by German philosophy, mainly by Hegelianism, a remainder of 19th century
Greek philosophy.2 But the acknowledgment of the debt to the European
tradition of thought could never counterbalance the hellenocentric discourse of intellectuals, poets and literary people, who sought to establish
the continuity of hellenism through the centuries, often with a romantic
and nationalistic overtone. A whole “paraphilosophical” literature came out
of this idealistic discourse, which at the end encouraged the split between
Greek and non-Greek culture and thought.
II
In the so called “Heidelberg group” of philosophers we come across
a group of people educated in post WW 1 Germany, close to some of the
most distinguished 20th century philosophers.3 In a 1933 article on the occasion of the 70th anniversary of Heinrich Rickert, his University teacher,
Ioannis Theodorakopoulos, one of the leading figures of the “Heidelberg
group” wrote: “I found in Rickert whatever a man who came from the South
needs in the North, the depth of the ego and the strength of the philosophical orientation within the world”.4 Immersed in neokantianism, the triad
Theodorakopoulos-Tsatsos-Kanellopoulos tried to serve the spirit of this
philosophical tendency not just within the University classroom, but also
to a much wider public, mainly through the Archeion Filosofias and Theorias
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ton Epistimon [Archives of Philosophy and Theory of the Sciences], a trimestrial
theoretical review (1929-1941).5
The spirit of the group was strongly idealistic, as its European orientation soon turned into an objective, Plato-inspired, idealism and retained
this form till the late 50’s. In his 1929 study on I gnoseologia tou Rickert os
eisagogi eis ton neokantianismon [Rickert’s Theory of Knowledge as an Introduction to Neokantianism] Theodorakopoulos pointed out that: “The special culture of Plato which prevails in Germany today has its roots in neokantianism. Neokantianism reposited the problems of Platonism…Pure reason is
for Plato, as for Kant, the regulator of philosophical thoughts”.6 Nevertheless, what is of an even greater interest is the way Theodorakopoulos aligns
Plato and the Neokantians with Hegel: “The accusation which was earlier
addressed to neokantianism, that it puts aside the rest of the philosophers,
especially Hegel, is no longer valid, because neokantianism, after the revival
of Plato, turns itself to Hegel, through Natorp, Lask, and Heidegger”.7 Here
we come across a clear misreading of a phenomenologist, such as Heidegger,
regarded by Theodorakopoulos as a neokantian, a typical misappropriation
of the early 20th century Greek reception of phenomenology. Moreover, the
idealistic trend of the “Archeion-circle” was coupled with a strong reaction to
determinism and historical materialism: “Kant’s philosophy was viewed by
this group as a liberating one in relation to Marxism, and Plato’s as a liberating one in relation to Kantianism”.8
Still, even within the “Heidelberg group”, the gnoseological purism
was not respected to the same extent by all its members. In the case of Ioannis Theodorakopoulos, the dislike of the philosophy of history and civilization was obvious and expressed in many occasions, e.g. in his essay on
Oswald’s Spengler’s philosophy of history, whereas in the case of Panayotis
Kanellopoulos, things were different. This was mainly due to Kanellopoulos’ systematic study of sociology along with philosophy, as well as a wider
range of intellectual affinities and influences. Even if Theodorakopoulos
mentioned the presence and intellectual power of Karl Jaspers in Heidelberg, his discourse was clearly differentiated from his true philosophical likings. The case was different for Kanellopoulos, who saw the split between
the traditional, speculative philosophy - represented by the Neokantian
philosophers with their emphasis on pure reason and the priority of science
and their dislike for Nietzsche – and the philosophy of existence.9 Kanel347
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lopoulos even generalized the controversy by placing, on the one side, H.
Rickert as the main representative of the ‘Professorenphilosophie” and, on
the other side, K. Jaspers along with social theorists such as A. Weber and
the poet F. Gundolf.10 As early as 1937, he brought Jaspers “psychologically
very close” (“psychika poli konta”) to Max Weber, and also to his brother
Alfred Weber.11
For Kanellopoulos, Jaspers’ critique of Kant along with his recognition
of Nietzsche’s philosophical weight became the trademark of a new philosophical era, where radical philosophers and poets, such as the expressionists of the Stefan George circle”, coexisted in a harmonious manner. Kanellopoulos translated for the Archeion Filosofias and Theorias ton Epistimon the
introduction to Jasper’s much influential book on Nietzsche published in
1935 and accompanied his translation with a short but comprehensive comment on Jaspers’ philosophy, where he tried to show its unique place in
today’s philosophy.12 Much later in his intellectual journey, Kanellopoulos
repeatedly pointed out that he was the first to introduce existentialism in
Greece through a series of articles in the framework of the Archeion.13 As it is
the case for contemporary Greek philosophers in general, the introduction
of a new philosophical current is launched by the critical discussion, or by
the annotated translation, of an influential work. In the case of Panayotis
Kanellopoulos, the introduction of “ypostasiakh filosofia” is worked out by
the review of Karl Jaspers’ Descartes und die Philosophie (1937) in the first
issue of the 1938 Archeion. This is the concluding remark of Kanellopoulos’
review: “Jaspers succeeded in opposing to Descartes’ technical construct the
lively, veritable man. For that reason Jaspers’ critique is a genuine philosophical critique, a critique which edifies and gives life”.14 The extended
book review is followed by the translation of a series of conferences by Karl
Jaspers on “ypostasiakh filosofia”.15 Those conferences were published in
the Archeion before even being published in their country of origin.16 A first
translation of Jaspers’ study on Nietzsche had already taken place in the
sixth volume of the Archeion.17 The translation was preceded by a text where
Kanellopoulos points out that Jaspers is the most important representative
of contemporary German philosophy, because: “Jaspers, by philosophizing
“acts”… he does not teach philosophy, he philosophizes.”18
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III
Is there a special place for phenomenology in the genesis of contemporary Greek philosophy? Our claim will be that the contemporary reception
of phenomenological philosophy by the Greek community of professional
philosophers and intellectuals was caught in the dominant tension between
neokantianism and existentialism. Consequently, only a few Greek philosophers did follow the work of major phenomenologists, and they most certainly did not produce an original phenomenological philosophy till very recently. We will try to show that this was not accidental, but inherent to the
way in which modern Greek philosophy, academic or not, evolved. In fact,
the claim that phenomenology has been caught up between the dominant
trends of neokantianism and existentialism goes back to the 30s. In his 1938
Necrology in the Archeion Filosofias kai Theorias ton Epistimon19, I. Theodorakopoulos produces a rather encyclopedic, linear presentation of Husserl’s
work, starting from the Logical Investigations, where is already revealed for
the first time Husserl’s “fundamental philosophical manner, of which the
main feature is that it is subjective and objective at the same time” and
concluding with the 1929 Sorbonne lectures entitled Cartesian Meditations.
Nevertheless, it is quite clear that Theodorakopoulos views Husserl’s phenomenology in the light of neokantianism. In his 1929 treatise on Rickert’s
Theory of Knowledge as an Introduction to Neokantianism, he clearly acknowledges Husserl as one of the founders of neokantianism, in the sense that he,
like other Neokantians, aims at continuing and at the same time at correcting the problems of Kant’s critical philosophy.20 Husserl, at different terms
than Rickert, also fights against psychologism.21 He thus pursues the goal
of saving the validity and truth of scientific consciousness (to kat’epistimon
syneidos): “The term phenomenology with the aid of which Husserl characterizes the theory of knowledge should not mislead the reader into believing that what is meant is the simple kind of knowledge or what Rickert designates as the pro-scientific type of knowledge. Husserl’s phenomenology,
with the exception of some elements which are also present in the Scholastic philosophy, remains a methodology of the natural and mathematical
sciences”.22 Theodorakopoulos then reaches a point where he argues that
Husserl’s idea of knowledge is far narrower than that of Rickert, because
the latter goes against Kant’s priority of scientific knowledge over all other
types of knowledge, as he thematizes even the simplest and most rudimen349
C u l t ure
tary types of knowledge.23 He distinguishes between the reason of science
(kat’epistimin logos) and the reason of philosophy (kata filosofian logos). He
then argues that: “The reason of philosophy, in other words the immediate
reference of a conscious being (syneidos) to itself, according to which the categories are considered to be the principle of life and reason of the conscious
being, is not a matter of investigation neither for Kant nor for Rickert. The
same goes also for Cohen and for Husserl. In them Logic is restricted to the
concept of a theory of reason”.24
A far more critical approach to the phenomenological enterprise is the
one presented by Theodorakopoulos later on in his philosophical journey.
Here Husserl is accused of setting scientific knowledge aside in order to
thematize the prescientific field of consciousness. The focus of Theodorakopoulos’ critique is the status of intuition in phenomenology: “The phenomenologists’ effort to escape the interference of human intellect in his
relation to reality is undermined by the phenomenologists themselves, because whatever they claim is nothing but the outcome of the intervention
of the human intellect, which they misinterpret, thus presenting it not as
intellectual (dianoitikon) but as intuitive (epoptikon). Besides that, the phenomenologists try to turn all the problems of the transcendental critical
philosophy into constatations of simple facts. The phenomenologists’ error stems from their exaggerated tendency to limit as more as possible the
simple elements of conscious reality, in other words, to reach the primitive
state of the states of consciousness. Phenomenology by accepting this denies right from the start what Kant called quaestio juris…”25 Further on in
the same essay, Theodorakopoulos complies fully with Rickert’s critique of
phenomenology, first, as being devoid of system and, second, as focusing
on the primacy of the Schau, thus, proposing nothing more than a revival of
the Platonic theory of ideas. For him, the same is true of Heidegger’s phenomenology which starts with the claim to go back to things themselves:
“Someone remarked that Heidegger’s word is similar to the catchword of
modern European painting, that is turning to the things themselves. Nevertheless, what we ought to have in mind is that philosophy’s right to life is
valid only from the moment when the concept emerges, which means that
it takes place from the point when the human intellect is set to motion”.26
It is thus clear that Theodorakopoulos’ evaluation of phenomenology
is thoroughly biased by his debt to Rickert’s neokantianism. In this sense,
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it is also worth noting the distance kept between Husserl and Heidegger.
If Husserl is close to Rickert, Heidegger is closer to Natorp due to the way
the latter perceives the relation between theory of knowledge and dialectics: “As someone goes through the systematic theses of neokantianism, he
notes that its weakest point is the relation between theory of knowledge
and dialectics, which it never examines. The few points which we find in
Lask are not of decisive importance for determining the relation between
theory of knowledge and dialectics. Those who posed in a fecund manner
the relation between theory of knowledge and dialectics are Natorp and
Heidegger”.27 In this spirit, Theodorakopoulos reaches an arbitrary conclusion - if not a clear-cut misreading of – as to Heidegger’s Being and Time:
“The dialectical relation between form and matter is formulated in a creative
manner by Heidegger in his work “Sein und Zeit”, where the sensible and
the suprasensible world are dialectically related to each other”.28
Nevertheless, if in Theodorakopoulos’ case the treatment of Husserl
and Heidegger present similiarities, a different path was followed in the
Greek reception of Husserl’s and Heidegger’s phenomenology. This was due
mainly to Heidegger being viewed as an existentialist thinker, a thinker of
human existence and its historical destiny.29 “Scientific” phenomenology
remained at the shadow of the widespread Existentialist movement before
and, even more, after WW II. A few exceptions do nothing else than confirm
this: Constantinos Georgoulis’ treatment of Husserl’s transcendental phenomenology30 as well as Scheler’s phenomenology of values31 was no more
than an introductory presentation of their work, with no claim to originality. Nevertheless, Georgoulis relates closely Heidegger’s existential anthropology to Husserl’s phenomenology, whereas he clearly distances himself
from Theodorakopoulos’ insistence on the priority of scientific knowledge
over all other types of knowledge, and the neglect of everyday, prescientific
states of conscious life.32 He also brings phenomenology closer to the philosophy of life – Husserl to Bergson – on the grounds that they both elaborate on the rudimentary stream of consciousness, emphasizing their antiCartesian spirit, their hostility to mentalism and scientism, and their effort
to bring philosophy back to the lived conscious experience.33 Finally, what
is also present in Georgoulis’ essays is, once more, the hellenocentric trend,
as well as a strong Christian spirit which pervades his readings to their very
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core. This is quite apparent in the way Georgoulis treats of Scheler’s axiology, for which the highest value is divine love. He thus brings together Max
Scheler and Dionysios Areopagitis.34
IV
A significantly different situation is that of phenomenology from the
60’s on, a fact mainly due to the late first attempt to translate phenomenological texts into modern Greek. Nevertheless, what remains the same is
the non-systematic and random way in which those translations take place.
It is not Husserl, Heidegger or Scheler who are translated, but texts by the
second generation of German, French, or American phenomenologists. A
case with a special interest is that of the Greek translation of Jacques Derrida’s selection from Husserl’s work for the monthly review Epoches published
by Angelos Terzakis.35 Except from Derrida’s analysis, his selection of texts
rendered into modern Greek by Eleftherios Platis is the first translation of
phenomenological texts into modern Greek we dispose of. It is worth mentioning here that Eleftherios Platis (The Erotic Element in Mysticism, 1964;
The Aesthetic Society. An Aesthetic Essay, Athens 1976; Hermeneutical Comments to Plato’s Criton, Athens 1979), who offered an inspired first translation of phenomenological texts, was an intellectual clearly influenced by the
unpronounced existentialism of Panayotis Kannelopoulos, while developing the affinities between existentialism and mysticism as well as orthodox
faith.
We could claim with no reservations that those are the first translations of original phenomenological texts into modern Greek, next to the
rather schematic presentations of phenomenology till then. Once more, it
is not the ex cathedra philosophy which paved the way for the reception of
European philosophical thought, but the latter grew also within intellectual
circles, not necessarily in academic milieus.36 It is only in the 70’s that the
work of academic teachers who have studied phenomenology while cultivating special philosophical interests, such as the philosophy of art,37 the
theory of knowledge38 and the history of modern philosophy,39 among others, helped phenomenology acquire a larger institutional recognition, and,
in addition to that, produced for the first time an original phenomenological discourse.40
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Still, the gap between academic teaching and research and the “paraacademic” production – independent publications41 or translations of phenomenological studies and papers by eminent phenomenologists, such as W.
Biemel, E. Fink and E. Husserl himself, in scientific and intellectual journals
such as the review Epopteia and the periodical journal Deukalion published
by the Kentron Filosofikon Ereunon [Center for Philosophical Research] – remained. From all those efforts to introduce phenomenology to the Greek
intellectual community, volume 12 of the philosophical journal Deukalion
dedicated to Husserl’s phenomenology is by far the most comprehensive
and scientifically valid. The philosophy professor Nikos Skouteropoulos was
the translator of three major phenomenological essays by E. Husserl, W.
Szilasi and A. Diemer. He also provided us with a first phenomenological
glossary and a bibliography of Husserl’s work as well as with a secondary
phenomenological bibliography.42
Moreover, the marginal character of the Greek phenomenological
studies is clearly witnessed by its hesitant flourishing outside the rather traditionalist National and Capodistrian University of Athens, mainly in the
Faculty of Philosophy of the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, which was
considered to be less conservative in its general philosophical orientation.43
Still, the non-systematic way of translating phenomenological thinkers or
of investigating into phenomenology is characteristic of the way in which
phenomenology has been integrated into the modern Greek philosophical
community.44 Only later on, in the 80’s, Husserl himself was translated into
modern Greek.
V
The case of Martin Heidegger has been sensibly different from that
of his predecessor right from the first steps of phenomenology within the
Greek philosophical community. A first translation of parts of his Introduction to Metaphysics took place in the monthly review Epoches, as was the case
for Husserl. The selection of the passages and the their translation by Nelli
Saveriadou was accompanied by a concise introduction to his early work with
a focus, once more, on Being and Time and only in part to other works, such
as his Introduction to Metaphysics. Saveriadou’s evaluation of Heidegger’s
thought reflected much of the intellectual climate of those times: no men-
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tion of the place of Heideggerian phenomenology within the phenomenological movement in general was undertaken; emphasis was placed solely
on the anthropological and sociological parameters of Being and Time’s existential analytics; last but not least, Heidegger’s hasty comparison to other
Existentialists, such as Sartre, proved him to be of a lesser quality due to the
absence of political engagement in him. Nevertheless, Saveriadou did enrich
her translation with specific remarks on the rendering of phenomenological
terms, yet in a non-systematic manner.45 Another fragmentary translation
of Heidegger’s Ti einai I filosofia; [What is philosophy?] by Agisilaos Dokas
also took place in the next volume of the review Epoches.46
But the more widespread reception of Heidegger’s phenomenology in
comparison to that of other phenomenologists was due to the great interest in his philosophy on the part of Greek Existentialist philosophers and
theologians who engaged themselves in studying47 and translating48 his
work. It is without doubt that Yannis Tzavaras’ translation of Being and
Time determined a new era in the reception of Heidegger’s hermeneutic
phenomenology.49 Nevertheless, the study of Heidegger’s phenomenology
remained non systematic and always centered either on his anthropological-existential features,50 or on his link with the Christian, in particular, Orthodox tradition.51 The hellenocentrism of Greek Heideggerian existentialists is quite apparent in their writings: “also when we examine Heidegger’s
contribution, its presence honors the ancient Greek thought and language.
Nowadays, Heidegger is the only big voice in the world which pronounces
that the Presocratic Greek philosophers were the prophets of humanity.
But Heidegger says also something even more important: the history of humanity starts with the Greek philosophers, because from then on being was
revealed to the world and real history started, history as an ontological determination”.52 In this respect, it is by no means fortuitous that in his 1972
essay on the “Modern Greek Core” Malevitsis brings to an unprecedented
osmosis contemporary existentialism (Sartre, Heidegger) and philosophy of
culture (Spengler) with the national poetry of Kostis Palamas and the writings of Ion Dragoumis and Ioannis Sikoutris on the character of Hellenic
civilization and culture.
As for the case of other phenomenological thinkers – with the exception of French existentialist phenomenologists, such as Jean-Paul Sartre,
who enjoyed a much wider acceptance not so much within the academic
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community, but among educated Greeks – the study and translation of their
works took place in an even less systematic manner thanks to the individual work of intellectuals. Contrary to the increasing interest in Heidegger’s
phenomenology,53 few of the German and French phenomenologists were
translated into modern Greek in the first post-WW II decades.54 Few were
also the studies dedicated to phenomenological thinkers, except from those
who viewed them in the light of their existentialist reception.55 A far more
serious effort of translating not just isolated conferences or papers, but
systematic phenomenological works began from the 80’s on.56 They were
accompanied by the increasing recognition of phenomenology as an autonomous field of contemporary European philosophy within the Greek universities and the Greek intellectual community in general.
VI
Taking the abovementioned frame of inquiry into account a series of
issues could be raised for future research concerning the contemporary reception of the phenomenological movement in Greece. A first issue is related to the continuity or discontinuity between modern and contemporary Greek philosophy as well as to the dependency upon its past. Several
historians of ideas have seen in this the sign of the definitive continuation
of the Byzantine, Plato-inspired, philosophical heritage to the present.57 A
second issue worth discussing is the idealistic consideration of Hellenism by
the generation of the 30’s58 and, after the tragedy of WW II, its transformation into a critique of contemporary culture and an inquiry into Greece’s
contribution to the contemporary world.59 The question rises as to the
way in which a scientific philosophical trend, such as phenomenology, is
appropriated within such a cultural context. A third issue is the ideological background of the struggle of philosophical ideas60 and also the fate of
a generation of Greek philosophers and intellectuals who matured in the
West, especially in France and Germany and were faced up with the tragedy
of history. This is exemplified in the decline of neokantian idealism and the
bringing forth of the historical present especially through existentialism
or existentialism-inclined phenomenology.61 Further on, historiographical issues are of importance, as there has been a constant tension between
the ex cathedra philosophy professors and the intellectuals who moved in a
more independent manner, through publications in less specialized,
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paraphilosophical journals, e.g. Nea Estia, Epoches, Epopteia, Efthini, Deukalion, or in encyclopaedias and dictionaries of ideas destined to a wider
educated public (Megali Paidagogiki Egkuklopaideia, Neoteron Egkiklopaidikon
Lexikon “Iliou”). It is worth noting that one of the first occurrences of phenomenology as a philosophical movement was the analysis of the entries
“Husserl” and “phenomenology” in the eighteenth volume of the Neoteron
Egkyklopedikon Lexikon “Ilios”.
Other issues worth raising are, on the one side, the difficult balance
between the transferring of European trends of thought and original research on genuine philosophical questions and, on the other side, the distance between university professors and intellectuals who investigate into
“to elliniko genos” and those who study philosophy in a systematic manner.
This issue is related to the “mimetic” character of modern Greek philosophy,
and what lies in its heart as its creative core. For historians of ideas, contemporary Greek philosophy has been creative only as a national philosophy.62
What has been often the case is that questions of national identity have
often mixed with a less systematic philosophical paradigm, e.g. existentialism.63 It is worth noting that a philosopher who studied phenomenology
and hermeneutics, like Yorgos Antonopoulos (1920-2010), was nevertheless inclined, next to their scientific work, to work on the special nature of
neo-hellenic values, the latter being the heir of the idealistic philosophy of
the first half of 20th century.64
Still, it is evident that, from the 70’s on, the situation of philosophy in
Greece, in and outside the academia, underwent a considerable evolution
in the direction of scientific research with a high status, and a proliferation of societies, centers and periodical publications, which promoted the
active participation in the international philosophical becoming.65 What is
also true is the gradual disappearance of philosophy from Greece’s effort to
articulate an autonomous discourse related to its identity and its past or to
formulate a “national philosophy”.66 From the ‘80s on, the distance between
university teachers and intellectuals, due mainly to the increasing need for
specialization, but also the new structure of philosophical studies within
Greek universities67, brought a new perspective on contemporary European
philosophy and its impact upon Greece’s intellectual climate.
Last but not least, an important factor with a great impact on the
way in which Greece appropriated the European spirit, in philosophy too,
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is “geophilosophy”. For Evangelos Papanoutsos, rationalism is French, romanticism is German, whereas empiricism is British.68 Still, the point where
Greece stands from the viewpoint of “geophilosophy” is not easy to determine, even if this “geophilosophical” separation lies on the grounds of the
well-known analytic-continental split, which became increasingly important within Greek universities from the 70’s on.69 The analytic-continental
split also determined to a large extent the reception of phenomenology in
Greece within the last three decades. Despite recent attempts to appropriate phenomenology within the analytic tradition – a trend followed by several young Greek academics today – phenomenology is generally considered
to belong to the continental philosophical tradition.
Notes
1
S. Gourgouris, Dream-Nation. Enlightenment, Colonization, and the Institution of Modern Greece,
Stanford CA: Stanford University Press, 1996; D. Tziovas, The Other Self: Selfhood and Society
in Modern Greek Fiction, Lanham: Lexington Books, 2003.
2
G. Apostolopoulou “Hegel-Studien in Griechenland”, Hegel-Studien, 21 (1986), p. 189-218;
Nikou K. Psimmenou, “I proslipsi tis filosofias tou Hegel ston elliniko choro – Anthologio
kritikon apotimiseon tis [The Reception of Hegel’s Philosophy in Greece – An Anthology of
Critical Evaluations]”, G. W. F. Hegel. Meletes gia ti zoi kai to ergo tou [G. W. F. Hegel. Studies on
His Life and Work], Athens-Giannina: Dodoni Publishers 2009, p. 245-71.
3
P. Kanellopoulos, “Xaidelvergi, o chrissos krikos tou pneumatikou desmou mas”
[“Heidelberg, the Golden Ring of Our Spiritual Bond”], in: Afieroma ston Konstantino Tsatso
[Studies Presented to Constantine Tsatsos], Athens: Sakkoulas Publications, 1980, p. 1-160.
Charalambos Theodoridis (1883-1957) points out the unprecedented interest in European
philosophy which marked the decade between 1925 and 1935: “I filosofiki kinisi sta teleutaia
deka chronia [The Movement of Philosophical Ideas in the Last Ten Years]”, edited and
commented by K. T. Petsios, Katoptron Neoellinikis Filosofias 2 (2011), p. 161-82 (the article
first appeared in the newspaper Neos Kosmos in 1934).
4
I. Theodorakopoulos, “Ta evdomida chronia tou H. Rickert” [“H. Rickert’s Seventieth
Anniversary]”, Archeion Filosofias kai Theorias ton Epistimon IV/4 (1933), p. 356.
5
One of the main features of the modern Greek philosophical evolution is the coexistence of
philosophical writing with the translation of influential philosophical works into the Greek
language. Such is the case of the “Heidelberg group”: Paul Natorp’s groundbreaking Platos
Ideenlehre (1903) was translated into modern Greek by Michalis Tsamados [I peri ton Ideon
Theoria tou Platonos] , one of the active members and writers of the Archeion Filosofias and
Theorias ton Epistimon, in 1929. The translation was foreworded by Ioannis Theodorakopoulos:
“O Neokantianismos kai o Paul Natorp. Prolegomena eis to ergo tou Natorp “I peri ton Ideon
Theoria tou Platonos” [“Neokantianism and Paul Natorp. Preface to Natorp’s work “Plato’s
Doctrine of Ideas”] (Ta prota mou filosofimata 1927-1930 [My First Philosophical Writings 19271930], Athens: Vivliopoleion tis Estias, 1978, p. 396-425).
6
Ibid, p. 282. Also in this respect: I. Theodorakopoulos, Agapimeni mou Xaidelvergi [My Dear
Heidelberg], Athens: Vivliopoleion tis Estias, 1980, p. 93, 111.
7
I. Theodorakopoulos, Ta prota mou filosofimata 1927-1930, p. 283.
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8
C. Cavarnos, C., Modern Greek Thought. Three Essays Dealing With Philosophy, Critique of
Science, and Views of Man’s Nature and Destiny, Belmont Mass : The Institute for Byzantine and
Modern Greek Studies, 1969, p. 34.
9
Kanellopoulos translated existentialism as “ypostasiakh filosofia” to distinguish it from
other, rather vague in meaning, intellectual movements of the 30’s (“Heidelberg, o chrissos
krikos tou pneumatikou desmou mas” Kanellopoulos 1980, p. 128, note 278).
10 Ibid, p. 52.
11 P. Kanellopoulos, “Heidelberg” (1937), Dokimia kai alla keimena saranta pente eton (19351980), Thessaloniki : Egnatia Publications, 1980, p. 29.
12 P. Kanellopoulos, “I pneumatiki neoelliniki koinonia [The Spiritual Neohellenic Society]”,
Archeion Filosofias kai Theorias ton Epistimon VI/1 (1935), p. 1-41. See in this respect G.
Apostolopoulou’s penetrating reading of Kanellopoulos’ approach to metaphysics and
existentialism (“The Open Metaphysics of Human Existence. Some Examples from Modern
Greek Philosophy”, Dodoni. Proceedings of the Faculty of Philosophy of the University of Ioannina,
28 (1999), p. 353-358).
13 P. Kanellopoulos, “Kritika meletimata: Descartes kai Jaspers [“Critical Studies: Descartes and
Jaspers”]”, Archeion Filosofias kai Theorias ton Epistimon VIII/1 (1938), p. 93-98; “Karl Jaspers.
Ypostasiaki filosofia [“Karl Jaspers. – Philosophy of Existence”]”, Archeion Filosofias kai
Theorias ton Epistimon VIII/2 (1938), p. 117-145; “Karl Jaspers. Ypostasiaki filosofia”, Archeion
Filosofias kai Theorias ton Epistimon VIII/3 (1938), p. 257-289; “Karl Jaspers. Ypostasiaki
filosofia”, Archeion Filosofias kai Theorias ton Epistimon VIII/4 (1938), p. 257-289. See also: P.
Kanellopoulos, “Heidelberg, o chrissos krikos tou pneumatikou desmou mas”, p. 64-66.
14 P. Kanellopoulos, “Kritika meletimata: Descartes kai Jaspers”, p. 98.
15 P. Kanellopoulos, “Karl Jaspers. Ypostasiaki filosofia Kanellopoulos” (the article was
published in three parts in the Archeion Filosofias kai Theorias ton Epistimon of the year 1938).
16 P. Kanellopoulos, “Heidelberg, o chrissos krikos tou pneumatikou desmou mas”, p. 128.
17 K. Jaspers, “Proypotheseis gia mia filosofiki katanoisi tou Nietzsche [“Presuppositions for
a Philosophical Understanding of Nietzsche”], translated by P. Kanellopoulos, Archeion
Filosofias kai Theorias ton Epistimon VI/3 (1935), p. 249-278.
18 Kanellopoulos, P. (1980/1935): “Karl Jaspers”, Dokimia kai alla keimena saranta pente
eton (1935-1980), p. 26. Another interesting perspective on existentialism is given by
Kanellopoulos’ critical discussion of a study by Jeanne Hersch, a French student of Jaspers,
in the 1937 Archeion. Kanellopoulos reviewed her L’illusion philosophique (Paris, 1936) by
emphasizing the “organic fallacy” which lies at the background of all genuine philosophizing,
thus keeping it at a safe distance from speculative theory, dogmatism and pure scientific
reason. Nevertheless, Jaspers’ influence on Kanellopoulos was not only direct, but also
indirect. In reviewing a study by Yorgos Sarantaris (Simvoli se mia filosofia tis iparxis, Athens
1937), he criticized Sarantaris’ sole acceptance of Dostoyevsky and his refusal of Nietzsche
and Kierkegaard. Here Kanellopoulos explicitly recognized his debt to Jaspers’ reading of the
two thinkers (“Heidelberg”, Dokimia kai alla keimena saranta pente eton (1935-1980), p. 47; To
telos tou Zaratoustra [Zarathoustra’s End], Athens, 1956). See in this respect: X. Malevitsis, “Ο
filosofikos stochasmos tou P. Kanellopoulou [The Philosophical Thought of P. Kanellopoulos]”,
in: P. Tzamalikos (ed.), In memoriam Panayoti Kanellopoulou. Speeches – Studies – Essays,
Athens: Yallelis Publications, 1988, p. 181-190. Kanellopoulos’ interest in existentialism did
not exhaust itself in the 30’s, but accompanied him all along his thoughpath. Later on, his
view of existentialism has been considerably widened – Camus and Sartre are mentioned in
many occasions – and existentialism is closely linked to the historical destiny of our century
(“Yparxiaki agonia kai ithikos agonas” [“Existential Anxiety and Moral Struggle”], Dokimia kai
alla keimena saranta pente eton (1935-1980), Thessaloniki: Egnatia Publications, 1980, p.186194.
358
C u l t u re
19 I. Theodorakopoulos, I. “Edmund Husserl”, Archeion Filosofias kai Theorias ton Epistimon
VIII/4 (1938), p. 468-475.
20 I. Theodorakopoulos, Ta prota mou filosofimata 1927-1930 [My First Philosophical Writings
1927-1930], Athens: Vivliopoleion tis Estias, 1978, p. 281-283, 414.
21 Ibid, p. 291, 293-4. Cf. “Neither of the three founders of neokantianism, Cohen, Husserl and
Rickert wrote a psychology. The only one of the neokantians who wrote a psychology, but
not an empirical one, was Natorp.” (“Filosofia kai psychologia [Philosophy and Psychology]”
(1929), in: Ta prota mou filosofimata 1927-1930, p. 217).
22 Ibid, p. 291, 306.
23 Ibid, p. 352, 374.
24 “Theoria tou logou i Gnoseologia [Theory of Reason or Theory of Knowledge]” (1928) in: Ta
prota mou filosofimata 1927-1930, p. 64.
25 I. Theodorakopoulos, Ioannis, Agapimeni mou Xaidelvergi [My Dear Heidelberg], p. 118-119.
26 Ibid, p. 120. See also: “Kritiki tis ontologias tou M. Heidegger” [“A Critique of Martin
Heidegger’s Ontology”], Proceedings of the Academy of Athens, 47 (1972), pp. 279-285.
27 I. Theodorakopoulos (1929), Ta prota mou filosofimata 1927-1930, p. 310.
28 Ibid, p. 311.
29 C. D. Georgoulis, “I themeliodis iparxiaki ontologia tou Martinou Heidegger” [“Martin
Heidegger’s Fundamental Philosophy of Existence”], Ai sigchronai filosofikai kateuthunseis
[Trends in Contemporary Philosophy], Athens: Papadimas Publishers, 1973 (1954), p. 51-73.
30 C. D. Georgoulis, “O Edmund Husserl kai h fainomenologiki filosofia” [“Edmund Husserl and
Phenomenological Philosophy”], Nea Estia, 43/498 (1948), p. 434-440.
31 C. D. Georgoulis, “O Max Scheler kai h epi tou pediou ths filosofikis ithikis ereunai tou [Max
Scheler and His Investigations in the Field of Philosophical Ethics]”, Dialexeis [Conferences],
Athens: Christianiki Enossis Ekpaideutikon Leitourgon, 1955, p. 37-56.
32 C. D. Georgoulis, “Sunoptiki theorisis ton kurioteron apopseon tis fainomenologikis
filosofias” [“A Brief Overview of the Main Theses of Phenomenological philosophy”], Ai
sigchronai filosofikai kateuthunseis, p. 36-7.
33 Ibid, p. 41-3, 48. The proximity of Husserl to Bergson is further encouraged by Georgoulis’
focus on the problem of time and temporality as a stream of conscious states: “O Edmund
Husserl kai h fainomenologiki filosofia”, 1948; “I filosofia tou Edmund Husserl” [“The
Philosophy of Edmund Husserl”], Nea Estia, 68/796 (1960), p. 1126-1131; “I filosofia tou
Edmund Husserl” [“The Philosophy of Edmund Husserl”], Nea Estia, 68/798 (1960), p. 12831288. See also Georgoulis’ unpublished Mathimata eisagogis sti filosofia [Introductory Lessons to
Philosophy] of the years 1950-1951.
34 C. D. Georgoulis, “O Max Scheler kai h epi tou pediou ths filosofikis ithikis ereunai tou, p.
56. Cf. “Ai sigchronai kateuthunseis tis uparxiakis filosofias. Atheistikos kai christianikos
iparxismos”, Ai sigchronai filosofikai kateuthunseis, Athens: Papadimas Publishers, 74-96.
The coexistence of existentialist phenomenology with orthodox faith is one of the most
interesting points in this respect (N. A. Nissiotis, Yparxismos kai christianiki pistis kata ton
Soeren Kierkegaard kai tous sigchronous iparxistas filosofous Karl Jaspers, Martin Heidegger kai
Jean-Paul Sartre, Athens: Minima, 1956). Due to the fact that this is one of the most enduring
elements in the Greek reception of existentialist phenomenologists, such as Heidegger, we
will abstain from developing this issue further.
35 J. Derrida, “Edmund Husserl. I fainomenologia kai to telos tis metaphissikis” [“Edmund
Husserl. Phenomenology and the End of Metaphysics”], translated by E. Platis and R.
Argiropoulou, Epoches 34 (1966), p. 181-200, 173-179.
359
C u l t ure
36 European philosophy seems to have been higher evaluated at Schools of Philosophy of the
Greek periphery. Spyros Kyriazopoulos, professor of philosophy at the University of Ioannina
transferred a philosophical spirit shaped by the existentialist and phenomenological tradition
and aware of the critical questions of the after-war period into the newly founded School of
Philosophy (1964). His special interest in the philosophy of civilization and technology made
of Kyriazopoulos an academic teacher with a vivid perception of the risks and challenges
of his times and fully aware of the intersections between philosophy and the sciences: S. D.
Kyriazopoulos, The Origin of the Technological Spirit[I katagogi tou technikou pneumatos], Athens
1965; The Language of Today. Linguistics of Technology [I simerini glossa. Glossologia tis technikis],
Athens 1964; The Presence of the Natural Science [I parousia tis fisikis epistimis], Athens 1963.
37 E. Moutsopoulos, “Vers une phénoménologie de la création”, Revue Philosophique, 38 (1961).
38 E. P. Papanoutsos, The Foundations of Κnowledge, edited and with an introduction by John
P. Anton, translated by Basil Coukis and John P. Anton, New York: Albany: State University
of New York 1968, p. 34, 36, 47, 79, 108, 280. Papanoutsos admittedly prefers the
phenomenological analysis of the object (34) over the neokantian account of knowledge and
Rickert’s “voluntaristic idealism” (81), a clear sign of his opposition to the “Heidelberg group”.
39 T. Pentzopoulou-Valala, I ennoia tou upervatikou sti Fainomenologia tou Husserl [The Concept of
the Transcendental in Husserl’s Phenomenology], doctoral dissertation, Thessaloniki: Aristotle
University of Thessaloniki-School of Philosophy, 1971.
40 E. Moutsopoulos, Ai idonai. Fainomenologiki ereuna enion pronomiouchon suneidisiakon
katastaseon [Pleasures. A Phenomenological Investigation of Several Privileged States of
Consciousness], Thessaloniki: Aristotle University of Thessaloniki - Epistimoniki Epetirida
Filosofikis Scholis, 1967; T. Pentzopoulou-Valala, T, “Reflexions sur le fondement du rapport
entre l’Apriori et l’Eidos dans la phénoménologie de Husserl”, Kant-Studien, 65/2 (174), p.
135-151; “I “theoria tis alitheias sth filosofia tou Heidegger” [The Theory of Truth in Martin
Heidegger’s Philosophy”], Epistimoniki Epetirida Filosofikis Scholis Aristoteleiou Panepistimiou
Thessalonikis IH’ (1979), p. 347-380.
41 G. Lukács, Apo ti fainomenoligia ston uparxismo [German original: Existentialismus oder
Marxismus?, 1951], Athens: Erasmos, 1975.
42 N. M. Skouteropoulos, “Glossary” and “General Selection” from Edmund Husserl’s
Bibliography”, Deukalion, 12 (1974), p. 506-14.
43 See note 39.
44 M. Farber, Fainomenologia (Oi skopoi tis fainomenologias) [Phenomenology (The Ends of
Phenomenology)], translated by L. Bargeliotis with an introduction by N. Avgelis, Athens:
Grigoris Publications, 1970. This is a lengthy presentation of Husserl’s phenomenology by
the eminent American phenomenologist Marvin Farber. Still it is quite interesting that Nikos
Avgelis’ “Introduction” to the Greek translation does not focus on phenomenology itself,
but on its exchange with American naturalism (p. 7-14). Avgelis stresses the points where
Farber distances himself from phenomenological orthodoxy in Husserl and Heidegger, and
speaks of “phenomenological naturalism” in him. This shows clearly that this first systematic
presentation of phenomenology was biased and gave a rather narrow perspective on
phenomenology itself.
45 N. Saveriadou, “Heidegger”. Presentation and selection of texts by Nelli Saveriadou, Epoches.
Miniaia Ekdossi pneumatikou provlimatismou kai genikis paideias, 25 (1965), p. 98-100.
46 A. Dokas, A., translation of: Martin Heidegger, “Ti einai I filosofia;” [What is Philosophy?”],
Epoches, 66 (1965), p. 3-10.
47 I. Louvaris, Metaxi duo kosmon [Between Two Worlds], Athens, 1949, p. 232-237; I. Skandalaki,
Iparxismos [Existentialism], Athens, 1953; .
Skandalaki 1953; N. A. Nissiotis, Yparxismos kai christianiki pistis kata ton Soeren Kierkegaard kai
360
C u l t u re
tous sigchronous iparxistas filosofous Karl Jaspers, Martin Heidegger kai Jean-Paul Sartre, op.cit.,
p. 109-132, 224-240; D. Koutsogiannopoulos, Dialektiki tis ontologikis diaforas [The Dialectics
of Ontological Difference], Athens, 1970 and Essays on Contemporary Philosophy, Athens 1960;
Koutsogiannopoulos 1962b; X. Malevitsis, “Heidegger kai Hölderlin”, in I tragodia tis istorias [The
Tragedy of History], Athens, 1973; G. Tzavaras, “I “riziki anagkaiotita” kata ton Heidegger. Mia
prospatheia gia prosvasi sto Einai kai Chronos” [“Radical Necessity” According to Heidegger. An
Attempt at Finding Access to Being and Time”], Epopteia, 29 (1978), p. 955-960.
48 X. Malevitsis translation, introduction and commentary to: “Three Texts by Martin Heidegger
(A: Apo thn empeiria ths skepsis, B: Epistoli ston Beaufret, Γ. Epistoli se enan spoudasti”),
Lotos, 1 (1971), p. 145-165 Malevitsis 1971 and introduction, translation, afterword to:
Martin Heidegger, Eisagogi sti metafissiki (Introduction to Metaphysics), Athens-Giannina:
Dodoni Publishers, 1973; G. Tzavaras, “Provlimata kai protaseis gia mia neoelliniki metafrasi
tou Sein und Zeit” [“Problems and Proposals for a Modern Greek Translation of Being and
Time”], Filosofia, 4 (1974), p. 449-457.
49 The first volume of the Greek translation of Heidegger’s Being and Time by G. Tzavaras
appeared in 1978 and the second volume in 1985. See on this issue: X. Malevitsis, “Pareimi
(Dasein)”, Epopteia, 87 (1984), p. 152-4.
50 X. Malevitsis, “O neoellinikos pirinas” [The Modern Greek Core”], Prooptikes. Aesthitika,
filosofika kai koinoniologika dokimia, Athens-Giannina: Dodoni Publishers, 1972, p. 50-79; I
filosofia tou Heidegger [The Philosophy of Heidegger], Athens-Giannina: Dodoni Publishers,
1974.
51 X. Giannaras, I theologia tis apousias kai tis agnosias tou theou. Me anaphora stis areopagitikes
suggrafes kai ston Martin Heidegger [The Theology of Absence and of Agnosticism. With Reference to
the Writings of Dionysios Areopagitis and to Heidegger], Athens, 1967; To ontologiko periechomeno
tis theologikis ennoias tou prosopou (Me anagoges ston Heidegger) [The Ontological Content of the
theological Concept of the Person (With References to Heidegger)], Doctoral Dissertation, Athens,
1970. Cf. J. Macquarrie, J. “I ennoia ths suneidisis ston Heidegger kai ston Christianismo” [The
Concept of Consciousness in Heidegger and in Christianity], Epopteia, 2 (1976), p. 173-194.
52 X. Malevitsis, Politeia kai erimia. Dokimia gia thn pneumatiki katastasi tis epochis mas [The
City and the desert. Essays on the Spiritual Situation of Our Times], Athens-Giannina: Dodoni
Publishers, 1975, p. 190-191.
53 M. Heidegger, “O Hölderlin kai h ousia tis poihtikis dhmiourgias” [“Hölderlin and the
Essence of Poetry”], translated by M. Markakis, Nea Estia, 87 (1970), p. 718-725; “To telos
tis filosofias kai I apostolic tis skepsis” [“The End of Philosophy and the Task of Thinking”],
translated by L. Skami-P. Skaramagkas, Epopteia, 18 (1977), p.3-15; “I teleutaia sinenteuxi”
[“The Last Interview”], translated by E. Platis, Efthini, 63 (1977), p. 157-163 and 64 (1977), p.
208-215.
54 M. Scheler, “I anagkaiotita tou thriskeutikou viomatos” [“The Necessity of the Religious Lived
Experience”], translated by E. Platis, Efthini, 29 (1974), p. 236-8; “Oi morfes tis gnosis kai I
pneumatiki kalliergeia” [“The Forms of Knowledge and the Spiritual Culture”], translated by
E. Platis, Efthini, 31 (1975), p. 234-49; M. Merleau-Ponty, “Oi vaseis tis neoteris kosmologias”
[“The Foundations of Modern Cosmology”], translated by P. Christodoulidis, Deukalion, 20
(1977), p. 416-6.
55 J. Wahl, J. (1988). Eisagogi stis filosofies toy yparxismou [Introduction to the Philosophies
of Existence], Athens-Giannina: Dodoni Publishers, 1988; M. Bochenski, A History of
Contemporary European Philosophy: The 20th Century, Athens-Ioannina : Dodoni Publishers,
1985.
56 See for instance: E. Husserl, I deuteri logiki ereuna [Logical Investigations, Investigation II],
translated by N. M. Skouteropoulos, Athens: Roes Publications, 1986.
361
C u l t ure
57 C. Cavarnos, Modern Greek Thought, op.cit., p. 37-8. In his foreword to the English translation
of a Plato-inspired text on the soul by Theodorakopoulos, Constantine Cavarnos points out
that the latter has Byzantium in mind (p. 102).
58 E. Moutsopoulos, “The Roots and Present Dimensions of Contemporary Greek Philosophy”,
in: John R. Burr (ed.), Handbook of World Philosophy. Contemporary Developments Since 1945,
London: Aldwych Press, 1980, p. 117-23.
59 S. Kyriazopoulos, Eleftheria kai afthipervasis [Freedom and Self-transcendence], Athens, 1970;
X. Malevitsis, I esoteriki diastasi: dokimia sygchronou provlimatismou [The inner dimension: essays
of contemporary questioning], Athens-Giannina: Dodoni Publishers, 1975.
60 P. Noutsos, Neoelliniki filosofia. Oi ideologikes diastaseis ton europaikon tis proseggiseon [Modern
Greek Philosophy. The Ideological Dimensions of its European Approaches], Athens: Kedros
Publications, 1981. Specifically on the period between the two world wars: “I filosofiki skepsi
kata tin period tou mesopolemou: theoritiki kai methodologika provlimata [“Philosophical
Thought in the Inter-War Period: Theoretical and Methodological Problems”], Katoptron
Neoellinikis Filosofias, 1 (2007), p. 155-63.
61 C. D. Georgoulis, “To vioma tis istorikotitas is tin iparxiakin filosofian tou Heidegger kai
tou Jaspers” [“The Lived Experience of Historicity in Heidegger’s and Jaspers’ Philosophy of
Existence”] (1956/61), Filosofia tis istorias, Athens: Papadimas Publishers, 1978, p. 202-16.
62 D. Apostolopoulos, Syntomi istoria ths neoellhnikis filosofias [A Short History of Modern Greek
Philosophy], Athènes: Collection de l’Union Franco-Hellénique des Jeunes, 1949, p.50.
63 P. Kanellopoulos, “Ex’aformis tis meletis tou Karl Jaspers (Enas anagkaios epilogos)” [“Taking
as a Starting Point Karl Jaspers’ Study. A Necessary Afterword”], Archeion Filosofias kai
Theorias ton Epistimon VI/3 (1935), p. 281-4.
64 G. Antonopoulos, Kefalaia filosofias tou neoellinikou pneumatos. Symvoli eis mian filosofian toy
anthropou [Chapters in the Philosophy of the Neohellenic Spirit. Contribution to a philosophy of
man], Athens, 1965.
65 M. Dragona-Monachou, M. “I filosofia stin Ellada chthes et simera: taseis, provlimata kai
drastiriotites [Philosophy in Greece Yesterday and Today: Trends, Problems, and Activities”],
in M. Dragona-Monachou (ed.), I filosofia sta Balkania simera / Philosophy in Balkan Countries
Today, Athens: Greek Philosophical Society-Kardamitsa Publications, 1994, p. 51-65.
66 C. Despotopoulos, “I apostoli tis filosofias sti sugchroni Ellada [“The Mission of Philosophy
in Contemporary Greece”], in I filosofia simera [Philosophy Today], Athens: Greek Philosophical
Society/Kardamitsas Publishers, 1985. For a further questioning of modern (and
contemporary) Greek philosophy as a “national philosophy”: Nikos K. Psimmenos, “Iparchei
Neoelliniki Filosofia; [Does Modern Greek Philosophy Exist?]”, Katoptron Neoellinikis Filosofias
1(2007), p. 165-75.
67 E. Moutsopoulos, “L’enseignement universitaire de la philosophie en Grèce”, Filosofia, 13-14
(1983-1984), p. 455-62.
68 E. P. Papanoutsos, E. P., “Geografia tis filosofias [“The Geography of Philosophy”], in: Ta metra
tis epochis mas [The Measures of Our Times], Athens: Filippotis Publishers, 1981, p. 53-64.
69 C. Boudouris, Analytiki filosofia. I exelixi tis agglikis analytikis filosofias kata ton paronta aiona
[Analytic Philosophy. The Evolution of British Analytic Philosophy in the Present Century], Athens,
1974.
362
C u l t u re
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History], Athens.
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Ni c o l a s Ev zo n a s
Un i v e r s i t é P a r i s -S o r b o n n e
A Passionate Saint
Abstract
Despite his appellation as a ‘Saint of Greek Literature’, Alexandros Papadiamantis, a writer of national acclaim in Modern Greece, produces texts
describing extraordinary passions as well as uncontrolled and uncontrollable drives. This article explores the emotional dynamics underpinning his
work in light of four themes: the covert Hedonistic gaze, scenarios involving jealousy, staging the ineffable jouissance of the Other, Eros for women
deprived of physical sensation due to a deeply-rooted fear of otherness, and
the recurring deaths of feminine beings assimilated with preventive murder
in the name of virginity and sterility.
Introduction
The eulogist of passion: this would be a much more appropriate designation for Alexandros Papadiamantis than his glossy and univocal moniker,
‘The Saint of Modern Greek Literature’. This prodigy of Neo-Hellenic prose
owes his notorious appellation not only to his literary and ascetic way
of life, but also to his explicit professions that ‘as long as [he] lived and
breathed, [he] would never stop glorifying and worshipping Christ nor lovingly depicting nature and affectionately describing original Greek mores’.1
One and a half centuries on, the works of Papadiamantis continue to fascinate, despite their ritualistic religiousness, committed hellenocentricity,
and deeply rooted rural attachment, but they also create an imperceptible
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enchantment and challenge critics,2 who try to discern precisely why they
so strongly appeal to our impulsiveness, reaching deep into its most archaic
libidinal layer.
‘In the beginning was the emotion’, not the Verb, so Céline tells us.3 And
Papadiamantis had a veritable talent for phrasing the sensory and affective
vibrations buried in our immemorial past in accordance with the concept of
the writer as ‘the interpreter of the sensitive world’,4 as described by Proust
(1988:469) or Beckett (1990:97) The excitement aroused by the instinctual
bases of the mother tongue is obviously elusive to the non-native reader of
Greek texts, as are certain parts of Papadiamantis’ unique linguistic style,
which requires a ‘palimpsest’ vocabulary to make them travel through all the
periods of Greek History. However, any reader, even one who accesses these
texts through translation, can draw pleasure from the inexhaustible imagination of an author deemed ‘the most fertile creator of myths in Modern
Greek Literature’ (Saunier 2001:7). Besides, this fascination is just as great
for the younger generations of Greeks, for whom the distinctive language
used by Papadiamantis is difficult to access, almost as difficult as a foreign
language, which attests the transcendental and translinguistical virtues of
his works. Tinged with passion, these works carry as much the etymological
meaning of ‘passion’ (suffering from a lack, mourning linked to a loss),5 as
the philosophical meaning of ‘accident’ (beyond the active will principle),6
as well as the economical meaning of overinvestment (iterativeness, even
addictiveness of the passionate impulse).7
The aim of this contribution is to explore the emotional dynamism
of Papadiamantis’ works, while offering an initiatory journey into a literary world, which, in spite of the current craze in certain specialised circles,
remains widely unknown outside of Greece. Our approach, which will necessarily be brief on account of the limitations of the present article, will
mostly favor psychoanalysis as the interpretative framework, with the
reader creating the meaning of the text; the author, as an empirical and
psycho-biographical entity creator of the text, will be of no relevance to us
here. It is obvious that in choosing to analyze the works of one writer alone
and focusing our approach on psychological issues, our analyses may arouse
some curiosity about Papadiamantis’ psyche. In spite of the structuralists’
decrees, the writer never really did die. Even Roland Barthes himself, who
professed the death of the writer in the iconoclastic May ’68 (1993:63–69),
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C u l t u re
acknowledged a short time later his ‘wish for the author’ (1982:39), perhaps
because ‘as with every repressed emotion, the writer always rises back to
the surface’ (Bellemin-Noël 2004:143)!
Our analysis thus revolves around four main axes or four ‘passions’:
voyeuristic, jealous, Pygmalion-like, and gynocidal passion. It draws from
the major and minor texts stemming from each period of Papadiamantis’
literary production, stretching from 1879 to 1911 (the year of the writer’s
death) and comprising three novels—deemed historical novels by the critics—and some 184 short stories, with 30 being set in the working-class
neighbourhoods of Athens and the remaining in the Sporades archipelago,
especially on the island of Skiathos, the writer’s birthplace.
Voyeuristic Passion
The entire work of Papadiamantis is literally crisscrossed by visual perceptions.8 Countless expressions or terms relate to the sense of sight, and
his texts are ripe with situations and characters egged by an overmastering
scopic drive. This also appears in the clandestine gazing emerging throughout the texts as the ultimate ‘Papadiamantian’ visual mode, which is not
marked by realism or ‘photographism’—as the author delights in saying9—
but by impressionism and hedonism. Let us examine more closely some
typical examples.
In his narrative, ‘Dream on the Waves’ (‘Ὄνειρο στὸ κῦμα’), Papadiamantis recounts with regret the tale of a town dweller who long ago lived in
a natural environment and a wonderful world of self-sufficiency:
I was a handsome adolescent, and I would look at my prematurely
bronzed face mirrored in the water of streams and fountains, and I used to
train my supple and slender body by climbing up rocks and mountains. (III,
261, 2–3)
For this bucolic Narcissus, happiness consisted—among other
things—of the feeling that he lived in perfect harmony with the aquatic
element, just as a beatific fetus in his mother’s womb:
I was feeling an unspeakable sweetness and rapture, imagining myself
as one with the wave, with its liquid and salty and fresh nature. (III, 267,
10–11)
This young man, who had never experienced any delight other than
those provided by his own body, reaches the fascinating and mysterious
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world of the Other on an initiatory night, such as all of us experience at
some moment in our lives with the same enthrallment. After many rationalizations, probably based on the hero’s religious education so as to turn his
desire for active voyeurism into passive and unintentional voyeurism, thus
inevitably reactivating the tricks of adolescent and guilt-tainted sexual curiosity, ‘the young mountain Satyr’ (III, 267, 33) stealthily enjoys the exciting
sight of a naked damsel bathing in the sea. This scene is divided into two
parts corresponding to two different viewings: the first ‘frontal’ view made
him run away (the young man possibly discerned the female genitalia),
while the second one ‘from behind’ riveted and fascinated him (the young
man saw what is common to both sexes). This sight could be unconsciously
perceived as a castration fantasy, a consequence of the shocking discovery
of the sexual differences. In the text, the castration appears in the form of a
‘denial of reality’ (Verleugnung10), which eventually leads to a poetic description about a fantasised woman:
I could see her dark, but still slightly golden hair, her well-turned arms,
a honey-colored and heavenly dream under the moonlight. In the twilight, I
could make out her supple waist, her hips, her legs, her feet covered by the
waves. I could glimpse her bosom, her firm, protruding breast welcoming
the breeze and the divine aroma of the sea. She was a whiff, a fantasy image, a dream drifting on the waves; she was a Nereid, a nymph, a mermaid,
floating like a magical ship, the way a vessel sails in our dreams… (III, 269,
29–270, 3)
Need we recall that the other mermaid depicted by Papadiamantis in
his novel, The Gipsy Girl (Ἡ Γυφτοποῦλα I, 603, 30), a mermaid who bewitches a pirate, is not a bird-woman, as might be expected in a digression
ripe with Homeric influences,11 but rather a fish-woman, a woman with a
fish-shaped tail, thus phallic and uncastrated (I, 604, 25–26)?
Escaping from the typical Papadiamantian fiction that uses the main
character as an intrigued spectator, ‘A Night in Carnival’ (‘Ἀποκριάτικη
νυχτιά’) could be considered a forerunner to Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window,12 with its tale of a solitary student prone to peeping on his neighbours
through the window of his room overlooking their common backyard, thus
flattering the scandalous scopophilia of the ‘Id’ in our unconscious:
When the steady student had nothing to do, for instance when schools
broke up for Christmas or Carnival, Spyros Vergoudis would sit at his
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C u l t u re
window watching and overhearing what was happening (II, 301, 1–4).
Later on, we read:
Again in the evening […], if he wished so, he could find some work to
do, or he could stay in his upper floor room, standing with the lights off at
the easterly window, spying on people coming in or listening to their words,
noises, and whispers by sticking his ear to the keyhole (II, 302, 21–26).
The claustrophobic and agoraphobic profile of Spyros appears rather
quickly as a mask for his gynophobia, whilst his lustful admiration for a
young brunette (‘μελαχροινὴ κορασίδα’ II, 310, 22) on the brink of womanhood alludes to his dread of the sexual Other, a fear that all of us share to
some degree. On the day marking the highlight of the Carnival festivities,
the solitary young man, who lives ‘as a monk’ (‘μονάζων’ II, 303, 21), declines an invitation to a party, arguing that he does not dance; instead, he
chooses to indulge in his passion for voyeurism. He fantasises nevertheless
about having a love affair with one of his neighbours (II, 313, 8–10). While
‘involuntarily dancing in his bed’ (II, 308, 27–28) to the tune of a satirical
Carnival song ripe with sexual innuendoes (‘How they pound peppercorns
/ the devil’s monks’13), he tells himself that ‘even his mother, rocking him
in her arms the way she did when he was a baby, had never brought such
voluptuousness as his neighbours’ cheers and effusions did that night’ (II,
308, 27–28).
This self-erotic rocking, which reawakens our first ‘holding’14 experiences and thus a feeling of solidarity with the main character, can become a
source of suffering if it remains the only means of drawing pleasure. This is
why the voyeur student, who sees his life as a ‘hard and long-lasting fasting
period’ (II, 311, 6),
finds some comfort in considering that he is undoubtedly the happiest
of all, since, having gone to none of the feasts, he has been able to attend
three or four parties at once. (II, 308, 24–26)
He further notes that ‘one should probably stay at a distance if one
wants to appreciate music and dance’, adding that when one is too close, ‘the
noise impairs the hearing and annihilates the judgment’ (II, 308, 35–309,
3). Remembering Aesop’s fable, he whispers, ‘They’re probably sour anyway’
(II, 309, 7). Papadiamantis’ text induces us to give a name to the conflict
leading to such a rationalization, namely the ‘complex of the fox’ (unable to
reach the grapes so hungered for, the fox ends up despising them).
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Jealous Passion
The distance maintained in Papadiamantis’ texts between the characters and the objects so longed for, which also prohibits their bodily fusion, is
often presented as the inevitable consequence of a failure in love due to the
malevolent presence of a rival. This unwanted third party, this terzo incommodo who monopolises the lovers’ mind like an obsession, not only causes
heartbreak and suffering, but, by triggering an imaginative outburst, is also
seen as a source of indescribable pleasure, apt to be compared, even in its
negative form, with an enjoyment beyond the phallus, gender, and language,
which Lacan calls the ‘Jouissance of the Other’.15 Let us remind our reader
that in Plato (Philebus, 47c–48b), the duality of pleasure and pain, likely to
grow unboundedly, is considered the quintessence of jealous passion.
The short story, ‘The Nostalgic Woman’ (‘Ἡ Νοσταλγός’), brilliantly
vouches for the limitless nature of this mixed pathos deeply rooted in our
oedipal vessels. The plot is based on a young islander’s love for an older
neighbour who endures much suffering on account of her domineering husband. This love, born under the auspices of a triangular desire, reaches its
apex when the woman, despite consenting to a nocturnal escape with her
suitor, in order to return to her home island, rejects his advances and bluntly
expresses her erotic unavailability. The disdained hero then expresses an incredible range of the responses to this fact: the heartrending suspicion that
she loves another; the fantasy of playing the role of ‘Charon preordained to
join two beings who will indulge in infernal caresses’ (II, 309, 10); the hero’s
attempt to detect the other lover’s kisses on the woman’s lips; the guilty
avowal that he endeavours to wrest from her, now regarding her as ‘deceitful’ and ‘unfaithful’; the delectable confirmation of these allegations that he
imagines to have obtained; his imagined scenarios of stabbing and drowning her, followed by his suicide; the appealing image of their corpses lying
lifeless on the seabed under the moonlight; the excitement, anger, humiliation, madness, fascination, and so on. This spectrum of reactions reveals
the vertiginous hedonic potential of frustration that the writer shares with
his reader in a somehow transferential delirium.
At the end of the narrative, the passionate and jealous young man feels
elated at the thought of his love finally being reciprocated, while visualizing
the rival husband, his squad, and the other fantastic admirers. However, our
unconscious may easily recognize the alluring image of the ‘whore-mother’
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C u l t u re
(Freud 1910) as well as the homosexual desire shown toward other male
holders of sensual pleasures, which are lacking for the main character; these
in turn entice our mental bisexuality. The ‘Nostalgic Woman’ shows quite
powerfully how a jealous lover will stage the inconceivable ‘Jouissance of
the Other’ by any possible means, which constitutes the supreme enjoyment of incest, which all of us have dreamed of at one time or another as
little Oedipuses.
The narrative, ‘Eros-Hero’ (‘Ἔρως–Ἥρως’), provides a triumphant
confirmation of the fact that jealous passion can go ‘beyond the principle of
pleasure’. The plot introduces a young sailor, who, by a strange twist of fate,
carries in his boat a newlywed woman whom he has secretly loved since
childhood, transporting her to the village of her elderly husband. Deeply
distressed and rowing without thinking, his face grows deathly pale, just
like Charon sailing towards the realm of Hades, as he begins to voluptuously
unfold a string of revenge scenarios:
With a mere kick or even a smaller effort, say simply, by using one of
his toes, he could ‘bump off’ three souls: the husband, the mother-in-law,
and the young bride…even if he did forsake his intention of saving the latter. (III, 180, 21–24)
The hated rival, envied for his riches, ‘could sink to the bottom of the
sea with all of his real houses…but even better, without his houses, his
lands, his estates’ (III, 180, 26–28). That ‘witch of a mother’ (‘στρίγγλα
μάνα’16) who urged her daughter to wed,
would hardly have the time to make the sign of the cross for the last
time, and her desperate cries would be swallowed in the abyss. The next
day, in the village, the priests would be praying for her soul and asking the
congregation to repent. Then, for forty days, all the old women of the village
would refrain from eating fish, out of fear that they might have touched her
drowned corpse. (III, 181, 7–14)
Enjoying his fantasy to the full, the young man
was cutting through the waves like a dolphin, puffing and disgorging
water like a whale, flinging out an arm as sharp as a swordfish’s rostrum. He
was swimming with his right arm, clasping the young woman with his left.
(III, 181, 18–20).
And after this glorious crossing, the two lovers
wouldcollapseonthesand,worn-out,half-drowned,drippingwithseawater.
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Born and baptized anew, a second Adam and a second Eve, more naked in
their clinging wet clothes than had they been totally nude. (III, 181, 26–30).
But here comes the charm of fantasy: the tragedy of an entirely powerless person turns into mental omnipotence, like the ‘helpless’ child (Hilflosigkeit) in all of us, left alone by our mother, we juxtapose the reverse
and radical omnipotence of our mind, the hallucinatory satisfaction of our
desires to our destitution and lack of power.17
Readers familiar with Papadiamantis’ texts, which punish any libidinal
outburst by feigned epilogues of obedience to the religious rules, will not be
surprised when at the very end of this story, the furious and jealous sailor
in ‘Eros-Hero’
represses his passion, calms down, gathers his thoughts, cries, and appears to be a hero in love—a Christian love, chaste, made up of tolerance
and charity. (III, 182, 14–15)
However, the fact that this supernatural weakening of an aggressive
Eros arises immediately after a ‘vision’ (‘νοερά ὀπτασία’ III, 182, 13) of
his mother ‘lamenting and crying and telling him, “Oh son! My son! What
are you going to do?”’ (III, 182, 14–15), leads us to understand that the
young sailor, being ‘overwhelmed’ by his mother who is ‘too old to take him
in her arms or rock him in his cradle’ (III, 172, 5–6), becomes incapable of
any erotic claiming, just as he had always been. As regards the loathed rival,
‘that bird of prey come from far away to steal the dove’ (III, 179, 10–11), he
appears to our minds seasoned to this type of projective tactics18 to be the
receptacle in which we pour out our anger and hatred whenever we cannot
bear our own inadequacy, and our self-image becomes unendurable.
Pygmalion-like Passion
In the works of Papadiamantis, there are some rare passages in which
a man and a woman enjoy a love affair without being hindered by distance,
a screen, or any third party. In such unique moments, free of remoteness,
the characters break their usual bounds and openly express their sensuality.
Taking into consideration that these rare occurrences of face-to-face eroticism always occur in a context of hazard and danger that delivers the defenseless and unconscious woman into the lover’s hands, we should speak
of a Pygmalion-like passion in reference to the legendary king of Cyprus
who fell in love with a statue.19
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One of the most famous scenes of Modern Greek Literature is the immortalization of such passion in ‘Dream on the Waves’. The main character
wishes—in a childish manner—for some danger to arise on the sea, and
despite being struck by the efficiency of his ‘animistic’ thought, comes out
in extremis of his hiding place and runs to the rescue of his secret love, whom
he had never before dared to approach:
I saw that gorgeous body struggling under the water, closer to the seabed than to the surface, closer to death than to life; I dived in, caught the
young girl in my arms, and swam back to the surface. As I was holding her
with my left arm, I thought I could feel the warmth of her breath on my
cheek. I had come in time, thank God! She did not show any sign of life
though… (III, 272, 15–21).
This ‘altruist’ rescuer, who swims vigorously toward the shore, feeling
his physical powers ‘double as through some miracle’ (III, 272, 24) when he
touches the dying body, as though he could only feel energetic and strong
towards a ‘neutralised’ woman, admits the ineffable happiness of that transcendental experience, which epitomises an epidermis touch as opposed to
a common ‘animal’ copulation:
I shall always remember how the delicate and tender body of that
chaste girl felt against mine, for such a short enchanted moment in that
miserable life of mine. It was a dream, an illusion, an enchantment. How
could this exquisite, sublime contact compare with the selfish embraces, the
sham friendships, or the bestial lovemaking of this world? I had not carried
a load; with her delicate body, I found relief and peace. Never before had I
felt as light as I did for the time I carried her weight…I was the man who
had managed for an instant to hold a dream in his hands, his own dream…
(III, 272, 29–273, 2)
This poetically described dream reveals a deep-seated need to dominate
the woman and instrumentalise her to the point of annihilating her otherness. This notion does not fall far from our natural tendency to don blinkers
whenever we insist on only seeing a limited aspect of the ‘Other’, a ‘partiality’
that serves our own fantasies, as we cling to our narcissism to avoid the painful experience of finding the object of our desire to be wanting.
The psychological truth of this passion shown towards a woman in a
state of unconsciousness is clearly revealed in the last scene of The Gipsy Girl,
in which a strong earthquake and ‘happy disaster’ enable the young Gipsy,
in love with his half-sister, to finally unleash his Eros:
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C u l t ure
Macthos began to kiss her, holding her tight within his arms, and he
felt fulfilled…But Aïma lay unconscious, and the young man was stealing
kisses…And those instants of fear and horror, when the world tumbled
down around them, felt like a century of bliss. (I, 655, 4–21)
We should not disregard the fact that this misappropriation of the
Other’s intimacy follows a scene of equally covert peeping. Taking advantage of Aïma’s sleep, which the earthquake rendered a ‘convenient’ loss of
consciousness, the young man—who throughout the novel never ceases to
display his scopophilic tendency—gazes at the closed eyes of his beloved in
a state resembling that of the narrator and sleeping Albertine in Proust’s In
Search of Lost Time [À la recherché du temps perdu]:
Indeed, watching his love sleeping like a lamb, sleeping calmly and
innocently in the dim light is a rapturous sight for a lover; watching the
rhythm of her breath is so sweet, looking at her waving chest so enviable;
inhaling her sweet breath and admiring the dewdrops on her temples and
the crown of blonde hair on her forehead is intoxicating. Machtos, overjoyed, sipped slowly, drop by drop, that chalice of ecstasy. (I, 652, 1–653, 8)
The reader, who has not forgotten the ‘brown hair locks’ (‘καστανοὺς
βοστρύχους’ II, 359, 8) of the dark-skinned gipsy girl, may feel surprised when
the elated young man ‘sees’ her blonde hair, unless he empathises with the character, admitting in his heart of hearts that he too manipulates the ‘Other’ as a
fetish according to his obsessions and to what Lacan terms ‘agalmata’.20
The novella, ‘The Black-scarved Woman’ (‘Ἡ Μαυρομαντηλού’), translates Pygmalion’s desire verbatim, since the novel reaches its peak when
an unmarried man, ignorant of Aphrodite’s delights, passionately embraces
the figure of a unfortunate woman long ago transformed into stone:
He embraced her so that for once, at least, the saying ‘Two bodies in
one soul’ should come true. Oh! ‘ The Black-scarved Woman’, that lonely
stone heart, that statue of a maiden who had never experienced any emotion nor love, that nymph covered with oysters and shells, that unmade bed,
full of pebbles, that widow with no husband, always wearing black clothes,
but dry-eyed, was actually the only one to accept the hugs and kisses of my
cousin, Yannios. (II, 166, 3–11).
The paradoxical status of the anthropomorphic reef as a mourning mother/virgin giving shelter to the enfeebled sailor on the brink of
drowning obviously echoes the Mother-Madonna of our early years, who
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C u l t u re
still continues to live in our unconscious. Therefore, we may impute the
young sailor’s indifference toward other women to his ‘mysterious bond’
(‘μυστηριώδης σύνδεσμος’ II, 160, 8) with ‘The Black-scarved Woman’,
an eternally fixed image of the mother.
Gynocidal Passion
It would perhaps be much more appropriate to call Papadiamantis
the saint ‘serial killer’ of Greek Literature rather than the ‘Saint of Modern
Greek Literature’. His generally thanatophilic literary world is filled with
apparently accidental deaths of women (fiancées, parturients, and young
girls) and totally or partially concealed murders, let alone the numerous instances of fantasised crimes. This structural obsession in the corpus, this
last passion, may be termed gynocide.
The short story, ‘Death of a Young Lady’ (‘Θάνατος Κόρης’), mainly
deals with the death of a young girl about to marry, explaining that ‘what the
deceased got instead of the triviality of marriage and some other hackneyed
things can only be better, since there can’t be anything worse than these’ (IV,
190, 10–12); this could be construed as a trite plea against nuptials. Nonetheless, at the end of the novel, The Gipsy Girl, as the heroin dies when struck by
the statue of the Goddess Artemis just hours before her wedding, we can only
guess that the real stake of this untimely death was her virginity.
In the text, ‘Reverie on the Fifteenth of August’ (‘Ρεμβασμὸς τοῦ
Δεκαπενταυγούστου’), the disappearance of the nubile young girl, that
‘delicate […] flower picked by the Virgin Mary and put under Her protection,
before being infected by the contact of this world’s vanities’ (IV, 90, 20–21; my
emphasis), may appeal more strongly to our affectivity if our emotional Ego
notices that the deceased girl was conceived on Assumption Day, the feast
commemorating the end of the Mother of Christ’s earthly life—probably
implying a contamination of life by the germ of death. The following is thus
the ‘primary scene’21 in the action:
The day before yesterday, the virginal flower was cut open [ἄνοιξεν
ἐρυθρόν]. Yesterday, she became a bride; the next day, a mother, a mother
in childbed, a dead woman (III, 78, 21–23).
Thus, maternity, the inevitable consequence of a matrimonial union,
is covered in blood (‘ἄνοιξεν ἐρυθρόν’) and seen as deadly, conversely to
‘The Sweet Kiss of the Virgin’ (‘Ἡ Γλυκοφιλοῦσα’), with the ‘immaculate
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C u l t ure
mother in childbed who has never known a man’s bed’ [‘Λεχοῦς ἀμώμου
ἀνδρός μὴ γνούσης λέχος’ (III, 76, 33)], and who thus ‘embodies the highest expression of motherly affection’ (‘ἦτο ἡ καλλίστη ἔκφρασις τῆς
μητρικῆς στοργῆς” III, 75, 16–17). Roman Catholics and Orthodoxies
alike, whether religious or not, all cherish a mother who has never been involved in a sexual act, who never submitted to the father’s violence, a mother totally devoted to her offspring.22 The psychological benefits of reading
Papadiamantis’ prose, passionately devoted to the Virgin Mary, transcend
the limits of faith, language, and geography.
Any reader of Papadiamantis’ masterpiece, The Murderess (Ἡ Φόνισσα), in which an old village woman murders a string of little girls, is eventually exposed to a feast of unconscious urges. This matriarch, plagued by numerous female progeny, rebels against the subservience extended by every
new birth in the family. Her criminal deeds are progressively revealed in the
text as murders of femininity in its potential fecundity, but also as extreme
acts of prevention: the murderess spares her victims the bleak future of
maternity and the ‘hideous’ act leading to maternity through repeating the
tragic original sin that brought them to life. Hence, we find her daydreaming, tinged with Schopenhauerian (2005) tones, on a redeeming sterility:
How happy those [monks] were, those who ever since their innocent
youth and who as though by some divine inspiration felt that the best thing
for them to do would be not to bring other unfortunate people to life! (III, 507,
22–28; my emphasis)
This pessimism is steeped in a slightly pedophilic idealism23 aimed at
keeping the victims (little girls) forever in childhood or, even better, stopping their evolution toward the social, moral, and sexual hell of maturity.
Even the first names of the two little girls, ‘Flowering’ (‘Ἀνθή’) and ‘Eternal
Verdancy’ (‘Δαφνώ’24), who were cuddled and later spared by the murderess, bring to mind the floral metaphors used by the latter to express the sad
bloom of femininity:
‘Krinio’, the little lily, who, alas, despite being naturally so thin and
lacking the white and pink complexion of a lily, nevertheless showed signs
of blooming. ‘God, how quickly they grow!’ thought Francoyannou. ‘Which
garden, which meadow, which Spring produces such a plant? And how nicely
they are shooting up, and growing, and sprouting leaves, and turning into
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C u l t u re
bushes! And will all those buds, those young plants, become lawns, thickets,
gardens some day? (III, 433, 15–22)
Hence, the woman, like an exterminating angel, engages in precociously uprooting the femininity predestined to blossom and someday bear fruit.
Our inner self reacts quite intensely to the description of the little girls
cuddled to death by the murderess, who, as her Christian name ‘Hadoula’
(‘χάδι’ signifying ‘caress’ in Greek) suggests, is destined to caress. And when
the mother’s hugging turns into suffocating embraces, we once again experience our former anxiety of being suffocated by the ‘bad breast’25 of our
‘abject’ (pre-oedipal) mother.26 As an antidote against this worrisome resurgence, we have the dazzling figure of the ‘manly’ spinster who abstains from
the infernal circle of nuptials and reproduction and sails through life with a
peaceful mind, secure in her androgynous autarky.
The interchangeability of gender attributes and mixing of the sexes
among almost all of the characters in The Murderess —recurrent themes in
Papadiamantis’ literary microcosm—cannot leave us indifferent, the sadly ‘sexioned’ creatures that we are, forever nostalgic of an asexual state of
primitive fusion with our mother’s body. When Plato recounts (Symposium,
189d–193d), through the voice of Aristophanes, the myth of the double human beings split into two by Zeus, who condemned them to spend their
lives in search of their soul mate or other half, desperately trying to merge
with their primary onanistic uniqueness, he gives a voice to a universal wish
(Libis 1991), whose affective ambivalence is unevenly depicted by Papadiamantis through his androgynous characters.
The end of the chronicle of the main infanticide character leads us to
move even further back in time to our self-ontogenesis. For instance, when
this murderess is chased by police while trying to cross a narrow bridge to
reach a small chapel to confess, the anguished woman, whose killing is an
utmost attempt to obliterate the traumas of marriage and maternity resulting from the primordial trauma of her own birth,27 allows herself to drown in
a way suggestive of a reverse birth. How could we refrain from following her
on her journey back to the source (nostos), back to the amniotic bath where
we can forget our pains, cure the wounds of our sexuality, and purify the ‘inter
urinas et faeces’28 aspect of our loving?29 Is this nostalgic travel (or painful return) not the stake of enjoyment brought about by writing as well as reading?
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C u l t ure
By way of conclusion
In the narrative, ‘The Devils in the Gully’ (‘Τὰ Δαιμόνια στὸ Ρέμα’), a
text deemed emblematic of Papadiamantis’ personal universe, the main character, who deserted a holy place in order to succumb to a libidinal temptation,
makes the confession, ‘When I bring to mind that event of my youth, it seems
to me an allegory of my whole life’, before resorting to a quotation from Dante: ‘Chè la diritta via era smarrita’ (‘The right path has been missed’ III, 243, 21–
27). If missing the ‘diritta via’ can be interpreted as both a failure of the metaphysical improvement sought by the author throughout his lifetime and the
erotic choice of an art form—literature—teeming with tempting passions,30
it ideally summarises the structure and contents of a literary work dedicated
to diverting and disguising, both of which are major conditions, according to
the Freudian perspective, for the ‘preliminary (formal, aesthetic) enjoyment’,
a harbinger of sensual pleasure emanating from underground sources.31 The
ars poetica of this Greek ‘national’ writer therefore presumably lies in his ability to satisfy above all the polymorphic perversity of our ‘Id’, while evading
the ever-watchful Cerberus of our Superego.
Notes
1
This is a famous excerpt from the introduction of the short story, ‘Cantor of Easter’
(‘Λαμπριάτικος Ψάλτης’), in which Papadiamantis himself speaks before commencing
his narrative (II, 517, 1–5). The references to Papadiamantis’ texts refer to the reviewed
publication of his complete works by N.D Triantafyllopoulos: Alexandros Papadiamantis,
Ἅπαντα, Domos: Athens, 1981–1992). The Roman numeral refers to the volume and the
subsequent Arabic numerals to the page and line(s), respectively.
2
Sixteen years ago, L. Proguidis (1997:52) quoted more than 25,000 annotations of
Papadiamantis; over the last fifteen years, a real ‘Papadiamantis trend’ has led to a boom in
the number of works written on his literary production.
3
This statement is found in many texts by Céline as well as in his interviews; it may therefore
be used as a kind of ‘slogan’ associated with the French writer.
4
This is the subtitle appearing in a relevant essay entitled ‘L’amour de l’autre langue’ by J.
Kristeva (1998:61–85). Cf. C. Dumoulié and M. Riaudel (2008).
5
Passion derives from the Latin passio < patior ‘to endure, suffer’ from the Greek πάθος
‘emotion of the soul, affected by a real-life experience, ordeal’, etymologically related to
πένθος ‘mourning’ and πενθέω ‘to mourn somebody’s death’. See Lewis and Short (1975),
s.v. patior; P. Chantraine (1999), s.v. πάσχω.
6
In Aristotle, πάθος is the one of the ten categories designating an ‘accident’ (συμβεβηκός,
translated as accidens by the scholastics) that involves enduring an action; it therefore refers
to a passive state of mind. See ATILF (2004), s.v. passion; P. Chantraine (1999), s.v. πάθος).
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C u l t u re
7
See S. de Mijolla-Mellor (2004:102).
8
On the supremacy of the visual images in the works of Papadiamantis, see the detailed study
by R. Bouchet (1983) and the chapter ‘Le désir voyeur ou l’amour ambivalent de la distance’ in
N. Evzonas (2012: 36–124).
9
See, for instance, the self-referring sentences of Papadiamantis in The Black-scarved Woman’
(‘Ἡ Μαυρομαντηλού’): ‘Let no one believe that I am making up or inventing anything in this
text. The resignation and the wife’s thrift and the affection of the step-mother are real facts
that I saw for myself’ (II, 158, note 1). See also ‘The Poor Saint’ (‘Φτωχός Ἅγιος’), ‘I am just
writing down the memories and impressions of my childhood’ (II, 211, 21–22), as well as his
comment in the ‘Cantor of Easter’ used in the introductory paragraph of the present article.
10 The German term Verleugnung refers to the mental process of denying reality through sensory
perception because of its traumatic contents. In Freud’s works, all the relevant examples refer
to either the denial of women’s lack of a phallus or the denial of the father’s death. For the
first case, see S. Freud (1909) and, for the second case, S. Freud (1927).
11 In The Gipsy Girl, Velminnis is tied to the mast of his ship, similarly to Ulysses trying to resist
the Sirens’ song, although in the Odyssey, the Sirens are not fish-women, but bird-women.
12 As implied by the title, the main character peeps on his neighbors through the window
located at the rear of his New York apartment.
13 ‘Πῶς τὸ τρίβουν τὸ πιπέρι / τοῦ διαβόλου οἱ καλογέροι’: these apparently inoffensive
verses found in the text come from a song sung during the period of Carnival. The song
describes how monks used to grind peppercorns by using the different parts of their body
(tongue, hands, wrists, back, nose, knees, feet, bottom, penis…). ‘This is the way we grind
peppercorns…’ is danced as a mimic circular dance, taking turns for every part of the human
body; in the last verse, people used to rub their penis on the ground in a parody of the sexual
act, which is why ‘the way we grind peppercorns’ is still danced at weddings in some parts of
Greece.
14 This term, invented by the British psychoanalyst D. Winnicott, embraces the entirety of the
ministrations provided by the mother to the infant to help assure his or her bodily needs.
The ‘holding’ experience does not focus on the child’s body, but rather refers to the emotional
place left between the child and mother. See D. W. Winnicott (1957).
15 See J. Lacan (1999). On jealousy as a negative counterpart of the enjoyment of the ‘Other’,
see C. Dumoulié (1999:153–155).
16 This is the title of another short story by Papadiamantis (IV, 389–396).
17 Regarding the infant’s primary incapacity to satisfy his libidinal needs, which creates feelings
of abandonment and despair that can only be calmed down with the intervention of the
mother or an equivalent person, see S. Freud (1926). The German term describing the state of
mind of a helpless child is Hilfosigkeit.
18 . The British psychoanalyst, Melanie Klein, studied and described the process of projective
identification. See M. Klein and J. Riviere (1937:19–20) and, specifically on the relevance of
this mechanism to the character of the lover-rival in literature and plays (1937:53). On the
semiological analysis of the role of the ‘opponent’, see A.J. Greimas (2002:178–180).
19 Cf. the ‘Pygmalion Fantasy’ proposed as a full clinical entity by S. de Mijolla-Mellor (2009
260–277).
20 See J. Lacan (1991:167–182).
21 If parental sexual intercourse is perceived as lethal sadism, in a past time beyond conscious
memory, one of the resulting outlets could be the rejection of the act to which we owe our
existence. Papadiamantis’ work represents the model for such a reaction: any birth, except
that of Christ, is castigated; any delivery, except that of the Mother of Christ, is stigmatized;
fertility is rejected unless, of course, it relates to nature.
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C u l t ure
22 On the narcisso-oedipal sources of Virgin Mary worship, see J. Kristeva (1997:65) and Th.
Sebbag (2008:161–78). For a more general approach on Virgin Mary worship, see M. Warner
(1976).
23 For a psychoanalytical approach to pedophilia, see S. André and G. Gosselini (2008).
24 This first name seemingly refers to the myth of the ancient nymph, Daphne. Most versions
(namely, Parthenius of Nicaea and Ovid) converge on the details of her aversion to nuptials
and men and to her rescue-transformation into a laurel bush just before the fatal loss of her
virginity.
25 On the meaning of the ‘bad breast’, see M. Klein (1932). On the mother who strangles her
baby while fulfilling the child’s fantasy of a suffocating breast, see G. Carloni and D. Nobili
(1977:54).
26 On the meaning of the ‘ab-jected mother’ (mère abjecte), whereby the infant in a primary state
of emotional development cannot recognize an independent external entity as an object, but
only as an ab-ject, as something between outside and inside reality, as something that is both
intro-jected and ab-jected, see J. Kristeva (1980).
27 Cf. the psychoanalytical theory of O. Rank (1994).
28 The Latin expression, in its exact words, ‘inter urinas et faeces nascimur’ (‘we are born between
urine and excrement’), is repeated four times in the Freudian corpus to demonstrate the
primitive character of human sexuality (Regarding the More General Downgrading of Sexual
Life; Dora, an Analysis of Hysteria; Three Studies on the Theory of Sexuality; Civilization and
Discontents). The expression is attributed to Saint Augustine, even though it was first
associated with Porphyry (233–304). It was used by a great number of Latin figures before
being ‘established’ by Saint Augustine in his Confessions.
29 The narrative, ‘Shores of Twilight’ (‘Τὰ Ρόδιν’Ακρογιάλια’), explicitly describes reproductive
sexual intercourse as ‘making love in the dung’ (IV, 142), which summons the ancient fantasy
of our cesspit birth. On this fantasy, see S. Freud (1908).
30 Cf. the words of a monk, Th. Dionyssiatis (2003:12), who admittedly made an indirect
reference to literature as a deviation from the right path of religiousness and spiritual life: ‘I
haven’t read any of Papadiamantis’ work since I became a monk, except for a few narratives
which I ran into by chance. The monk’s attitude, as defined by his intellectual experiences,
surpasses the psychological ploys of literature. But literature, despite its quality, is not for
monks’.
31 As to the preliminary pleasure and its relevance to art, see S. Freud (1905–1906:303–310); for its
relevance to wit, see his monograph (1905a), and for its relevance to genital enjoyment, see (1905b).
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This article follows on from my PhD dissertation entitled ‘Le Désir érotique dans l’œuvre
d’Alexandre Papadiamantis’ (‘Erotic Desire in the Works of Alexandros Papadamantis’), defended
at Paris-Sorbonne University in January 2012. It originally appeared in a different form in the
Freudian journal Topique (‘La voix des passions’ [‘The Voice of Passion’], 120 (2012/3):51-65), aiming, among other things, at providing a global presentation of Papadiamantis to French-speaking
readers keen on psychoanalysis.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks go to Ms. Hélène Paraskéva who translated the Greek
passages of Papadiamantis into English and to Dr Victoria Grace who
reviewed the manuscript.
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Ni c k N. Tr a ka k i s
Aus t r a l i a n C at h o l i c U n i v e r s i t y
Who is Kazantzakis’ God?
Abstract
The work of Kazantzakis is saturated with theological language, but
disagreement continues as to how such language is to be understood. In
some readings, Kazantzakis is interpreted as a non-religious, or even anti-religious, writer who rejects or is skeptical towards belief in God; while
other readings emphasize the deeply religious character of his writings, seeing in them a ‘post-Christian’ or postmodern development of traditional
Christian concepts. Critics, however, have surprisingly neglected a promising proposal, which would bring to the fore Kazantzakis’s lifelong engagement with Eastern religion. This proposal, although not denying that Kazantzakis was influenced by many of the streams of thought identified by
others (e.g., evolutionary theory, process philosophy, apophatic theology,
etc.), holds that Kazantzakis’s most fundamental commitment lay with a
monistic and idealist worldview, prominent in Eastern philosophy and religious thought, which conceives reality as a unified whole that is ultimately
spiritual in nature.
“Be careful, avoid constructing the face of our God
from what you have learned of the God of the Christians.”
—Kazantzakis, letter to Fr. Emmanuel Papastephanou
It has been observed that the modern Greek novelist Nikos Kazantzakis “uses the word ‘God’ more frequently, perhaps, than any other twenti387
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eth-century writer” (Dombrowski 1997:4).1 Even a superficial acquaintance
with Kazantzakis’s oeuvre makes it plain that what Laurence Hemming has
said of Heidegger applies equally well to Kazantzakis—viz., that he “‘reeks
of God,’ and rarely in reading him is it possible to pass more than a few pages without a mention of God, the gods or the divine” (2009:175). But just as
commentators have struggled to make sense of Heidegger’s relation to religion, so with Kazantzakis a bewildering array of interpretations has arisen,
many incompatible with one another. The problem, however, is not only
the wide range of sometimes conflicting readings of Kazantzakis’s views on
God and religion; even more problematic and puzzling is that, on the one
hand, Kazantzakis talks incessantly and devoutly about God, and yet on the
other hand he is often considered by both scholars and the reading public
as a thoroughly non-religious, or even anti-religious, writer—and so he is
variously categorized as a religious skeptic, an atheist, a non-theist of some
sort, an anti-Christian, or at best a Christian of a highly unorthodox variety. My aim in this paper is, firstly, to make some sense of this multitude
of readings, offering along the way indications as to where many of them
fall short; and secondly, to propose an alternative reading that has been
surprisingly overlooked in the large secondary literature, one that follows
clues such as the opening quote above in aligning Kazantzakis’s thought
with philosophical currents in Eastern religions such as Hinduism and Buddhism rather than exclusively with the Abrahamic and especially Christian
traditions.
Kazantzakis as atheist
It has been quite common, though perhaps less so nowadays, to read
Kazantzakis as an atheist. The writer’s second wife, Helen Kazantzakis (née
Samiou), has given a degree of credence to this view by referring to her
husband and herself as “atheists” (1968:433).2 A similar reading has been
advocated by another woman who was close to the novelist, Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke, a godchild of Kazantzakis, with whom she exchanged letters
as she grew up. In the introduction to a collection of Kazantzakis’s letters
that she helped translate (with Philip Ramp), published as The Suffering God:
Selected Letters to Galatea and to Papastephanou, she states: “If by spirituality
we mean hoping for divine supervision over creation, reward, and the preservation of the personality after death, then Kazantzakis was not spiritual.
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But if we mean the thirst for an absolute answer to the ever-unanswered
questions, then he was” (1979:17). She goes on to describe the (a)theological content of Kazantzakis’s most overtly philosophical work, Salvatores Dei:
Askitiki (The Saviors of God: Spiritual Exercises, first published in in 1927) in
the following terms: “There is a God in The Saviors but there is no hope; there
is a believer but no object of belief…Kazantzakis made his God from atheistic elements” (18; emphasis in the original). A little later she reiterates, in
somewhat paradoxical language: “He [i.e., Kazantzakis’s God] is made in the
image of man and is identical to man. Kazantzakis’ God does not believe
in God.” For this reason, explains Anghelaki-Rooke, “when Kazantzakis
says [in The Saviors], ‘Our duty is to transubstantiate matter into spirit,’ this
transubstantiation has no relation to any return of man to God but signifies man’s victory over a non-God.” In short, according to Anghelaki-Rooke,
“The Saviors is not theology but a form of anthropology” (19).3
Andreas Poulakidas also reads Kazantzakis’s Spiritual Exercises as
the expression of an essentially atheistic worldview. Addressing the infamous ending of the book, where Kazantzakis discloses (what he calls) “this
great, sublime, and terrifying secret: that even this One does not exist!”
Poulakidas writes: “Ultimately, he [Kazantzakis] has no theology. If, in essence, the One does not exist, then one certainly cannot speak of God, since
there is no God, or nature, or man to be a God and to be saved. There is
only the unlimited and deathly silent Abyss” (1975:217). In like fashion,
Charles Glicksberg describes Kazantzakis as an atheist who propounded
a ‘Dionysian’ (i.e., joyous and affirmative) form of nihilism. According to
Glicksberg, “Kazantzakis is a fitting example of the secular saint. A religious atheist, he never gave up the quest for the innermost secret of life
even after he became convinced that there was no ultimate meaning to
be found” (1975:276).4 More recently, but again in a similar vein, Dimitris Tsiovas characterizes Kazantzakis as “a writer of extremes vacillating
between intellect and instinct: at the same time a reclusive writer and a
man of action, Cretan patriot and cosmopolitan traveller, god-driven intellectual and atheist” (2009:84; emphasis mine). Finally, Australian-based
philosopher, Damon Young, in a short piece entitled “Faith Without God,”
presents Kazantzakis as an atheist whose ultimate value is freedom. Again
referencing the ending of Kazantzakis’s Saviors of God, Young explains that,
for Kazantzakis, “what we are struggling for is the realisation that no God,
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nor ‘spirit of Man,’ grounds our brief mortal lives,” and he goes on to add
that “In his [Kazantzakis’s] quest for the freedom of a godless, hopeless and
yet brave cosmos, Kazantzakis retained his faith in one thing only: freedom
itself… Kazantzakis’s faith was a faith in freedom itself” (Young 2006:69).
The atheistic interpretation of Kazantzakis has also been promulgated
and perpetuated by a quite different and often hostile group: the Christian
community, and specifically its evangelical and fundamentalist wings, both
within the Orthodox Church and beyond. Opposition to Kazantzakis’s work
within ecclesiastical and theological circles began very early on in his career.
In May 1930, Kazantzakis and Demetrios Glinos (the editor of Anayennisi
[Renaissance], the Athenian periodical in which Askitiki was originally published) were summoned to appear in court “for sneering at religion.”5 In the
latter years of Kazantzakis’s career, as his novels were attracting a wider
audience and critical acclaim, sections of the church and media in Greece
(and elsewhere, including the United States) reacted harshly, seeking to vilify him as an atheist, communist, immoralist, and decadent (see Antonakes
1996:26-27). In January 1954, the Vatican placed The Last Temptation on
the Index of Forbidden Books, and in June of the same year the Holy Synod
of the Church of Greece followed suit, contending that Kazantzakis’s novels
undermine the teachings and scriptures of the church, and therefore advocating that his books be banned.6 Even after Kazantzakis’s death in 1957,
the conflict and controversy continued. Most famously, upon Kazantzakis’s
death, the Archbishop of Athens (Theokletos) caved in to conservative demands by not allowing Kazantzakis’s body to lie in state in any church in
Athens. (The body was thereupon transferred to Crete, with the Archbishop
of Crete giving permission for an abbreviated Orthodox funeral.) Later, the
well-known iconographer Photios Kontoglou, in articles published in 1978
in a Boston newspaper, described Kazantzakis’s work as containing “irreligion” and “blasphemies” (see Antonakes 1996:23). One cannot also fail to
mention Martin Scorsese’s film adaptation of The Last Temptation, released
in 1988 amid zealous protests from church groups who were scandalized by
Kazantzakis’s account of the life of Christ. Such responses, no matter how
rooted they might be in irresponsible ignorance and prejudice, have served
to create and reinforce an image of Kazantzakis as an anti-Christian writer
who wishes to do away with traditional faith, and perhaps also any religious
belief at all.
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It is worthwhile, however, to place the atheistic perception of Kazantzakis, as endorsed by theological groups as well as secular scholars, alongside Kazantzakis’s own view of his works (which is not to say, of course, that
his view necessarily is the correct or the best one). In a letter to his friend,
Ioannis Konstantarakis, dated 6 June 1954, Kazantzakis stated:
My most recent work, The Poor Man of God, Saint Francis, written last
year, will begin to be printed in Eleftheria. Please follow it to see with what
religious emotion it is written. And the priests accuse me of being an atheist!
(2012b:766)
It is also pertinent to highlight, as others have done, that the response
from religious groups, including the Orthodox Church, has never been
uniform and in particular has never been entirely negative or condemnatory. The reception, rather, has always been mixed. Demetrios Constantelos points out that “some of the leading Greek theologians of Kazantzakis’s era—for example, Nikolaos Louvaris—refused to condemn him as a
blasphemer. Even less liberal Greek theologians like Vassilios Moustakis,
although disagreeing with the terminology Kazantzakis used to describe
churchmen and Christ, advised the Synod of the Orthodox Church of
Greece to be cautious and avoid the mistake of excommunicating the famous author” (1996:50). Constantelos also draws attention to the fact that
Kazantzakis was never excommunicated by the Orthodox Church, although
it is difficult to see what ‘excommunication’ would amount to in the case of
someone, like Kazantzakis, who held no official position in the church and
did not participate in its liturgical and theological life. In any case, many in
the Orthodox Church, including prominent bishops and theologians, have
identified close correspondences between Kazantzakis’s writings and the
spiritual and doctrinal heritage of Orthodoxy, even if they do not think of
Kazantzakis as ‘Orthodox’ or even ‘Christian’ in any formal or traditional
sense.7 What this suggests is that at least something in Kazantzakis’s works
deeply resonates with a profoundly religious sensibility. To label or even
dismiss Kazantzakis as an ‘atheist’ is to therefore run the risk of missing
what is perhaps the central focus of his vision.8
Kazantzakis as ‘post-Christian’
In order to bring to the fore the religious dimension of Kazantzakis’s
work, while continuing to situate it within a broadly secular or at least
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non-Christian framework, scholars have discarded the limiting interpretative category of ‘atheism’ and have turned instead to a range of more fruitful and theologically-informed perspectives. One of the most prominent
voices in this discussion has been Peter Bien, translator of many of Kazantzakis’s novels and a leading commentator on these works. Introducing a
recent special journal issue dedicated to Kazantzakis, drawn from a 2007
symposium celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Kazantzakis’s death,
Bien sought to answer the question that was put to the symposiasts: why
read Kazantzakis in the twenty-first century? (2010:1-6). Bien’s answer is
that Kazantzakis remains relevant because the philosophical and religious
problems he struggled with continue to bedevil us today, and because we
stand to learn much from the way he responded to these problems. Bien
states that, “in the Odyssey, Zorba, Christ Recrucified, The Last Temptation,
and Saint Francis (but not, I would venture, in Kapetan Mihalis), he [i.e., Kazantzakis] examines a central problem of current and future times: how to
deal with failure, how to live as though immortal in a Darwinian modern
world with no afterlife, and how to give eternal significance to a life that
lacks any realistically eternal dimension” (2010:4). As the emphasis here
on contingency and transience makes clear, Kazantzakis is committed, in
Bien’s view, to a naturalistic view of reality, according to which all that exists
is the natural world and its inhabitants, so that supernatural entities such
as gods and ghosts are eliminated as non-existent. This is the position, as
one of its leading philosophical proponents (David Armstrong) formulates
it, “that nothing but Nature, the single, all-embracing spatio-temporal system, exists” (1978:138). Bien thus describes Kazantzakis as a ‘romantic
naturalist,’ and he explains that, “By naturalist here, I mean a person who
believes that being and nature are identical, hence that everything supernatural—including any teleological explanation of the ultimate purpose of
being—must be rejected” (2007:xi).
Note, however, the qualifier romantic: this connotes (according to
Bien) a “yearning for transcendence” and a “refusal to accept limitation,” as
against the classical ideals of restraint and rationality (2007:xi). One might
say, then, that it is Kazantzakis’s romanticism that infuses his naturalism
with the distinct religiosity that marks nearly every page of his books. The
conception of God that results is one that Bien calls ‘post-Christian’: although indebted in significant ways to the Christian tradition within which
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Kazantzakis was raised and educated, the supernatural superstructure of
the Abrahamic faiths is replaced with a naturalist outlook informed by the
evolutionary theory of Darwin and the philosophical vitalism of Bergson.
The Bergsonian influence is particularly (and rightly) emphasized by Bien,
who notes that Kazantzakis’s thinking about God was largely modeled on
his former teacher’s concept of the ‘élan vital’—a pure energy or life-directing principle, forever surging upward toward novel expressions of creativity, postulated by Bergson as that which fundamentally accounts for the
evolution of all living species. Led by the religious overtones of Bergson’s
account of the vital impetus and the evolutionary path it creates, Kazantzakis does not hesitate to divinize these biological drives and processes. For
Kazantzakis, as Bien explains, God just is Creative Evolution: “Seen monistically, god is the entire evolutionary process: the primordial essence that first
wills its own congealment into life and then wills the unmaking of that creative action” (1989:38, emphasis in the original).
Bien interprets Kazantzakis’s Odyssey and his major novels as incarnating in poetic and narrative form this Bergsonian view of God. Speaking of
the Odyssey, for example, Bien holds that, “The epic attempts to portray the
entire cosmic situation as the life force’s evolutionary journey through matter
in a creative process that unmakes itself, transubstantiating matter into spirit” (1989:193). Odysseas’s view, in the epic, is that “god is not encountered at
the end of life’s journey but is with us at all stages of that journey—indeed is
the journey” (Bien 1989:199). In line with this, the Odyssey presents us with
the idea that “the absolute is not the concluding abyss but the entire cycle
bringing us repeatedly from one dark abyss to another across the luminous
interval called life; it is, as always, the élan vital” (Bien 1989:199). Even in
earlier works, such as the plays Comedy, Christ, and Nicephorus Phocas, Bien
detects a pattern that was to become standard in Kazantzakis’s later work:
the use of Christian concepts and symbols for the sake of ‘meta-Christian’
purposes. Nicephorus Phocas is therefore read as “a meta-Christian spectacle
of how a God inherent in matter thrusts matter into the struggle to undo
itself and thereby to produce Spirit” (2007:403; see also Bien 2007:411-420).
Most importantly, belief in an afterlife is rejected, and death is viewed not
in a Christian manner (as the gateway to eternity), but in meta-Christian or
Bergsonian terms as “the overcoming of matter…the ultimate act willed by
matter itself in its upward élan toward self-overcoming” (Bien 2007:418).
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Kazantzakis’s religious and philosophical development was by no
means straightforward, progressing from childhood piety to the renunciation of faith (under the influence of scientific theory), the critique of science
also, and the discovery of Bergson, even a brief reversion to traditional faith
(including a stay on Mt Athos in 1914), before making (by 1922) a complete
turnabout and subscribing to a form of communism (see Bien 2007: 394397). Eventually, the outlook Kazantzakis was to adopt incorporated aspects of all these philosophies and ideologies, and what remained constant
was the innovative way he folded Christian concepts within a naturalist and
Bergsonian framework. This, at least, is Bien’s influential reading, which
sees Kazantzakis as not entirely anti-Christian nor wholly Christian, but
‘meta-Christian,’ someone who seeks to reconfigure traditional Christian
concepts in creative and possibly heterodox ways.
Bien is correct to point to the ways in which Kazantzakis goes beyond
the Christian faith, but it is questionable whether he is correct to impute
the belief in naturalism to Kazantzakis. Other commentators, as will be
seen in the following section, agree with Bien that Kazantzakis is not an
outright atheist or a standard theist, but they prefer to read him as a ‘panentheist,’ panentheism (literally, ‘all is in God’) being the view that God
is immanent within all creation, while at the same time transcending the
physical world. Bien seems to allow for this reading, as when he writes of
Kazantzakis: “I would say that at no time in his mature life was he without
some form of theistic (more accurately, panentheistic) belief: faith in an
infinite force inherent in matter—that is, belief in transcendence-withinimmanence” (2007:397). Bien, however, is careful to locate transcendence
within immanence: the infinite or transcendent emerges from, and is dependent upon, the finite and physical world. The reading I wish to propose
reverses this schema, rendering the transcendent fundamental and all else
derivative. But this will have to wait for the final section of this paper, and
in the meantime I will turn to recent developments of the panentheist reading of Kazantzakis.9
Kazantzakis as process theist
One of the leading varieties of panentheism in contemporary philosophy of religion is “process theism,” and the process view has recently become a prominent interpretive lens for gaining a richer appreciation of Ka394
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zantzakis’s ideas on God. The principal proponents of process philosophy
and theology have been Alfred North Whitehead (1861-1947) and Charles
Hartshorne (1897-2000), though forerunners include thinkers such as Teilhard de Chardin and Henri Bergson, who were greatly influenced by evolutionary theory. In outline, process philosophy upholds a Heraclitean metaphysics, where process or becoming is more ultimate than permanence or
being. Thus, the categories of change, creativity, and temporality assume
foundational status in process metaphysics, and being is seen as only an
abstraction of becoming. On this view, the basic units of the world or the
most concrete real entities are not substances or enduring individuals, but
‘processes’ or momentary events that Whitehead called “actual entities…
drops of experience, complex and interdependent” (1978:18).
When this metaphysics is taken in a theological direction, a way of
thinking about God results that diverges significantly from traditional or
classical theistic conceptions. Process theists, in particular, highlight the
one-sided, ‘monopolar’ nature of classical theism, where God is in all respects creator, active, infinite, eternal, necessary, independent, immutable,
and impassible, and is in no respects created, passive, finite, temporal, contingent, dependent, mutable, or passible. The assumption underlying this
view is that these two poles or sets of metaphysical properties are mutually
exclusive, or form an ‘invidious contrast.’ As Charles Hartshorne and William Reese explain what they call ‘the doctrine of the invidious nature of categorical contrasts,’ “One pole of each contrary is regarded as more excellent
than the other, so that the supremely excellent being cannot be described
by the other and inferior pole” (2000:2). Classical theism therefore inherits
the long-standing philosophical prejudice of valuing being over becoming
and assuming that perfection must be static or unchanging: any change can
only be a move away from or a move towards perfection, in which case a
perfect being (God) has no need to change.
Whitehead, Hartshorne, and other process theists jettison this view
of God, replacing it with a ‘dipolar’ (or ‘neoclassical’) version of theism.
Challenging the assumption that God can only exemplify one of the two attributes in a pair of metaphysical contraries (such as necessary-contingent,
timeless-temporal), process theists defend the principle of the non-invidiousness of metaphysical contraries (see Hartshorne 1970:268).10 According to
this principle, contrasting metaphysical pairs are not related as superior to
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inferior; rather, each pole in such pairs has valuable and admirable elements
as well as inferior and deficient aspects. Regarding the being-becoming contrast, for example, some forms of change or becoming are defective (e.g.,
when change entails a movement towards evil or immorality), but other
manifestations of change can be regarded as good or superior (e.g., those
which involve a loving and sensitive responsiveness to the sufferings of others). Now, if metaphysical contraries can in this way be complementary and
non-invidious, and if (following Anselm) God is conceived as an absolutely
perfect being (or ‘the being than which none greater can be conceived’),
then it follows that God must be understood not in monopolar terms but
as dipolar, exemplifying the most admirable forms of both pairs of metaphysical contrasts. In other words, all expressions of excellence must be
ascribed to God, including those found on either side of a non-invidious
contrast. This is why the classical (e.g., the Aristotelian and Thomistic) notion of God as an ‘unmoved mover,’ where God lacks the capacity to change,
to participate in the evolving universe he has created, and to be affected by
the joys and sorrows of his creatures, strikes process theists as a religiously
impoverished understanding of God, for it overlooks what is best and most
valuable in temporality and contingency. In contrast to classical theism,
therefore, Hartshorne (1997:6, 39) holds that “God is the most and best
moved mover,” and Whitehead (1978:351) depicts God as “the great companion—the fellow-sufferer who understands.”
Darren Middleton and Daniel Dombrowski have led the charge in reading Kazantzakis along these process lines. Both emphasize, to begin with,
that Kazantzakis is not an atheist or unbeliever, at least in any straightforward sense. In his 1997 book, Kazantzakis and God, Dombrowski contends that “Kazantzakis’s antipathy to the traditional view of God in the
Abrahamic religions often leads him to give the impression that he does
not believe in God, but I will show that a more defensible view is that Kazantzakis does believe in God, but what he means by ‘God’ is something
that is very often heterodox from the traditional point of view” (1997:2).
Middleton’s 2007 study of Kazantzakis, Broken Hallelujah, takes a similar
stance, portraying Kazantzakis as a “believing skeptic,” someone who early
on lost his faith in Christianity and embarked for the remainder of his life
on a deep religious quest (2007:1-4). Given Kazantzakis’s skepticism, Middleton acknowledges that “It would be stretching the point either to label
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Kazantzakis Christian or to think of him as a theologian” (2007:6). Even if
Kazantzakis cannot be categorized as a Christian (in a narrow or traditional
sense), Middleton argues that Kazantzakis should be seen as a profoundly
religious writer who worked within a broadly Christian context and even
accepted some sort of belief in God, which Middleton aligns with ‘panentheism’: “In time Kazantzakis spoke, and frequently, of a transhistorical referent of experience, some presence matching the word ‘God,’ yet he pictured
it panentheistically and not theistically. Such panentheism…describes God
as the circumambient reality including all things” (2007:2).11 Echoing the
title of his book, Middleton goes on to express his central thesis as follows:
“while Kazantzakis may not be claimed for Christianity, because he was a
believing skeptic throughout his life, he nonetheless thrummed to its major
themes and personalities. In short, Kazantzakis sang broken hallelujahs”
(2007:3).12
Kazantzakis’s broken hallelujahs, according to Middleton and
Dombrowski, sound distinctly panentheist, delivered in the key of process
theology. The traditional theist view, as noted earlier, has been that God is
impassible and immutable, this resting upon the Platonist assumption that
perfection entails changelessness. Influenced by Bergson’s evolutionary
philosophy, however, Kazantzakis rejected this traditional view, affirming
instead a dynamic, struggling, fiery, and passionate God. Relying primarily
on the Spiritual Exercises, Dombrowski is careful to point out that Kazantzakis’s conception of God is not just another monopolar version of theism,
where God is this time a purely immanent God of becoming (rather than
a God of pure being) (see Dombrowski 1997:70-72). Despite this being a
common reading of Kazantzakis,13 Dombrowski argues that Kazantzakis
also accepted an unchanging, eternal, and transcendent aspect of God—
thus making him a genuinely dipolar theist.
Nevertheless, it is their shared belief in divine mutability and passibility that distinguishes Kazantzakis and process theists from their classical
counterparts. The notion of an evolving and suffering God is, as Middleton
states (2007:62), “part of a once-lost-but-recently-reclaimed aspect of the
Christian tradition,” and Kazantzakis and process theologians sought to rediscover and renew it:
Where Kazantzakis speaks of God as part of the evolutionary process,
actively involved within our world and affected by its events, sometimes to
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the point of needing and agitating us to help God advance in time, process
theologians emphasize how God stirs the creative advance with initial
vocational aims designed to optimize fulfillment for subjective becoming.
(Middleton 2007:92)
Kazantzakis expresses this point provocatively when saying that we
are called to be ‘the saviors of God’ by transubstantiating matter into spirit.
But this theme Middleton also finds in process theology. For example, in
the philosophy of Lewis Ford just as much as in the novels of Kazantzakis,
“we work with God to develop the creative advance and contribute to the
richness of the divine experience. God saves us, then, and we save God”
(Middleton 2007:87). This soteriological vision is thus underwritten by a
relational view of reality, where salvation is “a dialogical endeavor” involving “the positive interplay between our freedom and divine agency” (90).
Indeed, for Middleton, the idea that we can contribute to and enrich the
divine life and even ‘save’ God is one that “unites the distinctive writings of
Kazantzakis and Whitehead” (75) and “can serve to call us to a faith that is
adventurous and risky (77).14
There is much to be said for the process interpretation of Kazantzakis, and there are undoubtedly close correspondences between Kazantzakis’s view of God and that of process theologians. However, the process
reading is limited in certain respects, the first of which has to do with the
fact that Kazantzakis was not acquainted with the works of Whitehead and
Hartshorne. Attributing the process view to Kazantzakis might therefore
seem anachronistic, in which case the process reading is more of a creative
appropriation of Kazantzakis than a faithful interpretation. Dombrowski
responds to this charge by noting that, even if Kazantzakis was not aware of
Whitehead and Hartshorne, “he was very much familiar with another process theist, Bergson. And dipolar, process theism is as old as Plato” (1997:72).
Both Middleton and Dombrowski further point to precedents in Christian
theology, with Dombrowski noting “certain oddities in the Christian tradition itself” (e.g., the traditional Christian belief that God is immutable and
yet knows and loves the world) as also possibly leading Kazantzakis towards
the process view (Dombrowski 1997:74; Middleton 2007:62-66).
These are contentious matters of historical influence, and there is not
the space to investigate them here. But even if Dombrowski is correct in
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identifying Kazantzakis’s sources of influence, these sources (including the
writings of Plato and Bergson) offer only a rudimentary version of dipolar
theism, far removed from the systematic detail one finds in later process
thinkers. Kazantzakis’s inspiration, therefore, largely remains a mystery.
A more significant limitation in the process reading is the emphasis
it places on dipolarity in Kazantzakis’s thinking. In the final section of the
paper I will argue that Kazantzakis’s most fundamental commitment was to
a form of monism that overcomes any such dualism.
Kazantzakis as postmodern
Another increasingly prominent way of reading Kazantzakis’s language about God is by way of postmodern philosophy and theology. The
theoretical basis of postmodernism was first worked out in France in the
late 1960s and early 1970s, particularly in the writings of Jacques Derrida,
Jean-François Lyotard, Michel Foucault, Gilles Deleuze, Jean Baudrillard,
and Luce Irigaray, before being transplanted to other parts of the world.
Considered negatively, postmodern philosophy stands in opposition to
modern philosophy as inaugurated by Locke and Descartes in the seventeenth century and culminating in the work of Enlightenment thinkers
such as Kant and the French philosophes in the eighteenth century. A central tenet of modern philosophy is ‘metaphysical realism,’ the view that
there is an objective world or mind-independent reality, and that there are
facts regarding the nature of the world that hold true irrespective of the beliefs and investigative techniques of human beings. Against this, postmodern philosophers often subscribe to ‘anti-realism,’ the view that there is no
objective, mind-independent reality, and what passes as ‘reality’ is nothing
but a social or conceptual construct. Further, if there is no objective reality, there can be no (objective) truth corresponding to that reality. Or, as
postmoderns like to say, the truth is that there is no (capitalized, absolute)
Truth. Even the very distinction between truth and falsity is questioned,
and indeed all binary oppositions that initially appear fixed are revealed to
be permeable and unstable. As a result, the logic of identity (evident in the
Hegelian dialectic where two terms in an opposition—e.g., being/nonbeing,
speech/writing—are synthesized to produce a new, higher unity) is replaced
with a logic of difference, where diversity and heterogeneity are celebrated.
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In line with the emphasis on difference, the modern (e.g., Cartesian) notion
of a universal and timeless subject that has a permanent identity or essence
gives way to the idea of historically embedded, malleable, and fragmented
subjectivities.
This, of course, is only a very minimal sketch of some central ideas found in postmodern philosophy, but they have often been applied to
religious concerns, giving rise to a variety of postmodern theologies. Following Merold Westphal’s useful typology, postmodern theology or philosophy of religion tends to be expressed in one, or a combination, of the
following forms: negative theology, Nietzschean ‘death of God’ theology,
and phenomenological approaches (see Westphal 1998:583-586). Firstly,
then, one of the wellsprings of postmodern theology has been the negative
or apophatic tradition, which insists on the radical transcendence, incomprehensibility, and ineffability of God. Amongst postmodern thinkers, apophaticism functions as a way to overcome idolatrous ways of talking about
God that are inscribed or restricted by the categories of philosophy (such as
‘presence,’ ‘cause,’ ‘being,’ etc.). A second stream in postmodern religious
thought has been the ‘death of God’ movement that arose in American theology in the 1960s. Taking their lead from Nietzsche’s famous parable of
the madman (in The Gay Science §125), theologians such as Gabriel Vahanian, Paul van Buren, William Hamilton, and Thomas J. J. Altizer advocated
a radically new, ‘post-Christian’ theology that sought to overturn or secularize traditional Christian doctrine. More recently, Mark C. Taylor blended
this Nietzschean motif with deconstruction, which he introduced in his
landmark work Erring: A Postmodern A/theology as “the ‘hermeneutic’ of the
death of God” (1984:6). In Taylor’s deconstructive a/theology, the traditional polarity between belief and unbelief is destabilized so as to allow for
previously neglected dimensions of the divine to appear within the space
of undecidability signified by the slash in ‘a/theology,’ and in this way to finally transcend the nihilism that the death of God inevitably brings. A third
major influence on postmodern philosophy of religion has been the phenomenology of Husserl and Heidegger, and particularly its appropriation
by a group of theologically-motivated French phenomenologists, including
Emmanuel Levinas, Michel Henry, and Jean-Luc Marion.
As this indicates, postmodernism need not be atheistic or inimical to
religion: if modernism involved a process of secularization, postmodernity
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is marked by a return to God or an awakening of a new experience of the
divine—hence the adoption of such terms as ‘post-secular’ and ‘anatheism’
(see Kearney 2010).15 It might be tempting, therefore, to read such a postmodern reclamation of God back into Kazantzakis, viewing him as moving
beyond both the premodern religious naïveté of our ancient and medieval
forebears and the suspicion and skepticism of the disillusioned modern
world, in this way creating the space for new images of God to be constructed. Recent commentators, in fact, have advocated such a postmodern reading of Kazantzakis, restricting themselves to the first and second forms of
postmodern theology outlined above. I will return to apophaticism in the
next section; also, I will not touch upon phenomenological approaches, given that neither classical phenomenology nor the recent ‘theological turn’ in
phenomenology have made an impact on Kazantzakis scholarship (despite
the interesting possibilities phenomenological readings might afford). Instead, I will concentrate on the second (Nietzschean) strand, particularly as
it has been developed under the impetus of Derridean deconstruction.
A number of calls have recently been made to read Kazantzakis as a precursor of postmodern trends and sensibilities. Dimitris Tziovas, for example,
has argued that Kazantzakis’s work is best interpreted not through the lens
of ‘being,’ where this is understood as “an eternal essence or a structure to be
recovered and as a truth or god to be discovered,” but by way of the postmodern notion of ‘becoming,’ which is “associated with struggle, freedom and an
open-ended process, representing the constant quest and the transcendence
of limits” (2009:84). Tziovas therefore proposes a new way of reading Kazantzakis’s novels, one that passes “from the ontology of being to the contingency of becoming,” so as “to see his novels as open and dynamic texts rather
than closed and static ones” (87). This openness manifests itself in the way
in which Kazantzakis handles the antitheses that loom large in his work (e.g.,
spirit-matter, freedom-death, Zorba-Boss). In Tziovas’s view, Kazantzakis
does not seek a final reconciliation of these dualities in an eventual synthesis,
but rather allows them to remain in perpetual tension, thus giving his works
their open-ended nature. But this is openness of a specifically postmodern
sort, entailing ceaseless flux and becoming, and ruling out (the modernist
ideals of) teleology, unity, and certainty:
Becoming in Kazantzakis should not be seen in terms of development,
evolution or maturity, but as an inconclusive process of re-inventions,
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transgressions, retellings and even contradictions. At one time it might
have been treated as a struggle, a creative progress, or the hope of ultimately
reaching a higher spiritual goal. Now becoming is seen as lacking a goal
and the emphasis is on open-endedness, relativity and ambiguity. (Tziovas
2009:88)
Not only determinate endings, but also seemingly fixed meanings and
truths are challenged and destabilized by Kazantzakis, as highlighted in the
following passage quoted by Tziovas from the ‘fictional autobiography,’ Report to Greco:
I swaggered as I wrote. Was I not God, doing as I pleased, transubstantiating
reality, fashioning it as I should have liked it to be—as it should have been?
I was joining truth and falsehood indissolubly together. No, there were no
longer any such things as truth and falsehood; everything was a soft dough
which I kneaded and rolled freely, according to the dictates of whim, without
securing permission from anyone. Evidently there is an uncertainty which is
more certain than certitude itself.16 (Quoted in Tsiovas 2009:90)
As Tziovas comments: “In postmodern fashion, Kazantzakis questions the ontological solidity of reality (being) and perceives it as a subjective creation (becoming). Following Nietzsche he declares: ‘The world is my
own creation. Everything, both visible and invisible, is a deceptive dream’”
(2009:90).17 The boundaries between fact and fiction therefore dissolve, and
truth becomes, as in the words of Nietzsche, “a mobile army of metaphors,
metonyms, and anthropomorphisms…truths are illusions about which one
has forgotten that this is what they are” (1954:46-47). Operating with such
a conception of truth, Kazantzakis narrates worlds that are never straightforwardly factual (even in his so-called ‘autobiography’), nor simply false,
but are instead fluid and indeterminate—and it is this open-endedness, according to Tziovas, that might account for the continuing appeal of Kazantzakis’s works in our postmodern era.18
Connections between Kazantzakis’s works and postmodern philosophy have also been made by Galanopoulos (2010:7-37)19 and Middleton
(2007:ch. 6 and conclusion), the latter describing Kazantzakis as a posthumous or untimely writer who, like Nietzsche, “foresaw much of what we
now recognize as the postmodern turn, not in literary forms of course, but
in philosophy and religion. Both thinkers attended to life’s evanescence,
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intuition’s strength, language’s polysemy, storytelling’s persistence, and
interpretation’s malleability” (Middleton 2007:102). Without wishing to
downplay these points of ‘philosophical consanguinity,’ as Middleton calls
them, there are significant limitations to the postmodern reading, and here
I can only indicate some of these.
As noted earlier, the Nietzschean strand of postmodern theology takes
the death of God as paving the way for a secular or humanistic brand of
Christianity, which Middleton ties to Lloyd Geering’s proposal of ‘Christianity without God’ (to borrow the title of one of Geering’s books). What Geering is specifically proposing is a Christianity released from commitment to
realist forms of theism, which take God to be an ontologically independent, supernatural, and objectively existing entity. In their place, Geering
defends ‘theological non-realism,’ where ‘God’ functions as a symbol of our
most important moral and spiritual values. According to Middleton, “a similar humanistic Christianity permeates Kazantzakis’s life and career,” a view
he suggests is supported by Kazantzakis’s rejection of conventional theism
due to its perceived incompatibility with modern science (2007:111). At
least one problem with Middleton’s reading is that it conflicts with other
things Middleton says about Kazantzakis—and especially Middleton’s view
that Kazantzakis develops a form (albeit a nascent form) of process theology. Process theism has not usually been developed in a secular, humanistic,
or non-realist direction (although, admittedly, there is no theoretical obstacle in doing so). Insofar as the variety of process theology that Middleton is
operating with is realist and non-secular (which it seems to be), there is an
internal tension in his reading of Kazantzakis. Secondly, it is doubtful that
Kazantzakis accepted the kind of secular and non-realist theism espoused
by Geering. The rejection of or skepticism towards traditional (realist, supernaturalist) theism does not equate to a commitment to theological nonrealism, but may instead be a preliminary step towards an unconventional
and indeed non-Christian, though resolutely realist and non-naturalist,
version of theism. (It is this relatively unexplored possibility I will take up
in the last section of the paper.)
A more serious weakness with postmodern accounts of Kazantzakis
is that many of the central ideas that postmodern thinkers want to oppose or transcend form the very nucleus of Kazantzakis’s worldview. Illustrative examples, though by no means a comprehensive list, include:
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(i) incredulity towards metanarratives, or all-inclusive, overarching ideologies or systems; (ii) the attempt to overcome onto-theology, this being
Heidegger’s term for referring to a long-standing metaphysical tradition
(with Aristotle and Hegel as high points) that strives to render the whole
realm of beings intelligible to human understanding, and does so by appeal to the supreme being, God;20 (iii) the rejection of knowledge and truth,
at least when knowledge is considered a matter of accurate representation,
and truth consists in correspondence to reality or the way things really are;
and (iv) suspicion towards claims of progress, particularly the Enlightenment belief in human progress and emancipation, and teleological schemes
such as those of Hegel and Marx, which hold that history is moving towards
some predetermined higher end. It is not possible to show in any detail
here how these postmodern ideas or attitudes conflict with Kazantzakis’s
works, but it may be worth considering, in relation to each of the above,
that: (i) early on, Kazantzakis sought a “theory of the cosmos and of humanity’s raison d’être” (Kazantzakis 2012a:39), which he constructed in
large part from materials by Bergson, and which guided and framed his
subsequent creative work; (ii) Kazantzakis consistently upheld ‘God’ (albeit
in his idiosyncratic understanding of the term) as the interpretative key
for unlocking the secrets of reality, this contributing to the perception of
Kazantzakis as a profoundly religious thinker; (iii) Kazantzakis’s medium
of expression is literary, not propositional, but this does not lead him to
abandon all distinctions between truth and falsehood in favor of a perpetual open-endedness and undecidability, as claimed by Tziovas, but rather
brings him to a metaphysical vision of a unified whole (to be elaborated in
the following section); and (iv) despite coming to reject any simple or linear
claims to progress (as in Marxism), Kazantzakis’s fictional heroes embody
the teleological principle of spiritual ‘ascent,’ a passionate leap upward in
the struggle to transmute matter into spirit.
Kazantzakis as idealist
I do not wish to deny that points of influence or similarity can be identified between Kazantzakis’s writings and each of the foregoing streams of
thought (atheistic materialism, process philosophy, postmodern theology,
etc.). What I wish to propose, however, is that Kazantzakis’s conception
of the divine (especially in his most mature and productive period: the last
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ten years of his life, during which time he wrote his major novels) can also
be understood as an expression (a ‘mythopoesis’) of the metaphysical view
known as Absolute Idealism. By seeing Kazantzakis’s God in idealist light,
Kazantzakis’s interactions with and indebtedness to Eastern religion, and
especially Buddhism, become more apparent. Surprisingly, these connections between Kazantzakis’s work and Eastern thought form a significant
lacuna in contemporary scholarship,21 and part of my aim here is to take a
small step towards rectifying this.
It will be helpful, to begin with, to sketch the history and metaphysics of idealism, as it has developed in both West and East. In the modern
West, idealism came into prominence as a movement in the late eighteenth
and early nineteenth centuries in German philosophy. Rejecting Kant’s delimitation of metaphysics, philosophers such as Fichte, Schelling, Schopenhauer, and above all Hegel sought to reinvigorate metaphysics, principally
through the development of systems of ‘absolute idealism.’ In the idealist
view, the most basic or ultimate reality is ‘mind’ or ‘spirit’—everything else,
including matter and the physical world, is only an appearance or expression of mind. For the German idealists, this ultimate reality is the ‘Absolute,’ that which has an unconditioned existence (not conditioned by, or
dependent upon, anything else), and is usually deemed to be the whole of
things, conceived as unitary, spiritual, self-knowing, and rationally intelligible. An important successor of this idealist movement was the British form
of idealism that held sway in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries,
and included such philosophers as F. H. Bradley, T. H. Green, Edward Caird,
J. M. E. McTaggart, and Bernard Bosanquet. Turning away from the naturalism, utilitarianism, and empiricism characteristic of British philosophy
(e.g., the work of Hume), the British idealists held that physical objects and
the subjective points of view of conscious individuals stand in a system of
‘internal relations’ called the ‘Absolute.’
Although in Anglophone philosophy idealism would not survive the
hostile turn taken early in the twentieth century against metaphysics, the
idealist view remains a venerable part of certain streams of Buddhism and
Hinduism. For example, the Indian tradition of Yogacara (Sanskrit: ‘Practice of Yoga’) is a leading proponent of idealism within Mahayana Buddhism. Founded in the fourth or fifth century A.D. by the Indian philosopher
Asanga and his half-brother Vasubandhu, the Yogacara school disavows realism,
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or the commonsense belief in an independently existing world. As Peter Harvey
explains, “in the Yogācāra, the role of the mind in constructing the world is so
emphasized that all concepts of an external physical reality are rejected: the
perceived world is seen as ‘representation-only’ (vijñapti-mātra) or ‘thoughtonly’ (citta-mātra)” (1990:106).22 All that really exists is awareness or con-
sciousness (vijñāna), an inconceivable and ineffable ‘emptiness’ that transcends customary dualistic divisions. For the Yogacarin, then, emptiness is
not merely the lack of an intrinsic or unconditioned nature (as the Madyamaka school holds), but designates (to quote from Stephen Laumakis) “the
original or natural state of the mind in which there is no dualistic distinction between the knower and the known or the perceiving subject and the
perceived object” (2008:146). Ultimate reality, within this view, is an undifferentiated consciousness, empty of any duality.
A similar non-dual view can be found in the Advaita Vedanta tradition
of Hinduism. The wider Vedanta school constitutes the most influential of
the six ‘orthodox’ Hindu systems (darsana) of philosophy, and it is divided
amongst its members on how to interpret the relation that exists between
the atman (self) and Brahman (Ultimate Reality) as this is depicted in the
philosophically-oriented thought of the Upanishads. The interpretation of
this relation given by Shankara (or Sankaracarya [‘Samkara the Teacher’],
in the early eight century; traditionally A.D. 788-820) and the school that
developed in his wake centered on the notion of ‘a-dvaita,’ meaning (in Sanskrit) ‘non-dual’ and referring to the tradition’s monism, the belief that
there are no separate things, so that reality consists in a unified whole. The
Advaita school therefore rejects all duality, identifies Brahman with our true
and unchanging self or atman (as distinct from our ‘empirical self’), and
takes Brahman to be the sole reality. The role of the ‘Absolute’ in German
and British idealism is here played by Brahman: a pure undifferentiated consciousness that is the ultimate foundation and goal of all existence. Only
by ‘realizing’ or awakening to one’s identity with Brahman and the non-dual
nature of reality can release or liberation (moksa) be achieved from the cycle
of birth and rebirth (samsara).
Of the many connections that could be made between these forms of
idealism and Kazantzakis’s work, I wish to focus briefly on the shared commitment to monism. Perhaps the greatest influence on Kazantzakis’s monism has been Bergson, though another significant but neglected source of
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influence is the idealist philosophy of Hegel. Bergson’s influence on this
score, as in many other areas, is well documented. Middleton and Bien, for
instance, point out that although Darwinian evolutionary theory may have
initially undermined Kazantzakis’s religious faith, it also drove Kazantzakis
towards a Bergsonian and monistic outlook:
Darwinism…set him [i.e., Kazantzakis] on the road toward a relational
philosophy in which, viewing ourselves as bound up with the processes of
nature and history, we realize that “there is no such thing as ‘me,’ ‘you,’ and
‘he’; everything is a unity.”23 (Middleton and Bien 1996:3)
The ‘relational philosophy’ spoken of here is, of course, that of Bergson. Initially at least, Bergson seems far removed from monism, as his
philosophy is pervaded by various stark dualisms: there are two kinds or
sources of knowledge (analysis and intuition); there are two forms of time
(scientific or clock time and ‘duration,’ la durée); there are two kinds of morality and religion (those that are open, universal, and dynamic, and those
that are closed, local, and static), etc.24 Bergson, however, privileges one of
the terms in these oppositions, taking the other as derivative and defective,
and thus he can be seen as advocating a form of monism. With respect
to time, for example, Bergson holds that it is somewhat falsified when it
is measured objectively as a set of discrete moments or instants (as happens in ‘clock time’), while its true nature can only be intuited or experienced as a continuous and essentially indivisible stream (what Bergson calls
‘duration’). More generally, our intellect, guided by our needs, habitually
employs the methods of analysis and abstraction to impose stability and
homogeneity on the incessant motion of life and its evolution, which can
be immediately accessed only by means of ‘intuition’—a kind of intellectual
sympathy involving direct participation in, or identification with, the other.
It was in such terms that Kazantzakis presented Bergson to the members of the Educational Society in Athens, in January 1913, after having attended Bergson’s lectures in Paris in 1907-1908. In a spirited overview and
defense of Bergson’s philosophy, Kazantzakis explained that Bergson does
not regard matter and energy dualistically, but rather holds to the monist
view that matter is a congealed form of energy:
Matter and energy are substantially one and the same; there is no
dualism. Matter is simply energy’s condensation, its stable equilibrium.25
(Kazantzakis 1983:280)
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As is well known, Bergson’s dualistic battle between the vital impulse
(élan vital) and materiality takes on momentous significance in Kazantzakis’s fiction, with its recurring depictions of the struggle between the divine call to surge upward toward life and creativity, and the forces pushing
downward toward death and stagnation. In Kazantzakis’s view, however,
the élan and materiality are not separate in Bergson’s system; rather, matter
is only the congealed aspect of the élan’s own substance, thus underscoring
the monist tendencies within Bergson’s dualist perspective.
Influenced by Bergson, monism came to be one of Kazantzakis’s most
deeply held convictions. Consider, for example, the summary Kazantzakis
gave of his philosophy in a ‘symposium’ held on the eve of his departure
from Alexandria in February 1927 (and recorded in his Egypt journal):
I am a monist. I feel deeply that Matter and Spirit are one. Within me I
feel only one essence. However, when I am forced to express myself as I am
tonight, and formulate this essence, I am forced, naturally, to express myself
with words, that is to say, with logic. Consequently, following the nature of
logic, I am compelled to separate what by nature is inseparable. And since
human senses are limited, out of all the infinite, probable aspects or sources,
if you will, of reality, I distinguish only two: that which we call Matter and
that which we call Spirit.26 (Kazantzakis 1975:78-79)
Reality is ultimately one, and it is divided into parts only by our use of
language and logic, which “separate what by its nature is inseparable.” The
monist vision of ‘an indestructible unity behind the ceaseless flux’ (to borrow from the end of The Saviors of God; see Kazantzakis 1960:13027) was to
inform Kazantzakis’s entire life and work, as Bien observes:
On the one hand he [i.e., Kazantzakis] laments the anticommunist
atmosphere in Greece [around 1928]; on the other he scorns the communists
themselves. As always in Kazantzakis’s personality as well as in his works,
we are forced to confront this bewildering conjunction of opposites: his
“positions” are not positions but temporary shifts of emphasis—swings
toward either pole of a duality explicable only in terms of his deepest
allegiance, which was to Bergsonian monism. (Bien 1989:129)
Bergson, however, might not be the only philosopher Kazantzakis
was drawing upon when formulating his monist worldview. Another, and
relatively unacknowledged, source may well have been Hegel’s idealism.28
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In particular, what Kazantzakis calls the ‘Cretan Glance’ bears much in common with Hegel’s dialectical process of Aufheben (sublation), where antitheses are overcome by ‘raising them up’ into a new totality or whole, while
preserving elements from each of the opposing pairs. One of the few scholars to have alluded to this, but without explicitly naming Hegel, is Kimon
Friar. In his Introduction to his translation of Kazantzakis’s Odyssey, Friar
emphasizes the synthetic—or what might be called ‘monistic’—outlook
permeating Kazantzakis’s writings: “Basic to all of Kazantzakis’s vision, as
to that of Yeats, has been the attempt to synthesize what seem to be contraries, antitheses, antinomies” (Friar 1958:xviii). Borrowing from Yeats,
Friar portrays Kazantzakis as the ‘Antithetical Man,’ “for his own life and
thought were formed in a double vision of tension between opposites, an
explosive conflict which ascended unceasingly upward toward higher and
higher spiritual reaches over an abyss of nothingness” (1958:xxv). This
‘double vision’ looks to Kazantzakis’s birthplace of Crete as unifying the
contrasting perspectives of East and West. For example, the Greek ideal
of the rational self and disciplined will stands in opposition to the Oriental
ideal of self-renunciation and abandonment to mysterious and impersonal
powers. As Kazantzakis explains (in a letter to a young critic, quoted by
Friar), he sought to transcend and ‘sublate’ these contrasting ideals by way
of the ‘Cretan Glance’:
Crete, for me (and not, naturally, for all Cretans), is the synthesis which I
always pursue, the synthesis of Greece and the Orient. I neither feel Europe
in me nor a clear and distilled classical Greece; nor do I at all feel the anarchic
chaos and the will-less perseverance of the Orient. I feel something else, a
synthesis, a being that not only gazes on the abyss without disintegrating,
but which, on the contrary, is filled with coherence, pride, and manliness by
such a vision. This glance which confronts life and death so bravely, I call
Cretan. (Quoted in Friar 1958:xix).
The structure of the Glance, however, is distinctly Hegelian. Just as
the advance of Hegel’s Absolute toward self-consciousness is founded on
the sublation of antitheses, so Kazantzakis’s Cretan vision is reached by
progressively surmounting all dualisms, until one attains to the One.29
The monist and idealist character of Kazantzakis’s thought can also
be traced to his lifelong engagement with Eastern religions, especially
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Buddhism.30 Kazantzakis felt a profound personal connection to the Buddha, listing him in Report to Greco among Christ, Lenin, and Odysseus as
one of “the decisive steps in my ascent” (Kazantzakis 1973:15).31 Although
the influence of Buddhism in Kazantzakis’s works has not gone unnoticed,
what remains underexplored is the way in which the metaphysics of Buddhism (or some Buddhist schools) has marked Kazantzakis’s conception
of God and ultimate reality. To highlight this, I will briefly turn to one of
Kazantzakis’s most remarkable, though unjustly neglected, works: his play
Buddha. This was published in 1956, a year before his death, but it was a
project that obsessed him for many years; he began the first draft in 1922
in Vienna and gave the work its definitive shape only in 1941-1943 during
the German occupation of Greece. In Kazantzakis’s eyes, at least, this play
ranked highly within the formidable body of work he had completed. As he
was to say shortly before he died: “Buddha is my swan song. It says everything. I’m glad that I have managed to utter…my final word in time, before
I go” (quoted in Bien 1983:xviii). This high estimation is echoed by Peter
Bien, one of the few scholars to have extensively studied the play:
But of all Kazantzakis’s immense output, the play Buddha, I believe, is the
clearest, most genuine and comprehensive exposition of his mature position,
because it both isolates and amalgamates the disparates so deftly, and also
because it so openly and unapologetically treats the aesthetic as the primary
way to salvation.32 (Bien 1977:270).
What characterizes the play is its pronounced (metaphysical) idealism,
understood in terms of the notions of reality as mind-dependent and as an
essentially unified whole. These notions find expression not only in the
dialogue, but even more so through the structure of the work. The play
unfolds on two levels: a ‘realistic’ plot set in the central square of a Chinese village, which narrates the rise of the Yangtze River that floods the
village and drowns its inhabitants; and an ‘idealistic’ part, which frames
and is interweaved into the real-world action, thus revealing the latter to
be nothing but the product of the imagination. As Bien points out, it is the
skillful way in which Kazantzakis destabilizes the sense of reality (ours and
that of the characters) that gives “the work its uniqueness and distinction”
(1977:254).33 The repeated set changes, in particular, reinforce the illusory
character of (empirical) reality, as in Act I when the Magician puts on a yellow mask and:
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Silently the set crumbles, as in a dream. The scenery changes—the Yangtze
encircles all like a ring. In the center is an island, and in its center a huge,
dried-out tree. Underneath the tree, sitting cross-legged, is Buddha.34
(Kazantzakis 1983:42)
All plays, like any creative works, are the expression and product of
the mind of the artist, but Kazantzakis (through the character of the Magician) wants to take matters further and say the same about the great Play
we call ‘life’—this too is created and constituted by the mind. The mind
(or more precisely the intuitive and imaginative mind, as opposed to the
theoretical, intellectualizing mind) is therefore imbued with the power not
only to construct different worlds, but also to penetrate past the empirical
world through to the ultimate reality and the underlying oneness of all. In
idealist fashion, then, Kazantzakis draws a sharp contrast between appearance and reality, multiplicity and unity, in this way indicating the extent to
which a radical and difficult conversion of our gaze is required if we are to
overcome ignorance and illusion. Bien puts this well when discussing the
monist outlook of the play:
By making the Magician call life a game and state audaciously that he can
escape fate by changing the eyes with which he views the world, Kazantzakis
is attempting to remind us that our normal, commonsensical conception of
reality is outrageously incorrect, so incorrect that we come closer to truth
with “play” instead of seriousness, “evasion” instead of confrontation. Where
we go wrong in our commonsensical approach is to think that the multiplicity
we see before us is real. We cannot see through this multiplicity to the One
behind it; thus we think that individual beings are truly separate from
one another, and we think as well that life is separate from death. (Bien
1977:257)
But if this correctly represents Kazantzakis’s mature position, then
Western philosophical and theological sources cannot provide the full picture on Kazantzakis’s views on God. An equally important source in this
respect is the East, and in particular the idealist and monist metaphysics
of Buddhism. What this implies is that, by turning East, Kazantzakis managed to finally overcome the dualism and materialism he inherited from
the Western (and especially Christian) tradition. Rather than seeing the
non-physical or spiritual realm, inhabited by God and angelic beings, in opposition to the material world made up of land and sea, trees and plants,
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animals and humans, and rather than positing an infinite ontological divide
between the Creator and the creation, one that only the God-Man (Christ)
could traverse, Kazantzakis’s later work displays the marks of a distinctly
‘non-dual’ conception of reality, indebted in large part to Eastern forms of
thought. There is no sharp divide, in this view, between self and other; indeed, there is a fundamental identity. What results, and what is arguably
present in Kazantzakis’s later fiction, is a relational view of reality: to be is to
be in relation with others, and above all with the Other (Brahman, Buddha,
Christ, etc.). In such a relational ontology, evident in the East but also not
unknown in the West (for example, in German and British idealism, and
more recently in process philosophy), the world is not an assemblage of persistent entities or things, but is a complex web of interconnections or relations,
so that the deepest level of reality consists in a holistic connectivity. Further,
this all-inclusive and harmonious whole, or ‘Absolute,’ is conceived in mindlike terms as a non-physical consciousness, experience, or ‘idea.’
Towards the end of his trip to China in 1935, Kazantzakis was to encounter two astounding expressions of this idealist view, which looks not to
the phenomena of matter and motion, but to that which transcends these phenomena as disclosing the true nature of reality. While staying in a Buddhist
temple in a Chinese village, Kazantzakis noticed in the garden of the temple
a marble pedestal separated from its statue of the Buddha. The pedestal
was holding up literally nothing. This, in turn, reminded him of a strange
concert he attended earlier, where no sounds at all were made:
The bows were raised, the flute players brought their flutes near their lips
without touching them and began to move rapidly, the tips of their fingers
on the holes. The bows played in the air without touching the strings, the
sticks stopped quietly before touching the skin of the drum, the harpist moved
his hand in the air and sometimes stopped and listened ecstatically to the
immaterial sound. Nothing was heard. (Kazantzakis 1982:249)
Kazantzakis recounts that:
When the mute concert ended, I bent to the guest next to me and posed my
question. And he smilingly answered me: “For trained ears the sound is
superfluous. The redeemed souls have no need of the act. The true Buddha
has no body.” (1982:249; emphasis mine)
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C u l t u re
This signaled to Kazantzakis the way in which materiality and temporality
are transcended in Buddhist culture to reach the invisible, inaudible,
and eternal realm of spirit:
Invisible statues, silent music—these are, I thought, the highest flowers of
the muddy root of the body. (1982:250)
For Kazantzakis, as much as for Chinese Buddhists and Indian Advaitins, reality is One and this One does not exist in any way that can be
adequately captured by words and sounds, but is rather ‘nothingness’—a
pure spirit we are called to return to and realize as our ownmost.
Notes
1A similar observation has been made by Pandelis Prevelakis (1961:181n128).
2She was referring to the incongruity of “atheists like ourselves” (i.e., herself and Nikos
Kazantzakis) getting married in an Orthodox church in 1945. But in such contexts the Greek
word for ‘atheist’ may connote more broadly someone who is not religious in any conventional
sense, rather than someone who explicitly rejects the existence of God.
3An even closer companion of Kazantzakis, Pandelis Prevelakis also refers to his friend as an
atheist (1961:186-187n204).
4Glicksberg, at least, acknowledges the paradoxical nature of this aspect of Kazantzakis’s thought:
Numerous contradictions also crop up in Kazantzakis’s work. He employs religious terms—
faith, striving, God, perfection, spirit, transcendence—to embody his symbolic version of the
quest. He finds it enormously difficult to reconcile this religious terminology with his professed
atheism and his nihilistic Weltanschauung. (1975:289)
5The charge, however, was eventually dropped. See Antonakes (1996:25); in this valuable
study, Antonakes recounts the reception of Kazantzakis’s works in Greece, focusing on the
ways in which his religious ideas were received and (mis)understood by church leaders and
literary critics.
6See Antonakes (1996:25-27), who reports (30) that the proposal that Kazantzakis’s books
be banned was rejected in 1955 by the government of Greece. Demetrios Constantelos
(1996:50-51) contests the view that the Synod condemned Kazantzakis’s works, but this does
not seem justified given the evidence provided by Antonakes.
7For example, Constantelos holds that, “In terms of Orthodox dogma he [Kazantzakis] is
heterodox, but in terms of religious teachings—spiritual-mystical religious teachings in
particular—he is Orthodox” (1996:37-38).
8This is not to deny that Kazantzakis could be considered an ‘atheist’ in some sense, especially
since the concept of ‘atheism’ is context-sensitive: its meaning is dependent upon the
religious system or conception of deity it is seeking to oppose. No one is generically atheist.
And there is no doubt that, with respect to some ideas about God, Kazantzakis was an atheist.
9Much of Bien’s post-Christian reading is predicated on his interpretation of Kazantzakis’s
attitudes towards death, and in particular Kazantzakis’s rejection of the afterlife. What
needs to be distinguished, however, is whether Kazantzakis is denying (i) all conceptions
of the afterlife or immortality, or (ii) belief in personal survival after death, or (iii) hope in
postmortem rewards and fear of postmortem punishments. Even if Kazantzakis rejects
(ii) and (iii), it is far from clear that he also rejects (i). Consider, for example, the following
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C u l t ure
passage from Report to Greco: “man is not immortal, but rather serves Something or Someone
that is immortal.” (Kazantzakis 1973:412). The reading I develop in the last section of the
paper will seek to make sense of such passages. It is also important to note that Bergson’s
philosophy is not incompatible with postmortem existence, as has been argued by G. William
Barnard (2011:ch. 28).
10The principle is helpfully elucidated in Dombrowski (1997:66-69).
11Middleton also describes Kazantzakis as an ‘antitheist,’ a term borrowed from literary critic
James F. Lea. Middleton explains: “Antitheism is not a rejection of belief in God’s existence;
rather, it is a radical attempt to wrestle with traditional ways of thinking about the divine.
Resisting metaphysical or theological pretensions, antitheists enjoin us to engage ceaselessly
in the practice of theological construction, deconstruction, and reconstruction” (2007:94).
Middleton goes on to classify both Kazantzakis and process theologians as antitheists
“because they both scrutinize our culture’s very deep theological assumptions and urge us to
take increasing responsibility for our religious searching” (95).
12A little later, Middleton states that “his [Kazantzakis’s] views comport, albeit uneasily, with
those opinions espoused by individuals associated with shaping and reshaping Christianity”
(2007:6). Similarly, in an earlier piece, an Introduction to an edited collection, co-authored
with Peter Bien, Middleton wrote: “The point we are trying to make is that Kazantzakis…
was actually in tune with thinkers who, although challenging Augustinian orthodoxy, are
within the allowable bounds of Christian speculation” (1996:15; emphasis in the original). This
is repeated towards the end of the same Introduction: “Assuredly, Kazantzakis’s witness
lies within the boundaries of a biblical faith still in the making” (22). I find this a somewhat
strange claim, as it is not clear what “the allowable bounds” are and who is drawing them.
13Kimon Friar, for example, seems to have promoted such a reading, as Dombrowski notes
(1997:65). Also, Peter Bien’s emphasis on Kazantzakis’s naturalism and the attendant denial
of any transcendent realm independent of the physical world (e.g., heaven and hell) suggests
that any existing deity would have to be a purely immanent one.
14Middleton discusses the connections between Kazantzakis and process thought in greater
detail in his earlier work, Novel Theology: Nikos Kazantzakis’s Encounter with Whiteheadian
Process Theism (2000).
15Kearney explains that the ‘ana’ in ‘anatheism’ “signals a movement of return to what I call
a primordial wager, to an inaugural instant of reckoning at the root of belief. It marks a
reopening of that space where we are free to choose between faith or nonfaith. As such,
anatheism is about the option of retrieved belief” (2010:7; emphasis in the original).
16The quotation is from Report to Greco (1973:ch. 16, Return to Crete; Knossos).
17The quotation is from Report to Greco (1973:ch. 23, Paris; Nietzsche the Great Martyr).
18A similar view has recently been advanced by Charitini Christodoulou (2012), who conceives
of ‘openness’ in terms of the process of becoming, and specifically the process of the
formation of identity and meaning; focusing on The Last Temptation, she regards the novel
and its main characters as exemplifying this sort of openness.
19See, especially, pages 22-28, where Kazantzakis’s response to nihilism is thought to parallel
various themes in postmodern philosophy.
20Middleton notices this also, stating that: “Whereas postmodernism signals an age of
incredulity toward metaphysics and metanarratives, Kazantzakis ultimately fails the
postmodern test. In the end, he suggests that Something or Someone provokes him toward
writing stories that disclose being, reality, and God” (2007:116-117).
21For example, in Middleton and Bien’s 1996 collection, God’s Struggler: Religion in the Writings
of Nikos Kazantzakis, there is no consideration of the Buddhist influences on Kazantzakis’s
work, and there is no mention at all of Hinduism. Lewis Owens (2001:269-284) draws
interesting parallels between Kazantzakis and the idealism of Plotinus and Berkeley. But
Owens’s emphasis is on apophaticism, rather than on idealism. Also, no connections are
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C u l t u re
made in Owens’s paper between the thought of Kazantzakis and Eastern philosophy.
22Some scholars, however, dispute the idealist interpretation of Yogacara—see, for example,
Dan Lusthaus (1998:66-67 §2).
23The quote is from Report to Greco (1973:105).
24See also the 1910 Introduction to Matter and Memory (first published in 1896), where
Bergson wrote that Matter and Memory “is frankly dualistic” since it “affirms the reality of
spirit and the reality of matter” (1911:vii).
25Translation taken from Bien (1989:46). It is not clear, however, that this is an accurate
reading of Bergson, who is often seen instead as advocating a dualism of matter and spirit,
where these are coexistent and interdependent.
26Kazantzakis proceeds to replace the dichotomy between matter and spirit with that between
‘hunger’ and ‘pathos,’ which he explains in a way that does not seem to comport well with
traditional idealism: “I use the word pathos and not the word spirit because this word has
assumed an ideological, immaterial distilled content that is incomprehensible and hateful
to me. ‘Spirit’ contains a great deal more ‘matter’ than materialists imagine; just as ‘matter’
contains a great deal more ‘spirit’ than idealists imagine” (1975:79).
27In line with this monist vision comes an emphasis on the unity and solidarity of humanity: “We
are all one, we are all an imperiled essence. If at the far end of the world a spirit degenerates,
it drags down our spirit into its own degradation. If one mind at the far end of the world sinks
into idiocy, our own temples overbrim with darkness” (Kazantzakis 1960:115).
28Bien (1989:50) does point to the continuity of Bergson’s thought with that of Hegel, but
Hegel’s influence on Kazantzakis remains unexplored.
29However, as Friar points out, sublation in Kazantzakis is only ever momentary: “The Cretan
Glance for Kazantzakis…was an attempted synthesis of those contraries which he believed
underlie all human and natural endeavor, but a synthesis not so much of permanent as of
momentary harmony, which in turn builds into a greater tension and explodes toward a
higher and more inclusive synthesis in an ever upward and spiraling onrush, leaving behind
it the bloodstained path of man’s and nature’s endeavors” (1958:xx). Perhaps, then, in
saying “even this One does not exist,” Kazantzakis was alluding to (what may be called) an
‘asymptotic monism’: as soon as we reach some higher unity that overcomes a prior antithesis,
this immediately collapses into (or gives rise to) another antithesis, which again needs to be
sublated. On this conception, ultimate unity is never reached; it exists only as an ideal to which
we can approximate but never fully attain. Bien also points to a possible monistic reading
of the ending of The Saviors of God. He speculates, for instance, that the ending, when seen
from a Buddhist frame, only means to deny separateness and to affirm the essential unity of
everything. To illustrate, Bien quotes from the Zen master, Nyogen Senzaki:
So you see, the worlds of desire, of the material and of the nonmaterial are one. This sameness
is absolute and infinite.
To avoid the possibility of misunderstanding, however, we speak of this sameness negatively,
calling it “Nothingness” or “Nirvana.” (Quoted in Bien 1989:135; emphasis added by Bien)
30Apart from general remarks regarding idealism and monism, I will not have anything more
specific to say about the connections between Kazantzakis’s work and Hindu philosophy,
though this is an area that deserves greater attention from scholars. Consider, for instance,
Middleton’s comment: “Studying at the Kazantzakis library, based at the Historical Museum
of Iraklion, Crete, I discovered that Kazantzakis read and admired many books on Indian
philosophy” (2007:118n9).
31Later, in the same work (1973:364), Kazantzakis places Buddha at the summit of the ascent.
32Another worthwhile study is Charalampos-Demetres Gounelas’s “The Concept of
Resemblance in Kazantzakis’s Tragedies Christ and Buddha” (1998:313-330), which analyzes
the role of ‘resemblance’ in these works, with the aim of showing that they are imbued with
an idealist and monist strain of thought.
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C u l t ure
33However, the technique of creating a play within a play so as to highlight the minddependence of reality and value is not entirely original to the Buddha play. As Gounelas has
observed (1998), a similar strategy is evident in Kazantzakis’s other works, including Serpent
and Lily (1906, his first literary work), Comedy: A Tragedy in One Act (published around 1909),
the play Christ (published in 1928), and the novel Toda Raba (1929), in all of which the
narrative and dialogue are enacted entirely within (an individual or indeterminate) mind or
consciousness.
34This recurs in the following two Acts, as soon as the Magician puts on the yellow mask (see
Kazantzakis 1983:104, 143).
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Eleni Leontsini
Un i v e r s i t y of I o a n n i n a
Επιθυμία, Έρωτας, Συναισθήματα: Μια
Φιλοσοφική Ανάγνωση του Κίτρινου Φακέλου
του Μ. Καραγάτση
Desire, Love, Emotions: A Philosophical
Reading of M. Karagatsis’ Kitrinos Fakelos
Στη μνήμη του Βαγγέλη Αθανασόπουλου
In the Memory of Vangelis Athanasopoulos
Abstract
My aim in this paper is to attempt a philosophical reading of M. Karagatsis’ novel Kitrinos Fakelos (1956), focusing my analysis on the passions
and the emotions of its fictional characters, aiming at demonstrating their
independence as well as the presentation of their psychography in Karagatsis’ novel where the description of the emotions caused by love is a dominant
feature. In particular, I will examine the expression of desire, love (erôs) and
sympathy in this novel – passions and emotions that play an important role
to moral life and human existence in general. I will be approaching these issues from the point of view of moral philosophy, analyzing the passions and
the emotions expressed by the fictional characters in Kitrinos Fakelos, and
in particular of the fictional character of Manos Tasakos. At the same time,
I will attempt to show the philosophical influences that M. Karagatsis has
received in his literary work, and especially in his novel Kitrinos Fakelos, by
the philosophical thought of Friedrich Nietzsche. In addition, I will try to
demonstrate the contrast between the Nietzschean moral model and that
of both ancient and contemporary virtue ethical theory, in relation to the
traditional interpretation of the work of Nietzsche’s that Karagatsis adopts,
along with many of his contemporaries in Greece from the beginning of the
20th century until the 70’s at least.
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C u l t ure
1. Εισαγωγή
Στη μελέτη αυτή επιχειρώ μία φιλοσοφική ανάγνωση του μυθιστορήματος του Μ. Καραγάτση Κίτρινος φάκελος (1956) επικεντρώνοντας την προσοχή μου σε μια ανάλυση των παθών και των
συναισθημάτων των μυθοπλαστικών προσώπων επιδιώκοντας να
καταδείξω την αυτοδυναμία τους καθώς και την ψυχογραφική παρουσίασή τους από τον Μ. Καραγάτση στο έργο του οποίου η περιγραφή των συναισθημάτων που γεννά ο έρωτας αποτελεί κυρίαρχο
στοιχείο. Θα εξετάσω ειδικότερα την έκφραση της επιθυμίας, του
έρωτα και της συμπάθειας στο έργο αυτό, πάθη και συναισθήματα
που έχουν ιδιαίτερη σημασία για τον ηθικό βίο και διαδραματίζουν
σημαντικό ρόλο στην ανθρώπινη ζωή γενικότερα. Θα προσεγγίσω τα
θέματα αυτά από την πλευρά της ηθικής φιλοσοφίας, αναλύοντας τα
πάθη και τα συναισθήματα που εκφράζονται από τους χαρακτήρες
του Μ. Καραγάτση. Συγχρόνως, θα επιχειρήσω να καταδείξω τις φιλοσοφικές επιδράσεις που ο Μ. Καραγάτσης έχει δεχθεί στο λογοτεχνικό έργο του, και κυρίως στον Κίτρινο φάκελο, από τον φιλοσοφικό
στοχασμό του Friedrich Nietzsche. Επιπλέον, θα προσπαθήσω να
καταδείξω την αντίθεση του νιτσεϊκού ηθικού μοντέλου με αυτό της
αρχαίας και της σύγχρονης αρετολογικής ηθικής θεωρίας, σε σχέση
με την παραδοσιακή ερμηνεία του έργου του Friedrich Nietzsche
που υιοθετεί ο Μ. Καραγάτσης, όπως άλλωστε και πολλοί άλλοι σύγχρονοί του νεοέλληνες από τις αρχές του 20ού αιώνα μέχρι και τη
δεκαετία του ’70 τουλάχιστον.
2. Μυθοπλασία και ηθική
Ήδη από την εποχή του Πλάτωνα, οι φιλόσοφοι και οι ποιητές
αντιμετώπιζαν ο ένας τον άλλο με καχυποψία και ορισμένες φορές
ακόμη και με ζήλεια1. Όμως, ακόμη και ο ίδιος ο Πλάτων υπήρξε
ποιητής και οφείλουμε να αναγνωρίσουμε ότι πολύ συχνά οι ποιητές ασχολήθηκαν και εξέτασαν φιλοσοφικά προβλήματα2. Η λογοτεχνία είναι εξίσου σημαντική, όπως η φιλοσοφία, για τον ηθικό και
πολιτικό στοχασμό αλλά και για την αισθητική, πολιτική και ηθική
εμπειρία και πράξη. Ενώ ο Πλάτων υποστήριζε ότι τα περισσότερα
είδη της καλλιτεχνικής μίμησης, και κυρίως η τραγωδία, τρέφουν τα
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C u l t u re
πάθη και παραπλανούν τον αναζητητή της αλήθειας, ο Αριστοτέλης
αντίθετα θεωρούσε ότι οι τέχνες γενικά έχουν αξία, γιατί επιδιορθώνουν τις ατέλειες της φύσης καθώς, επίσης, και ότι η μυθοπλασία
του τραγικού δράματος νομιμοποιείται λόγω της ηθικής λειτουργίας
της. Στην σύγχρονη εποχή, αρκετοί φιλόσοφοι έχουν επιχειρήσει να
αναγνωρίσουν το γεγονός ότι η λογοτεχνία είναι δυνατόν να προσφέρει πολύ περισσότερα στη φιλοσοφία και να μην αποτελεί απλώς μια
πηγή καλών παραδειγμάτων για τον ηθικό ή τον αισθητικό στοχασμό3. Η λογοτεχνία αποτελεί μία από τις πιο σημαντικές ανθρώπινες
δραστηριότητες κατά την οποία η ικανότητα του ανθρώπου να επινοεί και να αφηγείται συλλειτουργεί με την άλλη ικανότητά του για
στοχασμό και αναζήτηση4. Δεδομένου ότι οι λογοτεχνικοί συγγραφείς επηρεάζονται από φιλοσόφους και φιλοσοφικά ρεύματα, είναι
εξίσου σημαντικό να εξεταστεί σε ποιο βαθμό οι αξίες και οι ηθικές
έννοιες, που σχετίζονται με την κατανόηση των ανθρώπινων όντων,
επηρεάζουν επίσης το κοινό στην κατανόηση των μυθοπλαστικών χαρακτήρων καθώς και στην αντίδρασή του σε αυτούς. Είναι, άλλωστε,
γνωστή η ρήση του Montaigne σύμφωνα με την οποία «ένας επαρκής
αναγνώστης θα βρει πάντα στα συγγράμματα των άλλων πράγματα
που ο συγγραφέας δεν θέλησε διόλου να βάλει»5.
Βέβαια, οι χαρακτήρες των μυθιστορημάτων δεν είναι πραγματικά πρόσωπα, δεν είναι αληθινοί άνθρωποι, αποτελούν πλάσματα της φαντασίας του συγγραφέα που δεν ανήκουν στον πραγματικό
κόσμο. Όπως έχει επισημανθεί, οι μυθοπλαστικοί χαρακτήρες «δεν
εμπλέκονται στις διαπροσωπικές σχέσεις μας και οι πράξεις και οι
αποφάσεις τους ούτε βοηθούν ούτε επηρεάζουν τους στόχους μας και
τις δραστηριότητές μας, κατά τον ίδιο τρόπο βέβαια που και οι δικές
μας δεν επηρεάζουν τις πράξεις των χαρακτήρων της μυθοπλασίας»6.
Στην πραγματικότητα, οι χαρακτήρες της μυθοπλασίας αποτελούν
απλές κατασκευές, κατασκευάσματα που εξυπηρετούν τους σκοπούς
του συγγραφέα, πλάσματα της φαντασίας του συγγραφέα που σε
καμία περίπτωση δεν μπορούν να θεωρηθούν ως ηθικά πρόσωπα,
αφού δεν διαθέτουν τα απαραίτητα κριτήρια προσωπικής ταυτότητας7: «Αφού σαν μαριονέτες, δεν πράττουν τίποτε άλλο από αυτό
που ο ρόλος τους τούς καθορίζει, δεν είναι λάθος να τους ψέγουμε ή
να τους κατηγορούμε για αυτά που κάνουν; Και δεν είναι ακόμη πιο
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λάθος να αισθανόμαστε θλίψη για εκείνους, να χαιρόμαστε για τις
επιτυχίες τους ή να ικανοποιούμαστε από τη λύση των προβλημάτων
τους;»9.
Παρόλο, όμως, που οι χαρακτήρες της μυθοπλασίας δεν
αποτελούν υπαρκτά πρόσωπα, γεγονός παραμένει ότι γοητευόμαστε
από αυτούς, χαιρόμαστε και λυπόμαστε μαζί τους και γενικότερα
τους αποδίδουμε συναισθήματα σαν να ήταν αληθινοί. Επιπλέον,
όχι μόνο συνηθίζουμε να αναφερόμαστε στους χαρακτήρες της
μυθοπλασίας σαν να υπήρχαν στο κόσμο της πραγματικότητας,
αλλά επίσης, σε ορισμένες περιπτώσεις, νιώθουμε συναισθήματα για
αυτούς ή τουλάχιστον εκφραζόμαστε γι’ αυτούς ωσάν να νοιώθαμε
συναισθήματα, όταν λέμε π.χ. ότι είμαστε ερωτευμένοι ή θυμωμένοι
μαζί τους ή ότι ανησυχούμε για την τύχη τους και στενοχωριόμαστε
με τον θάνατό τους. Πώς όμως είναι δυνατόν να είναι κανείς
ερωτευμένος ή θυμωμένος με ένα πρόσωπο που αποτελεί απλώς ένα
αποκύημα της φαντασίας κάποιου συγγραφέα;
Η διαμάχη γύρω από την υπόσταση των χαρακτήρων της μυθοπλασίας είναι σύνθετη και πολλοί φιλόσοφοι και φιλοσοφούντες
έχουν ασχοληθεί με το θέμα αυτό10. Οπωσδήποτε, γεγονός παραμένει
ότι, όταν διαβάζουμε για κάποιο μυθοπλαστικό πρόσωπο ή το βλέπουμε στο θέατρο ή στον κινηματογράφο, θεωρούμε ότι αυτό έχει
κάποιου είδους ζωή, αφού συγκινούμαστε από αυτό, το λατρεύουμε
ή το μισούμε, το θαυμάζουμε ή το απεχθανόμαστε και, γενικότερα,
νιώθουμε συναισθήματα γι’ αυτό11. Αυτό συμβαίνει με τις περισσότερες, αν όχι όλες, τις μορφές των παραστατικών τεχνών, αφού ακόμη
και όταν βλέπουμε ένα πίνακα ζωγραφικής αναρωτιόμαστε για τη
ζωή, τις σκέψεις και τα συναισθήματα του προσώπου ή των προσώπων που απεικονίζονται. Επιπλέον, κάτι που έχει ιδιαίτερη σημασία
είναι ότι όντως αποδίδουμε συναισθήματα στα πρόσωπα αυτά, αξιολογούμε τις πράξεις τους και πολλές φορές βλέπουμε μια εικόνα
του εαυτού μας μέσα από αυτά ή ακόμη και επηρεαζόμαστε στην
προσωπική μας ζωή από τους χαρακτήρες αυτούς της μυθοπλασίας12.
Ο Αριστοτέλης, όταν αναφερόταν στον τραγικό ήρωα στην Ποιητική του, αλλά και σε άλλα έργα του όπου χρησιμοποιεί συχνά παραδείγματα από την τραγική ποίηση, αναφέρεται στα πρόσωπα αυτά
ωσάν να είναι πραγματικά, υπό την έννοια ότι είναι δυνατόν, παρό422
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λο που είναι μυθικά, να μας βοηθήσουν στην κατανόηση του ηθικού
βίου13. Γι’ αυτό, άλλωστε, ο Αριστοτέλης υποστηρίζει ότι η ποίηση
είναι σημαντικότερη από την ιστορία, γιατί η ποίηση, λόγω των φανταστικών, μη ιστορικών προσώπων που μας παρουσιάζει, είναι σε
θέση να μας μιλήσει με καθολικό τρόπο για τη ζωή χωρίς να μας
περιορίζει με πρόσωπα που είναι προσδιορισμένα από ιστορικούς
παράγοντες και είναι, επομένως, πεπερασμένα και ανεπανάληπτα:
«Φιλοσοφώτερον καὶ σπουδαιότερον ποίησις ἱστορίας ἐστίν· ἡ μὲν
γὰρ ποίησις μᾶλλον τὰ καθόλου, ἡ δ’ ἱστορία τὰ καθ’ ἕκαστον λέγειν». (Περί ποιητικής, 9, 1451b5-7). Η ποίηση, δηλ. η τέχνη γενικώς,
ασχολείται με τα καθόλου ενώ η ιστορία με τα καθ’ έκαστον. Μας
προσφέρει, επομένως, γι’ αυτόν τον λόγο, παραδείγματα καθολικά
στα οποία όλοι μπορούμε να αναφερόμαστε και να τα χρησιμοποιούμε για την ηθική ζωή15.
3. Η κριτική του ερωτικού πάθους
Όπως αναφέρει ο Françis Bacon στο δοκίμιό του για τον έρωτα,
«Η σκηνή του θεάτρου οφείλει περισσότερα στον έρωτα από ό,τι η
ζωή του ανθρώπου. Διότι στη σκηνή, ο έρωτας είναι πάντοτε θέμα
κωμωδιών και μερικές φορές τραγωδιών· αλλά στη ζωή προκαλεί
πολύ κακό, άλλοτε σα σειρήνα, και άλλοτε σα μαινάδα»16. Πράγματι,
στο σύντομο αυτό δοκίμιο που γράφει για τον έρωτα, ο Bacon κατορθώνει επιγραμματικά σχεδόν να σκιαγραφήσει τις δυσκολίες που
το πάθος του έρωτα προκαλεί στους ανθρώπους, σημειώνοντας ότι
ο έρωτας «μια φορά να αναμιχθεί στις δουλειές τους, αναστατώνει
τη ζωή των ανθρώπων, και τους κάνει να μην μπορούν να σταθούν
πιστοί στους σκοπούς τους»:
Διότι ποτέ δεν υπήρξε υπερήφανος άνδρας, ο οποίος να έχει
τόσο παράλογα μεγάλη ιδέα για τον εαυτό του, όπως έχει ο
ερωτευμένος για το αγαπημένο πρόσωπο· και γι’ αυτό καλώς
ειπώθηκε ότι, Είναι αδύνατον να είναι κανείς ταυτόχρονα
ερωτευμένος και συνετός.17 Ούτε συμβαίνει αυτή η αδυναμία
να γίνεται φανερή μόνο στους άλλους, και όχι στο αγαπώμενο
πρόσωπο· αντίθετα, σε αυτό ακόμη περισσότερο, εκτός κι αν
ο έρωτας είναι αμοιβαίος. Διότι ισχύει ο κανόνας, ότι ο έρωτας
πάντα ανταμείβεται είτε με ανταπόδοση είτε με μια ενδόμυχη και
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μυστική περιφρόνηση. Ακόμη περισσότερο, λοιπόν, θα έπρεπε οι
άνθρωποι να είναι προσεκτικοί με το πάθος, που δεν είναι μόνο
η αιτία να χάσουν άλλα πράγματα, αλλά και το ίδιο που ποθούν.
Όσο για τις άλλες απώλειες, η αφήγηση του ποιητή τις παριστά
καλά: εκείνος που προτίμησε την Ελένη, εγκατέλειψε τα δώρα της
Ήρας και της Παλλάδος. Διότι, όποιος δίνει υπερβολική αξία στο
ερωτικό συναίσθημα εγκαταλείπει και τα πλούτη και τη σοφία»18.
Ανάλογη κριτική του έρωτα βρίσκουμε και στον Κίτρινο φάκελο
του Μ. Καραγάτση, την πρώτη φορά που ο ήρωας, ο Μάνος Τασάκος,
μας φανερώνει εκτενώς τις σκέψεις του πάνω στο θέμα αυτό,
σκεφτόμενος τις συναντήσεις της Τετάρτης στο σπίτι του νομπελίστα
λογοτέχνη Κωστή Ρούσση, με αφορμή την ερωτική επιθυμία του για
την Μαρία Πετροπούλου:
Μόνο η Μαρία Πετροπούλου, πάντα σεμνή και λιγόλογη, δεν
του είναι δυσάρεστη. Η θηλυκιά νοστιμιά της του ικανοποιεί το μάτι.
— Αν δεν φοβόμουν τις περιπλοκές, συλλογιέται, θα της έβαζα
χέρι. Με ερεθίζει, το παλιοκόριτσο!
Είναι εντελώς σίγουρος πως αν έβαζε τα δυνατά του, του
την έπαιρνε του Νίκου. Το κυριότερο ατού του, ήταν η προοπτική
ενός πολύ καλού κοινωνικά και οικονομικά γάμου. Διάβολε, σ’ αυτό
το σημείο ο Νίκος Ρούσης δεν μπορούσε να του αντιπαραβληθή!
Αλλά κι από κάθε πλευρά ήταν πολύ πιο ενδιαφέρων απ’ τον
ανεκδιήγητο ανεψιό του θείου. Μόνο που η Μαρία, καλά δασκαλεμένη
από την φτώχεια και τον πατέρα της, δεν φαινόταν επιρρεπής σε
αισθηματολογίες άσχετες από πρακτικές προοπτικές.
— Αν της πρότεινα γάμο, αμέσως παρατούσε το σαχλαμαράκια
της. Αλλά για να απολαύσω μια γυναίκα που επιθυμώ και δεν αγαπώ,
το τίμημα είναι δυσανάλογο. Εξ άλλου δεν πρόκειται να παντρευτώ
ποτέ. Ποιος ο λόγος να δεθώ νομικώς με μια οποιαδήποτε γυναίκα,
έστω κι αν την αγαπώ; Σε τι μπορεί να αξιοποιήσει τον έρωτά μου
ένας συνεχής συστεγαστικός συγχρωτισμός;
Συλλογιέται πως είναι 31 χρόνων, κι ακόμα δεν αγάπησε.
Είχε βέβαια μερικούς συνδέσμους, και με γυναίκες ενδιαφέρουσες.
Τις χάρηκε, τις λογάριασε, ένιωσε γι’ αυτές φιλία, τρυφερότητα,
συναισθηματική έλξη· αλλά το πάθος εκείνο που κυριεύει όλα τα
κύτταρα του ανθρώπου, που του ανατρέπει το ψυχολογικό καθεστώς,
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του εκτροχιάζει το βιοτικό ρυθμό, του μεταλλάζει τη νοοτροπία και
τον διαποτίζει με μιαν αντιφατική κι αγχώδη νοσηρότητα, δεν το’
νιωσε ποτέ.
— Κι ούτε θα το νιώσω ποτέ, συλλογιέται. Όποιος δεν
ερωτεύθηκε ως τα 30 του, δύσκολο πια να ερωτευθή. Ποια όμως η
αιτία; Ο εγωκεντρισμός μου, κι όχι ο εγωισμός μου. Ο έρωτας πηγάζει
από τον εγωισμό να κυριαρχήσουμε, με κάθε θυσία, στον εγωισμό
ενός ετεροφύλου. Όταν όμως είμαστε εγωκεντρικοί, αποκλείουμε
διαρρήδην το νόημα της θυσίας· για τίποτ’ απολύτως δεν βάζουμε
σε κίνδυνο την ολύμπια γαλήνη μας, και καγχάζουμε με την ιδέα να
επιβάλλουμε την ψυχική ή σαρκική κυριαρχία μας σ’ οποιονδήποτε.
Ναρκισσευόμαστε να μας αγαπούν. Ν’ αγαπήσουμε; Τι μείωση της
ατομικής μας και υπερβατικής ανωτερότητας; Ως εκεί θα ξεπέσουμε,
να μοιραζόμαστε τον ανυπέρβλητο εαυτό μας με την οποιαδήποτε
γυναικούλα;
Κάγχασε με κέφι σαρκαστικό. Το ζήτημα δεν τον ενδιέφερε,
ήταν πολύ ευχαριστημένος από την παρούσα του κατάσταση. Δεν
αισθανόταν την ανάγκη ψυχικής προσφοράς, αισθηματικού αντικρύσματος και τα παρόμοια. Η καλή συντροφιά και το καλό κρεβάτι
μιας οποιασδήποτε όμορφης και έξυπνης γυναίκας τον ικανοποιούσαν απόλυτα. Αυτό τον καιρό είχε δυο φιλενάδες χαριτωμένες. Τι
άλλο γύρευε;19
4. Ο Κίτρινος φάκελος και η ιστορία ενός μυθοπλαστικού
μυθιστοριογράφου
Ο Κίτρινος φάκελος κυκλοφορεί το 1956 και αποτελεί ένα από
τα πιο σύνθετα και ιδιόμορφα21 μυθιστορήματά του Μ. Καραγάτση,
«μια μυθοπλασία που στηρίζεται στις εσωτερικές σχέσεις της και όχι
σε εξωτερικούς αφηγηματικούς πυρήνες ή αναφορές»23. Είναι, όπως
έχει επισημανθεί, ένα «παιχνίδι θεατρικής πράξης»25, ένα αστυνομικού χαρακτήρα «μεταμυθιστόρημα»26 που «με σημερινούς όρους
θα λέγαμε ότι έχει συντεθεί βάσει τηλεοπτικής λογικής»28, με σημαντικό ψυχαναλυτικό υπόβαθρο29, το οποίο «χαρακτηρίζεται από την
αρχιτεκτονική οργάνωσή του, μια οργάνωση που το προβάλλει ως
αστυνομικό μυθιστόρημα, ενώ στην πραγματικότητα είναι ένα ακόμη αστικό μυθιστόρημα του Καραγάτση»30. Ενδεικτική είναι επίσης η
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αδυναμία κατανόησης του Κίτρινου φακέλου από τον Αντρέα Καραντώνη: «Υπάρχει μια πρωτοτυπία, που εκπλήσσει, και μια περιφρόνηση της καθαρής λογοτεχνίας, που τρομάζει και μας κάνει συχνά ν’
αναρωτιόμαστε αν πρόκειται για έργο τέχνης ή για κάτι άλλο»31. Ο
ίδιος ο Καραγάτσης αναγνωρίζει αυτήν την ιδιομορφία της γραφής
του Κίτρινου φακέλου, γράφοντας χαρακτηριστικά για το έργο του
αυτό:
Οποιοδήποτε μυθιστόρημά μου μπορώ να σας το διηγηθώ αρκετά
λεπτομερώς, μέσα σε μισή ώρα. Αλλά τον «Κίτρινο Φάκελο»
μού είναι αδύνατον να τον διηγηθώ. Όχι επειδή δεν υπάρχει
πλοκή. Απεναντίας τα πολυποίκιλα γεγονότα περιπλέκονται με
συνέπεια τόσο αρρήκτως αδέκαστη, ώστε οποιαδήποτε από τις
αμέτρητες λεπτομέρειες κι αν λησμονήσω, η διήγησή μου γίνεται
ακατανόητη. «O Κίτρινος Φάκελος» είναι μυθιστόρημα πού πρέπει
να το διαβάζουν, κι όχι παραμύθι, που μπορούν να το διηγούνται34.
Η υπόθεση του Κίτρινου φακέλου, όσο είναι εφικτό, παρόλες
τις αντιρρήσεις του Καραγάτση, να περιγραφεί εν συντομία, έχει ως
εξής: Ο Μάνος Τασάκος, λογοτέχνης και δικηγόρος, βρίσκεται νεκρός έχοντας υπογράψει ένα μονολεκτικό σημείωμα «αυτοκτονώ».
Δέκα χρόνια αργότερα, η ερωμένη του Μαρία Πετροπούλου-Ρούσση
παραδίδει έναν κίτρινο φάκελο στο συγγραφέα Μιχάλη Καραγάτση.
Ο φάκελος περιέχει τα χειρόγραφα του ημιτελούς αυτοβιογραφικού βιβλίου του Τασάκου «Θέσεις κι αντιθέσεις» και ο Καραγάτσης
καλείται σύμφωνα με την επιθυμία του νεκρού να ολοκληρώσει το
έργο. Διαβάζοντας τα χειρόγραφα και ακούγοντας με προσοχή την
αφήγηση της Μαρίας, ο Καραγάτσης, συνθέτει σιγά-σιγά τη ζωή του
Μάνου Τασάκου, και την ιστορία ενός ερωτικού τριγώνου που σχηματίστηκε ανάμεσα σ’ αυτόν, τον καλύτερο του φίλο και διάσημο
νομπελίστα συγγραφέα Κωστή Ρούσση και τη γυναίκα του Μαρία
Πετροπούλου. Αποκορύφωμα της ιστορίας τους ήταν ο τραυματισμός του Τασάκου από τη Μαρία για λόγους ερωτικής αντιζηλίας, το
βράδυ του θανάτου του. Αν και ο τραυματισμός δεν ήταν θανάσιμος,
ο Τασάκος, επειδή είχε προσβληθεί από ανίατη αρρώστια, έδιωξε
την Μαρία από το σπίτι, υπέγραψε το σημείωμα της αυτοκτονίας και
αφέθηκε να πεθάνει από αιμορραγία.
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Όπως παρατηρεί ο Βαγγέλης Αθανασόπουλος, στον Κίτρινο φάκελο έχουμε έναν «λογικό έλεγχο της μυθοπλασίας που αναδεικνύεται σε πλοκή», ένα «ελεύθερο λογικό παιχνίδι με τη μυθοπλασία», το
οποίο όμως «όσο πετυχημένο και να ήταν στον Κίτρινο φάκελο, δεν
μπόρεσε να το κρατήσει»35. Πράγματι, ο Κίτρινος φάκελος αποτελεί
ένα ιδιόμορφο έργο του Καραγάτση, ένα έργο που μοιάζει να προσπαθεί να συνδυάσει πολλά πράγματα μαζί, να είναι ένα αστυνομικό,
ένα ερωτικό, ένα αστικό, ένα πολιτικό αφήγημα36, ακόμη ίσως και
αυτοβιογραφικό37, ένα ιδιόμορφο ρεαλιστικό whodunit�, ένα campus
novel στον κύκλο των λογοτεχνών, ένα ψυχογράφημα της ανθρώπινης φύσης� που συγχρόνως ασκεί πολιτική και λογοτεχνική κριτική.
Οι ήρωες είναι σχεδόν αληθινοί, θα μπορούσαν να είναι κάποιοι από
εμάς και οπωσδήποτε είναι πολλοί από αυτούς με τους οποίους καθημερινώς συναναστρεφόμαστε στους λογοτεχνικούς ή τους φιλοσοφικούς κύκλους που συχνάζουμε, άνθρωποι που έχουμε αγαπήσει πολύ
και μισήσει εξίσου. Άνθρωποι που προκαλούν τα πάθη, εξάπτουν τον
έρωτα και σκορπούν τη δυστυχία στους γύρω τους και, προπάντων,
σε αυτούς που τους αγαπούν.
Πράγματι, όπως επισημαίνει ο Roderick Beaton, ο τρόπος της
αφήγησης του Καραγάτση, είναι σχεδόν υστερικός» και οι χαρακτήρες του «οδηγούνται από μια δύναμη που ελάχιστα καταλαβαίνουν
και δεν είναι σε θέση να ελέγξουν, προς μια τελείωση που το περιβάλλον γύρω τους τούς αρνείται»�: «ο Καραγάτσης κατά τη δεκαετία
του ’30 δημοσίευσε μυθιστορήματα και διηγήματα στα οποία χαρακτήρες με εξαιρετικές ιδιότητες καταδιώκονταν και τελικώς καταστρέφονταν από τις βιολογικές ανάγκες που τους καθοδηγούσαν»�.
Κατά τον Beaton,
Ο Κίτρινος φάκελος είναι η ιστορία ενός μυθοπλαστικού
μυθιστοριογράφου του 1930 που σχεδιάζει ένα μυθιστόρημα
που θα αποδείξει ακριβώς αυτή τη θεωρία του βιολογικού και
υλιστικού ντετερμινισμού. Όπως ο ίδιος ο Καραγάτσης κατά
την περίοδο εκείνη, ο φαντασιακός Μάνος Τασάκος απηχεί την
άποψη του Emile Zola ότι ο συγγραφέας αποτελεί ένα είδος
επιστήμονα, που χωρίς πάθος πειραματίζεται με το υλικό του.
Όμως στο μυθιστόρημα, ο Τασάκος μεταφέρει το πείραμά του
στην πραγματική ζωή, καθώς χωρίς διορατικότητα κινεί τους
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πραγματικούς ανθρώπους που βρίσκονται γύρω του μέσα σε
ένα κυνικό σενάριο που θα αποδείξει τη θεωρία του και θα
γίνει η «υπόθεση» του μυθιστορήματός του. Παρόλα αυτά, το
τελευταίο θύμα αυτού του σεναρίου είναι ο ίδιος ο Τασάκος,
όταν η κοπέλα που υπήρξε το κυρίως θύμα του διαβάζει τα
περιεχόμενα του κίτρινου φακέλου και τον πυροβολεί θανάσιμα.
Το μυθιστόρημα για το οποίο αδίστακτα θυσίασε τη δική
του ευτυχία και των άλλων βραχυκυκλώνεται, και το ψεγάδι
ολόκληρης της θεωρητικής πρότασης του Τασάκου αποκαλύπτεται
με την επιθανάτια πράξη του να γράψει ένα ψεύτικο σημείωμα
αυτοκτονίας, έτσι ώστε να σώσει το κορίτσι που τελικά αγαπά:
«ως το αναπότρεπτο, το δίκαιο θάνατο που μου’ δωσε το χέρι
σου». Ο Καραγάτσης σ’ αυτό το μυθιστόρημα αντικατροπτίζει τη
δική του προηγούμενη δουλειά, την οποία, όπως τη «σατανικά»
καθοδηγούμενη δεκαετία κατά την οποία την παρήγαγε, τώρα
τη βλέπει ως ένα κύκλο που έχει κλείσει. Από τη δική του
συγκεκριμένη οπτική γωνία, ο Καραγάτσης κοιτά πίσω προς
τον κόσμο του Μάνου Τασάκου και εκφωνεί τον επιτάφιό του.
Ο κύκλος, όμως, δεν έχει απολύτως παρέλθει. Παρόλο που ο
Τασάκος είναι νεκρός και το μυθιστόρημα δεν είναι δυνατόν να
ολοκληρωθεί, είναι τώρα δυνατόν μετά το πέρασμα δέκα ετών ο
Καραγάτσης να φτιάξει ένα διαφορετικό μυθιστόρημα μέσα από
την αποτυχία του Τασάκου, σε ένα νέο γενναίο κόσμο όπου ο
βιομηχανικός καπιταλισμός υπόσχεται ευτυχία για το μέλλον�.
Ο Beaton τονίζει ότι το περιβάλλον αυτό, αυτός ο περίγυρος,
είναι πάνω απ’ όλα η Ελλάδα και η ελληνική κοινωνία του 1930: τα
μυθιστορήματα και τα διηγήματα του Καραγάτση, παρόλο που συχνά έχουν ως πρωταγωνιστές αλλοδαπούς, αναφέρονται πρωτίστως
στην Ελλάδα. Ο Beaton κάνει επίσης ένα ενδιαφέροντα παραλληλισμό ανάμεσα στους ήρωες της Αργώς του Γιώργου Θεοτοκά και
τους ήρωες του Καραγάτση, επισημαίνοντας ότι αυτοί αναζητούν να
εισέλθουν σε μία κατάσταση «ηρεμίας», εκφράζοντας έτσι την επιθυμία που κατέχει τον Έλληνα διανοούμενο της γενιάς του Τριάντα�.
Το χωρίο από τον Θεοτοκά που παραθέτει ο Beaton είναι εξαιρετικό:
«Αλίμονο! το ιδανικό έργο δε θα το φτάσουμε ποτέ. Μήτε θα βρούμε
την ιδανική γυναίκα. Μήτε θα πραγματοποιήσουμε την ποίηση στη
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ζωή μας. Μήτε τις ιδέες. Μήτε ο διπλανός μας θα καταλάβει ποτέ τι
ζητούμε. Αυτά όλα είτανε παιδιαρίσματα, εφηβικοί ρεμβασμοί. Δεν
υπάρχει πουθενά το Χρυσόμαλλο Δέρας. Μα υπάρχει το ταξίδι της
Αργώς» (Γ. Θεοτοκάς, Αργώ, Εστία, Αθήνα 1933). Ανάλογο γαλήνεμα
μέσω της μεταφοράς του ταξιδιού και της θάλασσας υπονοείται και
στο διήγημα του Μ. Καραγάτση «Μοναχικό ταξίδι στα Κύθηρα» που
περιλαμβάνεται στη συλλογή διηγημάτων του με τίτλο Το Μεγάλο
Συναξάρι, όπου γίνεται αναφορά στο ποίημα «Απολείπειν ο Θεός
Αντώνιον» του Κωνσταντίνου Καβάφη�. Κατά παρόμοιο τρόπο, χρειάζεται να παρατηρηθεί, στο πλαίσιο της δικής μας φιλοσοφικής ανάγνωσης του Κίτρινου φακέλου, ότι η θεραπεία των παθών σύμφωνα
με την στωική ηθική φιλοσοφία επιφέρει το γαλήνεμα της ψυχής, την
απάθεια που αποτελεί τελικό στόχο για τον στωικό σοφό�.
Έχει όμως ο κόσμος του Μάνου Τασάκου πράγματι «πεθάνει»,
όπως υποστηρίζει ο Roderick Beaton; Ο ίδιος ο Μάνος Τασάκος
μήπως υπάρχει ακόμη ανάμεσά μας; Τι είναι δυνατόν να μας πει
ο μυθοπλαστικός αυτός χαρακτήρας για την ανθρώπινη φύση και
τα ανθρώπινα πάθη και συναισθήματα; Από τη στιγμή που το έργο
του Καραγάτση έχει χαρακτηριστεί στο μεγαλύτερο σύνολό του ως
πρωτίστως «ηθογραφικό»39, παρουσιάζοντας τα ελληνικά ήθη της
Ελλάδας κατά την περίοδο 1919-1930, σε τι συνίσταται η περιγραφή
αυτών των ηθών και, κυρίως, ποιοι «ηθικοί» χαρακτήρες περιγράφονται; Ειδικότερα, στην περίπτωση των χαρακτήρων του Κίτρινου
φακέλου, που αποτελεί και το αντικείμενο της φιλοσοφικής ανάλυσης της παρούσας μελέτης, ποια ηθικά πρότυπα αυτοί προβάλλουν
και σε τι συνίσταται η μυθοπλαστική αφηγηματική ενότητα της ζωής
τους40; Αν και έχει υποστηριχθεί ότι στο έργο του Καραγάτση αντικατροπτίζεται η κοινωνία των δεκαετιών του 1930-50, ο καθρέπτης,
κατά τη γνώμη μου, δείχνει και το είδωλο της δικής μας εποχής:
ο Καραγάτσης είναι ακόμη επίκαιρος, γιατί είναι κατά μία έννοια
σύγχρονός μας.
Ο Μάνος Τασάκος, ο κεντρικός ήρωας του μυθιστορήματος, δεν
είναι σε καμία περίπτωση ένας αξιοθαύμαστος χαρακτήρας, δεν αποτελεί πρότυπο «ηθικού αγίου»41, το αντίθετο μάλιστα, είναι «σατανικός», είναι ο ίδιος ο Εωσφόρος. Είναι χαρακτηριστικό άλλωστε ότι
το κεφάλαιο όπου η Μαρία πυροβόλησε τον Τασάκο ονομάζεται «Το
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τέλος του Σατανά», όπου εκεί η ίδια τον αποκαλεί σατανά και τον
εαυτό της και τον κύκλο του ως «τα παιδιά του Εωσφόρου». Ο Μάνος Τασάκος ένας άνθρωπος που, ενώ γνωρίζει τον νόμο (είναι άλλωστε δικηγόρος στο επάγγελμα), δρα έξω από τα όρια της ηθικής και
παραβιάζει τους ηθικούς κανόνες προκειμένου να εξυπηρετήσει το
προσωπικό του συμφέρον. Οι πράξεις του καθορίζονται από εγωιστικά κίνητρα ή, όπως ο ίδιος θα έλεγε, «εγωκεντρικά». Κατά πολλούς
τρόπους είναι δυνατόν να υποστηρίξει κανείς ότι οι περισσότερες
πράξεις του και, γενικότερα, ο συνολικός τρόπος ζωής του ταιριάζουν
στο προφίλ της «αντικοινωνικής παρεκκλίνουσας προσωπικότητας»
μαζί ίσως με στοιχεία οριακής και ναρκισσιστικής προσωπικότητας,
όπως και οι τρεις αυτοί τύποι προσωπικότητας ορίζονται από το γνωστό εγχειρίδιο διάγνωσης και θεραπείας των παρεκκλινουσών προσωπικοτήτων DSM-IV42. Ακόμη και ο Κωστής Ρούσης, ένα από τα
άλλα βασικά πρωταγωνιστικά πρόσωπα, ο «δάσκαλος» γνωστός νομπελίστας λογοτέχνης, που οπωσδήποτε δεν έχει τα ίδια ελαττώματα του χαρακτήρα με τον Μάνο Τασάκο, είναι όμως μορφινομανής,
κοσμοφοβικός και μισογύνης και, οπωσδήποτε, δεν χαρακτηρίζεται
από έκφραση υγιών συναισθημάτων, όταν χαρακτηριστικά δηλώνει
«Μπορεί να είμαι συναισθηματικός, αλλά αντιπαθώ να εκδηλώνω
αυτού του είδους τις αδυναμίες».
Όπως εύστοχα έχει επισημανθεί από τον Μιχάλη Χρυσανθόπουλο, υπάρχει ένα είδος διαστροφής στον χαρακτήρα του Μάνου
Τασάκου:
Προσεγγίζοντας τον χαρακτήρα του Τασάκου μέσω της
διαστροφής, αφενός, και του τι σημαίνει κατάσταση έκτακτης
ανάγκης στις περιόδους που πραγματεύεται «Ο κίτρινος φάκελος»,
αφετέρου, επιχειρώ να συνδέσω την προσωπική βία με τη βία
ως χαρακτηριστικό γνώρισμα μιας εποχής. Για την έννοια της
διαστροφής προσφεύγω στην ψυχαναλυτική θεωρία, σύμφωνα
με την οποία «οι αρνητικές συνδηλώσεις του όρου διαστροφή
(perversion) αντικατοπτρίζουν την ασαφή αίσθηση ότι στον
πυρήνα της διεστραμμένης πράξης βρίσκεται η επιθυμία να
βλάψει κανείς τον άλλο. [...] Ο όρος διαστροφή χρειάζεται όχι
γιατί αποτελεί χρήσιμο προπαγανδιστικό όπλο για τη διατήρηση
της κοινωνίας, αλλά γιατί μπορεί να καταδειχθεί ως κατάσταση».
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Η θεωρία αυτή τονίζει ότι «η διαστροφή, η ερωτική μορφή
του μίσους, αποτελεί φαντασίωση που συνήθως γίνεται πράξη.
[...] Κίνητρό της είναι η εχθρότητα, δηλαδή η επιθυμία να
βλάψει κανείς το αντικείμενο, και σε αυτό διαφέρει από την
επιθετικότητα (aggression), η οποία προϋποθέτει μόνο τη βία».
Η εχθρότητα στη διαστροφή παίρνει τη μορφή της εκδίκησης,
η οποία στοχεύει στο να βλάψει το αντικείμενο της ερωτικής
επιθυμίας, ενώ παράλληλα η διαστροφή παρουσιάζεται και ως
πράξη που ενέχει κινδύνους (risk-taking) γι’ αυτόν που την ασκεί.
Η ψυχαναλυτική θεωρία παρατηρεί, όμως, ότι η διαστροφή δεν
αποτελεί μια εξαίρεση, κάτι εκτός της κανονικότητας. Είναι
μέρος αυτής, όπως άλλωστε και η νεύρωση. Επιπλέον τονίζεται
ότι υπάρχει μια αινιγματική σχέση μεταξύ διαστροφής και
δημιουργικότητας: η δημιουργικότητα (creativity) βασίζεται
στη μετουσίωση (sublimation)· η μετουσίωση χρησιμοποιεί την
ενέργεια της λίμπιντο πριν από τη διαμόρφωση της ταυτότητας
του φύλου (pregenital libido)· η ίδια ενέργεια εκλύεται και
κατά τη διαστροφή. Κατά συνέπεια, όπως κανείς δεν μπορεί να
υποστηρίξει ότι βρίσκεται πέραν της νεύρωσης, με τη φροϋδική
σημασία του όρου, έτσι και κανείς δεν μπορεί υποστηρίξει ότι
βρίσκεται πέραν της διαστροφής. Για να χαρακτηρίζεται, όμως,
μια συμπεριφορά ως διαστροφή πρέπει η ένταση της βίας με την
οποία ασκείται να την προσδιορίζει ως εχθρότητα που επιδιώκει
να καταστρέψει το αντικείμενο της επιθυμίας43.
Ο έρωτας και γενικότερα η παρουσίαση και η ανάλυση των παθών καταλαμβάνουν κεντρική θέση στη μυθοπλαστική αφήγηση του
Καραγάτση. Τα μυθιστορήματα του Καραγάτση στηρίζονται στη σύγκρουση έρωτα και θανάτου, κλασικό αρχέτυπο του ελληνικού και
του ευρωπαϊκού πολιτισμού και όχι μόνον. Δεν είναι τυχαίο, άλλωστε, ότι το 1943 ο Καραγάτσης δημοσιεύει σε δώδεκα συνέχειες στην
εφημερίδα Πρωία, τη μελέτη του με τίτλο «Ο έρωτας στο νεοελληνικό μυθιστόρημα»44. Στο έργο του Καραγάτση, ο έρωτας αποτελεί την κινητήρια δύναμη της ζωής, που όμως συνέχεια ωθεί αυτούς
που τον βιώνουν στην καταστροφή, όταν το άτομο είτε καταστρέφει
τους άλλους, είτε καταστρέφεται απ’ αυτούς, είτε αυτοκαταστρέφεται. Επομένως, η έννοια του έρωτα στο έργο του Καραγάτση είναι
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κατά μία έννοια πλατωνική, ο έρωτας αποτελεί ένα πάθος, μια μανία
που, παρόλο που είναι δημιουργική και μπορεί να αποτελέσει πηγή
έμπνευσης, αν τυχόν προκληθεί χρειάζεται να θεραπευτεί45.
Είναι δυνατόν να υποστηριχθεί ότι η σύγκρουση αυτή αποδίδει
στην έννοια του καραγατσικού έρωτα ένα είδος τραγικότητας και μοιρολατρίας, υπό την έννοια ότι όλα προς το θάνατο κατευθύνονται και
όλα τελικώς αποβλέπουν προς αυτόν. Η άφιξη του θανάτου μοιάζει
να είναι αναπόφευκτη, αλλά συγχρόνως και ακυρωτική της ίδιας του
της υπόστασης. Ήδη από την πρώτη συνάντηση ανάμεσα στον Μάνο
Τασάκο και τον Κωστή Ρούση, ο Τασάκος απαντά στην ερώτηση του
Ρούση για το πώς του φαίνεται το γραφείο του, «Σαν λιμέρι δύσοσμο,
ενός γέρου λύκου, που αποφάσισε να θαφτή εδώ μέσα ζωντανός, γιατί
ούτε τη ζωή μπορεί ν’ αγαπήση, ούτε το θάνατο47 να στέρξη»49.
5. Η άρνηση του έρωτα και η έλλειψη των συναισθημάτων
Από τη στιγμή που ένας κοινός ορισμός της ερωτικής αγάπης
είναι ότι «είναι αγάπη που μεταμορφώνεται από την επιθυμία»50,
ο έρωτας οπωσδήποτε αποτελεί πάθος και είναι ακατάλληλος για
τον ενάρετο άνθρωπο, αφού, σύμφωνα με τους Στωικούς, το πάθος
ορίζεται ως «μία κίνηση της ψυχής που είναι άλογη και ενάντια στη
φύση»53. Οι Στωικοί προσδιορίζουν τέσσερις τύπους παθών (επιθυμία, ηδονή, φόβο και αγωνία) και ένα από τα πιο γνωστά παραδείγματα του πάθους της επιθυμίας είναι αυτό της ερωτικής επιθυμίας
(libido)54. Η λύση του προβλήματος αυτού έγκειται στο να υποστηρίξει κανείς ότι ο έρωτας αποτελεί «μία παρόρμηση σε συμφωνία
με τον λόγο»55, μια και «η αγάπη δεν είναι ούτε επιθυμία ούτε κάτι
το μη ηθικό, αλλά αποτελεί μια προσπάθεια να κάνουμε φίλους
λόγω της εμφάνισης του ωραίου»56. Μόνο εκτός του ορισμού αυτού
ο έρωτας γίνεται πάθος. Αυτή η θέση υποστηρίζεται επιπλέον και
από την άποψη του Παναίτιου όπως αναφέρεται από τον Σενέκα:
«Νομίζω ότι ο Παναίτιος έδωσε μια ιδιαίτερα γοητευτική απάντηση
στον νεαρό που τον ρώτησε κατά πόσον ο Σοφός είναι σε θέση να
ερωτευτεί: ‘Σε ό,τι αφορά τον Σοφό θα δούμε. Αυτό που έχει σημασία για σένα και για μένα, που ακόμη απέχουμε πολύ από το να
είμαστε σοφοί, είναι να σιγουρέψουμε ότι δεν θα πέσουμε θύματα
μιας κατάστασης που να μας αρρωστήσει, να μας κάνει εντελώς
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αδύναμους, να μας υποτάξει στον άλλο και να μας καταστήσει ανάξιους για τον εαυτό μας»57.
Στον Κίτρινο φάκελο, ο Μάνος Τασάκος, ενώ συνειδητοποιεί την
προοπτική ευτυχίας που έχει με την Νίνα, την αρνείται58. Ίσως γιατί
δεν έχει πραγματικό πάθος γι’ αυτήν, αλλά κυρίως γιατί γνωρίζει ότι η
Νίνα, με την αγάπη της και την προσωπική της υπόσταση και καλλιέργεια, θα μπορούσε να τον κάνει πραγματικά ευτυχισμένο59. Όμως, η
προοπτική της ευτυχίας είναι κάτι που ο Τασάκος έχει από την αρχή
της ζωής του αρνηθεί, αρεσκόμενος στο να σκηνοθετεί καταστάσεις,
να στήνει παιχνίδια με τις ζωές των άλλων και να καταστρέφει αυτές και τη δική του. Ο έρωτας, όπως και οτιδήποτε άλλο, αποτελούν
απλώς ένα νοητικό παιχνίδι για τον Μάνο Τασάκο, ο οποίος κυριευμένος από τον υπέρμετρο «εγωκεντρισμό» του60, όπως θα έλεγε και ο
ίδιος, παίζει διαρκώς με τις ζωές των άλλων ένα παιχνίδι σκακιού. Οι
άλλοι αποτελούν τα πιόνια της σκακιέρας μέσα σε ένα παιχνίδι που
εκείνος δημιουργεί, εκείνος ξεκινά και εκείνος ελέγχει62. Ο Μάνος Τασάκος είναι κυρίαρχος του παιχνιδιού που έχει στήσει για τους άλλους,
αλλά, τελικώς, και όμηρος του παιχνιδιού του.
Ο ήρωας του Καραγάτση μοιάζει να είναι χωρίς συναισθήματα
και χωρίς ενδιαφέρον για τους άλλους ανθρώπους, ένας άνθρωπος
που «σκηνοθετεί» τις καταστάσεις, δεν ενδιαφέρεται για τα συναισθήματα των άλλων και που υποστηρίζει πως σημασία δεν έχει τι
νιώθει κανείς, αλλά τι δείχνει κανείς πως νιώθει. Όπως εύστοχα επισημαίνει ο Γιώργος Περαντωνάκης, «Ο Κίτρινος φάκελος αποτελεί
τη διερεύνηση της υπόθεσης για το πόσο ισχυρά είναι στον άνθρωπο
τα ένστικτα του υλικού κέρδους και της κυριαρχίας, αλλά ταυτόχρονα εξετάζει και τη σχέση πραγματικότητας και μυθοπλασίας. Ο
Τασάκος πίστευε ότι η ίδια η ζωή, κατάλληλα σκηνοθετημένη, θα του
έδινε το υλικό για τη συγγραφή του μυθιστορήματός του, το οποίο
θα βασιζόταν στην πιστή απόδοση της εξωλογοτεχνικής πραγματικότητας και όχι σε υποθετικές θεωρίες και εικασίες. (…) Η απρόσμενη
εξέλιξη των πραγμάτων αποδεικνύει ότι ο συγγραφέας υπόκειται και
αυτός στους νόμους που διέπουν τη ζωή των ηρώων του και δεν μπορεί, όσο και αν σκηνοθετεί τα πάντα διεξοτεχνικά, να χειραγωγήσει
τους ανθρώπους, όπως θα έκανε με τους χαρακτήρες σε ένα παλαιάς
κοπής παραδοσιακό μυθιστόημα»63.
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Η «εγωλατρία» αυτή του Μάνου Τασάκου είναι δυνατόν κατά
επιγραμματικό σχεδόν τρόπο να περιγραφεί σε μερικούς από τους
στίχους ενός πρώιμου ποιήματος του Καραγάτση, το «Ύψος», που
έγραψε στην περίοδο από το 1922 έως το 193264:
Πλεονεξία του Εγώ. –τι θέλω; τι γυρέβω;
Τα τέσσερα στοιχεία του παραμυθιού,
τη Γνώση, τη Χαρά, τον έρωτα
και ιδίως την Αυτολατρεία μου σε όλες τις μορφές της.
Φτωχή ιδεολογία! ή μάλλον πλούσια, αφού
στο κέντρο της θρονιάζει πάντα η μορφή μου.
Αυτολατρεία, αυτοδυστυχία …66
Ιδιαίτερο ενδιαφέρον παρουσιάζει επίσης ο τρόπος που ο Καραγάτσης αντιμετωπίζει στον Κίτρινο φάκελο, αλλά και στα άλλα
έργα του, την ικανοποίηση της σεξουαλικής επιθυμίας67, εκφράζοντας, όπως έχει χαρακτηριστεί, ένα είδος «βιολογικού ερωτισμού»69.
Όπως έχει επισημανθεί, «η κριτική του 1933 θαύμαζε στον νέο μυθιστοριογράφο την έλλειψη προκαταλήψεων απέναντι στα σεξουαλικά
θέματα, τη δημιουργική πληθωρικότητα και τη φλογερή φαντασία τη
λυτρωμένη από τα ηθικιστικά και κοινωνικά συμπλέγματα»73. Πράγματι, η ερωτική πράξη δεν αντιμετωπίζεται ως κάτι που έχει ηθική
σημασία, αλλά απλώς ως μία φυσική πράξη που από μόνη της δεν
έχει ηθικό ενδιαφέρον, όπως λ.χ. άλλες πράξεις που τελούμε καθημερινώς, το περπάτημα, το τρέξιμο, η τροφή. Η στάση αυτή απέναντι
στην ικανοποίηση των φυσικών αναγκών, όποιες και να είναι αυτές,
συνιστούν τη θεώρηση που οι Στωικοί φιλόσοφοι είχαν απέναντι
στον έρωτα και τη σεξουαλική πράξη.
Ένας από τους βασικούς στόχους της στωικής φιλοσοφίας υπήρξε η θεραπεία των παθών74. Τα πάθη, όμως, δεν θεραπεύονται στον
Καραγάτση, όχι τουλάχιστον σύμφωνα με το στωικό «πρόγραμμα».
Αυτό που είναι ιδιαίτερα έκδηλο στον Κίτρινο φάκελο είναι η έλλειψη του πάθους, η έλλειψη των συναισθημάτων78. Πάθη οπωσδήποτε
υπάρχουν, αλλά αυτά βρίσκονται βασανιστικά εκεί, μέσα στον ψυχικό κόσμο ορισμένων από τα πρόσωπα του Κίτρινου φακέλου, λόγω
της συναισθηματικής αδιαφορίας των άλλων προσώπων, λόγω της
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αδυναμίας τους να κατανοήσουν και προπάντων να συμπονέσουν με
τα συναισθήματα των άλλων. Ίσως τα πάθη να θεραπεύονται τελικώς, στο τέλος του βιβλίου όταν έχουμε και τη λύση του μυστηρίου
της δολοφονίας του Μάνου Τασάκου, με έναν ιδιόμορφο τρόπο «αριστοτελικής κάθαρσης». Η κάθαρση αυτή επέρχεται με την πράξη
του θανάτου του Τασάκου, με τον τρόπο δηλαδή που ο ίδιος ο Τασάκος επιλέγει να τερματίσει τη ζωή του θυσιάζοντας έστω και τις
λίγες μέρες ή μήνες ζωής που του έχουν απομείνει, λόγω της ανίατης
ασθένειας που τον έχει προσβάλει, για να προστατεύσει την Μαρία
Πετροπούλου, επιδεικνύοντας έτσι, έστω και στο τέλος της ζωής του,
ή μάλλον καλύτερα με τον τρόπο που επιλέγει να τερματίσει τη ζωή
του, μια μορφή φιλανθρωπίας που δεν τον διέκρινε όσο ζούσε. Ο Τασάκος επιλέγει έναν ιδιόμορφο τρόπο για δείξει την αγάπη του στην
Μαρία Πετροπούλου και να της ζητήσει κατά μία έννοια συγγνώμη,
χωρίς βέβαια με λόγια να της απολογηθεί, αναγκάζοντάς την τρόπον
τινά να δεχθεί τη ρήση του P. G. Wodehouse ότι «το σωστό είδος
ανθρώπου δεν θέλει απολογίες»79.
Όπως εύστοχα άλλωστε παρατηρεί ο Adam Smith στην εναρκτήρια παράγραφο του έργου του Θεωρία των ηθικών αισθημάτων,
σχετικά με το συναίσθημα της συμπάθειας που το θεωρεί ως το σημαντικότερο για τον ηθικό βίο, «Όσο εγωιστής και να μπορεί θεωρηθεί ο άνθρωπος, υπάρχουν αναμφισβήτητα ορισμένες αρχές στη
φύση του που τον κάνουν να ενδιαφέρεται για τις τύχες των άλλων
και καθιστούν την ευτυχία των άλλων απαραίτητη για τον ίδιο, παρόλο που εκείνος δεν αποκομίζει τίποτα από την ευτυχία των άλλων
εκτός από την ευχαρίστηση που παίρνει βλέποντάς τους να είναι
ευτυχισμένοι. Τέτοιου είδους αρχές είναι ο οίκτος ή η συμπόνοια,
το συναίσθημα που αισθανόμαστε για τη δυστυχία των άλλων, όταν
τη βλέπουμε ή όταν την φανταζόμαστε με έντονο τρόπο. Ότι συχνά
νιώθουμε θλίψη με τη θλίψη των άλλων αποτελεί ένα γεγονός τόσο
εμφανές που δεν χρειάζεται να αποδειχθεί, γιατί αυτό το συναίσθημα, όπως και τα άλλα αυθεντικά πάθη της ανθρώπινης φύσης, δεν
περιορίζεται μόνο στους ενάρετους και τους ανθρωπιστές, παρόλο
που ίσως εκείνοι το νιώθουν με μέγιστη ευαισθησία. Ο μεγαλύτερος
παλιάνθρωπος, ο πιο σκληρός καταπατητής των νόμων της κοινωνίας, δεν είναι απαλλαγμένος από το συναίσθημα αυτό».� Απ’ ό,τι
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φαίνεται, τελικώς, ούτε ο χωρίς συναισθήματα χαρακτήρας του Μάνου Τασάκου στη μυθοπλασία του Κίτρινου φακέλου του Μ. Καραγάτση είναι απαλλαγμένος από το συναίσθημα της συμπάθειας.
Άλλωστε, ακόμη και ο νιτσεϊκός Ζαρατούστρα, στον οποίο ορισμένες φορές τείνουν να μοιάζουν οι ήρωες του Καραγάτση, δεν είναι εντελώς απαλλαγμένος από το συναίσθημα αυτό της συμπάθειας, αφού νιώθει την ανάγκη να κατηφορίσει από το βουνό στην πόλη
και να συναναστραφεί με τους ανθρώπους, να τους φέρει ένα δώρο
επειδή τους αγαπά�. Η συναναστροφή, όμως, αυτή με τους άλλους
ανθρώπους και η φιλία μαζί τους, σύμφωνα με τον Nietzsche, όπως
και σύμφωνα με τον ήρωα του Καραγάτση, είναι ιδιόμορφη, χωρίς
να ενέχει τα χαρακτηριστικά που συνήθως αποδίδουμε σ’ αυτήν και
χωρίς, βέβαια, να έχει έστω και κάποια ανάμνηση της αριστοτελικής
έννοιας της φιλίας όπως αυτή ορίζεται στη Ρητορική του Αριστοτέλη: «…αγαπώ κάποιον και θέλω να τον έχω φίλο μου θα πει θέλω γι’
αυτόν καθετί που το θεωρώ καλό, όχι για να κερδίσω κάτι ο ίδιος,
αλλά αποκλειστικά για χάρη εκείνου· κάνω μάλιστα και ό,τι μπορώ
για να αποκτήσει αυτά τα καλά εκείνος»�. Η αναγνώριση του εαυτού
μας στο φίλο μας είναι ένα θέμα που είναι κοινό στις περισσότερες
φιλοσοφικές διαπραγματεύσεις της φιλίας και συνδέεται συγχρόνως,
με άμεσο σχεδόν τρόπο, με την έννοια της φιλαυτίας. Η αγάπη του
εαυτού μας δεν είναι, κατά τον Αριστοτέλη, κατακριτέα, αντιθέτως
μάλιστα είναι απαραίτητο να αγαπούμε τον εαυτό μας για να μπορούμε να αγαπούμε και τον άλλο ως άλλο εαυτό μας. Ο Nietzsche,
συνδέει τον εαυτό με τη φιλία προς τους άλλους, αντιλαμβάνεται
όμως με διαφορετικό τρόπο τη φιλία από τον Αριστοτέλη�. Η νιτσεϊκή έννοια της φιλίας δεν φαίνεται να έχει καμία σχέση με την
αριστοτελική. Γράφει χαρακτηριστικά ο Nietzsche το καλοκαίρι του
1895: «Ο Σωκράτης – τ’ ομολογώ – μου είναι τόσο πλησίον, ώστε
πρέπει πάντοτε σχεδόν να μάχομαι μαζί του»�. Σε καμία περίπτωση
η νιτσεϊκή αυτή ιδέα για τη φιλία και το πλησίον δεν είναι δυνατόν
να έχει κάποια σχέση με την αριστοτελική. Ο νιτσεϊκός άνθρωπος
μισεί, φαίνεται, τον εαυτό του τόσο πολύ που ενώ αναγνωρίζει στον
άλλον τον εαυτό του, τον αντιπαλεύεται και του συμπεριφέρεται
ως τον χειρότερο εχθρό του, όπως κάνει άλλωστε και στον ίδιο τον
εαυτό του. Ο ίδιος ο Nietzsche ορίζει αυτήν την ιδανική, ουτοπική
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και απραγματοποίητη ουσιαστικά φιλία που ονειρεύεται και που γι’
αυτήν μοχθεί: «Ονειρεύομαι μια συντροφιά από απόλυτους ανθρώπους, που δεν γνωρίζουν καμία επιείκεια και θέλουν ν’ αποκαλούνται ‘καταλύτες’. Εφαρμόζουν παντού το μέτρο της κριτικής τους και
θυσιάζονται για την αλήθεια»�.
Ιδιόμορφες είναι και οι απόψεις του Nietzsche για τον έρωτα,
όταν υποστηρίζει ότι «η θεραπεία για τον έρωτα είναι μέχρι τώρα για
τις περισσότερες περιπτώσεις αυτό το αρχαίο δραστικό γιατρικό: η
ανταπόδοση της αγάπης»�. Όπως εύστοχα παρατηρεί ο Roger Scruton, ο Nietzsche μας παροτρύνει να περιφρονούμε τους φίλους μας
έτσι ώστε να τους αγαπάμε περισσότερο, εννοώντας ότι το καλύτερο
που έχουμε να κάνουμε – στον κόσμο όπως είναι πραγματικά και όχι
όπως ιδανικά θα θέλαμε να είναι – είναι να καταργήσουμε τη φιλία
του σεβασμού και να την αντικαταστήσουμε με τον έρωτα, «γιατί
μόνο η ερωτική αγάπη μπορεί να επιβιώσει τη συνειδητοποίηση της
αχρειότητας του άλλου, χωρίς να καταλήξει να γίνει αυτή η ασθενής,
αμφιταλαντευόμενη φιλία, από την οποία τίποτε το σοβαρό δεν είναι
δυνατόν να προκύψει»�. Ο Nietzsche αναγνωρίζει, όμως, τη σημασία
του έρωτα και της αγάπης γενικότητα αναφορικά με το αντικείμενο
της καλλιτεχνικής δημιουργίας, απηχώντας τις απόψεις του Πλάτωνος
στον Φαίδρο για τη δημιουργική μανία�. Η ερωτική επιθυμία, ο «ἔρως»,
είναι δυνατόν να δημιουργήσει έναν ικανό και σταθερό καλλιτέχνη
που, αντί να κυριεύει με πάθος τον άνθρωπο καταδικάζοντάς τον σε
μια ζωή γεμάτη με αυταπάτες, μπορεί να τον μεταμορφώσει σε ένα
πλάσμα δυνατότερο και πιο αληθινό: «αυτή η μέθη του ερωτικού αποτελεί ένα μεγάλο κίνητρο για την κατάφαση της ζωής γενικότερα»,
κατά τον ίδιο τρόπο που «όλα τα πράγματα στην τέχνη που είναι μαγικά, δηλ. η δόνηση και η λάμψη, δηλ. η μέθη και η περιπέτεια, δηλ. η
λυρικότητα και η γενναιοδωρία – όλα αυτά δημιουργούνται από την
αγάπη»�. Όπως σημειώνει ο Νίτσε στη Βούληση για δύναμη, «Υπάρχει
μια δουλική αγάπη που υποτάσσεται και παραδίνεται, που εξιδανικεύεται και αυταπατάται· υπάρχει μια θεϊκή αγάπη που περιφρονεί και
αγαπά, που ξαναδίνει μορφή και εξυψώνει αυτόν που αγαπά…»�. Η
αγάπη όμως αυτή, ο απόλυτος δηλ. έρωτας για τη ζωή, «για να γίνει
ωφέλιμος για το μελλοντικό Εγώ θα πρέπει να κυριαρχηθεί από την
αγάπη και ο ερωτευμένος να υπερβεί το συναίσθημα που νιώθει όταν
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βλέπει την καταθλιπτική και αδύναμη ανθρώπινη φύση, βιώνοντας
μια αγάπη υπερβατική, που να επιθυμεί τον υπεράνθρωπο. Αυτό όμως
προϋποθέτει την ανεπίκαιρη Εμπειρία ενός διαφορετικού Τέλους, που
να προσανατολίζεται στην έγχρονη προοπτική του γίγνεσθαι. Η υπέρβαση, έτσι, επιτυγχάνεται μέσω της αγάπης και του προσανατολισμού
στο έγχρονο, μέσω της περιφρόνησης και της δημιουργίας. Τον εαυτό
σου αγαπάς και για αυτό τον περιφρονείς, λέει ο Ζαρατούστρα στον Διονυσιακό άνθρωπο, αφού μόνο εκείνοι που αγαπούν περιφρονούν […]
και θέλουν να δημιουργήσουν»�.
6. Η επίδραση του Friedrich Nietzsche στο έργο του
Καραγάτση
Πράγματι, στο έργο του Καραγάτση, και ιδιαίτερα στον Κίτρινο
Φάκελο, υπάρχουν αρκετές αναφορές στο έργο του Friedrich Nietzsche και, κυρίως, απ’ ό,τι φαίνεται στο νιτσεϊκό έργο Τάδε Έφη
Ζαρατούστρα�. Άλλωστε, δεν πρέπει να ξεχνάμε ότι ο Ζαρατούστρα
αποτελεί την «πικρή εξομολόγηση ενός οργισμένου ανθρώπου, ενός
αναχωρητή που εγκατέλειψε τον κόσμο, επειδή τον αγάπησε παράφορα, ενός ποιητή που εμπνεύστηκε από τη ζωή τους ωραιότερους
στίχους του», αφού, «όπως ο Nietzsche, έτσι και ο Ζαρατούστρα
αγάπησε βαθιά αυτό που άφηνε πίσω του, αλλά η ψυχή του δεν του
επέτρεπε κανενός είδους συμφιλίωση παρά μόνο τη μεγάλη ρήξη, τη
μεγάλη άρνηση»�.
Ας μην ξεχνάμε, άλλωστε, πως «ο Ζαρατούστρα αποτελεί «το
σύμβολο ενός κόσμου απαλλαγμένου από το βάρος των προκαταλήψεων του, ή καλύτερα, ο οραματιστής ενός κόσμου διαφορετικού» και πως έχει χαρακτηριστεί ως «ο καταλυτής που υπόσχεται
να απαλλάξει τους οπαδούς του από το βάρος του παρωχημένου,
για να τους οδηγήσει στο μονοπάτι της σοφίας που καταφάσκει τη
ζωή στα πιο μεγάλα και τα πιο μικρά»80. Κατά τον Nietzsche, «Ο
άνθρωπος είναι κάτι που πρέπει να ξεπεραστεί, κηρύσσει ο Ζαρατούστρα. Τι κάνατε εσείς για να τον ξεπεράσετε; (…) Ο άνθρωπος
είναι ένα πέρασμα και μία δύση»82. Η φράση αυτή του Nietzsche
συνοψίζει την πεποίθησή του ότι είναι αναγκαίο, αν επιθυμούμε
να προχωρήσουμε στη ζωή μας, να υπερβούμε το παρελθόν και το
παρόν μας83.
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Κατά τον Nietzsche, η βούληση για δύναμη αποτελεί το θεμελιώδες κίνητρο της ανθρώπινης ζωής και ο άνθρωπος φτάνει στην
ελευθερία μέσα από τη βούληση για δύναμη, η οποία συνίσταται στην
προσπάθειά του να ξεπεράσει τους άλλους ανθρώπους έτσι ώστε να
πάψει να εξαρτάται από αυτούς84. Κατά παρόμοιο τρόπο, ο Τασάκος
λέει για τον εαυτό του: «Πρωτίστως είμαι ελεύθερος άνθρωπος. Αν
μπορώ να παραβαίνω τους κοινωνικούς νόμους ατιμωρητεί, γιατί να
μην το κάνω;». Η βούληση για δύναμη δεν αποτελεί ένα απλό κίνητρο δράσης, όπως, για παράδειγμα, το ερωτικό ένστικτο ή το ένστικτο της πείνας, αφού τα ένστικτα στο σύνολό τους δεν αποτελούν
αυτόνομες λειτουργίες του ανθρώπου αλλά εκφάνσεις της βούλησής
του για δύναμη. Κατά τον Nietzsche, οι άνθρωποι δεν εμπλέκονται
σε μια ερωτική σχέση με την προσδοκία της κάρπωσης της ηδονής,
αλλά με την προοπτική απόκτησης δύναμης, αφού η ερωτική σχέση
είναι μια ανταγωνιστική σχέση, όπου το κάθε μέλος επιζητεί να επιβληθεί του άλλου έτσι ώστε να αποκτήσει περισσότερη δύναμη. Η
βούληση για δύναμη δεν είναι μόνο μια ορμή των όντων για την συντήρηση της ύπαρξης που επιβάλλει ο φυσικός ανταγωνισμός, αλλά
η δημιουργική αρχή του κόσμου.
Το ελληνικό κοινό της εποχής εκείνης ήταν εξοικειωμένο με τη
φιλοσοφία και το ποιητικό έργο του Nietzsche και κυκλοφορούσαν
μεταφράσεις ορισμένων έργων του είτε κατευθείαν από τα γερμανικά είτε αυτές του Νίκου Καζαντζάκη από τα γαλλικά85. Όπως επισημαίνει η Ρωξάνη Αργυροπούλου στη μελέτη της για την πρόληψη
των ιδεών του Nietzsche στην Ελλάδα, «σ’ ευρύτερο πλαίσιο η απήχηση της νιτσεϊκής φιλοσοφίας στον ελληνικό χώρο συνδέθηκε κυρίως με ζητήματα ιδεολογικού και πολιτικού περιεχομένου», καθώς
«η αισιοδοξία η οποία διακατέχει τον νιτσεϊσμό αναφορικά με τη
δημιουργική βούληση του ανθρώπου έδωσε μεγαλύτερη ώθηση στους
Έλληνες διανοουμένους, όπως και σε εκείνους των άλλων χωρών, σε
εθνικές φιλοσοφικές θεωρίες οι οποίες δεν αποτελούν διακοπή με το
παρελθόν αλλά, αντίθετα, ανάδειξή του πάνω σε καινούριες αξίες»86.
Η φιλοσοφική θεωρία της βούλησης για τη δύναμη του Nietzsche
επηρέασε πολλούς από τους σημαντικότερους λογοτέχνες και ποιητές της εποχής εκείνης, όπως τους Γιάννη Καμβύση, Κωνσταντίνο Θεοτόκη, Παύλο Νιρβάνα, Λορέντζο Μαβίλη, Ίωνα Δραγούμη,
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Κώστα Χατζόπουλο, Γρηγόριο Ξενόπουλο, Νίκο Καζαντζάκη, Κωστή
Παλαμά και Άγγελο Σικελιανό, αλλά και συνθέτες όπως ο Μ. Καλομοίρης87, όπως βέβαια και νεοέλληνες φιλοσόφους της εποχής όπως,
μεταξύ άλλων, οι Θεόφιλος Βορέας και Νεοκλής Καζάζης87.
Η επίδραση του Nietzsche στον Καραγάτση είναι εμφανής. Άλλωστε, στον Κίτρινο Φάκελο ο ίδιος ο ήρωάς του, ο Μάνος Τασάκος,
συγκρίνει τον εαυτό του με τον νιτσεϊκό υπεράνθρωπο, όταν χαρακτηριστικά αναφέρει μιλώντας για τον εαυτό του και τη σχέση του
με τους άλλους ανθρώπους, κάνοντας άμεσες και έμμεσες αναφορές
στη φιλοσοφική θεωρία της βούλησης για δύναμη του Nietzsche:
Πρέπει να ξεκαθαρίσω αν είμαι άνθρωπος δυνατός ή αδύνατος.
Στην πρώτη περίπτωση, η αντικειμενική ηθική δεν έχει σημασία για
μένα. Οι δυνατοί, ακολουθώντας την προσταγή του βιολογικού νόμου, αρχηγεύουν στους αδύνατους και τους εκμεταλλεύονται για την
ικανοποίηση κάθε πάθους τους προς δημιουργία ή απόλαυση. Μην
ξεχνάμε πως η απόλαυση είναι στενά συνυφασμένη με τη δημιουργία· γιατί χωρίς την ψυχική ευφορία που τους προσφέρει, οι δυνατοί δεν θα’ βρισκαν το δημιουργικό οίστρο. Ο διαχωρισμός της ανθρωπότητας σε δυνατούς δυνάστες κι αδύνατους δυναστευόμενους
αποτελεί πραγματικότητα, απόρροια φυσικής επιταγής αδέκαστης·
κι η αντικειμενική ηθική είναι φενάκη επιβεβλημένη στους ηλιθίους
αδύνατους από τους νοήμονες δυνατούς, και που επιτρέπει στους
πρώτους να δέχονται παθητικά τη δυνάστευση των δευτέρων. Ο νιτσεϊκός υπεράνθρωπος έχει το προνόμιο να χαίρεται τη ζωή ανεξέλεγχτα, και να μεταχειρίζεται το κοπάδι των υπανθρώπων χωρίς
οίκτο, για την ικανοποίηση του πάθους του. Κατάντησα οπαδός του
ροζεμπεργείου Φυρερμπριντσίπ; Γιατί όχι, αν πιστεύω στην αλήθεια
του; Η φύση μ’ έπλασε αρχηγό· και στους αρχηγούς τα πάντα επιτρέπονται, για το καλό των αρχηγευομένων. Κάθε προσπάθεια έχει τα
μοιραία της θύματα· μα οι υπόλοιποι θα κερδίσουν οπωσδήποτε από
το αρχηγικό μου επίτευγμα. Πρέπει να παραδεχθώ πως σαν δυνατός
κι αρχηγός, οφείλω να είμαι και amoral, δηλαδή αδιάφορος προς
την αντικειμενική ηθική· αλλά κι ανελέητος προς τους αδύνατους
που παραβιάζουν τους κανόνες της. Για όλους τους ανθρώπους δεν
ισχύουν τα ίδια μέτρα και σταθμά, κι η δημιουργία δεν είναι προνόμιο του καθενός: η δημιουργία που αποβλέπει στην εξύψωση της
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ολότητας. Το ριζικό μ’ έταξε δημιουργό για το καλό του συνόλου. Αν,
για να πετύχω το σκοπό μου, θ’ αναγκαστώ να πατήσω σε μερικά
πτώματα, δεν θα διστάσω. Η ζωή είναι πόλεμος· και πόλεμος είναι
η προσπάθεια να επιτευχθεί κάποιο ηθικό αποτέλεσμα με μη ηθικά
μέσα. Αν πιστεύω σ’ αυτό, κανένας διασταγμός συμβατικής ηθικής
δεν πρέπει να με εμποδίση· γιατί αλλιώς δεν θα ήμουν αρχηγός, αλλά
ένα νούμερο του τεράστιου, του ευεπηρέαστου και άβουλα κατευθυνόμενου κοπαδιού…88
7. Επιλεγόμενα: Τέχνη και φιλοσοφία
Σε κάθε περίπτωση, η επιλογή των φιλοσόφων που μελετούμε
ή θαυμάζουμε ή επηρεαζόμαστε από αυτούς με τον ένα ή τον άλλο
τρόπο στο έργο μας αποκαλύπτει συνήθως κάτι από τον εαυτό μας,
ή, τουλάχιστον, μια πτυχή του εαυτού μας, όπως με εύστοχο τρόπο
παρατηρεί ο Αλέξανδρος Νεχαμάς: «… όπως ακριβώς η επιλογή των
φίλων μας δείχνει κάτι για τον δικό μας χαρακτήρα, έτσι και οι φιλόσοφοι τους οποίους μελετούμε, αποκαλύπτουν κάτι και για την δική
μας προσωπικότητα. Η μελέτη της φιλοσοφίας ως τέχνης του βίου
αποκαλύπτει τις δικές μας ηθικές προτιμήσεις και μας αναγκάζει να
αποκαλύψουμε ένα μέρος του εαυτού μας. Αυτό το προσωπικό είδος
φιλοσοφίας αντανακλάται στο δικό μας πρόσωπο, είναι δε προσωπικό και με αυτή την επιπρόσθετη έννοια. Το να μελετήσουμε σημαίνει
επίσης να το ασκήσουμε»89. Η παρατήρηση αυτή είναι δόκιμη στην
περίπτωση του Μ. Καραγάτση, αφού ο κύριος χαρακτήρας του στον
Κίτρινο Φάκελο, τουλάχιστον, – ο Μάνος Τασάκος – μοιάζει να δομεί τη ζωή του σύμφωνα με τα νιτσεϊκά πρότυπα και να προσπαθεί,
«ωσάν νέος Ζαρατούστρας», να ποδηγετήσει τις ζωές των άλλων,
των προσώπων δηλ. που σχετίζονται με φιλικούς ή ερωτικούς δεσμούς μαζί του και που είχαν την ατυχία να πέσουν «θύματα» της
προσοχής του. Όμως, «όπως ακριβώς μπορεί να κάνουμε λάθος στην
επιλογή των φίλων μας, έτσι μπορεί και να θαυμάζουμε τους λάθος
φιλοσόφους»90. Στην περίπτωση του Μάνου Τασάκου, η διαπίστωση
αυτή του Νεχαμά είναι σαν να έχει γραφεί για τον ήρωα του Καραγάτση: ο Τασάκος δεν αποτελεί απλώς μια λανθασμένη επιλογή φίλου, αφού οδηγεί όλους αυτούς που τον αγαπούν στην καταστροφή,
αλλά έχει, απ’ ό,τι φαίνεται τουλάχιστον, επιλέξει να διαλέξει και
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λάθος φιλόσοφο ή – για να είμαστε δίκαιοι απέναντι στο έργο του
Nietzsche – τον ερμηνεύει με λάθος τρόπο.
Οπωσδήποτε, στο πλαίσιο της μελέτης αυτής δεν είναι δυνατόν να ανιχνευθεί το σύνολο των νιτσεϊκών επιρροών στο έργο του
Καραγάτση ούτε βέβαια να αξιολογηθούν αυτές με επαρκή τρόπο.
Ο φιλοσοφικός στοχασμός του Nietzsche, άλλωστε, είναι δύσκολο
να παρουσιαστεί με συστηματικό τρόπο μέσα από το σύνολο των
κειμένων του, αφού ο ίδιος δεν υπήρξε συστηματικός φιλόσοφος με
την παραδοσιακή έννοια του όρου τουλάχιστον. Ειδικότερα, για την
πρόληψη του Nietzsche από τον Μ. Καραγάτση ισχύουν οι παρατηρήσεις του Δημήτρη Λαμπρέλλη αναφορικά με την γενιά του Καραγάτση: «Η σκέψη τους (…) φαίνεται ενίοτε –όταν δεν υπεισέρχεται
η άγνοια ή αυτό που ονομάζεται παρερμηνεία– να νομιμοποιείται σε
αυτήν την προσπάθειά της να ανεύρει στον Nietzsche, στις θέσεις
του Nietzsche, την πατρότητα αυτού που φιλεί ή αντιμάχεται· στη
συνέχεια όμως μπορεί να διαπιστώσει κάποιος, αν βέβαια τον ενδιαφέρει η συνέχεια και όχι η αμφίβολη γοητεία, η εύκολη μαγεία της
επιφάνειας, ότι η πρώτη εντύπωση δίνει τη θέση της σε μία άλλη:
στο πλαίσιό της, ο στοχασμός τους, νιτσεϊκός ή αντινιτσεϊκός, φαίνεται να εκφράζει κατά βάθος το απόλυτο, την εμμονή στον εαυτό του,
οι θέσεις τους είναι εκφράσεις του απόλυτου, ενώ ο στοχασμός του
Nietzsche αποκαλύπτεται να μην εκφράζει το απόλυτο παρά μόνο
επιφανειακά· η επιφάνεια των θέσεών του, οι τόποι αυτοί του απολύτου, φαίνεται ότι δεν είναι κατά βάθος παρά η επιφάνεια του ορίζοντα της πολλαπλότητας και της συνυφασμένης με αυτήν υποψίας»91.
Πράγματι, όπως είναι γνωστό, ο Nietzsche υποστηρίζει, κυρίως στη Γέννηση της Τραγωδίας, αλλά και αλλού, ότι η τέχνη εμπεριέχει τη δυνατότητα να αποτελέσει την ενωτική δύναμη της κοινωνίας
και πως η τέχνη, σε ορισμένες περιπτώσεις, είναι δυνατόν να μας
αποζημιώσει για τα δεινά της ζωής: «η ζωή λυτρώνεται από την τέχνη»92. Ο ήρωας του Καραγάτση επιχείρησε να χειραγωγήσει τους
ανθρώπους που τον αγαπούσαν ώστε «να συγγράψει την ίδια τη ζωή
τους ώστε η ζωή να καθρεφτίζει την τέχνη κι όχι η τέχνη τη ζωή»93.
Όμως, όπως παρατηρεί ο Bernard Williams, είναι λάθος να αναζητούμε στην τέχνη ένα μοναδικό σκοπό και οπωσδήποτε η τέχνη δεν
μπορεί σε καμία περίπτωση να αντικαταστήσει τη ζωή, η οποία με τη
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δραματικότητά της δεν παύει ποτέ να μας εκπλήσσει και να μας κατακρημνίζει με υπαρκτούς και ανυπέρβλητους εφιάλτες: «αν η τέχνη
έχει κάτι να μας προσφέρει είναι ένα απαραίτητο συμπλήρωμα και
έναν επιβεβλημένο περιορισμό στον ακούραστο στόχο της ηθικής φιλοσοφίας να καταστήσει τον κόσμο ασφαλή για αγαθής προθέσεως
άτομα» 94.
Notes
1
R. Kannicht, Η παλαιά διαμάχη ποίησης και φιλοσοφίας, μτφρ. Δ. Ιακώβ, Αθήνα:
Λωτός, 1988.
2
Πβ. για παράδειγμα τη γνωστή διαμάχη ανάμεσα στον φιλόσοφο Κωνσταντίνο
Τσάτσο και τον ποιητή Γιώργο Σεφέρη: Κ. Τσάτσος, «Πριν από το ξεκίνημα,
Προπύλαια (Απρίλης και Μάης, Ιούνιος, 1983) και «Ένας διάλογος για την ποίηση»,
Προπύλαια (Οκτώβρης-Δεκέμβρης 1983), αναδημοσίευση στο Δοκίμια Αισθητικής
και Παιδείας, Αθήνα: Δίφρος, 1960, σ. 95-126 και Γ. Σεφέρης, «Διάλογος πάνω στην
ποίηση», «Μονόλογος πάνω στην ποίηση», «Το τέλος ενός διαλόγου», στο Δοκιμές Α΄
(1936-1947), 5η έκδ., Αθήνα: Ίκαρος, 1984, σ. 82-165.
3
Βλ. ενδεικτικά Stanley Cavell, Must We Mean What We Say? A Book of Essays,
New York: Cambridge University Press, 1976· Stanley Cavell, The Claim of Reason:
Wittgenstein, Skepticism, Morality, and Tragedy, New York: Oxford University
Press, 1979 και Martha Nussbaum, Love’s Knowledge. Essays on Philosophy
and Literature, New York: Oxford University Press, 1990. Βλ. επίσης και την
βιβλιοκρισία του βιβλίου αυτού της Martha Nussbaum από τον J. Kalin, ‘Knowing
Novels: Nussbaum on Fiction and Moral Theory’, Ethics, 103 (1992), σ. 135-151.
4
Βλ. Maurice Blanchot, L’espace littéraire, Paris: Gallimard, 1968.
5
Το παράθεμα στον Γ. Σεφέρη, Δοκιμές Α΄ (1936-1947), ό.π., σ. 57 και σ. 149.
6
Βλ. Frank Palmer, Literature and Moral Understanding. A Philosophical Essay on
Ethics, Aesthetics, Education, and Culture, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992, σ. 83.
7
Για το πρόβλημα της «προσωπικής ταυτότητας» πβ. γενικά Sydney Shoemaker &
Richard Swinburne, Personal Identity, Oxford: Blackwell, 1985.
8
9
Βλ. Frank Palmer, Literature and Moral Understanding, αυτόθι.
Βλ. ενδεικτικά Colin Radford and Michael Weston, ‘How can we be Moved by the
Fate of Anna Karenina?’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 69 (1975), σ. 67-93
και E. M. Zemach, ‘Emotion and Fictional Beings’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art
Criticism, 54, 1 (1996), σ. 41-48.
10 Γι’ αυτό, άλλωστε, στην αισθητική θεωρία ένα σημαντικό πρόβλημα αποτελεί
αυτό της «αισθητικής απόστασης» του θεατή από το έργο τέχνης που συνδέεται
με το θέμα της αισθητικής απόλαυσης του έργου τέχνης. Για να μπορέσει κανείς
να απολαύσει αισθητικά ένα έργο τέχνης, όποιο και να είναι αυτό, χρειάζεται να
είναι σε θέση να διατηρήσει τη σωστή αισθητική απόσταση από αυτό, η οποία
δεν πρέπει να είναι ούτε πολύ «μικρή» ούτε πολύ «μεγάλη», κατά το πρότυπο
της αριστοτελικής μεσότητας. Έτσι, όταν ο Οθέλλος πνίγει την Δυσδαιμόνα δεν
ανεβαίνουμε στη σκηνή να τον λυντσάρουμε, ούτε βέβαια ξεκαρδιζόμαστε στα γέλια
με αυτά που διαδραματίζονται μπροστά μας. Βλ. ενδεικτικά για το θέμα αυτό,
Ε. Π. Παπανούτσου, Αισθητική, 4η έκδ., Αθήνα, 1969, σ. 225-234· Π. Α. Μιχελή,
443
C u l t ure
«Η αισθητική απόσταση και η γοητεία της σύγχρονης τέχνης», στο Αισθητικά
θεωρήματα, τόμ. Α, Αθήνα, 1971, σ. 3-68· M. Rader και B. Jessup, Art and Human
Values, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1976, σ. 44-74 και Α. Γλυκοφρύδη-Λεοντσίνη,
«Αισθητική στάση και θεατρική πράξη», στο Νεοελληνική Φιλοσοφία. Πρόσωπα και
θέματα, Αθήνα: Αφοι Τολίδη, 1993, σ. 311-349.
11 Βλ. σχετικά L. W. Hyman, ‘Moral Attitudes and the Literary Experience’, The
Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 38, 2 (1979), σ. 159-165
12 Βλ. S. E. Worth, ‘Aristotle, Thought, and Mimesis: Our Responses to Fiction’, The
Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 58, 4 (2000), σ. 333-339 και F. O’ Rourke,
‘Philosophy and Poetry in Aristotle, Interpreting and Imitating Nature’, στο Α.
Γλυκοφρύδη-Λεοντσίνη (επιμ.), Βίος Θεωρητικός. Αφιερωματικός τόμος εις τον
καθηγητή Δημήτριον Ν. Κούτραν, Αθήνα: Εθνικό και Καποδιστριακό Πανεπιστήμιο
Αθηνών, 2006, σ. 385-404.
13 Βλ. ενδεικτικά για το θέμα αυτό P. McCormick, ‘Moral Knowledge and Fiction’, The
Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 41, 4 (1983), σ. 399-410· M. A. Caws, ‘MoralReading, or Self-Containment with a Flaw’, New Literary History, 15, 1, Literature
and / as Moral Philosophy (1983), σ. 209-215· N. Carroll, ‘The Wheel of Virtue: Art,
Literature, and Moral Knowledge’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 60, 1
(2002), σ. 3-26.
14 Françis Bacon [1597], «Για τον έρωτα», στο Δοκίμια, μτφρ. Σπύρος Φέγγος, επιμ.
Ι.Σ. Χριστοδούλου, Θεσσαλονίκη: Ζήτρος, 2000, σ. 75.
15 Πουβλίβιος Σύρος, Sententiae, 15, στο Françis Bacon [1597], ό.π., σημ. επιμ. 4, σ.
280.
16 Françis Bacon [1597], ό.π., σ. 76.
17 Μ. Καραγάτσης [1956], Κίτρινος Φάκελλος, 2 τόμ., Αθήνα: Εστία, 6η έκδ., 1984.
18 Το κείμενο του Κίτρινου φακέλου βρίθει θεατρικών στοιχείων και, όπως έδειξε
ο Ιωσήφ Βιβιλάκης με την επιτόπια έρευνά του στο αρχείο του συγγραφέα, ο
Καραγάτσης είχε όχι μόνο θεατρική παιδεία αλλά και την πρόθεση να μεταφέρει
θεατρικά τον Κίτρινο φάκελο. Βλ. Ι. Βιβιλάκης, «Ο θεατρικός Καραγάτσης»,
Παράβασις, 1 (1995), σ. 227-243. Βλ. επίσης Μ. Γ. Μερακλής, «Ο Κίτρινος φάκελος
και στοιχεία της πρωτοτυπίας του», Νέα Εστία, 1536 (1991), σ. 847-850· Κριστιάν
Φιλιππούσης, «Ο Καραγάτσης και το θέατρο», Διαβάζω, 258 (1991), σ. 71-73 και Γ. Ν.
Περαντωνάκης, «Ο Κίτρινος φάκελος και η σκηνοθεσία των ζώντων προσώπων», Νέα
Εστία, 164, 1815 (2008), σ. 682-693. Για τον Καραγάτση ως κριτικό θεάτρου, βλ. Μ.
Καραγάτσης, Κριτική θεάτρου 1946 1960, πρόλ. Κ. Γεωργουσόπουλος, εισαγ.-επιμ. Ι.
Βιβιλάκης, Αθήνα: Βιβλιοπωλείον της Εστίας, 1999.
19 Β. Αθανασόπουλος, Οι μάσκες του ρεαλισμού. Εκδοχές του νεοελληνικού
αφηγηματικού λόγου, τόμ. Β΄, Αθήνα: Καστανιώτης, 2003, σ. 556.
20 Γ. Ν. Περαντωνάκης, «Ο Κίτρινος φάκελος και η σκηνοθεσία των ζώντων
προσώπων», ό.π., σ. 693.
21 Άρης Μπερλής, Μεσοπολεμική πεζογραφία, τόμ. Δ΄, Αθήνα: Σοκόλη, 1992, σ. 288.
23 Τζίνα Πολίτη, «Ο κίτρινος φάκελλος ή η παραγραφή της μυθιστορίας», στο Η
ανεξακρίβωτη σκηνή, Αθήνα: Άγρα, 2001, σ. 111-167.
24 Β. Αθανασόπουλος, Οι μάσκες του ρεαλισμού, τόμ. Β΄, αυτόθι.
25 Α. Καραντώνης, Πεζογράφοι και πεζογραφήματα της γενιάς του ’30, Αθήνα:
Παπαδήμας, 1977, σ. 153.
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26 Το σχόλιο αυτό του Καραγάτση βρίσκεται στο Β. Αθανασόπουλος, Οι μάσκες του
ρεαλισμού, τόμ. Β΄, ό.π., σ. 556-557.
27 Β. Αθανασόπουλος, Οι μάσκες του ρεαλισμού, τόμ. Β΄, ό.π., σ. 557.
28 Βλ. Μ. Χρυσανθόπουλου, «Κυριαρχία και διαστροφή. Ερωτικά πάθη και
δολοπλοκίες στον Κίτρινο Φάκελο», Βιβλιοθήκη Ελευθεροτυπίας: «Αφιέρωμα Μ.
Καραγάτσης: Τα πολλά του πρόσωπα», 509 (2008), σ. 12.
29 Σύμφωνα με τον Β. Αθανασόπουλο, «ο συγγραφέας ίσως ασυνείδητα προσπάθησε
να εξισορροπήσει τη μη ελεγχόμενη μυθοπλασία της ζωής του της εποχής εκείνης,
της οποίας χαρακτηριστικότερη εκδήλωση ήταν η υποψηφιότητά του ως βουλευτή
με το κόμμα των Προοδευτικών του Σπύρου Μαρκεζίνη στις εκλογές του 1956. (…)
Η συμμετοχή του Καραγάτση στην προεκλογική εκστρατεία ήταν υποτυπώδης,
και χαρακτηριζόταν από αυτοσαρκαστικό χιούμορ και επίδειξη σνομπισμού. Όταν
κάποιος οπαδός των Προοδευτικών και αναγνώστης του, μετά από προεκλογική
συγκέντρωση στην οποία παρίστατο ο Καραγάτσης μαζί με άλλους υποψηφίους
αλλά χωρίς να μιλήσει, τον ρώτησε γιατί αυτός, ο συγγραφέας του αντιηρωισμού και
των αισθήσεων, κατέβαινε στις εκλογές, εκείνος του απάντησε πως ο πραγματικός
σκοπός του ήταν να πάρει ψήφους από τον αδελφό του Τάκη Ροδόπουλο, που
πολιτευόταν με την ΕΡΕ» (Β. Αθανασόπουλος, Οι μάσκες του ρεαλισμού, τόμ. Β΄, ό.π.,
σ. 557).
30 Η αστυνομική υφή του έργου αναδείχθηκε από τον Μ. Γ. Μερακλή στη μελέτη του
«Ο Κίτρινος φάκελος και στοιχεία της πρωτοτυπίας του», ό.π., σ. 847-850. Βλ. επίσης
Μ. Μικέ, «Ο Μ. Καραγάτσης και η τέχνη της συγγραφής. Η περίπτωση του Κίτρινου
φακέλου (1956)», Η Άλως, 3-4 (1996), σ. 107-127 και Γ. Κεντρωτής, «Αναδιφώντας τον
Κίτρινο φάκελο», Διαβάζω, 256 (1991), σ. 66-70.
31 Βλ. Έ. Πέτκου, «Κ. Θεοτόκης, Κατάδικος, Μ. Καραγάτσης, Ο κίτρινος φάκελος:
Τα εγκλήματα πάθους και η διαλεκτική μεταξύ αθωότητας και ενοχής», Θέματα
Λογοτεχνίας, 26 (2004), σ. 159-173.
32 R. Beaton, An Introduction to Modern Greek Literature, Clarendon Press, Oxford
1994, σ. 145. Η μετάφραση των κειμένων από το βιβλίο του Beaton είναι δική μου.
Το βιβλίο αυτό έχει μεταφραστεί στην ελληνική γλώσσα, βλ. R. Beaton, Εισαγωγή
στη νεότερη ελληνική λογοτεχνία. Ποίηση και πεζογραφία, 1821-1992, μτφρ. Ε.
Ζουργού-Μ. Σπανάκη, Αθήνα: Νεφέλη, 1996.
33 R. Beaton, An Introduction to Modern Greek Literature, ό.π., σ. 236.
34 Αυτόθι, σ. 236-237.
35 Αυτόθι, σ. 144.
36 Μ. Καραγάτσης, «Μοναχικό ταξίδι στα Κύθηρα», στο Το Μεγάλο Συναξάρι, Αθήνα:
Εστία, 1951, σ. 72.
37 Βλ. ενδεικτικά Martha Nussbaum, ‘Eros and the Wise: The Stoic Response to a
Cultural Dilemma’, στο J. Sihvola and T. Engberg-Pedersen (eds) The Emotions
in Hellenistic Philosophy, Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1998, σ. 271-304· M. Nussbaum & J.
Sihvola, (eds), The Sleep of Reason. Erotic Experience and Sexual Ethics in Ancient
Greece and Rome, Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2002.
38 Δ. Τσάκωνας, Η γενιά του 30: Τα πριν και τα μετά, Αθήνα: Κάκτος, 1989, σ. 69.
39 Βλ. Paul Ricoeur, Ο ίδιος ο εαυτός ως άλλος, μτφρ. Βίκυ Ιακώβου, επιμ. Γιώργος
Ξηροπαΐδης, Αθήνα: Πόλις, 2008.
40 Στην σύγχρονη ηθική φιλοσοφία ένα από τα επιχειρήματα που έχουν διατυπωθεί
κατά κανονιστικών ηθικών θεωριών όπως ο ωφελιμισμός και η δεοντολογία είναι ότι
έχουν υπερβολικές απαιτήσεις από το ηθικό υποκείμενο με το να ζητούν από αυτό να
αποτελέσει ένα είδος «ηθικού αγίου», αγνοώντας όμως τις πραγματικές ανάγκες του
445
C u l t ure
και υπονομεύοντας κατ’ αυτόν τον τρόπο την ηθική ακεραιότητά του. Το επιχείρημα
αυτό διατυπώθηκε για πρώτη φορά από την Susan Wolff. Βλ. S. Wolff, ‘Moral Saints’,
στο R. Crisp and M. Slote (eds), Virtue Ethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1997, σ. 79-98.
41 Βλ. L. Sperry, Handbook of Diagnosis and Treatment of the DSM-IV Personality
Disorders, Brunner/Mazel, 1995, κεφ. 2, 4, & 7. Λ.χ., ένα από τα χαρακτηριστικά
της αντικοινωνικής ή κοινωνικοπαθούς, όπως αλλιώς ονομάζεται, προσωπικότητας
είναι ότι χρησιμοποιεί τους άλλους ανθρώπους για να εξυπηρετήσει ό,τι καλύτερα
σκοπεύει στην προώθηση του προσωπικού της συμφέροντος. Θα ήταν, νομίζω,
ιδιαίτερα ενδιαφέρον να επιχειρηθεί μια συστηματική απόπειρα αντιστοίχισης των
ηρώων του Καραγάτση με τους διάφορους τύπους παρεκκλινουσών προσωπικοτήτων,
κάτι όμως που δεν είναι δυνατόν, για πρακτικούς λόγους, να επιχειρηθεί στη μελέτη
αυτή.
42 Μ. Χρυσανθόπουλου, «Κυριαρχία και διαστροφή. Ερωτικά πάθη και δολοπλοκίες
στον Κίτρινο Φάκελο», ό.π., σ. 13-14.
43 Μ. Καραγάτσης, 1908-2008. Εκατό χρόνια από τη γέννησή του, «Χρονολόγιο», Αθήνα:
Εθνικό Κέντρο Βιβλίου, Υπουργείο Πολιτισμού, 2008, σ. 15.
44 Για παράδειγμα, πουθενά στο έργο του Καραγάτση ο έρωτας δεν αντιμετωπίζεται
με την τρυφερότητα της περιγραφής του Stendhal στο γνωστό δοκίμιό του για
τον έρωτα: «Καταβάλλω κάθε δυνατή προσπάθεια για να είμαι στεγνός. Θέλω να
επιβάλλω σιωπή στην καρδιά μου, που νομίζει ότι έχει πολλά να πει. Τρέμω διαρκώς
μην τυχόν έχω γράψει έναν αναστεναγμό εκεί που πιστεύω ότι έχω σημειώσει μιαν
αλήθεια» (Stendhal, Περί έρωτος, μτφρ.-εισ.-σημ. Ε. Κορομηλά, Αθήνα: Πατάκη,
2008, σ. 58).
45 «Οι μοναδικές ομορφιές είναι προνόμιο του θανάτου», θα πει ο Κωστής Ρούσσης
(«Από το ημερολόγιο του Κωστή Ρούση», Το Μεγάλο Συναξάρι). Η φράση αυτή
κοσμεί το μνημείο στο Πρώτο Νεκροταφείο Αθηνών στο οποίο αναπαύεται ο
Καραγάτσης, ο οποίος, μετά από πολύωρη κρίση ταχυκαρδίας, πέθανε στις 14
Σεπτεμβρίου του 1960, σε ηλικία μόλις 52 χρόνων. Βλ. Μ. Καραγάτσης, 1908-2008.
Εκατό χρόνια από τη γέννησή του, «Χρονολόγιο», ό.π., σ. 21. Ο ίδιος ο Καραγάτσης
χαρακτηρίζει με καυστικό και αυτοσατυρικό τρόπο την πορεία της ζωής του και της
λογοτεχνικής παρουσίας του: «Έγραψα πολλά και διάφορα, διηγήματα, νουβέλες,
μυθιστορήματα, έργα υψηλού ηθικοπλαστικού περιεχομένου, πολύ κατάλληλα για
παρθεναγωγεία και βιβλιοθήκες οικογενειών με αυστηρά αστικά ήθη. Οι ήρωές
μου –Λιάπκιν, Μαρίνα Ρείζη και ιδίως ο Γιούγκερμαν– είναι άνθρωποι αγνοί,
αθώοι, ιδεολόγοι και στέκουν ψηλότερα από τις αθλιότητες του χαμερπούς υλισμού.
Απορώ πως το εκπαιδευτικό συμβούλιο δεν εισήγαγε ακόμα τα βιβλία μου για
αναγνωστικά στα σχολεία του κράτους, εξίσταμαι πώς η Ακαδημία δεν μου έδωσε
ακόμα το βραβείο της Αρετής, πώς δεν με κάλεσε ακόμα να παρακαθίσω στους
ενάρετους κόλπους κοντά στον κ. Μελά. Δεν επείραξα ποτέ μου συνάδελφο και
είμαι συμπαθέστατος στους λογοτεχνικούς κύκλους. Αυτό θα αποδειχθεί στην κηδεία
μου όπου θα έρθει κόσμος και κοσμάκης να πεισθεί ιδίοις όμμασι ότι πέθανα, ότι
θάφτηκα, ότι πήγα στον διάολο. Και θα φύγει από το νεκροταφείο ο κόσμος και
ο κοσμάκης βγάζοντας στεναγμούς ανακούφισης. Είμαι βέβαιος πως ο θεός θα με
κατατάξει μεταξύ των αγίων στον Παράδεισο. Αμήν» («Σατιρικές αυτοβιογραφίες
των λογίων και λογοτεχνών μας. Ο κ. Μ. Καραγάτσης»).
46 Μ. Καραγάτσης [1956], Κίτρινος Φάκελλος, ό.π., σ. 51.
47 R. Scruton, Sexual Desire. A Philosophical Investigation, London: Continuum,
2006, σ. 213.
48 Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, transl. by R. D. Hicks, vol. II,
446
C u l t u re
Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1931, VII, 110. Βλ. επίσης σχετικά
Christopher Gill, ‘Stoic Erōs –Is there such a thing?’, στο E. Sanders, C. Thumiger,
C. Carey, & N. J. Lowe (eds), Erôs in Ancient Greece, Oxford and New York: Oxford
University Press, 2013, σ. 143-157.
49 Βλ. S. Sauvé Meyer, Ancient Ethics. A Critical Introduction, London: Routledge,
2008, σ. 161.
50 M. Schofield, The Stoic Idea of the City, with a new Foreword by M. C. Nussbaum,
Chicago & London, The University of Chicago Press, 1991, σ. 31, υπ. 7. Βλ. επίσης
Eleni Leontsini, ‘Sex and the City: Plato, Aristotle, and Zeno of Kition on Erôs and
Philia’, στο E. Sanders, C. Thumiger, C. Carey, & N. J. Lowe (eds), Erôs in Ancient
Greece, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2013, σ. 129-141.
51 Stobeaus, II 66. 11-13, στο H. von Arnim, Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta, Leipzig,
1903-5.
52 Seneca, Επιστολαί, 116.5 (Panaetius fr. 114, part).
53 «Ήταν ερωτευμένος; Όχι. Μια έντονη ερωτική διάθεση τον ωθούσε προς τη
χαριτωμένη γυναίκα. Σαν εγωκεντρικός, δεν μπορούσε ποτέ να ερωτευτεί με πάθος
εξουδετερωτικό του αυτοελέγχου· αλλά κι ο τυχόν έρωτάς του, ο ψυχο-εγκεφαλικά
ισορροπημένος, μόνον αν έβρισκε άνετη ανταπόκριση μπορούσε να πάρη υπόσταση»
(Κίτρινος Φάκελλος, ό.π., σ. 124).
54 «Ο Μάνος εξετίμησε απόλυτα το τι πολύτιμο του χάριζε, κι αποφάσισε να το
αντιμετωπίσει άξια και τίμια. Ποτέ ίσαμε σήμερα δεν χάρηκε σύνθετα μια τέτοια
γυναίκα. Το κεφάλαιο έρωτας άρχισε να του παρουσιάζεται πίσω από νέο πρίσμα
γοητευτικό. Και πίεζε τον εαυτό του να νιώθει ευτυχισμένος, γιατί η λογική του του’
λεγε πως όλες οι προϋποθέσεις υπήρχαν» (Κίτρινος Φάκελλος, ό.π., σ. 132).
55 Ο εγωισμός και η «αυτολατρεία», όπως την ονομάζει, είναι έκδηλα και στα νεανικά
μυθιστορήματα του Καραγάτση, όπως στους Δύο έρωτες: «Η μανία της λατρείας μου
ικανοποιόταν, και ο άδειος εγωισμός μου άλλο τόσο, γιατί έλεγε πως μ’ αγαπούσε»
(Βλ. Β. Αθανασόπουλος, Οι μάσκες του ρεαλισμού, τόμ. Β΄, ό.π., σ. 596).
56 Αυτή η τυραννική σχεδόν συμπεριφορά μας θυμίζει την συζήτηση στο 577c-580e
της Πολιτείας του Πλάτωνα για την τυραννική ψυχή, τον τυραννικό ανθρώπινο
χαρακτήρα και τον τύραννο, ο οποίος «κατ’ ανάγκην, λόγω της εξουσίας που θα έχει
στα χέρια του, θα είναι, και θα γίνεται ακόμη περισσότερο απ’ ότι ήταν πρωτύτερα,
φθονερός, δόλιος, άδικος, χωρίς φίλους, χωρίς ιερό και όσιο, ένα δοχείο που δέχεται
και καλλιεργεί κάθε λογής κακία, και που εξαιτίας όλων αυτών θα είναι πρωτίστως
ο ίδιος δυστυχισμένος, αλλά και πηγή δυστυχίας, έπειτα, για τους γύρω του» (580e)
[Πλάτων, Πολιτεία, εισαγ. - μτφρ. Ν. Μ. Σκουτερόπουλος, Αθήνα: Πόλις, 2002].
58 Βλ. Β. Αθανασόπουλος, «Ο άγνωστος ποιητής Δ. Γ. Ροδόπουλος», Νέα Εστία, τ. 130,
τχ. 1536 (1 Ιουλίου 1991), σ. 851-859.
59 Β. Αθανασόπουλος, Οι μάσκες του ρεαλισμού, τόμ. Β΄, ό.π., σ. 595. Βλ. επίσης
Κωνσταντίνος Δ. Δημάδης, «Αναζητώντας τις πηγές έμπνευσης και τις πρώτες
μορφές έργων του Μ. Καραγάτση», Νέα Εστία, 164, 1815 (2008), σ. 694-709.
60 Για τον σεξουαλισμό της πεζογραφίας του Καραγάτση, βλ. Μ. Γ. Μερακλής, «Τρεις
παράγραφοι της καραγατσικής πεζογραφίας», Τετράδια Ευθύνης, Επανεκτίμηση του
Μ. Καραγάτση: Είκοσι χρόνια από τον θάνατό του, 14 (1981), σ. 53-63.
61 Α. Καραντώνη, «Ένας πεζογράφος. Μια γόνιμη εικοσαετία: 1935-1955», Τετράδια
Ευθύνης, Επανεκτίμηση του Μ. Καραγάτση: Είκοσι χρόνια από τον θάνατό του, 14
(1981), σ. 127. Για την ερμηνεία της σεξουαλικής επιθυμίας στο έργο του Καραγάτση
447
C u l t ure
ως αμαρτία βλ. Κ. Ε. Τσιρόπουλου, «Για τον Καραγάτση», Τετράδια Ευθύνης,
Επανεκτίμηση του Μ. Καραγάτση: Είκοσι χρόνια από τον θάνατό του, 14 (1981), σ.
114-118.
62 M. Vitti, Ιστορία της νεοελληνικής λογοτεχνίας, μτφρ. Μ. Ζορμπά, Αθήνα: Οδυσσέας,
1987, σ. 378.
63 Βλ. M. Nussbaum, The Therapy of Desire. Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics,
Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1994.
64 Ένα χαρακτηριστικό παράδειγμα από τον Κίτρινο φάκελο για τον Μάνο Τασάκο:
«Έφτασε σπίτι του κι απόθεσε το χειρόγραφο των ‘Κατόχων’ πάνω στο γραφείο
του. Κατόπι ξάπλωσε στη μεγάλη πολυθρόνα, άνοιξε το ραδιόφωνο κι απόμεινε
ν’ ακούη τα ‘Τρελά καμώματα’ του Τιλ Οϋλενσπίγκελ. Αυτό το κομμάτι του έδινε
πάντοτε ιδιαίτερη ευχαρίστηση· το αδιάπτωτο και ψυχρά εγκεφαλικό κέφι του,
ταίριαζε σφικτά στην ιδιοσυγκρασία του. Κανείς αισθηματισμός ή λυρισμός· μόνο
μια απολλώνεια ευφορία νοήμονος εγκεφάλου, που ξέσπαγε σε μελωδίες υψηλής
σατιρικής –αλλά κι αγαθής– υφής. —Δύναμη, αυτοκυριαρχία και ψυχική υγεία,
συλλογίστηκε. Αυτό είναι… (Μ. Καραγάτσης, Κίτρινος φάκελος, ό.π. σ. 137).
65 «It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people do not want
apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them» (P. G. Wodehouse,
‘The Man Upstairs’, 1914). Για μια πρόσφατη φιλοσοφική ανάλυση της απολογίας και
της συγγνώμης όπου υποστηρίζεται το dictum αυτό του Wodehouse, βλ. L. Bovens,
‘Apologies’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, CVIII (2008), σ. 219-239.
66 Adam Smith [1759], The Theory of Moral Sentiments, D. D. Raphael και A.
L. MacFie (eds), Indianapolis: Liberty Classics, 1976, Part I, Sect. I, Ch. I: ‘Of
Sympathy’, §1. Η μετάφραση είναι δική μου.
67 Βλ. F. Nietzsche, Έτσι μίλησε ο Ζαρατούστρα, «Ο Πρόλογος του Ζαρατούστρα»,
μτφρ. Ά. Δικταίος, Αθήνα: Δωδώνη, 1980, σ. 40 (KSA 4:14). Για μια εκτενή
αιτιολόγηση της καθόδου του νιτσεϊκού Ζαρατούστρα από το βουνό βλ. Α. Α.
Πέτρου, Το πέρασμα του Νίτσε: Αλήθεια, Τέχνη και Πολιτισμός, πρόλ. Χαρά
Μπακονικόλα, [Επίμετρο: Φρ. Νίτσε, Σημειώσεις πάνω στην Αρχαία Τραγωδία και
το Σύγχρονο Δράμα (1870), μτφρ. Δ. Δολαψάκης], Θεσσαλονίκη: Ζήτρος, 2007, σ. 132139.
68 Αριστοτέλης, Ρητορική Β, 3, 1380b35-1381a10. Πβ. E. Leontsini, The Appropriation
of Aristotle in the Liberal-Communitarian Debate, with a foreword by Richard
Stalley, Athens: Saripolos Library, 2007, σ. 159-209.
69 Για την κριτική του Nietzsche στην Ποιητική του Αριστοτέλη και γενικότερα για
μια ενδιαφέρουσα απόπειρα σύνδεσης των δύο φιλοσόφων, βλ. Τ. ΠενζοπούλουΒαλαλά, «Nietzsche και Αριστοτέλης. Γύρω από την Γέννηση της Τραγωδίας και
την Ποιητική», στο Τ. Πεντζοπούλου-Βαλαλά (επιμ.), Ο Νίτσε και οι Έλληνες,
Θεσσαλονίκη: Ζήτρος, 1997, σ. 99-134.
70 Για την νιτσεϊκή έννοια της «φιλίας ως αγώνος» και για μια ενδιαφέρουσα σύνδεση
με την νεοαριστοτελική θεωρία, βλ. Α. Πέτρου, «Η θέση της φιλίας στην ηθική: Από
τον Αριστοτέλη στον Νίτσε», στo Κ. Βουδούρης (επιμ.), Η ελληνική φιλοσοφία και η
σχέση της με τα προβλήματα της εποχής μας, Πρακτικά του 20ου Διεθνούς Συνεδρίου
Φιλοσοφίας (Χανιά, 12-17 Ιουλίου 2008), Διεθνής Εταιρεία Ελληνικής Φιλοσοφίας,
Αθήνα: Ιωνία, 2009, σ. 210-225
71 Βλ. Ελένη-Λίζη Λασσιθιωτάκη, «Η αλήθεια στην ηθική του Νίτσε», στο Ε.
Μαραγγιανού (επιμ.), Φιλοσοφίας Αγώνισμα, Μελέτες προς τιμήν του Καθηγητού
Κωνσταντίνου Βουδούρη, Αθήνα: Ιωνία, 2004, σ. 250, υπ. 2.
72 Walter Otto, Dionysus Myth and Culture, trans. Robert Palmer, Bloomington, Ind.:
448
C u l t u re
Indiana University Press, 1965, σ. 415. Το παράθεμα είναι από το άρθρο του D. W.
Conway, ‘Love’s Labor Lost: The Philosopher’s Versucherkunst’, στο S. Kemal, I.
Gaskell and D. W. Conway (eds.), Nietzsche, Philosophy and the Arts, Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1998, σ. 287.
73 Roger Scruton, Sexual Desire, ό.π., σ. 234.
74 Για την ποιητική μανία στον Πλάτωνα, βλ. Κ. Ι. Δεσποτόπουλου, Φιλοσοφία του
Πλάτωνος, Αθήνα: Ακαδημία Αθηνών, Κέντρο Ερεύνης Ελληνικής Φιλοσοφίας, 1997,
Βλ. επίσης Martha C. Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness, Luck and Ethics in
Greek Tragedy and Philosophy, Cambridge, Cambridge Univ. Press, 1986, σ. 200-233,
όπου υποστηρίζεται ότι «ο Πλάτων είχε ως άνθρωπος μία βαθιά κατανόηση για την
ερωτική παρόρμηση και τα κίνητρα της και πως ο Φαίδρος αποτελεί ένα έργο που
αναπτύσσει μία σύνθετη άποψη σχετικά μ’ αυτά τα κίνητρα και αποδέχεται ορισμένα
από αυτά ως καλά. ένα έργο στο οποίο παραδέχεται ότι υπήρξε τυφλός απέναντι σε
κάτι, την ποίηση και τον έρωτα, και γράφει το διάλογο για να ξαναβρεί το φως του,
με τον ίδιο τρόπο που ο Στησίχορος έγραφε την παλινωδία του για την Ελένη της
Τροίας για να ξαναβρεί το φως του που το έχασε επειδή την κατηγόρησε αδίκως».
75 Martha C. Nussbaum, ‘The Transfigurations of Intoxication: Nietzsche,
Schopenhauer, and Dionysus’, στο S. Kemal, I. Gaskell and D. W. Conway (eds.),
Nietzsche, Philosophy and the Arts, ό.π., σ. 65.
76 F. Nietzsche, The Will to Power, Notes from the 1880’s (Wille zur Macht, 1906), μτφρ.
Walter Kaufmann & R. J. Hollingdale, New York, Vilking, 1968, απ. 964, σ. 506. Η
αναφορά αυτή είναι στο Α. Α. Πέτρου, Το πέρασμα του Νίτσε:Αλήθεια, Τέχνη και
Πολιτισμός, ό.π., σ. 132.
77 Α. Α. Πέτρου, Το πέρασμα του Νίτσε: Αλήθεια, Τέχνη και Πολιτισμός, ό.π., σ. 134.
78
Απ’ όσο γνωρίζω, δεν έχει υπάρξει μέχρι σήμερα κάποια
μελέτη από κάποιον μελετητή που να αναλύει συστηματικά τις
φιλοσοφικές επιδράσεις του Nietzsche στο έργο του Μ. Καραγάτση.
79 Βλ. Ελένη-Λίζη Λασσιθιωτάκη, «Η αλήθεια στην ηθική του Νίτσε», ό.π., 250.
80 Βλ. Ελένη-Λίζη Λασσιθιωτάκη, «Η αλήθεια στην ηθική του Νίτσε», ό.π., σ. 248.
81 Φρ. Νίτσε, Έτσι μίλησε ο Ζαρατούστρα, «Ο Πρόλογος του Ζαρατούστρα», μτφρ. Ά.
Δικταίος, Αθήνα: Δωδώνη, 1980, σ. 40 και σ. 43.
82 Α. Α. Πέτρου, Το πέρασμα του Νίτσε: Αλήθεια, Τέχνη και Πολιτισμός, ό.π., σ. 131.
83 Αλέξανδρος Νεχαμάς, Νίτσε: Η ζωή σαν λογοτεχνία, μτφρ. Α. Παπακωνσταντίνου &
Αρχ. Κόρκα, Αθήνα: Αλεξάνδρεια, 2002, σ. 297-345.
84 Βλ. Ρ. Αργυροπούλου, «Η πρόσληψη των ιδεών του Νίτσε στην Ελλάδα», στο Ε.
Μαραγγιανού (επιμ.), Φιλοσοφίας Αγώνισμα, Μελέτες προς τιμήν του Καθηγητού
Κωνσταντίνου Βουδούρη, Αθήνα: Ιωνία, 2004, σ. 79-89 (ανατύπωση στο Ρ. Δ.
Αργυροπούλου, Προσεγγίσεις της Νεοελληνικής Φιλοσοφίας, Θεσσαλονίκη: Βάνιας,
2004, σ. 230-243). Βλ. επίσης Ρ. Αργυροπούλου (επιμ.), Η φιλοσοφική σκέψη στην
Ελλάδα από το 1828 ως το 1922, τόμ. Β΄, Η φιλοσοφία μεταξύ επιστήμης και
θρησκείας, 1876-1922, Αθήνα: Γνώση, 1995, σ. 43-50. Για την υποδοχή των ιδεών
του Νίτσε στην Ελλάδα, βλ. επίσης και Δ. Λαμπρέλλης, Η συνειδητοποίηση του
Ελληνισμού ως «νιτσεϊσμός». Τα περιοδικά «Τέχνη» και «Διόνυσος», Θεσσαλονίκη:
Νέα Πορεία, 1993 και Του Ιδίου, «Ο Νίτσε στην Ελλάδα. Ένα όνομα για όλα και για
τίποτα», στο Τ. Πεντζοπούλου-Βαλαλά (επιμ.), Ο Νίτσε και οι Έλληνες, Θεσσαλονίκη:
Ζήτρος, 1997, σ. 137-156.
85 Ρ. Αργυροπούλου, «Η πρόσληψη των ιδεών του Νίτσε στην Ελλάδα», ό.π., σ. 80.
86 Αυτόθι, σ. 81.
449
C u l t ure
87 Αυτόθι, σ. 82 κ.έ.
88 Μ. Καραγάτσης, Κίτρινος Φάκελλος, ό.π., σ. 173-174.
89 Α. Νεχαμάς, Η τέχνη του βίου, Σωκρατικοί στοχασμοί: από τον Πλάτωνα στον
Φουκώ, μτφρ. Β. Σπυροπούλου, επιμ. Στ. Βιρβιδάκης, Αθήνα: Νεφέλη, 2001, σ. 30.
90 Αυτόθι.
91 Δ. Λαμπρέλλης, Η συνειδητοποίηση του Ελληνισμού ως «νιτσεϊσμός». Τα περιοδικά
«Τέχνη» και «Διόνυσος», ό.π., σ. 152-153.
92 B. Williams, ‘The Women of Trachis: Fictions, Pessimism, Ethics’, στο B.
Williams, The Sense of the Past. Essays in the History of Philosophy, edited with an
introduction by Myles Burnyeat, Princeton & Oxford: Princeton University Press,
2006, σ. 58.
93 Τζίνα Πολίτη, ό.π., σ. 140.
94 Βλ. B. Williams, ‘The Women of Trachis: Fictions, Pessimism, Ethics’, ό.π., σ. 59.
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455
C u l t ure
Figure from Greek Antiquity Diptych
Παρθένης
456
C u l t u re
P a n a y o t a N a zo u
Un i v e r s i t y of Sy d n e y
Αυτοαντίληψη και Aυτοπαρουσίαση:
η αυτοβιογραφία της Μελίνας Μερκούρη,
Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα1
Self-perception and Self-presentation:
Melina Mercouri’s autobiography
I Was Born Greek
Abstract
This article explrores Melina Mercouri’s singular autobiographical
work I Was Born Greek (1971). The title of the autobiography is part of the
famous answer given by Melina Mercouri, in the morning of July 12, 1967,
when it was announced that Stylianos Pattakos2 - one of the three dictators
of the military regime of the 21 April 1967, in Greece, - revoked her Greek
citizenship and confiscated her property. The complete ‘legendary’ answer
was: “I was born Greek, I shall die a Greek. Mr. Pattakos was born a fascist. He
will die a fascist.” (1971: 177 & 1983: 348)
The aim of this article is to investigate the tactics and strategies of selfperception and self-presentation as articulated in Melina Mercouri’s autobiography. Towards this goal, basic concepts, such as “citizenship”, “personal”
and “national identity” are discussed, together with what degree these concepts identify an individual as a citizen of a state, or rather as a human being with existential autonomy.
Also, we discuss the concepts of self-perception and self-presentation
and their interconnectedness; whether the first is a basic requirement of
the second, or if the two are complementary; whether they are influenced
by ‘internal’ (e.g. spiritual, emotional, psychological), or/and external (e.g.,
political, social, gender, and cultural) factors. Furthermore, we investigate
457
C u l t ure
whether autobiography is not only a process of self-perception and selfpresentation, but also a process of self-discovery, and even of self-construction. More specifically, we investigate if, the way in which Mercouri presents
herself, is the result of conscious choices with specific purposes, or rather
the result of internal, emotional and psychological needs of an author to
articulate her subjectivity, or both.
Finally we examine whether Mercouri’s autobiography presents a selfimage that corresponds to the artistic, cultural and political symbol which
we identify her name with the name today.
1. Ιθαγένεια, ταυτότητα και αυτοπροσδιορισμός του ατόμου:
μια εισαγωγική συζήτηση
Εμμένοντας σε ένα βασικό επίπεδο προσδιορισμού των εννοιών
‘ιθαγένεια’ και ‘ταυτότητα’ και της σχέσης μεταξύ τους, θα λέγαμε
ότι: ‘Iθαγένεια’3 (nationality) είναι ο δια νόμου καθορισμένος δεσμός
μεταξύ ατόμου και κράτους. Μέσω αυτού το άτομο εξασφαλίζει δικαιώματα, αλλά και του επιβάλλονται υποχρεώσεις απέναντι στο
κράτος και στους συμπολίτες του. Η ιθαγένεια συνήθως αποκτάται
με βάση τον τόπο όπου γεννήθηκε κάποιος, αλλά και με την εξ αίματος συγγένεια, π.χ. ένας από τους γονείς έχει την ιθαγένεια αυτού
του κράτους. Ο όρος ‘ιθαγένεια’ (nationality) θεωρείται στις περισσότερες περιπτώσεις (όχι πάντοτε) ταυτόσημος και με τον όρο ‘υπηκοότητα’ (citizenship), έτσι την ιθαγένεια ή υπηκοότητα ενός κράτους
μπορεί να αποκτήσει κανείς και οικειοθελώς, με τη διαδικασία της
πολιτογράφησης, εφόσον πληροί τις ανάλογες νομικές προϋποθέσεις,
που ορίζονται από τις διατάξεις του κράτους.
Σε ένα θεωρητικό επίπεδο, οι δύο έννοιες -‘ιθαγένεια’ και ‘υπηκοότητα’- αντιδιαστέλλονται, αφού η πρώτη παραπέμπει σε εθνικές
συνδηλώσεις, δηλαδή σε φυλετική καταγωγή και εθνικές ρίζες -εμπεριέχει δηλαδή χαρακτηριστικά της εθνικής ταυτότητας του ατόμου-,
ενώ η δεύτερη παραπέμπει σε απολυταρχικά συστήματα (π.χ. αυταρχικά μοναρχικά, αποικιοκρατικά, και γενικώς καταπιεστικά), και σε
άνιση σχέση ατόμου με το κράτος-εξουσία, η οποία στηρίζεται από
νομοθεσίες και διατάγματα.
Προσπερνώντας τις διάφορες απόψεις που έχουν εκφραστεί
από την εποχή του Ηροδότου4 μέχρι σήμερα, και ιδιαίτερα από τον
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19ο αιώνα και μετά, περί έθνους και εθνικής, αλλά και ατομικής ταυτότητας (πρβλ. Anderson: 1983, βλ. και Πρυνεντύ, 2000: 51-54), θα
υποστηρίζαμε πως σήμερα οι όροι ‘έθνος’, ‘εθνικότητα’ και ‘εθνική
ταυτότητα’ έχουν περισσότερο ηθικο-πολιτισμική και ελάχιστα νομικο-πολιτική σημασία. Παρόλα αυτά, η εννοιολόγησή τους επηρεάζεται, ανάλογα με το ποιος τους χρησιμοποιεί, για ποιο σκοπό και πότε.
Για παράδειγμα, οι όροι αυτοί προσλαμβάνουν ιδιαίτερα νοήματα,
(π.χ. της φυλετικής καθαρότητας ή πολιτισμικής ανωτερότητας) όταν
εξυπηρετούν εθνικιστικούς, ρατσιστικούς, ή και πολιτικούς σκοπούς.
Βέβαια, το υπαρξιακό και οντολογικό ερώτημα του «ποιος είμαι» ως άτομο ή «ποιοι είμαστε» ως ομάδες/κοινότητες, πάντα ετίθετο, τίθεται και θα τίθεται, ιδιαίτερα σε στιγμές ατομικής ή και
συλλογικής κρίσης (πρβλ. Hall, Held, McGrew, 2003:403 & Hall,
1996:1-17, Δρακόπουλος, 2011: 114). Στην προκειμένη περίπτωση,
και όσον αφορά το θέμα μας, η κατάλυση ενός δημοκρατικού συστήματος και η επιβολή ενός δικτατορικού, όπως και η βίαια αφαίρεση
της ιθαγένειας ενός πολίτη κράτους, δεν μπορούν παρά να αποτελούν στιγμές συλλογικής κρίσης για ένα έθνος, αλλά και ατομικής
κρίσης για ένα άτομο. Ειδικότερα για την ελληνική περίπτωση,
και όσον αφορά την ιθαγένεια ενός πολίτη, το άρθρο 4 του Ελληνικού Συντάγματος (1.975/1.986/2.001μ.α.χ.χ.), παράγραφος 3, ΜΕΡΟΣ
ΔΕΥΤΕΡΟ περί ατομικών και κοινωνικών δικαιωμάτων, ορίζει ότι
«Επιτρέπεται να αφαιρεθεί η ελληνική ιθαγένεια μόνο σε περίπτωση
που κάποιος απέκτησε εκούσια άλλη ιθαγένεια ή που ανέλαβε σε
ξένη χώρα υπηρεσία αντίθετη προς τα εθνικά συμφέροντα, με τις
προϋποθέσεις και τη διαδικασία που προβλέπει ειδικότερα ο νόμος.»
Δηλαδή, όπως γίνεται φανερό, η ιθαγένεια, είναι δυνατόν να αφαιρεθεί από ένα άτομο δια νόμου, ακόμη και όταν είναι ‘κληρονομημένη’, με βάση την πολιτειακή και νομική εννοιολόγηση του όρου, και
όχι με βάση την γενεαλογική, συνειδησιακή, συναισθηματική ή και
ιστορική. Μάλιστα αν κάποιος δεν έχει δεύτερη ιθαγένεια, διατρέχει
τον κίνδυνο να καταστεί, τουλάχιστον από νομικής πλευράς, ‘ανιθαγενής’, ‘ανέστιος’ ή και ‘άπατρις’. Το εύλογο ερώτημα που γεννάται
σε αυτή την περίπτωση είναι, πώς αυτοπροσδιορίζεται κανείς, όχι
όταν εκουσίως επιλέγει μία δεύτερη ιθαγένεια και του αφαιρείται η
πρώτη, αλλά όταν του αφαιρείται η πρώτη και μόνη ιθαγένειά του,
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από ένα αυταρχικό και βίαιο καθεστώς, όπως δηλαδή συνέβη με την
περίπτωση της Μελίνας Μερκούρη, την 12η Ιουλίου του 1967;
2. Η αυτοβιογραφία ως μέσο αυτοπροσδιορισμού
Όπως γίνεται φανερό από τα παραπάνω, το θέμα της ταυτότητας και του αυτοπροσδιορισμού του ατόμου καθίσταται περισσότερο
περίπλοκο εξαιτίας της σημασιοσιολογικής ρευστότητας των ίδιων
των εννοιών. Από την άλλη, επίσης είναι φανερό ότι, μέσα από τους
χώρους της ψυχανάλυσης, των κοινωνικών, πολιτισμικών και πολιτικών επιστημών, έχει αναπτυχθεί ένας κριτικός λόγος για το θέμα
της ταυτότητας και του αυτοπροσδιορισμού του ατόμου που μας έχει
οδηγήσει πολύ μακριά και από τις αντιλήψεις που επικρατούσαν
στην εποχή του Αναγεννησιακού ουμανισμού και του Διαφωτισμού
περί ενός αυτόνομου, αδιαίρετου και αυτο-νοηματοδοτούμενου εαυτού. Ιδιαίτερα στις μέρες μας –στην εποχή του μεταδομισμού και
του μεταμοντέρνου-, ο προσδιορισμός και η εννοιολόγηση των όρων
‘ταυτότητα’ (ατομική, εθνική, πολιτισμική, φυλοτική κ.λπ.), ‘άτομο’,
‘Υποκείμενο’ και ‘εαυτός’ βρίσκονται πάλι στο επίκεντρο θεωρητικών συζητήσεων που αφορούν στη φύση και τις διαδικασίες διαμόρφωσης ταυτοτήτων, ως μια απάντηση στις κοινωνικο-οικονομικές
αλλαγές και το μοντέλο μιας οικουμενικής ή συλλογικής ταυτότητας
που προτείνεται μέσα από την ιδεολογία της παγκοσμιοποίησης. Πιο
συγκεκριμένα, η μετανεωτερική κριτική, ενώ από τη μία αναγνωρίζει στο ‘Υποκείμενο’ (=το άτομο που δρα) απεριόριστες δυνατότητες
για αυτο-ορισμό και αυτο-συγκρότηση, από την άλλη το τοποθετεί σε
έναν κόσμο κατακερματισμένο, «που χαρακτηρίζεται από απουσία
συνολικών οραμάτων και κεντρικών ισχυρών λόγων». Σε ένα τέτοιο
τοπίο, οι ταυτότητες «δεν μπορεί παρά να είναι ρευστές, άστατες,
θραυσματικές, υβριδικές, ...». (Πρβλ. Γκέφου-Μαδιανού, 2006: 18-20
και Hall, 1996) Γι’ αυτό και, ενώ από τη μία προτείνεται ακόμη και
η παντελής κατάργηση του όρου ‘ταυτότητα’, από την άλλη καθίσταται περισσότερο επιτακτική η αναζήτηση μεθόδων εννοιολόγησης
του ‘εαυτού’ και του ‘Αλλου’ και η κατανόηση των τακτικών διαφύλαξης ή και συγκρότησης ‘ταυτοτήτων’.5 Από αυτή την άποψη, η αυτοβιογραφία αποτελεί σίγουρα μία μέθοδο διερεύνησης του ‘εαυτού’
και του ‘΄Αλλου’, και έναν τρόπο αυτοπροσδιορισμού του ατόμου.
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3. Ο τίτλος Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα: μία εύλογη απάντηση στις
‘παρενέργειες’ της αντιφατικής εννοιολόγησης του όρου
‘ιθαγένεια’
Ο Ζακύ Πρυτεντύ, στο κείμενό του «Πολιτισμική ταυτότητα:
μεταξύ μύθου και πραγματικότητας» (σσ. 53-54), υποστηρίζει ότι ο
τίτλος του βιβλίου της Μερκούρη Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα δεν έχει νόημα εκτός και «εάν παραδεχτούμε τη θεώρηση του Έθνους ως ‘βιολογικής οντότητας’ όπου ο σημερινός άνθρωπος καθορίζεται από το
παρελθόν της κοινότητάς του.» Για τον Πρυτεντύ, δεν γεννιέται κανείς Έλληνας, αλλά γίνεται δια της παιδείας, «μέσα στους κόλπους
μιας οικογένειας, μιας γλώσσας, μιας κοινότητας, ενός συνόλου αξιών
και μιας κοινής μοίρας ...» Εξίσου, για τον ίδιο, η δήλωση «είμαι
Ελληνίδα» δεν αποτελεί παρά μια ταυτολογία, εφόσον μπορεί να ερμηνευτεί ως «δεν είμαι κάτι άλλο», που συνεκδοχικά και «αναπόφευκτα» σχετίζεται με τάσεις εθνικιστικές και την αφαιρετική έννοια
του «Έθνους».
Ο τίτλος ενός έργου έχει οριστεί σημειολογικά ως το «περίγραμμα» του περιεχομένου του, και στην προκειμένη περίπτωση, το περιεχόμενο της αυτοβιογραφίας Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα κάθε άλλο παρά
διαπραγματεύεται τη θεώρηση του Έθνους ως μιας ‘βιολογικής οντότητας’, ή υποστηρίζει μια εθνική ταυτότητα και πολιτισμική παράδοση που είναι ‘αμιγής’, ‘εθνικιστική’ και πολύ περισσότερο ‘εχθρική’
προς το ‘Αλλο’.6 Αντιθέτως μάλιστα, το περιεχόμενο της αυτοβιογραφίας αναφέρεται και στο θέμα της εθνικής εχθρότητας (συγκεκριμένα μεταξύ Ελλήνων, Βούλγαρων και Τούρκων), στον τρόπο με τον
οποίο εμποτίζονται οι λαοί με αυτή, και τις πολιτικές σκοπιμότητες
που εξυπηρετεί.
΄Οπως ήδη αναφέρθηκε, οι θεωρητικές αναζητήσεις και ο κριτικός λόγος που προέκυψε από τη συνομιλία της δομικής γλωσσολογίας και των μεταδομικών προσεγγίσεων στους χώρους της ψυχανάλυσης, της κοινωνιολογίας, της ανθρωπολογίας και των πολιτισμικών
σπουδών, των τελευταίων δεκαετιών, προτείνουν πως η συνείδηση
του εαυτού διαμορφώνεται από ευρύτερες δυνάμεις και δομές, όπως
είναι η γλώσσα, οι κοινωνικές σχέσεις, αλλά και το ασυνείδητο, οπότε και η υποκειμενικότητα ή η αντικειμενικότητα του Υποκειμένου
μένουν πάντα εκτεθειμένα, από τη μία στους εκάστοτε πολιτικούς,
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πολιτισμικούς και ιστορικο-κοινωνικούς παράγοντες, και από την
άλλη σε ψυχολογικούς, συναισθηματικούς, πνευματικούς κ.λ. παράγοντες. Λαμβάνοντας υπόψη τα παραπάνω αλλά και τους λόγους που
οδήγησαν τη Μερκούρη στη συγγραφή του Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα, η
επιλογή του τίτλου αυτού μπορεί να ερμηνευτεί και ως μια εύλογη
απάντηση, πλήρη συνεκδοχικών νοημάτων, στις ‘παρενέργειες’ της
αντιφατικής εννοιολόγησης του όρου ‘ιθαγένεια’. Με αυτό εννοούμε
ότι, εφόσον η ιθαγένεια αποκτάται πρωτίστως με την εξ αίματος
συγγένεια και είναι δυνατόν να αφαιρεθεί, πρωτίστως πάλι, δια νομικών διαταγμάτων, είναι επόμενο να ενυπάρχει μια «λανθάνουσα
σύγκρουση» στις ιδιότητες του πολίτη ως νομικό και πολιτικό άτομο και του ανθρώπου ως φυσιολογική, συναισθηματική, ψυχολογική
και πνευματική οντότητα. Ιδιαίτερα μάλιστα όταν αυτά τα νομικά
διατάγματα προέρχονται από ένα πολιτικό σύστημα δικτατορικό,
το οποίο βασίζεται στην κατάλυση της έννοιας της ελευθερίας στην
όποια της μορφή, τότε οι ιδιότητες του πολίτη μπορούν να μεταλλαχτούν σε εκείνες του υποταγμένου υπηκόου ή του θυμωμένου7/
πληγωμένου/επαναστατημένου ‘ανιθαγενή’ και καθόλου υποχρεωτικά εθνικιστή. Στην περίπτωση της Μελίνας Μερκούρη ισχύει το
δεύτερο. Συγκεκριμένα η Μερκούρη θα διευκρινίσει στην αρχή και
προς το τέλος της αυτοβιογραφίας της πως γράφει για δύο κυρίως
λόγους: α) για την αγάπη της προς την Ελλάδα -ως τόπος, φύση και
άνθρωποι- και β) από τον θυμό της προς τους πολιτικούς της (τους
οποίους χαρακτηρίζει ‘σιχαμερούς’), που τους την στέρησαν. Όπως
επίσης γίνεται φανερό από το σύνολο του έργου, ο αυτοπροσδιορισμός της δεν είναι παρά το αποτέλεσμα της σχέσης της με όλα αυτά:
«Εκείνο που αγαπώ περισσότερο στον κόσμο είναι η Ελλάδα,
αλλά δεν μπορώ να δω τη θάλασσά της, τους λόφους της, τον ήλιο
της, [...]. Δεν μου επιτρέπεται να γυρίσω στην Ελλάδα. Γι’ αυτό
γράφω αυτό το βιβλίο.
Η ιστορία αφορά εμένα και τους ανθρώπους που γνωρίζω.
Αφορά την Ελλάδα και την πολιτική της, τις επανειλημμένες
απογοητεύσεις του λαού μου στην προσπάθειά του να πετύχει
ανεξαρτησία από την ξένη κυριαρχία και τους σιχαμερούς
Έλληνες πολιτικούς που υπηρετούν αυτές τις δυνάμεις.
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Δεν θα γράψω με ταπεινοφροσύνη ή με επιφύλαξη, γιατί δεν
είμαι ούτε ταπεινόφρων ούτε επιφυλακτική. Κι αν τη μια στιγμή
φαίνεται πως είμαι μια αχαλίνωτη ηδονίστρια και την άλλη η
Ιωάννα της Λωραίνης, αυτό συμβαίνει γιατί είμαι μια ηδονίστρια
και είμαι η Ιωάννα της Λωραίνης. Πρέπει να προσθέσω γρήγορα,
πως είμαι ηξ Ιωάννα της Λωραίνης μόνο από το 1967. Αυτή ήταν η
χρονιά που έπεσε στην Ελλάδα η κατάρα των Συνταγματαρχών.»
[...]
« Καταλαβαίνω ότι μερικές φορές οι μεταφραστές πρέπει να
κάνουν αλλαγές. Τους δίνω το ελεύθερο. Αυτό που ζητώ να
κρατήσουν αναλλοίωτο είναι ο θυμός μου. Ο θυμός μου είναι ο
λόγος γι’ αυτό το βιβλίο.»
(Μερκούρη, 1983:13-14)
4. Αυτοπροσδιορισμός μέσω γενεαλογικών και φυλοτικών
ταυτίσεων και αποταυτίσεων
Ο Giddens (1991: 53) υποστηρίζει πως η ταυτότητα δεν συγκροτείται με βάση ορισμένα συγκεκριμένα χαρακτηριστικά, αλλά «είναι
ο εαυτός που γίνεται κατανοητός αναστοχαστικά με βάση τη βιογραφία του». Δηλαδή μέσα από τις βιωμένες εμπειρίες του το άτομο
ανακαλύπτει τον εαυτό του. Η αναστοχαστική και δι-υποκειμενική
προσέγγιση του εαυτού επιτρέπει στο άτομο να «διαπραγματευτεί
και να ερμηνεύσει» τις εμπειρίες του και να οδηγηθεί ευκολότερα
στον αυτοπροσδιορισμό του. Επιπλέον προτείνει πως η ταυτότητα
και τα συναισθήματα είναι έννοιες στενά συνδεδεμένες μεταξύ τους
και πως δεν μπορεί να υπάρξει κοινωνική ή ατομική ταυτότητα χωρίς κάποια συναισθηματικά στοιχεία.
Κατά την ανάγνωση της αυτοβιογραφίας Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα, γίνεται φανερό ότι ο πρώτης μορφής αυτοπροσδιορισμός που
επιχειρεί η συγγραφέας είναι γενεαλογικός και φυλοτικός. Ειδικότερα, η συγγραφέας προσδιορίζει τον εαυτό της μέσω της ταύτισης
ή αποταύτισής της με ορισμένα άτομα του στενού τους αρχικά οικογενειακού περιβάλλοντος, των εμπειριών που βίωσε μαζί τους, των
συναισθημάτων που έτρεφε για αυτά και του τρόπου που συνέβαλαν
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στην συνειδητοποίηση του εαυτού της φυσιολογικά, οντολογικά και,
πολύ περισσότερο, φυλοτικά. Για παράδειγμα, το κύριο πρότυπο με
το οποίο επιζητεί να ταυτιστεί η Μερκούρη, στην παιδική της ηλικία,
είναι αυτό του δυναμικού, γοητευτικού, προστατευτικού, αξιοαγάπητου, δίκαιου και αδιαμφισβήτητου για τις ικανότητές του να υποτάσσει αλλά και να υποτάσσεται συναισθηματικά, παππού Μερκούρη
ή αλλιώς του Μεγάλου Σπύρου Μερκούρη.8 Ο παππούς Μερκούρης
είναι ο πρώτος ‘μεγάλος έρωτας’ στη ζωή της Μελίνας. Μέσω αυτού
αντιλαμβάνεται, μεταξύ άλλων, τι σημαίνει δημόσια αποδοχή αλλά
και κοινωνική ισότητα, έκφραση αγάπης και αναγνώριση φιλίας, σχέσεις και θέση των δύο φύλων μέσα σε μια πατριαρχικά ταξινομημένη
κοινωνία. Οι δύο γονεϊκές μορφές -η ταύτιση με τις οποίες, κατά τον
Φρόυντ, αποτελούν την πρωιμότερη έκφραση συναισθηματικού δεσμού-, στην περίπτωση της Μερκούρη κατέχουν δευτερεύουσα θέση,
συγκρινόμενες με αυτή του παππού. Ο πατέρας Σταμάτης Μερκούρης9 -που «χαρόσουν να τον βλέπεις», γιατί «είχε γεννηθεί κομψός»
και με «υπέροχη κορμοστασιά» (σ. 284)-, θεωρείται εφάμιλλος του
Μεγάλου Μερκούρη, ή μάλλον τον ξεπερνά, μόνο σε ό,τι αφορά το
θέμα του γυναικοκατακτητή και των εξωσυζυγικών σχέσεων. Αυτό,
όπως μαρτυρεί η Μερκούρη (σ. 18), στην Ελλάδα «δεν εθεωρείτο ούτε
θεωρείται κατακριτέο. Αντίθετα, εθεωρείτο και θεωρείται σωστό για
τη διατήρηση της αντρικής τιμής.» Μάλιστα, για τον «εντυπωσιακό κατάλογο από απιστίες αλλά και για το ανέμελο θάρρος του», ο
πατέρας της ονομαζόταν «Ντ’ Αρτανιάν» (σ. 19). Όσον αφορά τη μητέρα της, ενώ από τη μία έχουμε αναφορές θαυμασμού και αγάπης
,10 από την άλλη, το μητρικό, ή μάλλον το γυναικείο πρότυπο που
προτείνεται μέσω αυτής, δεν αποτελεί εξαίρεση συγκρινόμενο με το
υπόλοιπο θηλυκού γένους οικογενειακό και εξω-οικογενειακό σύνολο, το οποίο είναι πάντα υποχωρητικό, υπομονετικό, εξυπηρετικό
στις σχέσεις του με το ανδρικό φύλο. Η Μερκούρη, τουλάχιστον από
αυτή την άποψη, θα αρνηθεί εξαρχής να ταυτιστεί μαζί τους και θα
κάνει τις επιλογές της. Γράφει σχετικά:
Ακόμη και σαν παιδί αναγνώριζα το άδικο αυτών των διπλών
κριτηριών. Υπήρχαν πολλοί «Ντ’ Αρ τανιάν» στην Αθήνα, αλλά
όχι αρκετές «Μυλαίδες». Αποφάσισα να γίνω η «Μυλαίδη» ή η
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Λαίδη Χάμιλτον ή η Μεγάλη Αικατερίνη, αλλά ασφαλώς να μην
δεχθώ τη ζωή της μητέρας μου ή της γιαγιάς μου. Με λόγα λόγια,
ήθελα ν’ αλλάξω την εποχή. Αμφιβάλλω αν ήμουν εγώ υπεύθυνη
γι’ αυτό, αλλά οι καιροί έχουν αλλάξει. (σ. 19)
Το θέμα τού ποιος είναι υπεύθυνος για τη συγκρότηση του
εαυτού και τον χαρακτήρα του απασχόλησε σοβαρά και μελετητές
στο χώρο της κοινωνικής και πολιτισμικής ανθρωπολογίας. ( ΓκέφουΜαδιανού, 2006:31) Μεταξύ άλλων υποστηρίζεται από αυτούς και
η άποψη «του καλά συγκροτημένου εαυτού», ο οποίος τολμά να
αμφισβητεί παγιωμένες καταστάσεις και προτεινόμενα πρότυπα.
Η περίπτωση ειδικά της Μελίνας Μερκούρη, θα μπορούσαμε να
υποστηρίξουμε πως συγκέντρωνε αρκετές προϋποθέσεις για έναν
αρκετά καλά «συγκροτημένο εαυτό» -που θα ήταν δηλαδή τολμηρός,
αποφασιστικός και με πλήρη αυτοπεποίθηση-, ώστε να αρνούνταν
να υποταχθεί σε συλλογικές αξίες και κοινωνικά πρότυπα. Ο τρόπος
και το περιβάλλον μέσα στο οποίο έζησε τα παιδικά της χρόνια,11
και οι μετέπειτα επιλογές της στην εντελώς προσωπική της ζωή (π.χ.
οικογενειακές, φιλικές, ερωτικές και συζυγικές σχέσεις της), αλλά
και στην καλλιτεχνική και πολιτική της ζωή, όπως τις εκθέτει η ίδια
στην αυτοβιογραφία της, το αποδεικνύουν αυτό σε μεγάλο βαθμό.
5. Αυτοπροσδιορισμός μέσω της ανακάλυψης του πολιτικού
της προσώπου
Στην Ελλάδα, όπως και σε αρκετές άλλες ‘συντηρητικές’,
από πολιτικής άποψης, κοινωνίες,
υπάρχει η παράδοση των
οικογενειακών πολιτικών δυναστειών ή «τζακιών». Η οικογένεια
Μερκούρη, αν και μετείχε στην πολιτική αρένα της Ελλάδας για
έναν περίπου αιώνα, με κανέναν τρόπο δεν θα μπορούσε να της
αποδοθεί ο χαρακτηρισμός της ‘πολιτικής δυναστείας’. Πρώτον
διότι και τα τέσσερα ‘πολιτικά’ της πρόσωπα δεν επρόσκειντο σε
μία αποκλειστικά πολιτική παράταξη και δεύτερον γιατί το καθένα
από αυτά παρουσίαζε μια προσωπική πολιτική μετεξέλιξη.12 Έτσι,
για την κάθε περίπτωση, θα μπορούσαμε μάλλον να μιλήσουμε για
‘ανακάλυψη’, και όχι ‘κληροδότηση’, του πολιτικού τους προσώπου.
Ιδεολογικά η οικογένεια Μερκούρη επρόσκειντο, από τον 19ο αι.,
στην συντηρητική παράταξη, και ήταν ένθερμοι υποστηρικτές της
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μοναρχίας στην Ελλάδα. Η ίδια η Μελίνα Μερκούρη δεν αποτελούσε
μια εξαίρεση. Όπως θα δηλώσει στην αυτοβιογραφία της (σ. 55), στα
πρώτα χρόνια της ζωής της σκεφτόταν την πολιτική μόνο όταν κάποιο
άτομο της οικογένειάς της ήταν υποψήφιος σε εκλογές. Γενικά όμως
ήταν συντηρητική, δεξιά και φίλη της μοναρχίας. Μάλιστα ένιωσε
μεγάλη απογοήτευση όταν ο παππούς της, ο ‘Μεγάλος Σπύρος’,
άλλαξε παράταξη και έγινε φιλοβενιζελικός. Χαριτολογώντας,
μας αποκαλύπτει την έλλειψη προσωπικής πολιτικής συνείδησης
-σε αντίθεση με τον αδερφό της που ήταν και μικρότερός της, κατά την νεαρή της ηλικία, παρά τον ‘παιδικό φανατισμό’ της.
Όπως δηλώνει, αναγκάστηκε να μπει στην ‘αντιπολίτευση’ όταν ο
Μεταξάς δημιούργησε τη δική του «χιτλερική νεολαία». Μάλιστα θα
διευκρινίσει πως «αν και οι λόγοι ήταν περισσότερο ενδυματολογικοί
και αισθητικοί και λιγότερο πολιτικοί, δεν ήταν λιγότερο
παθιασμένοι». Έτσι, θα προσθέσει, «Σε ηλικία έντεκα χρονών έγινα
αμετάπιστη αντιφασίστρια και αμφίβολη βασιλόφρων».13(σ. 39)
Σε ώριμη πια ηλικία (των 50 ετών), και όταν γράφει την
αυτοβιογραφία της βρισκόμενη εκτός Ελλάδας, ζυγίζει, κρίνει τα
πολιτικά δρώμενα εντός και εκτός της Ελλάδας και ασκεί ‘αυστηρή’
αυτοκριτική, όσον αφορά το «αμαρτωλό» -όπως το χαρακτηρίζειπολιτικό παρελθόν της, ιδιαίτερα κατά την περίοδο της κατοχής και
του εμφυλίου πολέμου στην Ελλάδα, όταν δηλαδή ήταν τότε ηλικίας
20-30 ετών. Για εκείνη την περίοδο της ζωής της δηλώνει πως νιώθει
ντροπή και ενοχή. (σσ. 93 και 111) Όμως, την εποχή που η Μερκούρη
γράφει την αυτοβιογραφία της (το έτος 1970) και εξωτερικεύει τις
σκέψεις και τα συναισθήματά της, είναι πια μια αναγνωρισμένη
διεθνώς αγωνίστρια κατά του δικτατορικού καθεστώτος στην
Ελλάδα, πλήρης πολιτικής αυτογνωσίας και αυτοπεποίθησης, και
αυτό πιστεύουμε πως συνέβαλε αποφασιστικά, ώστε να μην διστάζει
και να ‘αυτο-εκτεθεί’. Σήμερα μπορούμε να υποθέσουμε πως ο αγώνας
της κατά των συνταγματαρχών λειτούργησε και ως αυτοκάρθαρση,
χωρίς καθόλου με αυτό να υπονοούμε ότι στην αυτοβιογραφία της
διακρίνουμε κάποια ίχνη εγωκεντρισμού ή καιροσκοπισμού.
Θα δηλώσει τότε σχετικά η Μερκούρη για τον εαυτό της και την
‘προσωπική της ντροπή’:
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«....Μπορώ να μιλήσω για μένα, ακόμα κι αν αυτό με κάνει ν’
ανατριχιάζω.
Υπήρχαν Έλληνες που συνεργάστηκαν. Ήταν λίγοι. Υπήρχαν
Έλληνες που αντιστάθηκαν. Ήταν πολλοί. Υπήρχαν εκείνοι που
τους διέφθειρε ο φόβος κι η παρουσία του θανάτου. Υπήρχαν
εκείνοι που αποφάσισαν να ζήσουν κάθε μέρα μέχρι τέλους και
να στείλουν στο διάβολο όλα τ’ άλλα, μαζί με τα ιδανικά και τις
ελπίδες για απελευθέρωση. Ήμουν ανάμεσα σ’ αυτούς. Δεν είχα
δικαιολογίες. Ήξερα τι έκανα. Είχα πολλά παραδείγματα κοντά
μου για να μην ξέρω.» (Μερκούρη, 1983:67-68)
Κατά μήκος της αυτοβιογραφίας μάς αποκαλύπτεται, με άμεσο
και έμμεσο τρόπο, η διαδικασία της προσωπικής πολιτικής μετεξέλιξης της Μερκούρη. Θα μπορούσαμε μάλλον να μιλήσουμε για στάδια
ιδεολογικής αφίπνυσης και εσωτερικής πολιτικής ωρίμανσης, μέσα
από τις εμπειρίες της στην καλλιτεχνική και προσωπικής της ζωής.
Για παράδειγμα, γρήγορα αναγνωρίζει την αξία του συνδικαλισμού
και της συναδελφικής αλληλεγγύης (σ. 144), όταν ζει η ίδια την εκμετάλλευση στο χώρο εργασίας της και βλέπει συνεργάτες της να
καταδιώκονται για πολιτικές τους πεποιθήσεις. Θαυμάζει ή κρίνει
πολιτικά πρόσωπα, ανεξάρτητα από την πολιτική τους παράταξη,
με βάση το έργο τους και τις υπηρεσίες τους στον ελληνικό λαό και
την Ελλάδα, και δεν διστάζει να αλλάξει άποψη για αυτά, στο διάστημα της δικής τους πολιτικής πορείας αλλά και της δικής της
πολιτικής ωρίμανσης (π.χ. απόψεις για Έλληνες πολιτικούς όπως ο
Κωνσταντίνος Καραμανλής, ο Γεώργιος Παπανδρέου, ο Ανδρέας Παπανδρέου, αλλά και για ξένους, ιδίως Αμερικανούς). Ενημερώνεται
ιστορικά και πολιτικά, και αντιλαμβάνεται σταδιακά την υποκρισία
συμμάχων κυβερνήσεων (π.χ. Αμερικής, Γαλλίας αλλά και Σοβιετικής Ένωσης) που θυσιάζουν στο βωμό του οικονομικού και πολιτικού
τους συμφέροντος την ελευθερία λαών, υποστηρίζοντας δικτατορικά
καθεστώτα, όπως αυτό της 21ης Απριλίου του ΄67 στην Ελλάδα (σσ.
69-77, 90, 96-97, 235, 370-71 κ.λ.). Δηλώνει ευθέως και χωρίς αναστολές ότι οι κύριοι αίτιοι για όλα τα δεινά της Ελλάδας, στην ιστορική
της πορεία, είναι οι ίδιοι οι πολιτικοί της. Εξίσου όμως τώρα κα-
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τανοεί πως ο φόβος που προκαλεί ο πόλεμος στις ψυχές των ανθρώπων, όπως και τα διάφορα καταπιεστικά καθεστώτα, μπορεί να
τους μετατρέψει σε «κουνέλια, πρόβατα και βατράχους» (σ. 335) ή
και σε ήρωες –όπως στην περίπτωση κάποιων επώνυμων αλλά και
χιλιάδων άλλων ανώνυμων αγωνιστών14-, και σε «Ιωάννα της Λωραίνης» –ακόμη κι αν ένας τέτοιος ρόλος δεν τους ταιριάζει, όπως στην
περίπτωσή της. (σσ. 13-14)
Θα μπορούσαμε να υποστηρίξουμε πως, σε σχέση με τη Μερκούρη και τα όσα η ίδια μαρτυρεί, καταλυτικό ρόλο για τη συμμετοχή της ή μη στα πολιτικά δρώμενα, έπαιξαν επίσης οι άντρες με
τους οποίους συνδέθηκε στη ζωή της. Μέχρι και τη γνωριμίας της
με τον πραγματικό σύντροφο της ζωής της, Τζούλυ/Ζυλ/Ζιλ Ντασέν, το 1955, και τον μετέπειτα πολύπλευρο δεσμό τους (ερωτικό,
καλλιτεχνικό, συντροφικό/ συζυγικό), οι άνδρες με τους οποίους είχε
προηγουμένως συνδεθεί, μάλλον συνέβαλαν στο να ενισχυθεί, ποικιλοτρόπως, ο συντηρητισμός της, ο εγωκεντρισμός της και η πολιτική
της απραξία.15 Ακόμη και η μητέρα της θα ενισχύσει αυτή τη στάση.
Αρκετές φορές μάλιστα θα δηλώσει πως η κόρη της δεν γνωρίζει
από πολιτική, και όταν κυρήχθηκε η δικτατορία στην Ελλάδα, θα τη
συμβουλέψει να μην μιλήσει εναντίον, και γενικώς να απέχει, προτάσσοντας ως δικαιολογία την προσωπική της ασφάλεια και της οικογένειάς της. (σσ. 321, 331-32) Από την άλλη, στην αυτοβιογραφία
έμμεσα γίνεται αντιληπτό πως η σχέση της Μερκούρη με τον Ντασέν16 επηρέασε απόψεις και στάσεις της όσον αφορά τον ίδιο της τον
εαυτό, τις σχέσεις της με τους άνδρες, την πολιτική, τους συνεργάτες
της, ακόμη και το ρόλο του καλλιτέχνη και της τέχνης γενικότερα.17
Αλλά και άμεσα θα δηλώσει η Μερκούρη ότι η σχέση της με τον Ντασέν είχε αλλάξει τις συνήθειές της («υπήρχε μια σπιτίσια τάξη στη
ζωή μου», «είχα δεχτεί ένα μικρό μέτρο πειθαρχίας» (σσ. 223-224)),
και το πιο σημαντικό, τη βοήθησε για να ξεπεράσει την μέχρι τότε
άγνοιά της πάνω σε θέματα πολιτικής και ιστορίας: «Κατάλαβα πως
αν επρόκειτο να μείνω μ’ αυτόν τον άνθρωπο, έπρεπε να μελετήσω
πολύ. Με βοήθησε. Μου πρότεινε βιβλία για να διαβάσω». (σ. 208)
Τέλος, και όσον αφορά τον πολιτικό (αυτο)προσδιορισμό της
Μερκούρη, θα υποστηρίζαμε ότι, όταν το 1967 -και ενώ βρισκόταν
στο Μπρόντγουεϊ, ως πρωταγωνίστρια του θεατρικού μιούζικαλ
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Illya Darling-, πληροφορείται την επιβολή του δικτατορικού καθεστώτος στην Ελλάδα, ο πόλεμος που κηρύσσει εναντίον των συνταγματαρχών ήταν αποτέλεσμα συνδυασμού της πολιτικής της ωριμότητας αλλά και του τολμηρού της χαρακτήρα, που στο παρελθόν την
οδηγούσε σε εντελώς αντίθετης κατεύθυνσης, από πολιτικής άποψης,
στάσεις και επιλογές. Η αφαίρεση της ιθαγένειάς της από τους συνταγματάρχες, την καθιστά μόνο περισσότερο μαχητική και αποφασιστική. Η ανακάλυψη του πολιτικού της προσώπου είχε επιτευχθεί
σταδιακά και σε μεγάλο χρονικό διάστημα, μέσα από τις εμπειρίες
της καθημερινής και καλλιτεχνικής της ζωής, αλλά και μέσα από την
πολιτική και ιστορική πληροφόρηση και αφύπνιση. Θα ολοκληρωθεί
αργότερα με την ένταξή της στο νεοσύστατο σοσιαλιστικό κόμμα
της Ελλάδας Π.Α.Σ.Ο.Κ., και την εκλογή της ως βουλευτή, το 1977,
και υπουργού πολιτισμού το 1981-1989 και 1993-1994, που έρχεται ο
θάνατό της. Παρά την πληθώρα των κυβερνητικών ανασχηματισμών,
σε όλο αυτό το χρονικό διάστημα διακυβέρνησης και αντιπολίτευσης
του Π.Α.Σ.Ο.Κ., η Μερκούρη ήταν η μόνη που παρέμεινε αδιαμφισβήτητη στη θέση της, όπως παρατήρησε και ο ίδιος ο Ανδρέας
Παπανδρέου. Κάποιοι διέβλεψαν, έστω και με σαρκαστικό τρόπο,18
ότι αν δεν είχε πεθάνει πρόωρα, θα είχε επιλεγεί για το ανώτατο πολιτικό αξίωμα της χώρας, αυτό της Προέδρου της Ελληνικής Δημοκρατίας. Πολλοί περισσότεροι πιστεύουν πως θα της άξιζε πιο πολύ
από τον καθένα.
6. Αυτοπροσδιορισμός μέσω αναζητήσεων της πολιτισμικής
και καλλιτεχνικής της ταυτότητας
Ο Georges Gusdorf, θεωρείται ο ‘πατέρας’ των σπουδών της
αυτοβιογραφίας, από την άποψη ότι «έθεσε τα θεμέλια ενός είδους
γραφής που μέχρι τότε θεωρούνταν περιθωριοποιημένο» (πρβλ.
Susan Stanford Friedman, 1988:34). Στο σπερματικό του κείμενο
“Conditions and Limits of Autobiography” (1956), ο Gusdorf υποστηρίζει ότι «η αυτοβιογραφία δεν είναι δυνατή σε ένα πολιτιστικό
περιβάλλον, [...], όπου δεν υπάρχει συνείδηση του εαυτού», ως μια
«διακριτική», «απομονωμένη ύπαρξη» και «σημαντική μονάδα» της
κοινωνίας ( εδώ, Gusdorf, 1980:30). Και ενώ είναι πολλοί οι θεωρητικοί στο χώρο της αυτοβιογραφίας που στηρίζουν το «μοντέλο
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της ξεχωριστής και μοναδικής εαυτότητας» που προτείνει ο Gusdorf
(π.χ. Onley, 1980 και 1972, και Mehlman, 1974) , η Susan Stanford
Friedman που προέρχεται από το χώρο της φεμινιστικής κριτικής,
θα χαρακτηρίσει αυτού του είδους την αυτοσυνειδησία ως «ατομικιστική» (Susan Stanford Friedman, 1988: 34-35), ‘ανδροκεντρική’ και
ως «το ώριμο προϊόν ενός συγκεκριμένου πολιτισμού», που δεν είναι άλλος από τον μετα-Αναγεννησιακό Δυτικό πολιτισμό (Stanford
Friedman, 1988: 29). Σύμφωνα με την ίδια, το μοντέλο της ξεχωριστής και μοναδικής αυτοβιογραφούμενης εαυτότητας που προτείνει
ο Gusdorf, «θέτει τις βάσεις για μια μεροληπτική κριτική που οδηγεί
στη λανθασμένη ανάγνωση και στην περιθωριοποίηση αυτοβιογραφικών κειμένων γυναικών και μειονοτήτων, σε μια διαδικασία για τη
δημιουργία ενός κανόνα.» (Stanford Friedman, 1988: 34) Διευκρινίζει
μάλιστα πως δύο είναι οι λόγοι για την ανεφαρμοσιμότητα αυτού του
μοντέλου: πρώτον, γιατί δεν λαμβάνει υπόψη του τη σημασία για τις
γυναίκες και τις μειονότητες της πολιτισμικά επιβαλλόμενης ομαδικής ταυτότητας, και δεύτερον, παραβλέπει τις διαφορές κοινωνικοποίησης κατά τη διαδικασία κατασκευής της φυλοτικής ταυτότητας
του άνδρα και της γυναίκας (Stanford Friedman, 1988: 35). Έτσι,
η Friedman, αντιστρέφοντας τον τρόπο που ορίζει ο Gusdorf την
κουλτούρα που δεν διαθέτει τις προϋποθέσεις για αυτοβιογραφία,
επανατοποθετεί, όπως υποστηρίζει, τα έργα των γυναικών στο κέντρο του αυτοβιογραφικού κανόνα. Δηλαδή, για την Friedman, η αυτοβιογραφία είναι δυνατή όταν «το άτομο/η γυναίκα δεν αισθάνεται
ότι υπάρχει από μόνο του έξω από τους άλλους, και ακόμη λιγότερο
ενάντια στους άλλους, αλλά πολύ περισσότερο με τους άλλους, ως
μια αλληλοεξαρτώμενη ύπαρξη που επιβεβαιώνει τους ρυθμούς της
παντού μέσα στην κοινότητα ... όπου οι ζωές είναι τόσο πολύ εμπλεγμένες μεταξύ τους ώστε η κάθε μία τους να έχει το κέντρο της παντού
και την περιφέρειά της πουθενά. Έτσι, η σημαντική μονάδα δεν είναι
ποτέ το απομονωμένο ον.» (Stanford Friedman, 1988: 38) Τέλος, αντιπαραθέτοντας το μοντέλο του αυτοβιογραφικού εαυτού του Gusdorf
με εκείνο που προτείνουν γνωστές θεωρητικοί που προέρχονται από
το χώρο της φεμινιστικής κριτικής, θα καταλήξει:
«Ακριβώς αυτή η αίσθηση της ταύτισης, της αλληλοεξάρτησης και
της κοινότητας που ο Gusdorf αποκλείει από τον αυτοβιογραφικό
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εαυτό, αποτελούν τα βασικά στοιχεία για την ανάπτυξη της
γυναικείας ταυτότητας, σύμφωνα με τις θεωρητικούς Rowbothan
και Chodorow. Τα μοντέλα τους για τη γυναικεία εαυτότητα
επισημαίνουν την ασυνείδητη ανδρική προκατάληψη του Gusdorf
και άλλων ατομικιστικών παραδειγμάτων.» (Stanford Friedman,
1988: 38, πρβλ. Rowbothan, 1973 και Chodorow, 1978)
Αν κατά την ανάγνωση της αυτοβιογραφίας της Μελίνας Μερκούρη, Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα, επιζητούσαμε να ανακαλύψουμε ένα
από τα δύο μοντέλα αυτοβιογραφικού εαυτού (αυτό του «απομονωμένου» και «μοναδικού» του Gusdorf, ή το άλλο της «ομαδικής
ταυτότητας» για τη γυναικεία συνείδηση του εαυτού19), θα αντιμετωπίζαμε μεγάλο πρόβλημα. Μάλλον, στην περίπτωση της Μερκούρη
θα λέγαμε πως ταιριάζει το μοντέλο της «νέας συνείδησης» του
αυτοβιογραφικού εαυτού, που προτείνει η Rowbothan, ή και εκείνο
που διαθέτει «το χάρισμα της ‘δεύτερης ματιάς’» του μαύρου, μέσα
στον Αμερικάνικο κόσμο, που είχε προτείνει στις αρχές του 20ού αι.
ο Du Bois.20 Δηλαδή, σε αυτή την περίπτωση, η γυναίκα ή ο μαύρος
μη αναγνωρίζοντας τον εαυτό τους στις πολιτισμικές αντανακλάσεις
που τους προτείνουν οι καθρέφτες «της πολιτισμικής αίθουσας» μιας
ανδροκρατούμενης ή και γενικά καταπιεστικής, συντηρητικής κοινωνίας, αναπτύσσουν «μια διττή συνείδηση» του εαυτού – «τον εαυτό
που ορίζεται μέσα από την κουλτούρα και τον εαυτό ως διαφορετικό
από τις πολιτισμικές περιγραφές.»
Συγκεκριμένα, και όπως ήδη συζητήθηκε, η αυτοβιογραφία της
Μερκούρη προτείνει ότι η ίδια ‘ανακαλύπτει’ τη φυλοτική της, και
ως εκ τούτου και την πολιτισμική ταυτότητα, επιλέγοντας να ταυτιστεί με έναν εαυτό που ήταν αντίθετος των αντανακλάσεων της γυναίκας, μέσα από τους καθρέφτες της «πολιτισμικής αίθουσας» της
ανδροκρατούμενης και καθεστηκυίας κοινωνίας της εποχής της. Από
αυτή την άποψη, ήταν, όπως το δηλώνει και η ίδια, «μία αποστάτις».
Εξασφαλίζει την ατομική της ελευθερία και πετυχαίνει τις καλλιτεχνικές της επιδιώξεις μέσα από έναν παραδοσιακό πολιτισμικό
θεσμό υποτέλειας – το γάμο- αντιστρέφοντας τη λειτουργία του, σε
σχέση με τον εαυτό της. Βιώνει για ένα χρονικό διάστημα το αίσθημα του ‘αποκλεισμού’ και της ‘απόρριψης’ από την καλλιτεχνική
και πολιτιστική κοινότητα της Ελλάδας αρχικά, και της Γαλλίας
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αργότερα –κυρίως λόγω της μεγαλοαστικής καταγωγής της και της
απειρίας, όπως υποστηρίζει η ίδια, ή και εξαιτίας του ‘τυχοδιωκτικού’ της χαρακτήρα, όπως υποστηρίζουν κάποιοι άλλοι. Καταφέρνει
όμως να οδηγηθεί σε μια φυλοτική, πολιτισμική και καλλιτεχνική
χειραφέτηση σπάνια στο είδος της και ίσως μοναδική για την εποχή
της και το πολιτισμικό περιβάλλον μέσα στο οποίο ζούσε, τουλάχιστον μέχρι και τα μέσα της δεκαετίας του ‘50.
Όλα αυτά πιστεύουμε πως τα πετυχαίνει ακριβώς γιατί είχε
το «χάρισμα της δεύτερης ματιάς» που της εξασφάλισε τη «νέα συνείδηση» του εαυτού της. Δεν θα μπορούσαμε όμως να υποστηρίξουμε πως αυτή η «νέα συνείδηση» συνέβαλε και στην απόκτηση
συναίσθησης του μέλους μιας ομαδικής φυλοτικής ή και πολιτισμικής
ταυτότητας. Αντίθετα, την οδήγησε στο να πετύχει αυτή την πολύπλευρη ‘μοναδικότητα’, δηλαδή να μετατραπεί σε σταρ στο χώρο της
έβδομης τέχνης, σε πολιτικό και πολιτισμικό σύμβολο, και κυρίως σε
φυλοτικό σύμβολο χειραφέτησης, για τις νεαρές γυναίκες των επόμενων γενεών, και όχι της εποχής της. Οι περισότερες γυναίκες της
‘καλής κοινωνίας’ στην Ελλάδα του ’50 –όπως και η μητέρα της-,
έτειναν, όπως υποστηρίζει και η ίδια η Μερκούρη, να μην εγκρίνουν
τον τρόπο ζωής της, και αρκετές από αυτές να την ταυτίζουν με τους
ρόλους της (π.χ. της πόρνης) στο θέατρο και στον κινηματογράφο.
Κάποιοι/ες συνεχίζουν να το κάνουν αυτό ακόμη και σήμερα.21
Επεξηγηματικά και όσον αφορά στον αυτοπροσδιορισμό της πολιτισμικής και καλλιτεχνικής ταυτότητας της Μερκούρη, θα προσθέταμε ότι, πέρα από την μεγαλοαστική καταγωγή της, και η ‘αρρενωπή’
θηλυκότητά της22 και ο ‘προκλητικός’ για την εποχή εκείνη ερωτισμός
της23, επενήργησαν αρχικά, όπως μας πληροφορεί και η ίδια στην αυτοβιογραφία της, μάλλον αρνητικά στις καλλιτεχνικές της αναζητήσεις
και στην επίτευξη της πολιτιστικής/πολιτισμικής της αυτοσυνειδησίας.
Η καλλιτεχνική της ‘φλέβα’ και η ερωτική της ζωή ερμηνεύτηκαν ως
εγωκεντρισμός και ως ‘προσβολή’ και πρόκληση για τις συντηρητικές
αρχές της καθεστηκυίας Αθηναϊκής κοινωνίας, ως έλλειψη επαγγελματισμού και συναδελφικής αλληλεγγύης, από συνεργάτες ηθοποιούς
αλλά και κριτικούς του θεάτρου, και ως έλλειψη πολιτικής (για την
αριστερή ιδεολογικά παράταξη) και πολιτιστικής/πολιτισμικής συνείδησης (για τους ‘φύλακες’ της πολιτιστικής μας κληρονομιάς).
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Αλλά, και όπως η ίδια η Μερκούρη ομολογεί, κατά την περίοδο
του ‘αμαρτωλού’ πολιτικού της παρελθόντος, δεν ήταν σε θέση να
διακρίνει τη σχέση που υπάρχει μεταξύ πολιτισμικότητας και πολιτικής (ή και οικονομικής) υποδούλωσης, όπως και μεταξύ της δικής
της καλλιτεχνικής κατεύθυνσης (π.χ. πίστευε ότι της ταίριαζε μόνο
η κωμωδία του βουλεβάρτου) και της πολιτισμικής της συνείδησης.
Το μόνο που την ενδιέφερε αυτή την περίοδο ήταν η προσωπική της
καλλιτεχνική ανάδειξη. Αργότερα (αρχές του ’50), και ενώ είχε αρχίσει να αποκτά «τις ιδιότητες του πολίτη» (Μερκούρη, 1983: 141),
πίστευε, και θα συνεχίσει να πιστεύει μέχρι και το 1967, ότι μεταξύ
άλλων, ρόλος της τέχνης και του καλλιτέχνη είναι και η ανάδειξη/διαφήμιση της Ελλάδας στο εξωτερικό –ως φύση, πολιτισμός και κουλτούρα-, με απώτερο σκοπό την οικονομική και πολιτιστική ενίσχυσή
της. Τα επιχειρήματα - αριστερής στην ιδεολογία συναδέλφου και
φίλης της (Μερκούρη, 1983:144-146 και 150-151) που αποδείκνυαν24
ότι η καλλιτεχνική κίνηση στην Ελλάδα αποτελούσε «αντανάκλαση
της πολιτικής και κοινωνικής [της] κατάστασης», όπως επίσης και
ότι η οικονομική εξάρτηση οδηγεί και στην πολιτική και πολιτισμική-, δεν πείθουν τη Μερκούρη αυτή την εποχή. Η ίδια θα αγωνιστεί
για αυτά που πίστευε και θα αναδειχθεί επίσης, μέσω των καλλιτεχνικών της επιτυχιών, της φυσιογνωμίας και του χαρακτήρα της, σε
σύμβολο της «χαράς της ζωής» και του «νεοελληνικού ψυχισμού». Οι
οικονομικοί και πολιτικοί παράγοντες του έθνους θα της αναθέσουν
το ρόλο της «ανεπίσημης πρέσβειρας» στο εξωτερικό, προβάλλοντας
όμως έναν ελληνικό πολιτισμό περισσότερο του εμπορίου και της
πολιτικής και ελάχιστα της μεταπολεμικής βασανισμένης ελληνικής
κοινωνίας. Εκείνη, πιστεύοντας πως βοηθάει τον τόπο της, θα τον
αποδεχτεί.25 Αργότερα, με τη δικτατορία, θα κατανοήσει την πλάνη
της και θα τον αρνηθεί.
Από την άλλη, όπως γίνεται επίσης φανερό, η σταδιακή καλλιτεχνική ωρίμανση της Μερκούρη την οδηγεί σε μιας άλλης μορφής
πολιτισμική και πολιτιστική αυτοσυνειδησία. Μέσα από τις καλλιτεχνικές της αναζητήσεις (στο θέατρο αρχικά και στον κινηματογράφο
αργότερα) , ανακαλύπτει πλευρές του ελληνικού πολιτισμού και της
παιδείας που ήταν μέχρι τότε άγνωστες, ή και απορριπτέες, όχι μόνο
για την ίδια, αλλά και για τους περισσότερους Έλληνες - ιδιαίτερα
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για εκείνους που αρέσκονταν να βλέπουν σε κάθε έκφανση του νεοελληνικού πολιτισμού, κλασικιστικές ρίζες. Μέσα από τις εμπειρίες
της στη δραματική σχολή του Εθνικού Θεάτρου θα ανακαλύψει ότι η
εμμονή σε άκαμπτες κλασικές τεχνικές εμποδίζουν τις ανανεωτικές
τάσεις στο χώρο της τέχνης (π.χ. βλέπε αντιπαράθεση του μεγάλου
κλασικιστή, στην τεχνική του θεάτρου, Δημήτρη Ροντήρη με τον νεωτεριστή Κάρολο Κουν), όπως επίσης ότι και ο μεγαλύτερος και πιο
θαυμαστός δάσκαλος μπορεί να ‘τρώει τα παιδιά του’, κρατώντας
τα αιχμάλωτα (περίπτωση Ροντήρη), λόγω της τελειομανίας και μεγαλομανίας του.26 Η ‘απόδραση’ τής Μερκούρη από το ‘ασφυκτικό
αγκάλισμα’ του κλασικιστή Ροντήρη και η συνεργασία της με τον νεωτεριστή Κουν την βοήθησαν να σκέφτεται περισσότερο φιλελεύθερα όσον αφορά την τέχνη της, και να ανακαλύψει τις καλλιτεχνικές
της ικανότητες μέσα από ‘πιο σύγχρονους’ θεατρικούς χαρακτήρες,
με τους οποίους μπορούσε να ταυτιστεί. Όπως για παράδειγμα μας
λέει η ίδια, δεν γνώριζε απλώς τον ρόλο της Μπλανς στο «Λεωφορείο
ο Πόθος» του Τένεσι Ουίλιαμς, αλλά «ήταν η Μπλανς»:
«Ω Θεέ μου!», είπα, «την Μπλανς!».
«Πρέπει να ξέρεις το ρόλο της Μπλανς», λέει η Δώρα [Στράτου]
και με κοιτάζει απορημένη γιατί κλαίω.
«Αν ξέρω την Μπλανς;», είπα κλαίγοντας με λυγμούς. «Είμαι η
Μπλανς. Αλλά δεν μπορώ να την παίξω.»
[...]
«Ο Ροντήρης δεν θα με συγχωρούσε ποτέ.»
«Δεν θα συγχωρήσεις ποτέ τον εαυτό σου αν δεν την παίξεις».
(Μερκούρη, 1983: 116)
Η είσοδος της Μερκούρη στον χώρο του κινηματογράφου -τον
οποίο μεγάλοι ‘πατέρες’ του θεάτρου, όπως ο Δημήτρης Ροντήρης,
θεωρούσαν ως βέβηλο- θα μπορούσε να θεωρηθεί και ως φυσικό επακόλουθο των παραπάνω εξελίξεων. Αυτός ο νέος ή και συγγενικός
καλλιτεχνικός χώρος οδήγησε τη Μερκούρη στην ανακάλυψη μιας
άλλης, περιθωριοποιημένης πλευράς της πολιτισμικής της κληρονομιάς –αυτής που σχετίζονταν με τη λαϊκή μουσική και το τραγούδι,
τις σκοτεινές λαϊκές ταβέρνες του Πειραιά, τις εργατικές συνοικίες
της Αθήνας και της Θεσσαλονίκης -με αυτό δηλαδή που αποτελούσε
τον ελληνικό «λαϊκό ψυχισμό», που η ‘καλή’ αστική όμως ελληνι474
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κή κοινωνία ταύτιζε και με τον υπόκοσμο. Η γνωριμία, οι επαφές
και συνεργασία με προσωπικότητες και καλλιτέχνες όπως η Δώρα
Στράτου, ο Μάνος Χατζηδάκις, ο Τσιτσάνης, ο Μίκης Θεοδωράκης,
ο Μιχάλης Κακογιάννης κ.λ., της αποκάλυψαν τη μαγεία του μπουζουκιού και των λαϊκών οργάνων, τις απελευθερωτικές δυνάμεις του
ζεϊμπέκικου, την αξία γενικά της λαϊκής μας παράδοσης, όπως και
τις καλλιτεχνικές προκλήσεις του κινηματογράφου, σε αντιπαράθεση με το θέατρο. (Μερκούρη, 1983: 151-160) Η Μερκούρη από εκεί
και πέρα θα ταυτιστεί και θα ανακαλύψει πλευρές του εαυτού της,
πολύ περισσότερο μέσα σε αυτές τις νέες, για την ίδια, εκδοχές του
ελληνικού πολιτισμού και λιγότερο σε εκείνες που της είχαν προταθεί και είχε βιώσει μέχρι και τα μέσα της δεκαετίας του ’50. Σημαντικά κινηματογραφικά έργα όπως η Στέλλα (1955) και Never on
Sunday (1959), στα οποία πρωταγωνιστεί η Μερκούρη εκείνη την
περίοδο, και που γεννήθηκαν μέσα από αυτή την όψη του νεοελληνικού ‘ψυχισμού’, θεωρούνται μέχρι σήμερα σταθμός για τον ελληνικό
και ξένο κινηματογράφο, και για την νεοελληνική κουλτούρα και τον
πολιτισμό. Από την άλλη, δεν θα πρέπει να αγνοήσουμε το γεγονός
ότι η ίδια η Μερκούρη, ως χαρακτήρας και ψυχισμός, ενέπνευσε στην
γένεση κινηματογραφικών χαρακτήρων, όπως αυτών της Στέλλας27
και της Ίλλυας, που με τη σειρά τους την κατέστησαν σύμβολο φυλοτικό, καλλιτεχνικό και πολιτισμικό, σε παγκόσμια κλίμακα.
7. Αντί συμπεράσματος: Η αυτοβιογραφία, μία αυτοεικόνα εν
τω γίγνεσθαι
Η αυτοβιογραφία ως είδος λόγου και γραφής συνδέεται άμεσα
με τις έννοιες της αυτοαντίληψης και της αυτοπαρουσίασης. Για
πολλούς η αυτοαντίληψη θεωρείται ταυτόσημη της (ε)αυτογνωσίας
ενώ για άλλους η αυτοαντίληψη ‘χτίζεται’ επάνω στην αυτογνωσία.
(πρβλ. Λεονταρή, 1998 και Goleman, 1998)28 Οι αρχαίοι Έλληνες φιλόσοφοι έθεταν ως βάση της ηθικής προαγωγής του ανθρώπου το
δελφικό «Γνώθι σαυτόν», την εις βάθος δηλαδή γνώση του εαυτού
(πρβλ. Πλάτων, Φαίδρος: 230 Α), πράγμα το οποίο όμως αμφισβήτησαν τόσο η Λογική όσο και η Ψυχολογία. Για τη Λογική το ίδιο άτομο δεν γίνεται να καταστεί ταυτόχρονα υποκείμενο και αντικείμενο,
παρατηρητής και παρατηρούμενος, ενώ για την Ψυχολογία ο άνθρω475
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πος δεν επιθυμεί, ή και δεν έχει την ψυχική δύναμη να γνωρίσει όλες
τις πλευρές του εαυτού του και για αυτό πολλές φορές αυταπατάται
και οδηγείται σε λάθος συμπεράσματα. (Διαμαντόπουλος, 1993: 104106)
Προέκταση αυτών των αντιλήψεων μπορεί να θεωρηθεί και η
πρώιμη έρευνα της Ψυχολογίας και Κοινωνιολογίας πάνω στο θέμα
της αυτοπαρουσίασης, η οποία εστίαζε την προσοχή της κυρίως στα
κίνητρα -και ιδιαίτερα στο πώς το άτομο προσαρμόζει τη συμπεριφορά του για να ανταποκριθεί στις προτιμήσεις ή τις προσδοκίες
του κοινού-, ενώ αγνοούσε γενικότερα το θέμα της προσωπικότητας (Goffman, 1959, πρβλ. Baumeister, 1986: VII).29 Τις τελευταίες δεκαετίες, το ενδιαφέρον για την αυτοπαρουσίαση επεκτάθηκε,
σε συνδυασμό με την αύξηση του ενδιαφέροντος της έρευνας του
‘εαυτού’30. Όπως συγκεκριμένα παρατηρούν και οι Baumeister &
Tice (1986:63), «Η αυτοπαρουσίαση άρχισε να θεωρείται από ορισμένους επιστήμονες ως μια από τις κύριες διαδικασίες του εαυτού. Ο
Schlenker (1980) περιέγραψε την αυτοπαρουσίαση ως μία υπόθεση
διεκδίκησης ταυτότητας, ενώ ο Hogan (1982) την περιέγραψε ως μία
από τις 2-3 σημαντικότερες διαδικασίες της προσωπικότητας. Το σημαντικό από αυτές τις απόψεις είναι ότι η αυτοπαρουσίαση είναι ουσιώδης και απαραίτητη υπόθεση της διαδικασίας για να γίνομε αυτό
που θέλομε. Κατά έναν σημαντικό τρόπο, ο εαυτός υπάρχει καθώς
παρουσιάζεται στους άλλους.»
Σήμερα αρκετοί μελετητές της αυτοβιογραφίας, όπως και η ίδια
η Friedman παραδέχονται πως, μία από τις πιο σημαντικές προτάσεις του ‘πατέρα’ των σπουδών της αυτοβιογραφίας Georges Gusdorf
ήταν ότι ο αυτοβιογραφικός εαυτός δομείται/δημιουργείται κατά την
διαδικασία της γραφής, και έτσι δεν μπορεί να αναπαράγει ακριβώς
πλευρές του εαυτού, έτσι όπως τις έζησε στο παρελθόν. (Gusdorf: 35
και 41, πρβλ. Friedman, 34 και Onley,1980: 25) Εμείς, από την πλευρά μας υποστηρίζουμε ότι, κατά τη διαδικασία της αυτοπαρουσίασης
αποκαλύπτουμε, ανακαλύπτομε, ή και δομούμε/κατασκευάζουμε μια
αυτοεικόνα που μπορεί να πλησιάζει λίγο, πολύ ως και καθόλου, σε
αυτό που θα μπορούσαμε να αποκαλέσουμε ως ‘πραγματική εικόνα’
του εαυτού μας στο παρελθόν ή και σήμερα ακόμα. Τα κίνητρα και
οι προθέσεις του συγγραφέα - που μπορεί να είναι συνειδητά ή και
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ασυνείδητα- σίγουρα παίζουν το ρόλο τους, για την αυτοεικόνα που
μας παρέχεται, όμως για τον μελετητή, στην προκειμένη περίπτωση, η
μόνη ‘πραγματικότητα’ είναι η αυτοβιογραφία που έχει μπροστά του.
Το αν θα την αντιμετωπίσει ως ιστορικό ντοκουμέντο ή ως μυθοπλασία -γυρεύοντας ‘αλήθειες’ ή ‘μύθους’-, ή ως κάτι που κινείται ανάμεσα
στα δύο αυτά είδη λόγου και γραφής –οπότε η ‘πραγματική αλήθεια’
πάντα θα μας διαφεύγει-, έγκειται στον εκάστοτε μελετητή.
Αναφορικά με ετούτη την ανάγνωση της αυτοβιογραφίας της
Μελίνας Μερκούρη, Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα, θα λέγαμε συμπερασματικά ότι εστιάσαμε την προσοχή μας περισσότερο στις όψεις και τακτικές δόμησης της αυτοεικόνας που εκείνη μας προτείνει, χωρίς να
επιμείνουμε σε προθέσεις, αλήθειες, ανακρίβειες, ή και εσκεμμένες
μυθοποιήσεις. Σε μια πολύ επιφανειακή σύγκριση της ίδιας της αυτοβιογραφίας της Μερκούρη με τη βιογραφία τής Φρίντας Μπιούμπι,
Μελίνα: μία Θεά με το Διάβολο μέσα της , θα παρατηρούσαμε ότι η
δεύτερη μας προτείνει μία θέαση εκ των έξω31, μιας προσωπικότητας
που μπορεί βιολογικά ο κύκλος της να έχει κλείσει, όμως η λάμψη
της και η επήρειά της, ως καλλιτεχνικού, πολιτισμικού και πολιτικού συμβόλου, παραμένουν αισθητά σε παγκόσμια κλίμακα.
Notes
1 Πρώτη έκδ. στα αγγλικά, με τίτλο I Was Born Greek. London: Hodder and
Stoughton, 1971. (Πρώτη έκδοση στα ελληνικά, με τίτλο Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα,
Αθήνα: Ζάρβανος, 1974 . Οι αναφορές που γίνονται εδώ βασίζονται στην επανέκδοση
του 1983, στα ελληνικά).
2 Την εποχή εκείνη ο Παττακός, μεταξύ άλλων, διατελούσε και καθήκοντα Υπουργού
Εσωτερικών της στρατοκρατούμενης Ελλάδας.
3
Για τον όρο ‘ιθαγενής’, και κατ’επέκταση και ‘ιθαγένεια’, και τη σημασιολογία του,
ο Μπαμπινιώτης (1998:779-80)) δίνει δύο πιθανές ετυμολογικές εξηγήσεις: α) ότι το
πρώτο συνθετικό ί-θα< έν-θα, οπότε η λέξη θα σήμαινε ‘αυτόχθων’, και β) ότι το
ίθα<ίθαι (τότε πιθανώς να συνδέεται με το ‘ιθαρός’ = αγνός, καθαρός), οπότε η λέξη
‘ιθαγενής’ θα σήμαινε «ο νομίμως γεννηθείς, ο ευγενής», σημασία με την οποία τη
συναντούμε στον Όμηρο. Ο όρος ‘ιθαγένεια’ μαρτυρείται στα Ελληνικά από το 1848,
και θεωρείται απόδοση του γαλλικού όρου ‘nationalité’.
4 Στον Ηρόδοτο, η λέξη ‘έθνος’ σήμαινε το σύνολο των ανθρώπων που διακρίνονται
γοα το «όμαιμον», «ομόγλωσσον», και έχουν κοινή θρησκεία και κοινά ήθη και έθιμα.
5 O Hall (1996) υποστηρίζει ότι ο όρος δεν δύναται να καταργηθεί, εφόσον μέχρι
σήμερα δεν έχει προταθεί κάτι το καλύτερο. Από την άλλη, η Moore (1994: 81)
προτείνει να αντικατασταθεί με τον όρο «υβριδιακά υποκείμενα». Πρβλ. ΓκέφουΜαδιανού, σσ. 20-21.
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6 Ίσως εδώ αξίζει να αναφερθεί πως μεταξύ των εννοιών του διεθνισμού και του
εθνικισμού υπάρχει και εκείνη του πατριωτισμού, και ήδη έχει ειπωθεί πως
καλύτερος πατριώτης είναι ο μεγαλύτερος διεθνιστής, ή όπως αλλιώς το έθεσε ο
Ζαν Ζορές «Λίγος διεθνισμός σ’ απομακρύνει απ’ την πατρίδα, πολύς διεθνισμός σε
ξαναφέρνει σ’ αυτήν». (πρβλ. Αξιώτη, 1983:182)
7 Βλ. σ. 384 αυτοβιογραφίας όπου και γράφει σχετικά «... Καταλαβαίνω ότι μερικές
φορές οι μεταφραστές πρέπει να κάνουν αλλαγές. Τους δίνω το ελεύθερο. Αυτό που
ζητάω να κρατήσουν αναλλοίωτο είναι ο θυμός μου. Ο θυμός μου είναι ο λόγος γι’
αυτό το βιβλίο.»
8 Σπύρος Μερκούρης ή ο Μεγάλος Σπύρος (1856-1939), δήμαρχος Αθηναίων,
κατά την ίδια τη Μερκούρη για 30 ολόκληρα χρόνια. Βέβαια οι χρονολικοί
υπολογισμοί δείχνουν αλλιώς, δηλαδή διετέλεσε δήμαρχος Αθηναίων περίπου 18
χρόνια (1/12/1899-31/3/1914 και 1/9/1929-31/3/1932). Το όνομα ‘Μεγάλος Σπύρος’
πρέπει μάλλον να το χρησιμοποιούσαν στο στενό οικογενειακό περιβάλλον, όταν
αναφέρονταν στον παππού Σπύρο Μερκούρη, για δύο λόγους. Ο ένας ήταν για να
τον διαχωρίζουν από τον νεότερο Σπύρο Μερκούρη, αδερφό της Μελίνας Μερκούρη,
και ο άλλος πρέπει να είναι διότι ταίριαζε στην προσωπικότητά του. Όπως γράφει η
Μερκούρη στην αυτοβιογραφία της (σ. 15), «Ο Σπύρος [ο Μεγάλος] ήταν η ανώτατη
εξουσία. Όλοι ήμασταν σκλάβοι του αλλά ήταν μια γλυκιά σκλαβιά».
9 Σταμάτης Μερκούρης: βουλευτής συντηρητικής (αντιβενιζελικής) παράταξης από
τα 22 του χρόνια. Για ένα μικρό διάστημα (10/10-3/11/1935) υφυπουργός παρά τω
πρωθυπουργώ. Την εποχή αυτή συνέβαλε στην επαναφορά της βασιλείας στην
Ελλάδα. Εξορίστηκε κατά την περίοδο Μεταξά. Διετέλεσε υπουργός δημοσίας
τάξεως , 22/11/1945-27/2/1946 και δημοσίων έργων 27/2/1946-11/3/1946. Το 1950,
βουλευτής Ε.Π.Ε.Κ., και το 1952 με τον Συναγερμό Παπάγου. Συμμετείχε χωρίς
επιτυχία στις εκλογές του 1951 με το Κόμμα Φιλελευθέρων, και το 1956 με την
Ε.Ρ.Ε.. Το 1958, 1963, 1964 βουλευτής Ε.Δ.Α. Η ίδια η Μερκούρη θα δηλώσει πως
ήταν πολύ ευχαριστημένη που «είχε μεταπηδήσει στην αριστερά», έναν προοδευτικό
συνασπισμό, χωρία όμως να είναι και κομμουνιστής, όπως τον χαρακτήριζε ο τύπος
της δεξιάς. (σ. 284)
10 Γράφει στην αυτοβιογραφία της η Μερκούρη, «Λάτρευα τη μητέρα μου. Ήταν νέα.
Ήταν όμορφη και θαυμάσια στη συντροφιά. Οι άνθρωποι που με ξέρουν πραγματικά
ξέρουν πως σ’ όλη μου τη ζωή μιμούμαι τη μητέρα μου, και ιδιαίτρα τον τρόπο που
γελάει.» (σ. 41) Αλλού βέβαια έχουμε διαφορετικού είδους αναφορές, π.χ. ότι σχεδόν
πάντοτε η μητέρα της ήταν αντίθετη στις αποφάσεις και στον τρόπο ζωής που
επέλεγε η Μελίνα.
11 Εδώ θα πρέπει να τεθεί το ερώτημα, πώς ορίζεται ένας «καλά συγκροτημένος
εαυτός» και τι συμβάλλει στη δόμησή του. Από την άλλη επίσης θα πρέπει να
αναφερθεί ότι η Μερκούρη, ενώ αναφέρεται στο βαθμό που επηρέασε τον παιδικό
της ψυχισμό ο ερωτικός δεσμός του παππού της με μια άλλη γυναίκα -την οποία
μάλιστα εκείνος έδειχνε πως αγαπούσε-, από την άλλη δεν κάνει καμία αναφορά
αν επηρεάστηκε ή όχι από την εγκατάλειψή τους από τον πατέρα της. Αντίθετα,
αναφέρεται στο πόσο επεδίωκε να μην ξαναπαντρευτεί η μητέρα της.
12 Ο Σπυρίδων Μερκούρης ή Μεγάλος Σπύρος από συντηρητικός φιλοβασιλικός έγινε
φιλοβενιζελικός. Διετέλεσε δήμαρχος Αθηναίων τις περιόδους 1899-1914 και 19291932. Το 1929 εξελέγη και βουλευτής Αττικοβοιωτίας. Το 1916 κατηγορήθηκε για τα
Νοεμβριανά, καταδικάστηκε σε θάνατο και εξορίστηκε στην Κορσική.
Για τα στάδια της πολιτικής καριέρας του Σταμάτη Μερκούρη, βλ. παραπάνω σημ. 9.
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Ο νεότερος Σπύρος Μερκούρης και αδερφός της Μελίνας, αν και δεν πολιτεύτηκε
άμεσα, φαίνεται πως από νεαρά ηλικία διέθετε, κατά τη Μελίνα πάλι, κριτικό
πολιτικό νου και είχε πιο ξεκάθαρες πολιτικές επιλογές. Συμμετείχε στην εθνική
αντίσταση και σε οργανώσεις κατά των συντηρητικών καθεστώτων στην Ελλάδα, και
ήταν ένα από τα ιδρυτικά μέλη του Π.Α.Σ.Ο.Κ..
Η ίδια η Μελίνα από συντηρητική, φιλοβασιλική, μετεξελίχθηκε σε σύμβολο του
αντιδικτατορικού αγώνα, κατά την περίοδο 1967-1974. Συνακόλουθα αποτέλεσε ένα
από τα κύρια στελέχη του Π.Α.Σ.Ο.Κ., επί πρωθυπουργίας Ανδρέα Παπανδρέου, ως
βουλευτής και υπουργός Πολιτισμού, μέχρι το θάνατό της.
Το τέταρτο άτομο-πολιτικός της οικογένειας Μερκούρη είναι ο μεγαλύτερος γιος
του Σπυρίδωνος Μερκούρη και θείος της Μελίνας, Γεώργιος Μερκούρης. Το 1915
εξελέγη βουλευτής Αττικοβοιωτίας με το Λαϊκό Κόμμα. Και εκείνος εξορίσθηκε
στην Κορσική, λόγω των πολιτικών του πεποιθήσεων, το 1920. Το 1922 επανεξελέγη
βουλευτής. Το 1932 αποχώρησε από το Λαϊκό Κόμμα, του οποίου ήταν
αντιπρόεδρος, και αλλάζει πολιτική κατεύθυνση. Ίδρυσε το Εθνικοσοσιαλιστικόν
Κόμμα Ελλάδος, που ανήκε στη φασιστική παράταξη και λειτούργησε κατά την
περίοδο της Κατοχής. Συνεργάστηκε με τον Γιάννη Ράλλη ο οποίος ίδρυσε τα
«Σώματα Ασφαλείας» και το 1943 έγινε πρωθυπουργός. Ο Ράλλης τον διόρισε,
το 1943, διοικητή της Εθνικής Τράπεζας της Ελλάδος, αλλά μέσα στον ίδιο χρόνο
πέθανε. Ο μικρότερος αδερφός του και πατέρας της Μελίνας, Σταμάτης Μερκούρης,
καθώς και ο αδερφός της, Σπύρος Μερκούρης, αρνήθηκαν να παραβρεθούν στην
κηδεία του, εξαιτίας των φασιστικών του πεποιθήσεων. (βλ. και σσ. 75-76)
13 Η ΕΟΝ (Εθνική Οργάνωση Νεολαίας) ιδρύθηκε το 1936, από τον Μεταξά, οπότε
η Μερκούρη ήταν τότε ηλικίας 16 ετών. Τέτοιου είδους χρονολογικές ανακρίβειες
διακρίνουμε και άλλες στο βιβλίο. Στο θέμα αυτό θα αναφερθούμε παρακάτω.
14 Η Μερκούρη αναφέρεται στις περιπτώσεις Μπελογιάννη, Γλέζου και Παναγούλη,
αλλά και στην Έλλη, τον Αλέξη και τον Μήτσο, σε αντιπαράθεση με εκείνους που
συνεργάστηκαν με τους Γερμανούς, όπως ο θείος της ο Γιώργος. (σσ. 69-76, 146-48)
15 Ο πρώτος άνδρας της, Πάνος Χαροκόπος, με το γάμο τους της χάρισε την προσωπική
της ελευθερία, αλλά στις κρίσιμες ώρες της πατρίδας του παρέμεινα απαθής και
αμέτοχος. Το ίδιο διάστημα, ο ερωτικός της σύντροφος, με το ψευδώνυμο Αλέξης
(=Φειδίας Γιαδικιάρογλου) – συνεργάτης Γερμανών και μαυραγοριτών-, της διδάσκει
να ζει το σήμερα, γιατί το αύριο μπορεί να μην υπάρχει γι’ αυτούς. Αργότερα
η ίδια η Μερκούρη θα παρατηρήσει πως όλα αυτά που ζούσε εκείνη την εποχή
ήταν «εκτεθειμένα στη ματαιότητα και την ασημαντότητα.» και πως το μόνο που
την ενδιέφερε ήταν η δική της επιβίωση και των φίλων της. (σ. 88) Ο επόμενος
σύντροφός της, Πύρος Σπυρομίλιος -όμορφος, γεμάτος όρεξη για ζωή, αισιοδοξία και
αισθησιασμό-, όπως ομολογεί η ίδια η Μερκούρη, «μ’ έκανε γυναίκα και με δίδαξε
τι είναι η ηδονή» -τίποτε όμως για την πολιτική κατάσταση της Ελλάδας, αν και ο
ίδιος ήταν στρατιωτικός και είχε παρασημοφορηθεί για τον ηρωισμό του. (σ. 128)
16 Ο Τζούλυ Ντασέν -γνωστός Αμερικανός συγγραφέας και σκηνοθέτης, στο χώρο του
θεάτρου και του κινηματογράφου-, ήταν δηλωμένος αριστερός και περιελαμβανόταν
στη ‘μαύρη λίστα του Χόλυγουντ’. Το 1955, που γνωρίζεται με τη Μερκούρη,
βρίσκεται εξόριστος και ‘ανιθαγενής’ στη Γαλλία, και υφίσταται όλες τις συνέπειες
στην επαγγελματική και προσωπική του ζωή, εξαιτίας του μακαρθισμού στην
Αμερική.
17 Πρβλ. τον τρόπο με τον οποίο ο Ντασέν ανταπέδωσε στη Μερκούρη το χαστούκι
που εκείνη έδωσε σε συνεργάτη τους, κατά την διάρκεια του γυρίσματος της
ταινίας Ποτέ την Κυριακή (σσ. 239-242). Επίσης, τον τρόπο με τον οποίο αρνείται να
εκμεταλλευτεί τεχνικούς και ηθοποιούς κατά τα γυρίσματα των ταινιών Αυτός που
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πρέπει να πεθάνει και Ποτέ την Κυριακή, ενώ αντιμετωπίζει μεγάλα οικονομικά
προβλήματα ο ίδιος (σσ. 200 και 239). Επίσης βλ. σ. 271 απόψεις του Ντασέν για τον
‘διδακτικό’ και ‘ανυψωτικό’ ρόλο του κινηματογράφου, όπως και τον τρόπο με τον
οποίο είχε επηρεάσει τη Μερκούρη και άλλα άτομα του στενού της κύκλου (π.χ. τη
μητέρα της, τη φίλη της κ.λ.), ώστε να αναρωτιούνται γιατί πιστεύουν σε κάτι, και αν
θα πρέπει να τους αρέσει μια ταινία (σσ. 224-25).
18 Πρβλ. κατασυκοφαντικό κείμενο Πετρίτη, 2012.
19 Πρβλ. κείμενο της Sukenic (1977: 28-44), “On Women and Fiction”, σ. 28, όπου μας
παραπέμπει στην άποψη αυτή του Georg Simmel., και Stanford Friedman, σ. 39,
όπου και η αναφορά.
20 Βλ. Rowbotham, 1973: 26-46 και Du Bois, 1903, reprint in Abraham Chapman (ed.),
1968. Βλ. Susan Stanford Friedman, όπ.π, σσ. 30-40.
21 Πρβλ. κείμενο Πετρίτη,αλλά και την εξής προσωπική εμπειρία: Όταν τον Ιούλιο
του 2012, βρισκόμενη στην Ελλάδα, ανέφερα σε φιλική σύναξη ότι το καινούργο μου
ερευνητικό πρόγραμμα αφορούσε στην προσωπικότητα της Μερκούρη, μία κυρία
της ‘καλής’ Αθηναϊκής κοινωνίας, χήρα πρώην στρατηγού και λίγο νεώτερη στην
ηλικία από τη Μερκούρη μου απάντησε: «Εσείς, μια σοβαρή κυρία, είναι δυνατόν να
ασχοληθείτε με μία πόρνη;»
22 Η ίδια η Μερκούρη δήλωνε πως η φυσιολογική της κατατομή (ύψος, στόμα, άκρα,
τρόπος βαδίσματος κ.λ.) δεν ανταποκρίνονταν στο πρότυπο θηλυκότητας της
εποχής της. Επιπλέον πίστευε πως δεν έχει την απαραίτητη, για μία σταρ του
κινηματογράφου, φωτογένεια.
23 Η Μερκούρη δηλώνει, στην αρχή της αυτοβιογραφίας της (σ. 14) πως ήταν μια
ηδονίστρια. Όμως η βιογράφος της, Φρίντα Μπιούμπι, υποστηρίζει εντελώς το
αντίθετο, ότι δηλαδή «δεν φαίνεται να ήταν ένα εξαιρετικά σεξουαλικό άτομο», ενώ
είχε «πράγματι συγκλονιστικό σεξ απήλ» και «ήταν άκρως γοητευτική», «φλέρταρε
διαρκώς τους πάντες,αλλά δεν ήταν η γυναίκα που πέφτει εύκολα στο κρεβάτι μ’ έναν
άντρα.» Παλιές φίλες της λένε... “Ασκούσε τη γοητεία της μόνο για να κατακτήσει,
μόνο για να δει στα μάτια του άλλου το ενδιαφέρον, την αποδοχή ή την αγάπη. Αυτό
ήταν η ικανοποίησή της, της αρκούσε”[…]» (1996:43)
24 Ένα από τα επιχειρήματα ήταν ότι από τα εξήντα θεατρικά έργα στα οποία
συμμετείχε η Μερκούρη για μία δεκαετία (1944-1954) μόνο τα τέσσερρα ήταν
ελληνικά. Το ελληνικό θέατρο αυτή την εποχή ‘τρέφεται και συντηρείται’ από
πνευματικές προτάσεις ξένων συγγραφέων και σκηνοθετών.
25 Η Μερκούρη γράφει σχετικά : «Μ’ έλεγαν «επαγγελματία Ελληνίδα» και δεν με
πείραζε. Είχα δεχτεί να δουλεύω σαν ένα είδος ανεπίσημης πρέσβειρας για τον
ελληνικό τουρισμό. Ήμουν απλούστατα μια πλασιέ που ταξίδευε από χω΄ρα σε
χώρα, λέγοντας στους ανθρώπους πως δεν είχαν ζήσει αν δεν είχαν δει την Ελλάδα.
Ήταν μια δουλειά αλλά μ’ έκανε ευτυχισμένη.» (σ. 270) Επίσης βλ. και σ. 332 όπου
αναφέρεται στις αφίσεις τουριστικών γραφείων στην Αμερική, με την ίδια και την
Ακρόπολη, καθώς και την κυβερνητική δεξίωση λίγο πριν το πραξικόπημα, όπου την
είχαν συστήσει ως την «ανεπίσημη διεθνή πρέσβειρα».
Επίσης βλ. και τη σχετική ταινία/ντοκιμαντέρ Melina’s Greece. American
Broadcasting Corporation, 1964. Ένα ημίωρο ντοκιμαντέρ για την Ελλάδα, για την
αμερικάνικη τηλεόραση, αντίστοιχα του οποίου ήταν: Η ρώμη της Σοφίας Λόρεν και
το Λονδίνο της Ελίζαμπεθ Ταίηλορ. Βλ. σχετικά και σ. 285 στο Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα.
26 Βλ. σχετικά στην αυτοβιογραφία σ. 83, όπου η Μερκούρη χαρακτηρίζει τον Ροντήρη
«μεγαλοφυία» αλλά και «μεγαλομανή», όπως και σσ. 84-87 για το πώς τη μύησε στην
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αρχαία τραγωδία, αλλά και για το πόσο απαιτητικός και τυραννικός ήταν. Επίσης
σσ. 117-124 για τον τρόπο προσέγγισης του ρόλου από την ηθοποιό, τις διαφορετικές
τεχνικές σκηνοθεσίας Ροντήρη-Κουν, καθώς και τους διαφορετικούς τρόπους
συνεργασίας σκηνοθέτη και ηθοποιών, π.χ. ο Ροντήρης ήταν «δεσποτικός» ενώ ο
Κουν «πρωτοπόρος, νεωτεριστής, ήταν ανοιχτός σ’ όλους τους ανθρώπους, σε όλες
τις ιδέες [...] δούλευε σε μια ατμόσφαιρα ζεστασιάς και διασκέδασης.» (σσ. 120-121).
27 Πρβλ. αναφορά της Μερκούρη, στην αυτοβιογραφία της (σ. 158), για τον τρόπο
γένεσης του σεναρίου τής Στέλλας: «Ο Καμπανέλλης είπε: “Μελίνα, είσαι η πιο
χειραφετημένη γυναίκα στην Ελλάδα. [...] Θα γράψω ένα έργο για σένα.”»
28 Η Λεονταρή, ασχολείται επισταμένως με τις έννοιες του εαυτού και της
αυτοαντίληψης, όπως ορίζονται διαχρονικά από τις διάφορες φιλοσοφικές θεωρίες.
29 Όπως μας λέει ο Baumeister, «για τον κόσμο του [κοινωνιολόγος] Goffman, οι
άνθρωποι είναι ηθοποιοί που μπορεί να αλλάζουν τις μάσκες αλλά ποτέ δεν μπορούν
να απαλλαγούν από αυτές.»
30 Σύμφωνα με τους Baumeister & Tice (1986:63-68) οι τέσσερις εννοιολογικές μονάδες
που συνιστούν τους διάφορους εαυτούς αυτοπαρουσίασης είναι: ο δημόσιος εαυτός,
ο ιδιωτικός εαυτός (ή ο εαυτός όπως τον αντιλαμβανόμαστε οι ίδιοι), ο ‘πραγματικός’
εαυτός και ο ιδεώδης εαυτός.
31 Η Μπιούμπι βασίζει τη βιογραφία της κυρίως σε πληροφορίες/μνήμες συγγενών,
φίλων, συνεργατών αλλά και άλλων προσωπικοτήτων που είχαν την τύχη να
γνωρίζουν αρκετά καλά τη Μερκούρη. Καταγράφει, λεπτομερώς, θετικές και
αρνητικές απόψεις για το χαρακτήρα και το έργο της Μερκούρη, δημιουργώντας
στον αναγνώστη την εντύπωση μιας αποστασιοποιημένης και αρκετά αντικειμενικής
προσέγγισης. Κατά την άποψή μας, η Μπιούμπι εμμένει περισσότερο στο ιδιωτικό
και προσωπικό επίπεδο του φαινομένου Μελίνα Μερκούρη.
References
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στο Shari Benstock (ed.). The Private Self: Theory and Practice of Women’s Writings.
London: Routledge, σσ. 34-62.
Giddens, A. (1991), Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern
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James Olney (ed.). Autobiography: Essays Theoretical and Critical. Princeton, New
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Hall, St. (1996), “Introduction: Who Needs ‘Identity’?” στο Hall, St. & du Gay, P. (eds).
Questions of Cultural Identity. London; Thousand Oaks, Calif: Sage, σσ. 1-17.
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Remix: Theories of Politics and the Popular. London and New York: Routledge.
Mehlman, J. (1974). A Structural Study of Autobiography: Proust, Leiris, Sartre, LéviStrauss. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
Mercouri, M. (1971). I Was Born Greek. London, Sydney, Auckland, Toronto: Hodder
and Stoughton.
Onley, J. (1972). Metaphors of Self: the Meaning of Autobiography. Princeton: Princeton
University Press.
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Onley, J. (1980). “Autobiography and the Cultural Moment: A Thematic, Historical,
and Bibliographical Introduction”, in James Onley (ed.), Autobiography: Essays
Theoretical and Critical. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, pp.
3-27.
Onley, J. (1980). “Some Versions of Memoir/Some Version of Bios: The Ontology of
Autobiography”, στο James Onley (ed.). Autobiography: Essays Theoretical and
Critical. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, σσ. 236-267.
Rowbothan, C. (1973). Woman’s Consciousness, Man’s World. London: Penguin.
Sukenic, L. (1977). “On Women and Fiction”, στο Diamond, A. & Edwards, L.R. (eds),
The Authority of Experiences: Essays in Feminist Criticism. Amherst: University of
Massachusetts Press, σσ. 28-44.
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allegorical scene
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M i c h a e l Ts i a n i ka s
Flin d e r s U n i v e r s i t y
C.P.Cavafy: Anthonism
Intermezzo
The word intermezzo is mainly understood as musical terminology.
The “archaeology” of this word is rich from the Renaissance to today. It describes a piece of music, which inserts itself into the middle of a musical
performance and stirs up feelings that are almost unfathomable. The 19th
century, in particular, enriched it with a more lyrical and intrusive character, making it more surprising and almost independent from the rest of the
work to which is belonging. Mendelssohn inspired the famous Shakespearean “midsummer night’s dream”; Brahms attached more emotion to it; and
Puccini made use of an intermezzo in his opera Madame Butterfly, which
introduced a new dimension into his work, pleasant and traumatic. Perhaps
no other intermezzo is so intrusive and enigmatic as that of Shostakovich
in String Quartet 15, which lasts a little more than a minute. What, then, is
the essence of intermezzos? Are they just for fun and relaxation? Are they
different from the rest of the work that they are contained in? I believe they
represent the essence of a distilled and “organic” music, full of freeing lyricism, that accompanies a profound transformation which transcends everything and from which a totally new situation will arise. This new situation is
going out of control, as if the music itself is revealing the force of a musical
“matter” which could be almost touched like an object.
Here inevitably we encounter the poetry of Cavafy. His “musical”
moments always raise the reader’s interest suddenly, not only when they
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directly refer to musical outbursts but in particular when “voices” —an
interesting type of music in Cavafy’s case — are heard, when things are
changing or “passing” to something else. As proof we could refer to many of
his poems in which “passing” is a strong and repetitive point of reference in
the context of a dramatic change. The poem Passage suffices as an example:
Εκείνα που δειλά φαντάσθη μαθητής, είν’ ανοιχτά,
φανερωμένα εμπρός του. […]
Κ’ έτσι ένα παιδί απλό
γένεται άξιο να το δούμε, κι απ’ τον Υψηλό
της Ποιήσεως Κόσμο μια στιγμή περνά κι αυτό —
το αισθητικό παιδί με το αίμα του καινούριο και ζεστό. (A: 86)
Anthonism
The above poem captures a common topos in Cavafy. To proceed by
listing poems or verses where Cavafy uses the word “passage” or other
synonymous words would be to engage in pointless archival tedium. We
need only refer to another peculiar “passage”, this one aesthetic and sensual,
expressed in the poem “When stimulated” (A: 81), which is also pivotal for
the approach taken here:
“Προσπάθησε να τα κρατήσεις, ποιητή,
όταν διεγείρνται μες στο μυαλό σου,
την νύχτα ή μες στην λάμψι του μεσημεριού”.
There is almost always a moment in the poetry of Cavafy in which
something suddenly starts, out of control, like intermezzo, after the flow
of events is interrupted. It is as though the flow of one rhythm stops and
another one begins. This observation, which applies to most of his poems,
underlines the fact that precisely the art of Cavafy furtively captures the
unique moment when something becomes something else. And because this
moment is rather rare — not because it occurs infrequently but because the
subject meets with it only by chance, or often after a lengthy conscious or
unconscious process — within Cavafy’s poetry it has a «collectible», tactible
and «hard» significance (“Η τιμιότερές μου μέρες είν’ εκείνες / που
την αισθητική αναζήτησιν αφίνω, /που εγκαταλείπω τον ωραίο και
σκληρόν ελληνισμό», Β: 9). Art for him is nothing but this “stimulation”
in the mind or the body, in the evening or at noon, when you can feel as
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if touching a shiny aesthetic object: the hedonic joy of touching. Perhaps
the most famous poem by Cavafy, after the “Ithaca” and the “Barbarians” is
“God forsaking Anthony”(Απολείπειν ο θεός Αντώνιον):
Σαν έξαφνα, ώρα μεσάνυχτ’, ακουσθεί
αόρατος θίασος να περνά
με μουσικές εξαίσιες, με φωνές—
την τύχη σου που ενδίδει πια, τα έργα σου
που απέτυχαν, τα σχέδια της ζωής σου
που βγήκαν όλα πλάνες, μη ανωφέλετα θρηνήσεις.
[…]
Σαν έτοιμος από καιρό, σα θαρραλέος,
σαν που ταιριάζει σε που αξιώθηκες μια τέτοια πόλι,
πλησίασε σταθερά προς το παράθυρο,
κι άκουσε με συγκίνησιν, αλλ’ όχι
με των δειλών τα παρακάλια και παράπονα,
ως τελευταία απόλαυσι τους ήχους,
τα εξαίσια όργανα του μυστικού θιάσου,
κι αποχαιρέτα την, την Aλεξάνδρεια που χάνεις (Α:20).
Here we are involved with a “stimulation,” an aesthetic “erection” in
the course of historical events. This historical “erection” is not ultimately
about the particular historical figure (Anthony), and illustrates Cavafy’s
engagement with this idea in most, if not all, of his poems.
It is just the final moment that history reveals herself as an ultimate
“presence” (not re-presentation) manifested in a final, almost erotic
delirium; history becomes the “blood and body” of the subject. The presence
of Dionysus, which recalls the sacred ritual of wine, serves only to emphasize
the “stimulation” which is the somatization of history as the last religiouserotic ritual. It is as though the wine (οινό-πνευμα (and other distilled
drinks1 in Cavafy’s poetry) produces the miracle. Furthermore this is a quite
subversive moment, when Dionysus is not only abandoning Anthony but
also the city, going back to his wildness, marching backwards, becoming
city-less.
Anthonism is a persisting theme in Cavafys’s poetry (this is not a surprise for
an excessively persistent and “obsessive” poet) and becoming a “contaminating”
syndrome, absorbing totally the subject to something that is uncontrollable
revelation: the poet Fernazis too was affected by the same syndrome:
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C u l t ure
“Όμως μες σ’όλη του την ταραχή και το κακό,
επίμονα κ’η ποιητική ιδέα πάει κι έρχεται” (“Δαρείος”, B: 19);
or again in Caesarion, where a hedonic enlightenment and fleshy
revelation is experienced in the middle of the night, after a significant
reading engagement and finally “abandonment” to something which is out
of control:
Και τόσο πλήρως σε φαντάσθηκα,
που χθες την νύχτα αργά, σαν έσβυνεν
η λάμπα μου —άφισα επίτηδες να σβύνει—
εθάρρεψα που μπήκες μες στην κάμαρά μου,
με φάνηκε που εμπρός μου στάθηκες· (A: 70).
Let’s discuss further here the notion of “abandonment”. In the poem
“God forsaking Anthony”, the poet does not say that god is “abandoning”
Anthony but that he “leaves him behind” (απολείπειν). Cavafy prefers
the oldest verb and leaves us with the impression that Anthony is pushed
backwards to face what he really is or better was. The verbal archaeology here
(απο-λείπειν) reveals the “archaeology” of the psychological construction
of a subject through time, and by pushing it in “backwards” is forcing it to
realise that passing now means watching towards the past, while everything
is un-done in front of his eyes. According to Cavafy we could then argue that
looking properly is watching backwards really, no other option available to
human experience. And yet again the subject lives in a limbo, in between, as
we can read in “Θάλασσα του πρωϊού” (Α:52):
Εδώ ας σταθώ. Κι ας γελασθώ πως βλέπω αυτά
(τα είδ’ αλήθεια μια στιγμή σαν πρωτοστάθηκα)·
κι όχι κ’ εδώ τες φαντασίες μου,
τες αναμνήσεις μου, τα ινδάλματα της ηδονής.
Where Cavafy exposes that what he will be seeing is what he saw in a
moment in the past (“I really did see them for a moment, soon after I had
stopped”). It was a sudden, unexpected and unconscious revelation, which
makes him believe that he is in a position to experience it in the future. The
ambiguity of the whole idea about how and what I can see and experience
lies between “ας σταθώ – πρωτοστάθηκα»: although the subject has already stopped he is about to decide to do so in the forthcoming now. The
point here is that the subject is unable to control anything: he saw some
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C u l t u re
natural landscapes really but he has to “pretend”, “make-believe” (“And let
me pretend I see all this”) that he is seeing them now.
Clearly, the subject is overcome by all sort of uncontrollable experiences
and paradoxically the outcome of this intensive situation, because it is
so intensive, could manifest itself as hedonism. The same is happening
regarding Anthony’s experience: the “abandonment” to the events, overcoming him, will at the end bring aesthetic pleasure and hedonism. This
is something that transcends Cavafy’s poetry. Let’s mention here another
poem, «Ήλθε για να διαβάσει» (B: 40), where the subject is “abandoning”
itself to an overwarming hedonism:
Ήλθε για να διαβάσει. Είν’ ανοιχτά
δυο, τρία βιβλία· ιστορικοί και ποιηταί.
Μα μόλις διάβασε δέκα λεπτά,
και τα παραίτησε. Στον καναπέ
μισοκοιμάται. Aνήκει πλήρως στα βιβλία —
αλλ’ είναι είκοσι τριώ ετών, κ’ είν’ έμορφος πολύ·
και σήμερα το απόγευμα πέρασ’ ο έρως
στην ιδεώδη σάρκα του, στα χείλη.
Στη σάρκα του που είναι όλο καλλονή
η θέρμη πέρασεν η ερωτική·
χωρίς αστείαν αιδώ για την μορφή της απολαύσεως .....
In order to “have” something it is essential to be “abandoned” to it,
and, in the process, to lose it. You can’t “have” something when you are
possessing it. To possess something is to experience its “being” which is
the real substance of “having” and this is what could reveal an ultimate
hedonism when the being («ήσαν») could become tangible having («φέρε
με»):
“Μνήμη μου, φύλαξέ τα συ ως ήσαν.
Και, μνήμη, ό,τι μπορείς από τον έρωτά μου αυτόν,
ό,τι μπορείς φέρε με πίσω απόψι” (Α: 88)
At that particular moment that the subject is exposed at that
decisive abandonment, usually as a surprise, comes also the hedonism of
experiencing freedom, as Jean-Luc Nancy points out: “Freedom does not
exist if it is not absolute and can not be absolute if it comes as result of any
causality or [... ] as an understanding as a result of a causality. Because it is
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the thing itself which may be absolute and not the cause of it; the presence
and not the substance; it is the existence and not the being » (Nancy, 1988:
138). Although this is something that goes behind any rational description
in Cavafy’s poetry too is always expressed as a quest and pro-ject of freedom:
Δεν εδεσμεύθηκα. Τελείως αφέθηκα κ’ επήγα.
Στες απολαύσεις, που μισό πραγματικές,
μισό γυρνάμενες μες στο μυαλό μου ήσαν,
επήγα μες στην φωτισμένη νύχτα.
Κ’ ήπια από δυνατά κρασιά, καθώς
που πίνουν οι ανδρείοι της ηδονής. (“Επήγα”, Α:59)
Freedom in essence is only experienced in an extreme situation,
almost out of space and time, as “abandonment” to something that happens
suddenly — in the middle of the “illumined night” (Τσιανίκας, 2007). The
hedonic pleasure also is nothing else but a symptom of a sudden experience,
unchallenged, unchecked, real and tangible. Authentic hedonism is free
because it is defined by itself only as the absolute “other” which surprises
us, so identical to our body yet so radically different from it. The experience
of something like that makes the subject ec-static:
Εν εκστάσει βλέπω νυν
του Ενδυμίωνος την φημισμένην καλλονήν.
Ιάσμων κάνιστρα κενούν οι δούλοι μου· κ’ ευοίωνοι
επευφημίαι εξύπνησαν αρχαίων χρόνων ηδονήν (…...)
In the «Constitution of Hedonism» (2003: 168) Cavafy states that
“when hedonism arrives, do not turn your back to it, because this is the
time to accept it as a “heritage” that was given to you without you asking
for it: as life is a heritage and you did not do anything to earn it as reward,
so heritage should be considered Hedonism”. The real and most important
“heritage” then, is not something that binds you to something else; but
rather what is liberating you; because it is bringing to you a free and not
negotiable “gift” that gives you the highest pleasure and satisfaction. In the
same way words, languages and sentences are bringing to you the pleasure
of using something so personal and yet so impersonal because is part of
“your” heritage.
This is actually why Cavafy indicates great weakness for the sophists
who lived in the «intermediate» space of languages, who, according to
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Cavafy, they were keeping their distance from the big philosophical ideas
of the day from one hand and the prosaic reality of the other: “They were
like the artists of our days because they developed the love for the external
beauty of the artistic objects. The idea could be very important; it could
be simple to understand. But its expression ought to be perfect. They were
drunk with ‘sculptural’ expression and the music of words» (2003: 238-239).
Finally this is the way to understand also the liberating sexuality in
Cavafy’s poetry, when the language itself expresses feelings and hedonic
sounds, almost detached from the speaking/writing subject: the language
is speaking disconnected by the order of the conventional “I” and enjoy the
hedonism of freedom. Then we could assume that all Cavafy’s poems, verses
and words, expressing an overflowing and almost artificial hedonism is just
a metaphor exposing the moment of experiencing the freedom, a “uproar”
of forthcoming events. Here we join again the anthonism described above:
Η ακοή αυτών κάποτε εν ώραις σοβαρών σπουδών
ταράττεται. Η μυστική βοή
τούς έρχεται των πλησιαζόντων γεγονότων.
Και την προσέχουν ευλαβείς. Ενώ εις την οδόν
έξω, ουδέν ακούουν οι λαοί. (A: 17)
The “wise” person can hear approaching events, when the common
mob hears nothing: “αυτών κάποτε εν ώραις σοβαρών σπουδών ταράττεται.» Most importantly, the “wise” do not react, do not get upset, because
what is happening is objective and inevitable and so they simply «listen to
the secret uproar [and] watch piously”: nothing else. The same happens in
the poem “God forsaking Anthony”:
πλησίασε σταθερά προς το παράθυρο,
κι άκουσε με συγκίνησιν, αλλ’ όχι
με των δειλών τα παρακάλια και παράπονα,
ως τελευταία απόλαυσι τους ήχους,
τα εξαίσια όργανα του μυστικού θιάσου […]
“Σαν έξαφνα, ώρα μεσάνυχτ’ ακουστεί»: If you do not experience
hedonism as a surprise, then hedonism it is not. In “One Night” (A: 55), a
strong hedonic past experience, in a sordid room, while popular rhythms
sound from afar, years later — but as it is now — the experience emerges
suddenly, but totally transformed:
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Η κάμαρα ήταν πτωχική και πρόστυχη,
κρυμένη επάνω από την ύποπτη ταβέρνα.
Aπ’ το παράθυρο φαίνονταν το σοκάκι,
το ακάθαρτο και το στενό. Aπό κάτω
ήρχονταν η φωνές κάτι εργατών
που έπαιζαν χαρτιά και που γλεντούσαν.
Κ’ εκεί στο λαϊκό, το ταπεινό κρεββάτι
είχα το σώμα του έρωτος, είχα τα χείλη
τα ηδονικά και ρόδινα της μέθης —
τα ρόδινα μιας τέτοιας μέθης, που και τώρα
που γράφω, έπειτ’ από τόσα χρόνια!,
μες στο μονήρες σπίτι μου, μεθώ ξανά.
This is the result of re-enacting the experience and facing the most
subversive hedonism by using “hard” words: «raunchy “, “suspect”, «unclean»
“rose members», “drunkenness», «solitary house”: physical pleasures
throughout. Thence springs sensual language, simulating the physical with
words. This is the “last” opportunity, a “window” to receive your freedom
as a gift: “Απ’ το παράθυρο φαίνονταν το σοκάκι». The same “window”
of opportunity was offered to Anthony too: “πλησίασε σταθερά προς το
παράθυρο».
This poetry has no value or meaning beyond its literal words. Its value
results from its “musical” texture, as a sudden intermezzo, as “having”
something in the end: «Είχα το σώμα του έρωτος, είχα τα χείλη».
The physical acquisition brings you the joy of ex-istence and the pleasure
having/possessing something. In the “Days of 1896” (II: 57) — numbers are
also voluptuous in Cavafy’s poetry — the pleasure of numbers “wakes” days
of old, clear sounds: for this reason in another relevant poem, while an old
experience is full of shame and psychological trauma, years later it emerges
totally different, if someone could look at it from the point of view of the
“body”. To be accurate here, the passage from one situation (psyche) to the
next (body) is captured as a “third” position, where the body and flesh are
considered as “pure”:
Μια άποψις άλλη υπάρχει που αν ιδωθεί από αυτήν
φαντάζει, συμπαθής· φαντάζει, απλό και γνήσιο
του έρωτος παιδί, που άνω απ’ την τιμή,
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και την υπόληψί του έθεσε ανεξετάστως
της καθαρής σαρκός του την καθαρή ηδονή.
Almost the same is happening again in «In the dull village», where
“αναμένει” becoming “αναμένη” (there are other similar example: “κώμη
–κόμμι”, Β:41, “με τάξι-μετάξι”, Α: :50):
στο πληκτικό χωριό όπου αναμένει —
έπεσε στο κρεββάτι απόψι ερωτοπαθής,
όλ’ η νεότης του στον σαρκικό πόθο αναμένη,
εις έντασιν ωραίαν όλ’ η ωραία νεότης του.
Και μες στον ύπνον η ηδονή προσήλθε· μέσα
στον ύπνο βλέπει κ’ έχει την μορφή, την σάρκα που ήθελε (B: 47).
In the poem «Hedonism», which is even more relevant here,
reveals the ‘”objective” and “hard” experience of love by using the verb
«keep»“κράτησα”):
Χαρά και μύρο της ζωής μου η μνήμη των ωρών
που ηύρα και που κράτηξα την ηδονή ως την ήθελα.
Χαρά και μύρο της ζωής μου εμένα, που αποστράφηκα
την κάθε απόλαυσιν ερώτων της ρουτίνας.
Finally in the poem «Tyana Sculptor» (A: 42), a sculptor shows off all
his works, but the one that stands out for him is an exciting Hermes, which
again evokes an ecstatic intermezzo on a hot day:
Μα να το έργον μου το πιο αγαπητό
που δούλεψα συγκινημένα και το πιο προσεκτικά·
αυτόν, μια μέρα του καλοκαιριού θερμή
που ο νους μου ανέβαινε στα ιδανικά,
αυτόν εδώ ονειρεύομουν τον νέον Ερμή.
Cavafy is the intermezzo, the in between space, which is liberating the
soul from itself, detached from its self; this duplication is an act of freedom
and ultimate pleasure. The paradox in Cavafy’s poetry is that this is also the
moment where matter and sensation are meeting each other producing real,
sculptured “things” and the poet touching, showing or distributing them as
a pedlar. In that way, any object could be the beginning of a transforming
experience in life.
The word “Cavafy” after all means a merchant who manufactures or
sells second-class shoes. This is what makes him such a practical, tangible,
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folksy artist, who makes things with his hands. Thence arises in his poetry
the abundance of hands, physical stimulation, voices, material experiences,
marketability of flesh, and events, fabrics and of course the pedlar:
Aπ’ την μικρή του, στα περίχωρα πλησίον, κώμη,
και σκονισμένος από το ταξείδι ακόμη
έφθασεν ο πραγματευτής. Και «Λίβανον!» και «Κόμμι!»
«Άριστον Έλαιον!» «Άρωμα για την κόμη (B: 41).
This is why Cavafy was able to conceive a poem about Ioannes
Katakouzinos and Eirini Andronicus and «their artificial stones” (B: 44);
the «Nice flowers and white to fit too» (B: 78-79). He immerses the poem
in a materialistic environment of clothes, money, handkerchiefs and many
other objects. From there comes the «Of the shop» (A: 50), a poem almost
objectified, made with words that have no meaning other than what they
declare:
Τα ντύλιξε προσεκτικά, με τάξι
σε πράσινο πολύτιμο μετάξι.
Aπό ρουμπίνια ρόδα, από μαργαριτάρια κρίνοι,
από αμεθύστους μενεξέδες. Ως αυτός τα κρίνει.
Cavafy in the middle of his poetic engagement understands that he has
to stand up to a big challenge: how to perform this “exquisite” anthonism by
surrendering to the “uproars” of words. He resorts to the most original and
productive method, that of analepsis (ανά-ληψη): there is no doubt that
this is his favourite method, describing the same experience again and again
until something completely different arises; by giving away everything; by
accepting to be abandoned to anything; by “object-making” everything,
beginning with the body.
We can see it expressed in the poem «In the same place» (B: 80).
Repetition, as ana-lepsis, can achieve the maximum aesthetic outcome:
Οικίας περιβάλλον, κέντρων, συνοικίας
που βλέπω κι όπου περπατώ· χρόνια και χρόνια.
Σε δημιούργησα μες σε χαρά και μες σε λύπες:
με τόσα περιστατικά, με τόσα πράγματα.
Κ’ αισθηματοποιήθηκες ολόκληρο, για μένα.
Anthony also will manage the final aesthetic “stimulation” as
analepsis: «as long prepared, as if courageous.» The aesthetic analepsis and
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its hedonic integration could not be accomplished if they had not before
been “captured” in the mind and the body. The same analeptic experience
applies for “Ithaca”, which you will not find unless you already have it in
your mind.
It is thus revealed as the astonishing “other” of what was already
known before. “In café’s entry” (A: 54), amidst a conventional routine, a
sudden look is enough to reveal a Platonic revelation:
“Κ’ είδα τ’ ωραίο σώμα που έμοιαζε
σαν απ’ την άκρα πείρα του να τώκαμεν ο Έρως —
πλάττοντας τα συμμετρικά του μέλη με χαρά·
υψώνοντας γλυπτό το ανάστημα·”
Hypo-anthonism
Inevitably, anthonism has its opposite: sometimes the process is
“negative” and the negative-anthonism (not anti-anthonism) follows
the inverse path. The subject reveals itself going backwards, without any
profound alteration, decomposing itself only, which is no less revealing.
“Waiting for the Barbarians” captures such a negative to “anthonism’: here
is the excitement of the coming of the barbarians who, in the end, having
abandoned us, are not coming and perhaps never existed. We have here an
ageing world, “finished”, waiting for the catalytic coming of a sudden and
unspecified change, which cannot occur due to the absence of analeptic
maturity, there is nothing there to be reworked, revoked, re-enacted by the
subjects themselves or the community concerned. As a result the subject
will fester in an almost permanent state of ennui.
It comes not as surprise then when so many poems of Cavafy insist
upon expressing ennui. He “studied” and understood its place in the school
of French symbolism brilliantly as if it were his own device — which it
assuredly is not. The poem “Monotony” (A: 22) for instance, describes an
ongoing ennui, without the possibility of escape: it seems impossible here
for something “sudden” to happen which could dramatically change the
burdensome situation:
Μήνας περνά και φέρνει άλλον μήνα.
Aυτά που έρχονται κανείς εύκολα τα εικάζει·
είναι τα χθεσινά τα βαρετά εκείνα.
Και καταντά το αύριο πια σαν αύριο να μη μοιάζει.
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Here, the relevant subject does not have the strength, courage or
intellect to reverse the situation, or even the theatrical art to reinvent the
situation as analepsis. And yet all these poems are there, in the corpus of
Cavafy’s poetry, to prepare the reader for a forthcoming anthonism perhaps
in the next poem. But in the mid time some subjects are going through the
“passage” from one stage to the next (as it was explained at the beginning
of this essay), which could be achieved after intellectual and /or emotional
maturity. The poem “Εν οδώ» describes the situation:
Το συμπαθητικό του πρόσωπο, κομμάτι ωχρό·
τα καστανά του μάτια, σαν κομένα·
είκοσι πέντ’ ετών, πλην μοιάζει μάλλον είκοσι·
με κάτι καλλιτεχνικό στο ντύσιμό του
— τίποτε χρώμα της κραβάτας, σχήμα του κολλάρου —
ασκόπως περπατεί μες στην οδό,
ακόμη σαν υπνωτισμένος απ’ την άνομη ηδονή,
από την πολύ άνομη ηδονή που απέκτησε.
The young person is twenty five years old but it looks like twenty. He is
missing five years of maturity and uncertainty and this is why he is waking
like half asleep and he is feeling that his pleasure is «άνομη». With a little bit more of maturity, freedom and courage he is going to upgrade his
hedonistic (not “άνομη”) pleasure to a totally perfect (“καθαρή”) one. Is
there any possibility for this young man to do so? Yes and his most credible
chance will arise from the fact that he has something artistic in his looking
(“κάτι καλλιτεχνικό στο ντύσιμό του”). If this is something which could
be described as hypo-anthonism we can claim then that there should be the
opposite situation of a hyper-anthonism and in particular when something
dominant is occurring, bringing the force of the uncontrolled “other” in our
lives.
Pathantonism
The unexpected always arises in Cavafy’s poetry, at times with
excitement and stimulation but at others finding the subject totally
unprepared, experiencing a sudden terror. The poems “Trojans”, for
example, expresses it clearly:
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Είν’ η προσπάθειές μας σαν των Τρώων.
Θαρρούμε πως με απόφασι και τόλμη
θ’ αλλάξουμε της τύχης την καταφορά,
κ’ έξω στεκόμεθα ν’ αγωνισθούμε.
Όμως η πτώσις μας είναι βεβαία. Επάνω,
στα τείχη, άρχισεν ήδη ο θρήνος.
Των ημερών μας αναμνήσεις κλαιν κ’ αισθήματα.
Πικρά για μας ο Πρίαμος κ’ η Εκάβη κλαίνε.
We do not cry, but “the memories and feelings are crying”: and this
make the situation even more uncontrollable, beyond any possibility to
do something about it, when in other words the unknown, the “other”,
becomes the subject of any forthcoming event.
How is this done? What kind of «Freudian» alchemy is this, that permits
the «other», the “ancient” self, to replace human initiative? In Cavafy’s
poetry this happens all the time and the way he expresses these important
situations was mistaken for a lack of proper knowledge of Modern Greek:
consider what G. Seferis or G. Savidis were saying about the structure of his
sentences or the interpretation of the meaning of his words. With Cavafy
the opposite is actually happening, and the language, as the great other,
reveals what a talking subject is not capable of achieving. This is why so
many times in Cavafy’s poetry “voices” simply speak and reveal, usually in
the middle of the night:
Κάποτε μες στα όνειρά μας ομιλούνε·
κάποτε μες στην σκέψι τες ακούει το μυαλό.
Και με τον ήχο των για μια στιγμή επιστρέφουν
ήχοι από την πρώτη ποίησι της ζωής μας —
σα μουσική, την νύχτα, μακρυνή, που σβύνει (« Voices “, A: 95).
So the «other» suddenly could arise in our life, beyond the “I”, as an
intermezzo, in the night and reveals something which comes as a revealing,
outside experience for the subject:
Το είδωλον του νέου σώματός μου,
απ’ τες εννιά που άναψα την λάμπα,
ήλθε και με ηύρε και με θύμισε
κλειστές κάμαρες αρωματισμένες,
και περασμένην ηδονή— τι τολμηρή ηδονή!
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Κ’ επίσης μ’ έφερε στα μάτια εμπρός,
δρόμους που τώρα έγιναν αγνώριστοι,
κέντρα γεμάτα κίνησι που τέλεψαν,
και θέατρα και καφενεία που ήσαν μια φορά! (A: 63).
This is the way that will give access to something more unexpected.
The poem “This One” (Ούτος Eκείνος) reveals with absolute clarity the
“passage” of “I” from the dominate subject to the “other” as the real, most
powerful one. This is the moment when the greatest antonism occurs,
suddenly, after the “I” experiences a tedious revelation of not being itself:
Άγνωστος — ξένος μες στην Aντιόχεια — Εδεσσηνός
γράφει πολλά. Και τέλος πάντων, να, ο λίνος
ο τελευταίος έγινε. Με αυτόν ογδόντα τρία
ποιήματα εν όλω. Πλην τον ποιητή
κούρασε τόσο γράψιμο, τόση στιχοποιία,
και τόση έντασις σ’ ελληνική φρασιολογία,
και τώρα τον βαραίνει πια το κάθε τι —
Μια σκέψις όμως παρευθύς από την αθυμία
τον βγάζει — το εξαίσιον Ούτος Εκείνος,
που άλλοτε στον ύπνο του άκουσε ο Λουκιανός
(“Ούτος εκείνος», Α: 45).
Reading the poem carefully makes us identify a few items that have
been hidden in the poem, which reveal much more than is obvious at first
glance. The first element is that the poet is “unknown.” The bespoken
ignorance is not only the fact that he was not known in Antioch, but also,
and more significantly, that he is “unknown” (and unrecognizable) to
himself: in particular, like all writers, he does not know why he writes.
Secondly, he is writing in a foreign language: “tension in Greek
phraseology.” This is not literally the case: the poetic language is always
“unknown” to all poets, as though foreign, which comes to us as a surprise:
suddenly. Finally, it seems that everything is once again happening at night,
the suspected location of the “hard” and unexpected Freudian revelation:
“For ‘I’ is someone else. […] That much is clear to me: I am a spectator at
the blossoming of my own thought: I look at it and listen to it: I make a
sweep with the baton and down in the depths the symphony begins to stir”
(Rimbaud) Hedonism is always close by.
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The context of dreaming (“enypnio”: inside, in the middle of sleeping,
like an intermezzo) in which Lucian’s glimpse is so significant, revealed
as a foreign voice. It is almost the Dionysian desire again (to remember
here Anthony) which erupts suddenly in the night again, and leads to the
discovery that “This one [is] the Other.” («Ούτος, Εκείνος»).
The “id” as “the other thing” arises almost always from all the poems
of Cavafy and reveals the unknown after a long oblivion. The “other-one”
is so subversive that it manifests itself physically: the body and the skin
remembers, not the specific social subject, as we read it in the poem («Επέστρεφε» Α:56):
Επέστρεφε συχνά και παίρνε με,
αγαπημένη αίσθησις επέστρεφε και παίρνε με—
όταν ξυπνά του σώματος η μνήμη,
κ’ επιθυμία παληά ξαναπερνά στο αίμα·
όταν τα χείλη και το δέρμα ενθυμούνται,
κ’ αισθάνονται τα χέρια σαν ν’ αγγίζουν πάλι.
Επέστρεφε συχνά και παίρνε με την νύχτα,
όταν τα χείλη και το δέρμα ενθυμούνται...
Νow we can understand that it is the «other-one» that dominates our
lives: the «trivial» writings of Artemidoros, not taken into account by the
arrogant “I” of Julius Caesar; the poem “Finished” (A19), placed by Cavafy
next to the previous one, when a sudden disaster falls upon us and “μας
συνεπαίρνει»:
«Μέσα στον φόβο και στες υποψίες,
με ταραγμένο νου και τρομαγμένα μάτια,
λυώνουμε και σχεδιάζουμε το πώς να κάμουμε
για ν’ αποφύγουμε τον βέβαιο
τον κίνδυνο που έτσι φρικτά μας απειλεί.
Κι όμως λανθάνουμε, […]
Άλλη καταστροφή, που δεν την φανταζόμεθαν,
εξαφνική, ραγδαία πέφτει επάνω μας,
κι ανέτοιμους — πού πια καιρός — μας συνεπαίρνει”.
In the poem «Dangerous» is also highlighted the fact that the young
student thinks he can control his behaviour “fortified with theory and
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study”, when in fact other factors will decide for him. In the poem «Noesis»
(A: 64) the artistic subject finds that he could not control his juvenile
behaviour and this in fact resulted his artistic expression to take shape
slowly and unconsciously as a secret source:
Τα χρόνια της νεότητός μου, ο ηδονικός μου βίος —
πώς βλέπω τώρα καθαρά το νόημά των.
Τι μεταμέλειες περιττές, τι μάταιες ....
Aλλά δεν έβλεπα το νόημα τότε.
Μέσα στον έκλυτο της νεότητός μου βίο
μορφώνονταν βουλές της ποιήσεώς μου,
σχεδιάζονταν της τέχνης μου η περιοχή.
And here we are facing again the fundamental notion of “abandonment” we have discussed at the beginning of the essay. Let’s consider for
example the poem “Εκόμισα εις την τέχνη»:
Κάθομαι και ρεμβάζω. Επιθυμίες κ’ αισθήσεις
εκόμισα εις την Τέχνην— κάτι μισοειδωμένα,
πρόσωπα ή γραμμές• ερώτων ατελών
κάτι αβέβαιες μνήμες. Aς αφεθώ σ’ αυτήν.
Ξέρει να σχηματίσει Μορφήν της Καλλονής•
σχεδόν ανεπαισθήτως τον βίον συμπληρούσα,
συνδυάζουσα εντυπώσεις, συνδυάζουσα τες μέρες (Β27).
Concluding here let’s try a more general observation, going back to
the medieval European culture and literary tradition. Dante constitutes the
greatest intermezzo of the European consciousness. Not only because his
poetry reflects have his own middle age as well as that of Europe, but also
because everything in it happens in between heaven and earth. It is the
experience of the journey, between its beginning and end, which reveals all
sort of surprises. Dante revealed the intermediate and transforming trembling in the human body and real flesh.
Although controversial, we could argue that his subjects primarily
suffer not from mental passions but from physical, bodily, tangible tournaments. He puts the body under immense stress but he refuses to acknowledge that only the liberation of the body will deliver the pleasure of the soul
and not another life, beyond the clouds. While Dante was pointing out this
important "point", Italy was developing various intermezzi in music, who
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knows, perhaps to demonstrate another way of celebrating the importance
of the passage from one stage to the next: full of enthusiasm, freedom and
pleasures. Dionysus probably is not far away. In a sense the music is bringing back what it was missing so badly after centuries of all sort of suppressions. .
Cavafy (and obviously other poets and artists) comes to bring the
human flesh close to the earth and soil: amongst ourselves, our cities, our
histories, where it truly belongs. Paraphrasing here the famous platonic
line, in Alcibiades («ἆρ' οὖν, ὦ φίλε Ἀλκιβιάδη, καὶ ψυχὴ εἰ μέλλει
γνώσεσθαι αὑτήν, εἰς ψυχὴν αὐτῇ βλεπτέον, καὶ μάλιστ' εἰς τοῦτον
αὐτῆς τὸν τόπον ἐν ᾧ ἐγγίγνεται ἡ ψυχῆς ἀρετή, σοφία, καὶ εἰς ἄλλο
ᾧ τοῦτο τυγχάνει ὅμοιον ὄν;»)
Cavafy tells us that if the soul wants to truly know itself it has to look
at real flesh. And this is not by suffering and tormenting ourselves, as the
Dante tradition would like to tell us, but by adopting the hedonism and
all pleasures of concrete revelations, as when touching precious objects including word-objects. This is the majestic way from which real “bodies” of
knowledge will be revealed in a radiant manner. Even death is celebrating
the sensual body and this is a quite brave claim to do. For this reason, in the
poem “Iasis’ Tomb” (A: 75), Iasis himself is asking to inscribe on his tombstone that his whole life was full of hedonism and pleasures. His beauty was
admired by everybody in Alexandria :
Κείμαι ο Ιασής ενταύθα. Της μεγάλης ταύτης πόλεως
ο έφηβος ο φημισμένος για εμορφιά.
Μ’ εθαύμασαν βαθείς σοφοί• κ’ επίσης ο επιπόλαιος,
ο απλός λαός. Και χαίρομουν ίσα και για
τα δυο. Μα απ’ το πολύ να μ’ έχει ο κόσμος Νάρκισσο κ’ Ερμή,
η καταχρήσεις μ’ έφθειραν, μ’ εσκότωσαν. Διαβάτη,
αν είσαι Aλεξανδρεύς, δεν θα επικρίνεις. Ξέρεις την ορμή
του βίου μας• τι θέρμην έχει• τι ηδονή υπερτάτη.
The hedonic Alexandria is the place of intimate mystagogy among sages and promiscuous people: like an intermezzo. Cavafy’s Alexandria emerges as the living flesh of poetry in the middle of the Mediterranean but also
in the middle of amazing cultural changes, when the hedonic way of life will
give way to the hegemony of life after death:
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Κ’ εξαίφνης με κυρίευσε μια αλλόκοτη
εντύπωσις. Aόριστα, αισθάνομουν
σαν νάφευγεν από κοντά μου ο Μύρης•
αισθάνομουν που ενώθη, Χριστιανός,
με τους δικούς του, και που γένομουν
ξ έ ν ο ς εγώ, ξ έ ν ο ς π ο λ ύ• ένοιωθα κιόλα
μια αμφιβολία να με σιμώνει: μήπως κι είχα γελασθεί
από το πάθος μου, και π ά ν τ α τού ήμουν ξένος.—
Πετάχθηκα έξω απ’ το φρικτό τους σπίτι,
έφυγα γρήγορα πριν αρπαχθεί, πριν αλλοιωθεί
απ’ την χριστιανοσύνη τους η θύμηση του Μύρη.
(“Myris, Alexandria 340 AD”, B: 76)
Perhaps hyper-anthonism is here to remind us that we are always foreigners not only to Myris — or any Myris — but also to ourselves: this is
the real and surprising revelation, which is waiting for us, suddenly, in the
middle of the night, before departing Alexandria as a new hedonic variation
of a very ancient pleasure.
Note
1
For example: «Η συνοδεία του Διονύσου» (Α:29), «Επήγα» (Α:59), «Εύνοια του
Αλεξάνδρου Βάλα» (Β:23).
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του Κ.Π. Καβάφη. Ο ελληνισμός ως σωματική επιφάνεια»», Η Ποίηση του
Κράματος. Μοντερνισμός και Διαπολιτισμικότητα στο Έργο του Καβάφη,
Πανεπιστημιακές εκδόσεις Κρήτης (επιμ. Μιχ. Πιερής), Ηράκλειο, 9-28.
Νίτσε, Φρ. 2013, Η Φιλοσοφία στα Χρόνια της Αρχαιοελληνικής Τραγωδίας.
Οι Προσωκρατικοί Φιλόσοφοι και Σημειώσεις (1867-75), (Πρόλογος
–Μετάφραση-Σχόλια Βαγγέλης Δουβαλέρης, φιλ επιμ,. Ήρκος Ρ.
Αποστολίδης), Gutenberg, Αθήνα.
Σεφέρης Γιώργος, 1999, Δοκιμές, Πρώτος Τόμος (1936-1947), Ίκαρος, Αθήνα.
Τζαβάρας Γιάννης 2007, Ανθολόγιο Αισθητικής, Gutenberg, Αθήνα.
Τσιανίκας Μιχάλης, 2007, Καβαφικές Φωτοθυμίες, Κανάκη, Αθήνα.
Athanassiadi Polymnia, 2013, «From man to god, or the mutation of a culture
(300B.C.-A.D.762), Heaven and Earth. Art Byzantium from Greek Collections, Benaki
Museum and Hellenic Ministry of Culture, Athens, 29-43.
Derrida Jacques, 1968, La Voix etre le Phénomène, PUF, Paris
Foucault Michel, 1989, Résumé des Cours, 1970-1982, Conférences Essais et Leçons du
Collège de France, Julliard, Paris
Nancy Jean-Luc, 1988, L’ Expérience de la Liberté, Galilée, Paris
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allegorical scene
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Tat j a n a A l e ks i c
Un i v e r s i t y of M i c h i g a n
Torture, Performance and Power in Elias
Maglinis’ The Interrogation
In November 2013 Russian conceptual artist Petr Pavlensky nailed his
testicles to the icy cobbles of the Red Square in Moscow and sat there until the police and health services intervened. This protest/performance act
rounded off a politically inspired “trilogy” that over two years involved various methods of body brutalization. The two performances preceding this
one were a rather obvious act of Pavlensky’s sewing his lips shut, in protest
at the incarceration of Pussy Riot members and the silencing of Russian dissidents, while the other one had him lying naked in a roll of barbed wire
in front of the Legislative Assembly, in protest of Russian censorship, the
notorious anti-gay legislation and a few other recent controversial laws.1
Resorting to such excruciating performances was part of his many attempts
at drawing attention as much to the complacency with which contemporary Russians tolerate the corruption and bureaucratic impenetrability of
Vladimir Putin’s rule, as Pavlensky’s own reaction as an artist to the commodification and mainstreaming of art in contemporary society. Each one
of Pavlensky’s performances ended in his arrest, while the first one had him
sent for psychiatric evaluation. Each time, likewise, he was released with no
charges, while the psychiatric evaluations found nothing in Pavlensky’s behavior that could be potentially interesting for the science. He struck again
in October 2014, when he cut off one of his ears while sitting naked on the
wall of a Moscow psychiatric hospital. This response was bringing into focus
the government’s rehashing of Soviet-era use of psychiatric diagnoses for
the purpose of neutralizing dissidents. In Pavlensky’s own words, self-muti505
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lation in his political art is “the imitation of the visual code” of the “philosophy of endless carnage” perpetuated by the systems of power.2 Violence is
the medium through which the establishment communicates and violence
is the only language it understands. The body thus becomes the artist’s
best resource for the graphic translation of this unequal exchange but also
the one that Pavlensky thinks is the most understandable to the majority
of people, who are afraid to react against routine regime violence and instead willingly subject to it. In Pavlensky’s words, resounding with ominous
Foucauldianisms, “It’s not the power that keeps people by the balls, it’s the
people who keep themselves restricted. Pretty soon everyone’s going to be
in jail, but it won’t matter to anybody anymore.”3
Problems implied in Pavlensky’s statement, but also by others who
have used their body as medium for the awakening of others to their masochistic bondage to power (no pun intended) can be summed up as follows:
how radical a response does body art expect from its spectators: can it make
a connection between the ubiquitous violence in real life and its reenactment in performance and whether this connection can elicit any meaningful reaction on the part of those whose awakening is sought, or whether
it will remain within the limits of a visual spectacle; can the performance
artist create a community among spectators and be the instrument of their
awareness? Ultimately, however, it all boils down to whether the spectators/witnesses ever really want this new awareness, replete with the vast
possibilities it opens before them – or, whether they prefer to avoid harm by
continuing to ignore their own unfreedom, as Pavlensky fears.
The impermanent nature of performance art makes it an improbable
subject of fiction, and indeed counting attempts to fictionalize it would
yield hardly any results. However, one of few texts written in any language
that has as its subject the matter of performing bodies is The Interrogation,
a novel by Elias Maglinis published in 2008. In this small and fast paced
book, that is less a narrative than a collection of powerful visuals, where
body is brutalized, exposed, sexualized and dissected as much by actions
as by language, Maglinis managed to squeeze in many questions about the
complexity of the individual’s relation to history/politics and the choice of
one’s loud protestation against it or silent resignation with it. The Interrogation overflows with blood, body mutilation, undigested food, torture and
masochistic sexual experimentation. One of its two main protagonists is
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Marina, a young aspiring artist modeled on the famous Yugoslav performance artist Marina Abramović, the self-proclaimed “grandmother” of performance art. The fictional Marina of Interrogation embarks on a mission
to liberate her father Kostis from his nightmarish family history of victimization in the unstable Greek political landscape. Political persecution acts
like a genetic disease in Marina’s family, with her communist grandfather
tortured, imprisoned, and banished during the civil war, while her father
underwent systematic beating and rape in the prisons of the military junta.
The novel treats human bodies as malleable raw material on which historical and private trauma leave debilitating impressions, but also as the only
mediums for the conquest of freedom and any length of individual space.
Perhaps the most important question it asks is whether individual freedom
is achieved through a decisive confrontation with the agents and causes of
trauma or whether the only way forward for a wounded individual is healing
based on reconciliation and acceptance of one’s past. The exhibitionism of
Marina’s self-mutilation with which she assaults her family and audiences
is thus in stark contrast with the compromise Kostis made with the trauma
he survived by withdrawing both from his family and society. The novel is
embedded into specific events from Greek history and translates the friction between the characters’ different approaches to trauma into the lack of
consensus with which the Greek nation as a whole views its own past as a
foundation towards a more inclusive future.
The Interrogation treats the bodies of its protagonists as the ultimate
instrument and measure of all things, in a very Foucauldian sense of blank
surfaces scarred or “inscribed by history,” which ultimately destroys them.4
Everything in this household revolves about the body, which functions as a
memo pad of events and a calendar of milestones that coincide with various
stages of its disintegration: Marina’s mother Rhea is in a terminal phase of
cancer during the final chapter of her divorce from Kostis; her dead body
activates uncontrollable bouts of overeating in Marina; Kostis remembers
happier days of their family life from scars on Rhea’s skin. Marina herself
appears to be affected by this history of corporeal violation as from a very
early age she demonstrates an affinity for bodily harm and self-inflicted
pain. Her family is apparently clueless as to the causes of this brutal treatment of her own body, her violent outbursts in public or her alienating performance acts. Her whole life revolves inside the debilitating cycle of the
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foods and nourishment she rejects, the erratic pattern of her menstrual cycle, and nauseating migraines. Both the real and the fictional artist blame
physiological problems on the unsettled family situation—Abramović implies that the source of somewhat similar conditions she suffered in her
adolescence was the absence in her life of her father and the iron discipline
she was subjected to by her strong and commanding mother. In most of her
political performances, where she exhibited her body as a sacrificial offering
to ideology, Abramović made a very clear connection between her family
and social repression of which they were partaking.5 Marina of Interrogation, on the other hand, does not declare any particular reason behind her
masochism while her performances exhibit less focus on specific political
issues and instead concentrate on world injustices in general. But both her
life and her art demonstrate an intuitive awareness of her family’s complicity in the social violence that took its toll on all of them. With her body
slashing and blood spilling she is constantly trying to provoke some meaningful reaction from her father, whom she accuses of silence and passivity in
the face of his past suffering. A new performance act she plans to organize
would thus be the first one with a clear focus on Kostis’ victimization. It also
becomes a pretext for her insistence on hearing the account of the torture
he was subjected to in prison, which is the one topic he stubbornly refuses
to discuss with her.
Her methods of inquiry into his past and his family legacy however
are as intrusive of the privacy and silence behind which he has been hiding
all her life, as they are disrespectful of what she thinks are his salon leftist
sympathies:
“I want to know, dad. That’s all. And I want you to finally stand up and let it
all out.
“Marina, do you understand what you are doing?”
“Yes, I’m trying to help you heal.”
[...]
I’ve been asking you questions all my life, trying to talk to you, and you’ve
never given me a direct answer to anything. You just don’t answer; you never
answered anything. You know something? Granddad would have talked to
me, dad. Granddad would have talked. Granddad had guts. I’m really sorry I
never got to meet him. Unlike you, granddad actually had balls.
(Maglinis, 82-86)
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Marina perceives the seemingly quiet and undisturbed family existence
they performed together like a smokescreen against the exposure to the outside
world. She doubts Kostis’ political activism to his face, but a more pressing question troubles her in recurring incestuous nightmares, where she dreams of her
father’s inability to sexually please a woman and produce male offspring. Her
pressing interrogation and her public performances that Kostis feels devalue
his sacrifice, challenge both her father’s and the authority vested on the patriarchal family in general. What is ultimately at stake in this interrogation is the
social structure as we know it, the “dominant fiction,” as Kaja Silverman defines
the belief in the “unity of the family and the adequacy of the male subject.”6 It
is precisely the sense of Kostis’ inadequacy as the male subject that pervades
the novel and makes clear that the social construct is entirely built on a collective belief in the power of the phallus, which despite all the Lacanian veilings
and implausible interpretations, in the final analysis and for most purposes,
does signify the penis. Marina’s identification with Kostis’ inadequacy likewise
precludes her “becoming” as a properly “female subject,” in the sense defined
by Rosi Braidotti, who deplores the predominance in theoretical discourse of
the Lacanian approach to subjectivity that reads women as “melancholic” and
unfinished subjects.7 Maglinis’ novel speaks directly to such androcentric interpretations, as all Marina’s endeavors are directed at empowering her site of
social identification with the discourse of untainted masculinity. Her very existence depends on her successful rehabilitation of her father as her progenitor
and his phallus as a signifier of her own social participation. This is why of all
other methods of torture Kostis was subjected to, it is rape that puts under the
microscope both his symbolic phallic powers as well as his biological masculinity, and renders him doubly “castrated.”
In his large body of work on power and various methods of disciplining
the body, Foucault has nothing in particular to say about rape that is outside
his known format of power vs. subject. Although unrelated to sexuality, itself
a method of control, rape emerges as apparently indistinct from other methods of torture, which he claims, “revealed truth and showed the operation
of power. […] it made possible to reproduce the crime on the visible body of
the criminal; the same horror had to be manifested and annulled.”8 The truth
that Foucault mentions is what Elaine Scarry later reinterprets as fiction that
torture creates about the violator’s purported authority over the body of the
victim. Scarry, who is similarly mum on the specificities of rape, discusses tor509
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ture as a sadistically intimate relationship between the torturer and the victim that converts “absolute pain into fiction of absolute power.”9 This power
is recognized as genuine by neither perpetrator nor victim; nevertheless it
tends to establish itself as indisputable on the basis of the pain it inflicts and
visible traces it leaves on the victim’s body. Torture could thus be interpreted
as the violent transgression against the body that for the tortured uncovers
the Lacanian Real, as devoid of substance as it is unrepresentable in the symbolic order “except by its effects.”10
Rape is perpetrated with this same idea of establishing fictional (masculine, dominant and even reproductive) authority. Rape of male bodies additionally implies a very calculated degradation of the male body, forcing the
victim to embody the subjugated gendered role and thwarting his resistance.
The fact that physical disfiguration from torture scarred Kostis less than the
memory of repetitive rape likewise speaks to the socially fuelled belief in the
authority of untainted masculinity. Rape left the most profound impact not
only on Kostis’ psyche but also on the way his family perceives him – or, at
least in the way he projects his own humiliation on his wife and daughter,
fearing that they both constantly interrogate his virility. He is also deeply
suspicious that Marina’s interest in his confession does not go much further
from the sexual aspect of torture, as she seems to ignore the deep psychological trauma he suffered and concentrates merely on its corporeal aspects. Even
occasional appearances in the narrative of his estranged and deceased wife
Rhea merely affirms in Kostis’ mind the intimation of his unmanliness. All
Kostis signifies is a painfully obvious lack that determines not merely his own
social role but also Marina’s.
As Marina tries to establish what happened to Kostis, she never digs
deeper into the why and neither does Kostis, who just wishes not to discuss
this part of his life. That way they both avoid the trap that Claude Lanzmann
calls the “obscenity of understanding,” inherent not merely in the psychoanalytical project but also, as he explored in his epic film Shoah, in commemorating the Holocaust as well as any other episode of extreme brutality. The
attempts to rationalize trauma, to learn more about the criminal minds and
plans behind it, according to Lanzmann, is merely an attempt to give meaning
to something that is inherently meaningless, to understand the incomprehensible horror, and ultimately to rehabilitate what cannot be rehabilitated
by putting a human face behind it.11
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Political Body, Masochistic Body
Marina directly translates the sadism of the torture Kostis suffered in
prison into a brutal treatment to which she subjects her own body in private
as much as in public performances. Her sexual masochism is likewise never
really private but always precariously verging on the edge of exhibitionism
staged for her father’s accidental gaze. These episodes of painful self-mutilating masturbation take place in her father’s home and with the door deliberately unsecured against Kostis’ unintentional disruption, of which he
is fully aware:
He had watched her do this once in the past, before losing her mother.
[…]
It could be a bad dream. It’s not, but like in dreams he can’t move or shout,
even when he sees her yank at her nipples with thumb and forefinger. Her
expressionless face in front of the mirror going crimson from the pain, a pain
that’s all hers: a swimmer trapped under a thin layer of ice that won’t break
no matter how much he yearns for the breath—a howling breath, a breathy
howl—to let out a shriek like the one he lets out from the very depths of his
being on those nights when he flails in his sleep thirsting for a bit, the tiniest
bit, of oxygen.
It’s only when he sees her sit at the edge of the bed, lie back, spread her legs
wide and tear hatefully at the tender folds nestled between them, that he is
finally able to stir. No longer a pillar of salt, he’s not watching Sodom burn;
he’s witnessing his daughter self-mutilate, and so he distances himself from
the horror of the half-open door without turning to look back.
(Maglinis, 2)
In their groundbreaking, albeit a bit outdated, definitions of masochistic practices Freud as well as Reik and Krafft-Ebing before him recognized masochism as a sexual perversion.12 Freud, whose persuasive analysis
influenced further work on the subject, most notably that by Deleuze, discusses masochism in a particular form, as taking place between the phallic mother and the son who submits to her punishment in a “feminine”
fashion. The phallic mother punishing the disobedient son is furthermore
merely a stand-in for the authoritative father who is in fact threatened by
his son and, as would be expected of Freud, the entire setting does not move
beyond the unresolved Oedipal crisis. Deleuze, who accepts the Freudian
scenario of the interaction between mother and child, suggests that instead
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of mother being a stand-in for the father it is in fact the child who assumes
the father’s role.13 The masochistic relationship thus takes place between
the mother and the (exclusively male?) child, where the child being punished, as Gaylyn Studlar claims, “repudiates the father, the super-ego and
Oedipal guilt.”14 It is the ultimate fantasy in which the wronged mother will
be avenged for the unhappiness caused her by the father and by the patriarchal symbolic he represents.
In The Interrogation, a much more significant undercurrent is the punitive relationship the protagonists have with their own bodies based on
the expiation of some “historical” guilt. And this is where Maglinis’ bodies
and their physiological states abandon the personal and familial setting and
turn into very public and signifying bodies of collective history. Marina’s erratic menstrual cycle, Rhea’s cancer, or Kostis’ deformed legs are no longer
their own, while the masochistic (dis)pleasure with which they watch their
bodies being brutalized by proverbially overwhelming history belongs to
the entire Greek nation. Ultimately, the very meaning of the term masochism changes when transferred from the sexual to the political: By definition the masochist controls the situation and directs how the pleasurable
pain will be distributed by torture. S/he is thus in full command of the setting in which injury takes place. While this is usually the case in performative masochism, the body of what I call the “political masochist,” however,
cannot really make that decision individually.
The performative masochism of the kind found in the politicallyinformed work of Pavlensky, early Abramović, or ultimately, fictional Marina of the Interrogation, has little or nothing to do with sex per se. They
all invoke the socio-political and familial causes as underlying their acts of
self-inflicted mutilation, which reinforces the claim about the expiation of
Oedipal guilt through punishment. What however distinguishes a radical
performance piece from clinical masochism is that it rarely, if ever, involves
expectance of sexual gratification. In fact, as Kathy O’Dell has discussed,
most performative masochism tends to be devoid of pleasure whatsoever
and instead its main connection with clinically defined masochism is its insistence on the contract, which likewise structures relationship between the
masochist and the dominatrix/torturer in sexual masochism.15 Masochistic performances revive the actionism in performance arts characteristic
mostly of the “radical” decades of the 1960s and the early ‘70s. In Contract
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with the Skin O’Dell analyzes masochistic performances on the arts scene
during these two decades and draws her conclusions on the iconic body acts
by Chris Burden, Gina Pane or Vito Acconci, all of whom frequently tested
the physical limits of body endurance and to an equal extent the contract
between the performing artists and their audiences (or their onstage assistants). The nature of the contract itself was, according to O’Dell, brought
into question by the politics of the decade that saw several new wars and
interventionism in the post-WWII world, which severed the social agreements between the governments involved in military interventions and
their populations. For O’Dell, the obvious point of reference is always the
Vietnam War and the breach of contract between the US government and
its citizens, in whose name the war was being waged. Needless to say, however, that internal US politics of the time teems with political violence of no
less serious kind that could have been used as an even better reference point
for such discussion, like the assassinations of M. L. King or J. F. Kennedy, or
rampant racial violence that plagued the nation throughout these decades.
Any masochistic performance by radical artists in that setting can almost
automatically be assigned a political meaning, even when the performance
itself is not overly politicized. Thus O’Dell contextualizes Burden’s 1971
performance Shoot, in which his assistant shot him in the arm, as well as
performances where other artists of the time were hurting, slashing, or in
other ways mutilating or torturing their bodies, as masochism originating
in the overall political circumstances and interrogating the very nature of
the social contract:
Beyond its specifically legal function, the contract is a central metaphor in modern life, from the lease on a first home to the Republican Party’s
vaunted “Contract with America” of 1994. Masochistic performance artists
of the 1970s, such as Burden, sought to call attention to the structure of the
contract to emphasize that the real power of the agreement lies there. In this
regard the artists followed a very basic premise: by pushing their actions to
an extreme, they could dramatize the importance of a transaction that is
often overlooked or taken for granted. (O’Dell, 2)
Some performance acts done by Marina Abramović at around this
same time however are overtly politicized probes into the social context.
Abramović’s graphic body spectacles addressed her deepest fears and tested
the limits of physical endurance, yet were rarely free from the ideological
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dimension that lurks in the background and that has, she insists, circumscribed her life.16 In her now legendary Rhythm 5 (1974) Abramović cut her
hair and nails and threw them into a mix of woodchips and petroleum arranged in a wooden frame shaped into a five-pointed star, the symbol of socialist Yugoslavia and the centerpiece of the country’s flag. She set it on fire
and lay in its center. Seeing that she lost consciousness in the smoke that
engulfed, her audience members carried her out, which she later resented.
In The Lips of Thomas (1975) Abramović used a razor blade to cut a
five-pointed star across her belly, then whipped herself, lay down on a crossshaped block of ice and bled profusely before the audience intervened fearing for her safety. The description of performance states the following:
LIPS OF THOMAS
Performance
I slowly eat 1 kilo of honey with a silver spoon.
I slowly drink 1 liter of red wine out of a crystal glass.
I break the glass with my right hand.
I cut a five pointed star on my stomach with a razor blade.
I violently whip myself until I no longer feel any pain.
I lay /sic/ down on a cross made of ice blocks.
The heat of a suspended space heater pointed at my stomach causes the cut
star to bleed.
The rest of my body begins to freeze
I remain on the ice cross for 30 minutes until the audience interrupts the
piece by removing the ice blocks from underneath.
Duration: 2 hours 1975, Krinzinger Gallery, Innsbruck.17
Besides the obvious symbolic of the five-pointed star, with which
Abramović suggests her own embeddedness into the structure of Yugoslav
“communism,” as she insists on calling it, she loaded the act with other,
mostly autobiographical but nonetheless ideological symbolism: the cross,
possibly suggesting her “martyrdom” to state ideology, but potentially even
more so her descent from the Serbian Orthodox Church Patriarch, allegedly murdered in 1937 on political grounds. The excessive, almost sickening
quantities of honey and wine consumed with a silver spoon and out of a
crystal vessel, as well as the whip and blood, convey the hedonism attached
to the upper social echelons (her parents as part of the communist regime),
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but also an overload of sensations and clear masochistic pleasure in this act
of sacrificial submission to the ideological symbolic. Despite the fact that
the symbolism of this performance emerges from Abramović’s biography
and family mythology it demonstrates that this personal initiation ritual
is always and necessarily only a fragment in a collective ideological experience. Yet in synthesizing the hedonistic pleasures of the (socialist) elites
and the individual body overwhelmed by politico-historical narratives,
Abramović denudes precisely what Marxism claims is the major problem
of capitalism: the commodification of the reproductive (proletarian) body
and its dissociation from natural pleasures of the senses and intellectual
pleasures of the mind that remain accessible only to the elites through the
mediation of capital.18
And this is where we arrive at a central point: whether these radical
performances carry genuine potential for individual emancipation or alternatively, what kind of message they are intended to convey to the audiences regarding the breach or abuse of social contract by the powers that
be. O’Dell denies such performances, no matter how radical, any explicit
political dimension, by designating them simultaneously both socially relevant and depending on the political issues of the time. Her contention is
that they are inherently incapable of mobilizing people to act on the issues
that they problematize, and one of the reasons for this failure is that they
basically alienate performer from audience.19 The artist who violates the integrity of her body in front of an audience is always there alone and in fact
outside the emotional or cognitive reach by others. Consequently failing the
possibility of conceiving a community that is by definition based on victimhood and sacrifice for the benefit of many. However, if this performative
“sacrifice” is not presented in the interest of the community, for whose benefit or for whom is it performed at all?
In her discussion of body mutilation that contrasts incomparable
practices of masochistic performance art and purportedly traditional female genital mutilation, Renata Salecl seeks to answer the question of how
the subject defines itself in contemporary society (or, alternatively, is being
defined by forced mutilation performed by and for the community). Salecl
tends to see body mutilation in performance art as stemming from the disintegration of the traditional social network (patriarchal family) and the
modified way in which the subject identifies with the symbolic law: “The law
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is linked to the role of the father; and in taking a position against this law;
that is, by distancing him or herself from this law, the modern subject acquires her or his ‘freedom’” (Salecl, 27). To go back to the classical definition
of sexual masochism, body mutilation in performance art seems to offer a
version of the original scenario between mother and child, save for the fact
that there is no mother and the child, in fact punishes itself for the alleged
guilt of the father(s). It would therefore be very tempting to conclude that
the Oedipal structure clings so fast to body that subject can only liberate
itself by flaying its skin, nailing the testicles in order to castrate the very
signifier of social domination, or to sew the lips and refuse to speak in the
language that constantly recreates the same repressive structure. Kaja Silverman talks about distinctions in how male and female masochisms were
historically understood by psychoanalysis and concludes that the only one
considered remotely subversive for the phallic structure was male masochism – perhaps precisely due to the fact that it targets patriarchy’s most
sensitive spot and exposes its vulnerability and the inexplicable ease with
which it can be desposed of, while female masochism merely reproduces
socially sanctified gender roles:
What is it precisely that the male masochist displays, and what are
the consequences of this self-exposure? To begin with, he acts out in an
insistent and exaggerated way the basic conditions of cultural subjectivity,
conditions that are normally disavowed; he loudly proclaims that his meaning comes to him from the Other, prostrates himself before the gaze even as
he solicits it, exhibits his castration for all to see, and revels in the sacrificial
basis of the social contract. The male masochist magnifies the losses and
divisions upon which cultural identity is based, refusing to be sutured or
recompensed. In short, he radiates a negativity inimical to the social order.
(Silverman, 206)
But what do we make of non-male masochistic performances that demonstrate the potential to usurp power? What is the meaning of Abramović
cutting herself in front of photos of her parents dressed in partisan guerilla
uniform or Marina’s bloody exhibitions? Quite unsurprisingly these notmale protestations are not challenging the order but are intent on demonstrating that phallic power is in a state of dejected impotence (like Kostis),
absent (like Abramović’s father), corrupt (Putin) and easy to decenter (only
to be replicated by Abramović’s “phallic mother”). Rather than suggesting
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that there is some inherent threat to the social order in male masochism, it
is probably that male masochism (like Pavlensky mutilating his member as
the very symbol of power) conforms to the female form of masochism that
merely replicates gender submission to the law of the patriarch.
The ultimate goal of masochistic exhibitionism emerges as precisely
the opposite of subversion. Self-mutilation that revolves around the phallus
is no more revolutionary than the church sanctioned carnivalesque spectacle, whose ultimate goal cannot be further away from the actual overthrow
of church power.20 It is more a reaction to the “betrayal” of subject by the
absolute authority and a recognition that direct and unmediated communication with it that would bypass the entire rigid symbolic network, is in fact,
improbable.21 Body slashing, bleeding, and other painful interventions,
therefore, are not actions celebrating liberation from authority, but quite
the contrary, an anguished statement about the yearning to re-establish
its attributes. Because what would happen if authority is usurped or if it
is proven beyond doubt that such an external deterrent to absolute freedom never existed is still unknown and frightening. Therefore despite the
alleged inherent adversity of masochist towards social order the exhibition
of the extent to which body is penetrated, wounded, hurt, and flayed does
not constitute an open confrontation with the law. The protest is not really
against phallic power, or power as such, but is a warning that father’s law
is in dire need of reinforcement. What masochist performances ultimately
seek is the reaffirmation of the contract and the repositioning of the (male
heterosexual) subject at the center of the production of meaning.22 The child
masochist just wants its daddy’s full attention.
Performative body mutilation never invites a total divestment of power
nor urges unlimited freedom, which Erich Fromm defined as negative freedom,
or “freedom from.” Instead, it proposes what he calls “positive freedom,” freedom without which social contract would be unthinkable.23 Fromm names it
“freedom to” and it is essential for the subject’s productive participation in society, even if it necessarily ends with a new confrontation with power. Even
when the subject wishes to remain part of a social contract (and thus essentially
“ruled”) it must be free in order to be able to at all enter such a contract and then
further interrogate or protest the authority behind it. In the opposite scenario,
the subject finds itself dominated by power: “Power is exercised only over free
subjects, and only insofar as they are ‘free,’” according to Foucault.24 Social rela517
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tions are always and necessarily relations of power that is constantly negotiated, interrogated, struggled over, and contested. Foucault sees it as a “game” that
is accessible only to subjects who are free to challenge the structure of power:
[F]reedom may well appear as the condition for the exercise of power
(at the same time its precondition, since freedom must exist for power to be
exerted, and also its permanent support, since without the possibility of recalcitrance, power would be equivalent to physical determination.) The power
relationship and freedom’s refusal to submit cannot, therefore, be separated.
[…] Rather than speak of an essential antagonism, it would be better to speak
of an “agonism” – of a relationship that is at the same time mutual incitement
and struggle; less of a face-to-face confrontation that paralyzes both sides
than a permanent provocation.25 (Foucault, 342)
Every social relation and contract finally resemble masochistic ones, in
which one side (political masochist) perpetually negotiates the conditions of
its contract with power. In her essay on the politics of power after the Enlightenment, Elizabeth Byers discusses “political masochism” in terms close
to Foucault’s “subjectivity,” as the nature of social relations not informed by
authoritarianism and in which subjects are free to enter into and define specific models of rule acceptable to the majority:
[a masochistic political contract entails] non-erotic rational submission
[that] stems from a critique of political systems engaged in forced submission. If we maintain that individuals must rationally and actively consent for
a system to be considered masochistic, then monarchies, dictatorships and
other political systems with authoritarian structures cannot possibly meet
our definition of the masochistic. […] Political masochism functions […] as a
form of government based on a negotiation between the power of the individual and the power of the state rather than the absolute rule of the monarch,
dictator or lord. (Byers, 103)
In the universe in which absolute freedom is still an unthinkable concept, political masochism means willing submission to power that nevertheless allows the individual to (relatively) freely associate with others and (ideally) modify the kind of power it is ruled by. Ultimately this is the most freedom
a social body can exercise. Performative masochism, therefore, exposes not
only the body brutalized by the social contract gone awry, but also signifies
the body of the political masochist seeking its right not to eradicate authority
altogether, but to reconstruct it.
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C u l t u re
Communal Body Spectacle
The ultimate image of suffering in the face of authority that arguably
inspires masochistic exhibitionism is Christ’s agony before the absolute, irrevocable and non-interfering power of his Father. However much this image insists on passivity of the tortured body, Silverman’s argues that the
Christian masochist can be viewed as a rebellious figure who goes into a
head-on collision with the social order. Her Christian masochist even dares
seek what I have argued throughout that performative masochism ultimately precludes – a radical remodeling of culture:
In this particular subspecies of moral masochism there would thus seem to
be a strong heterocosmic impulse—the desire to remake the world in another
image altogether, to forge a different cultural order. The exemplary Christian
masochist also seeks to remake him or herself according to the model of the
suffering Christ, the very picture of earthly divestiture and loss. (Silverman,
198)
Granted that such religious remodeling of cultural order in no way advocates change in the structure or nature of power—which is what has been
a historical revolutionary practice and the most probable reason few revolutions have brought positive changes. Christ’s problem, after all, is not weak
or corrupt authority that needs to regain credence, but the wickedness of the
human race itself. This bold new “different cultural order” that Silverman suggests can then only mean that the subject needs to transform or in other ways
make itself more agreeable to the incorruptible and unquestionable divine
authority. Yet Christ’s coming unto Law is interesting also from the point
of what I have, thus far, argued is the social imperative for the preservation
of intact and unquestioned phallic order. Here again the Christian narrative
emphasizes its priorities slightly differently, as Christ only accomplishes this
by and after physical torment which, as Silverman argues, has “emasculating implications, and is in its purest forms intrinsically incompatible with
the pretensions of masculinity.” As a result, she insists, Christ assumes his
position within the divine family “in a suffering and castrated position.”26 It
is not his “body” that needs disciplining, but rather the sinful “flesh” of the
multitudes that is vicariously punished.27 Christ’s sacrifice supposedly creates
and redeems the community circumscribed by this event. This is a community
whose origin and telos lie in (his) death, as it not only emerges out of death,
but eases the burden of death on community members.28
519
C u l t ure
In one of the closing scenes of The Interrogation Kostis attends an Easter mass in church but ends up agitated at the sight of Christ’s tortured body
and disgusted by the civilization created and sustained on this morbid spectacle: “This is what they worship: torture, a death sentence, a nude, dirty,
wounded, pierced, bloody, torn-apart, suffering body dying a slow death.
A tortured body. That’s what their worship and love are directed towards.
That’s what turns them on.”29 Kostis clearly voices the inability of viewers to
ponder victim’s anguish because they are fascinated by the spectacle of violence. Instead of becoming a symbol of community formed as a result of his
sacrifice, Christ’s mutilated body becomes the single focus of attention with
people mesmerized by the obscenity of his tortured and expiring physicality. With this crumbles the very idea that his death can be experienced by
others as their own and thus become a motive for their communion. It is for
the same reason quite unrealistic to expect that any meaningful community
can arise from observing a masochistic performance, or even less that the
performance could have the capacity to incite action. On the other hand one
may justifiably wonder whether Kostis’ discomfiture at the sight of Christ’s
tortured body may have constituted a recognition with his own disempowerment – a misrecognition in fact that doubly underlines Kostis’ exclusion,
because Christ’s symbolic castration in fact empowered and established him
in the Law.
However, as much as Kostis’ perception is critical of the falsity of
church communion that lost its true meaning amidst the superficial manifestations of the institutional ceremony, it emphatically underlines his own
failure to comprehend its meaning. Neither his apparent identification with
Christ’s agony nor his alleged leftist politics prevent him from displaying
palpable intolerance and racist hatred towards immigrants, vendors and
prostitutes he meets in the streets of Athens. Through his unwillingness
to grant social pariahs the respect that as a survivor he demands of others, Kostis establishes his own fictional (national and masculine) superiority that lacks merit in the same way as does his social exclusion. Moreover,
the humiliation he fantasizes of inflicting on the bodies of those excluded
from the Greek society is identical to the aggression he, himself, underwent
in jail.
The ending finds Kostis looking into his ruined body in the mirror in
ironic reconciliation with himself, his father, and the legacy that he inher520
C u l t u re
ited and further transmitted to his daughter: “the discolored bruises, faded scabs, the furrows in his forehead, the bulging veins on the thighs and
calves, the tight bandages around his swollen feet. Gloria Patri.”30 Tentative
reconciliation is achieved between the father and daughter, when Kostis realizes his life is a masochistic reiteration of his father’s life, in a similar way
in which Marina will be compelled to repeat his own:
My father was a nightmare, [Kostis] wants to say that, too, to spit it
out from deep inside himself. […] I listened to him tell me […] about the
battles and exile and the prisons, and it was as if I were translating a book
written in a foreign language. And, afterwards, when I would go over what I
had translated, I saw that it read: You must suffer even more. You haven’t suffered enough, not as much as he did. It needs to be more. Even more. And I joined
the struggle. And I would again. I would do it all over again if I could.31
Marina apparently fails in her mock-analytical attempts at “healing”
Kostis and making him socially functional by a verbal reiteration of trauma.
In this respect, it may be tempting to read Kostis as a passive victim who
repeats the events that hurt him and does not believe in the liberating potential of the universal talking cure. However, perhaps his deliberate silence
about the past enables Kostis to emerge an even stronger character who
accepts the consequences of his actions. His abused body “bearing the most
livid marks of [history’s] brutality” may be the force that Marx hoped would
eventually transform history (Eagleton, 230). This would, in turn, make Kostis a revolutionary in the “proper” sense, who is unafraid to confront power
directly and demand its overthrow even if it cost him his life. And that is as
much as one can expect of a human being.
Notes
1
Lip sewing has been used as a more obvious format of pointing to the problematic of silencing
the truth about certain issues, or to the position of disempowerment. Ulay sewed his lips
shut in 1976 while Marina Abramović answered questions on his behalf, reversing the process
of silencing of women in patriarchal cultures. David Wojnarowicz did it in 1980 to protest
the societal response to the AIDS epidemics. More recently groups of immigrants in Italy, as
well as asylum seekers in Australia have resorted to lip sewing in attempts of drawing media
attention to their detention and poor living conditions.
2
http://www.vice.com/read/petr-pavlensky-testicles-red-square-police-day-russia-puttin. Last
accessed on June 15, 2014.
3
Ibid.
4
Foucault, Language, Counter-Memory, Practice, 148.
521
C u l t ure
5
The artist has spoken about her family life in her many interviews and authorized
biographies. I reference James Westcott’s When Marina Abramović Dies, Cambridge, Mass.:
MIT Press, 2010.
6
Silverman, Male Subjectivity at the Margins, 16.
7Braidotti, Metamorphoses, 25-6.
8
Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 55.
9
Scarry, The Body in Pain, 27-31.
10 Caroline Williams, “Ideology and Imaginary: Returning to Althusser,” 37.
11 Claude Lanzmann, 200-220.
12 Cf. Richard von Krafft-Ebing, Psychopathia Sexualis: The Classic Study of Deviant Sex, trans.
Franklin S. Klaff (New York: Arcade Publishing, 2011); Theodor Reik, Masochsm in Modern
Man, trans. Margaret H. Beigel and Gertrud M. Kurth (Berlin: Klamper Press, 2013); Sigmund
Freud, Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality, trans. James Strachey (New York: Basic Books,
2000).
13 Deleuze, Masochism and Cruelty: Venus in Fur, 103-10.
14 Studlar, In the Realm of Pleasure, 17.
15 Cf. O’Dell, Contract with the Skin.
16 Abramović frequently utilizes photographs of her parents in the background and reveals their
double roles as her parents and as WWII heroes invested in socialist power structures.
17 http://www.mocp.org/detail.php?type=related&kv=8812&t=objects, accessed August 2014.
18 Cf. Eagleton, The Ideology of the Aesthetic, 196-232.
19 O’Dell, Contract with the Skin, 13.
20 Cf. Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, trans. Helene Iswolsky (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 2009).
21 Caroline Bynum discusses self-mutilation from a medievalist perspective as a means of
rapprochement between the individual and the sanctity of Christ’s body standing for the
authority they try to reach. Medieval history records many instances of body manipulation
and willing mutilation for religious goals, most of them performed by women, who are in
patriarchal societies generally inclined to consider their bodies as “impure.” The only way
to elevate them to purity is through spilling their own blood. Caroline Walker Bynum, “The
Female Body and Religious Practice,” 175.
22 Cf. Smith, “Action Movie Hysteria,” 100-103.
23 Erich Fromm, Escape from Freedom, 31.
24 Foucault, “Subject and Power”, 342.
25 Pavlensky likewise describes his actions as provocations: “My objective is to create a particular
situation, using only minimal components... The government tries to make society and the
individual into objects of their authority, to objectify them. My goal is to create situations
which pull the governing bodies into it and objectifies them, when they intervene and develop
the action, at the point when I am already not doing anything.”http://www.dazeddigital.
com/artsandculture/article/22278/1/earlobe-slicing-artist-petr-pavlensky-i-feel-excellent.
Accessed October 2014.
26 Silverman, 198.
27 Silverman, 197.
28 Community that arises from death (of another) has been extensively discussed by Georges
Bataille and subsequently by Jean-Luc Nancy.
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C u l t u re
29 Interrogation, 115.
30 Maglinis, Interrogation, 120.
31 Maglinis, Interrogation, 108.
References
Braidotti, Rosi, 2002 Metamorphoses: Towards a Materialist Theory of Becoming.
Cambridge: Polity Press.
Byers, Elizabeth Schreiber, 2011 “The Politics of Power: Masochism and Enlightenment
Political Theory” Figurationen 11.1, 101-111.
Bynum, Caroline Walke, 1989 “The Female Body and Religious Practice.” In Fragments
for a History of the Human Body, edited by Michel Feher, Vol. 1. New York: Zone,
160-219.
Deleuze, Gilles, 1989 Masochism: Coldness and Cruelty: Venus in Fur. Translated by Jean
McNeil and Aude Willm. New York: Zone Books.
Eagleton, Terry, 1990 The Ideology of the Aesthetic. Oxford: Blackwell.
Foucault, Michel, 1977a Language, Counter-Memory, Practice. Translated by Donald F.
Bouchard. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.
_________, 1977b Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Translated by Alan
Sheridan. London: Allen Lane.
_________, 2000 “Subject and Power.” In Power: Essential Works of Michel Foucault
1954-1984, vol. 3. Translated by Robert Hurley and others. New York: The New
Press, 326-348.
Fromm, Erich, 1965 Escape from Freedom. New York: Henry Hold and Co. LLC.
Jones, Amelia, 1998 Body Art: Performing the Subject. Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press.
Lanzmann, Claude, 1995 “The Obscenity of Understanding: An Evening with Claude
Lanzmann.” In Trauma: Explorations in Memory. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 200-220.
Maglinis, Elias , 2013 The Interrogation. Translated by Patricia Barbeito. Birmingham:
University of Birmingham.
Nancy, Jean-Luc, 1991 The Inoperative Community. Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press.
O’Dell, Kathy, 1998 Contract With the Skin: Masochism, Performance Art and the 1970s.
Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Salecl, Renata, 2001 “Cut in the Body: From Clitoridectomy to Body Art.” In Thinking
Through the Skin, edited by Sara Ahmed and Jackie Stacey. New York: Routledge,
21-35.
Scarry, Elaine, 1985 The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World. Oxford,
New York: Oxford University Press.
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Silverman, Kaja , 1992 Male Subjectivity at the Margins. New York: Routledge.
Smith, Paul, 1989 “Action Movie Histeria, Or Eastwood Bound.” Differences:A Journal of
Feminist Cultural Studies: 1.3, 88-107.
Studlar, Gaylyn, 1988 In the Realm of Pleasure: Von Sternberg, Dietrich, and the
Masochistic Aesthetic. Urbana: University of Illinois Press.
Williams, Caroline , 2002 “Ideology and Imaginary: Returning to Althusser.” In Ideology
after Poststructuralism, edited by Siniša Malešević and Iain MacKenzie. London:
Pluto Press.
524
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A n t h o n y D r a c o p o ulos
Un i v e r s i t y of Sy d n e y
Η Περιπέτεια του Αντρέα Κορδοπάτη και ο
Ενδιάμεσος Χώρος του Θανάση Βαλτινού
The Adventure of Andreas Kordopatis and
the Interstitial Space of Thenanis Valtinos
Abstract
Through the creative manipulation of textual formulations which belong neither to the sphere of literature nor to the sphere of narrative, Thanasis Valtinos’ prose constructs a space between fiction and reality. This paper
explores Valtinos’ unusual forms of representation by examining the “Synaxari of Andreas Kordopatis”. It argues that the “in-between” space facilitates
the co-presence of two voices: the character who wants to bring his experience
to the realm of language and the writer who wants to capture the tone of the
character’s voice. Both voices find their articulation in a single form which
is congruent to the to their aspirations. As the interstitial experience of the
character designates a space between desire and fulfilment that fires up hope
and the potentiality of dreaming, so Valtinos’ narrative becomes “foreign” to
literature in order to question ordinary views on perception and representation and to give voice to the experience of anonymity.
1. Η αναζήτηση μορφών
Διακριτικό γνώρισμα της γραφής του Θανάση Βαλτινού είναι
η αφηγηματική εκμετάλλευση μορφών που προβληματοποιούν τη
σχέση λογοτεχνίας και πραγματικότητας. Αυτό επιτυγχάνεται με την
οικοδόμηση της αφήγησης σε δάνειες ή «εξω-λογοτεχνικές» δομές,
όπως για παράδειγμα, το ενημερωτικό φυλλάδιο μιας ηλεκτρικής
525
C u l t ure
συσκευής, αγγελίες εφημερίδων, ημερολογιακές εγγραφές,
επιστολές σε άτομα, οργανισμούς, ή εφημερίδες, πραγματικά ή
«κατασκευασμένα» ειδησιογραφικά δελτία, ειδήσεις ξεσηκωμένες
από στήλες εφημερίδων, τα πρακτικά μιας δίκης, προφορικές
μαρτυρίες των ανθρώπων που έζησαν τα γεγονότα της ιστορίας που
αφηγούνται κ.α.
Η χρήση κειμενικών σχημάτων, που δεν ανήκουν στη
σφαίρα του «λογοτεχνικού», ενίοτε μάλιστα ούτε καν στη σφαίρα
του «αφηγηματικού», συνεργεί εντούτοις στην ανάδυση μιας
ολοκληρωμένης ιστορίας. Η ιστορία, όμως, αυτή αποδίδεται με
τέτοιο τρόπο που είναι δύσκολο να εξακριβωθεί που τελειώνει
το «ντοκουμέντο» ή η προσωπική αφήγηση του ήρωα και που
αρχίζει η παρουσία του συγγραφέα, που σταματά η αναφορά στην
πραγματικότητα και που ξεκινά η μυθοπλασία. Ο Βαλτινός, ωστόσο,
φαίνεται να επιδιώκει αυτή τη συσκότιση. Αντί να αποσιωπεί την
καταγωγή τους ή να την βάζει στο περιθώριο, επιμένει να την
υπογραμμίζει. Παρεμβαίνει με σημειώματα σε καίρια σημεία των
έργων του για να μας θυμίσει ή για να τονίσει πως πρόκειται
για πραγματικά ντοκουμέντα, δίνοντας έτσι την εντύπωση πως
συρράπτει το πρωτογενές υλικό ενός αφηγήματος, χωρίς όμως να
φτιάχνει αυτό το αφήγημα.
Όλα αυτά έχουν προφανείς συνέπειες στην ειδολογική κατάταξη
του έργου του. Τι ακριβώς είναι αυτό που γράφει ο Βαλτινός και σε
ποιο λογοτεχνικό είδος ανήκουν οι αφηγήσεις του; Τα ερωτήματα
αυτά επιτείνονται ιδιαίτερα στις περιπτώσεις εκείνες στις οποίες ο
συγγραφέας επιμένει να αποκαλεί μυθιστορήματα, «κείμενα» που,
είτε εξαιτίας του μεγέθους τους είτε εξαιτίας της μορφής τους, δεν
εγγράφονται εύκολα σ’ αυτό που έχουμε συνηθίσει να αποκαλούμε
μυθιστόρημα. Ο Σταύρος Ζουμπουλάκης, υπεύθυνος της έκδοσης του
Ανάπλου, ενός κατά τα φαινόμενα αυτοβιογραφικού αφηγήματος που
αρθρώνεται με τη μορφή συνέντευξης, καταγράφει με τον ακόλουθο
τρόπο την εμπειρία του με την επιμονή του Βαλτινού:
Όταν ο Θανάτης Βαλτινός μου παρέδωσε τον Ανάπλου για
πρώτη ανάγνωση και, εννοείται, προς έκδοση, χωρίς μάλιστα να
είναι καλά καλά τελειωμένος (έλειπαν οι τελευταίες σελίδες),
ήταν κατηγορηματικός: «Αυτή τη φορά θα γράψουμε από κάτω
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C u l t u re
‘μυθιστόρημα’.». Το «αυτή τη φορά» πήγαινε στη δική μου απροθυμία,
την προηγούμενη φορά, κατά την έκδοση δηλαδή του Τελευταίου
Βαρλάμη, να αναγραφεί ο χαρακτηρισμός αυτός κάτω από τον
τίτλο, η οποία οφειλόταν κατά κύριο λόγο στην έκταση του: η πρώτη
δημοσίευση στη Νέα Εστία έπιανε 22 σελίδες όλες κι όλες – πώς να
το πεις μυθιστόρημα αυτό; Η δήλωση πάντως ήταν κατηγορηματική
και οι υπομνήσεις, όσο ετοιμαζόταν η έκδοση, συνεχείς, μη τυχόν
και ξεχαστεί η λέξη «μυθιστόρημα», όπως είχε γίνει με τα Στοιχεία
για τη Δεκαετία του ’60, ενώ είχε μπει κανονικά στα Τρία Ελληνικά
Μονόπρακτα και την Ορθοκωστά.1
Τόσο από αυτή τη μαρτυρία όσο και από τα κείμενα του ίδιου του
Βαλτινού είναι φανερό πως η επιμονή του δεν είναι τυχαία. Αντίθετα,
συνιστά μόνιμη φιλοδοξία και επιδίωξη που διαπερνά το έργο του και
διακρίνει την παρουσία του. Τα ασυνήθιστα μορφικά στοιχεία στα
οποία επενδύει τις αφηγήσεις του και οι μορφικές καινοτομίες που
επιχειρεί να εγγράψει στο μυθιστορηματικό ή αφηγηματικό είδος
δεν έχουν, βέβαια, ως στόχο τους να αμφισβητήσουν την υπόσταση
της πραγματικότητας ή να την παρουσιάσουν τροποποιημένη.
Αντίθετα, την προϋποθέτουν και την ανακαλούν συνεχώς. Ο τρόπος
άλλωστε με τον οποίο συνήθως δομείται το έργο του παραπέμπει σε
τρεις διαφορετικές νοηματικές επιστρωματώσεις που παρουσιάζουν
αναλογίες με την πλατωνική αντιμετώπιση της πραγματικότητας
και της καλλιτεχνικής αναπαράστασής της. Τηρουμένων των
αναλογιών και των επιμέρους διαφορών, στα έργα του διακρίνουμε:
α) τη δεδομένη πραγματικότητα που βρίσκεται πίσω από την
αφήγηση, β) μια προσωπική αφήγηση ή ένα ντοκουμέντο για
αυτήν την πραγματικότητα και τέλος γ) τη λογοτεχνική απόδοση ή
αναπαράστασή της.
Το ζήτημα στο οποίο παραπέμπουν οι μορφικές καινοτομίες του
Βαλτινού αφορά κυρίως στη σύλληψη και την αναπαράσταση της
πραγματικότητας. Η γραφή του μας προτρέπει να προβληματιστούμε
τόσο για το περιεχόμενο της πραγματικότητας όσο και για τους
τρόπους στους οποίους στηριζόμαστε για να την γνωρίσουμε
και να μιλήσουμε για αυτήν και κατ’ επέκταση για τη φύση κάθε
αναπαράστασης. Πριμοδοτώντας το πρωτογενές υλικό ενός
λογοτεχνικού έργου στο οποίο στηρίζεται μια αφήγηση, μας καλεί
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C u l t ure
να αναρωτηθούμε για τη θέση που μπορεί να έχει το υλικό αυτό
στην αναπαράστασή του και συνάμα αν είναι δυνατόν να αποδοθεί
μια ιστορία με τρόπους διαφορετικούς από αυτούς που έχουμε
συνηθίσει να χρησιμοποιούμε. Ενώ τέλος οι μορφικές καινοτομίες,
συμπεριλαμβανομένης και της έκτασης κάθε αφήγησης, ανακινούν
ερωτήματα που αφορούν στην ειδολογική οριοθέτηση της αφήγησης
ως αφήγησης και του μυθιστορήματος ως μυθιστόρημα.
Από όλα αυτά γίνεται φανερό ότι οι επιδιώξεις, αλλά και το
ρίσκο, του Βαλτινού δεν απορρέουν απλώς και μόνο από τη φιλοδοξία
ενός καλλιτέχνη να ξεφεύγει από το συνηθισμένο. Η προσπάθειά
του να αποδώσει μια ιστορία με τρόπο που να αποφεύγει να είναι
πάλι «μια μερίδα από τα ίδια»3, φαίνεται να συνδέεται με μια
γνήσια προβληματική για τη σύλληψη και την αναπαράσταση του
πραγματικού. Η επίμονη αναζήτηση νέων μορφών παραπέμπει στην
καχυποψία και στο σκεπτικισμό απέναντι σε παραδοσιακές μορφές
αφήγησης, που συχνά δίνουν την εντύπωση ότι μια ιστορία είναι
έτσι όπως την παρουσιάζουν. Από τη στιγμή που όλοι οι αφηγητές,
ιδιαίτερα όσοι φιλοδοξούν να μιλήσουν για πράγματα που έζησαν
ή να συλλάβουν και να αποδώσουν την τρέχουσα ή την πρόσφατη
ιστορία, δεν είναι ανεξάρτητοι από την ιδεολογία τους, ούτε είναι
σε θέση να γνωρίζουν την όλη πραγματικότητα, ο μόνος ίσως τρόπος
να μιλήσουν για αυτήν είναι να καταφύγουν σε μικροϊστορίες και
σε προσωπικές αφηγήσεις, ή ακόμη να ανακαλούν συνεχώς το
πρωτογενές υλικό από το οποίο αντλούν την ιστορία τους. Για τον
Βαλτινό, φαίνεται πως δεν υπάρχει ένα προνομιακό σημείο από το
οποίο να δούμε τα πράγματα, μια ιστορία ή ένα επεισόδιο, όπως
ακριβώς πραγματικά είναι. Γι’ αυτό ίσως μια επιλογή είναι να αφήσει
κανείς τα ίδια τα πράγματα να μιλήσουν από μόνα τους, ακόμη κι
αν αυτά είναι βουτηγμένα στη μυθοπλασία. Μια δεύτερη επιλογή
είναι να αφηγηθεί μια ιστορία και παράλληλα να παραπέμψει στην
κατασκευή της, υποδηλώνοντας έτσι τα προβλήματα που εγκυμονούν
σε κάθε αναπαράσταση.
Η αναζήτηση νέων μορφών που προβληματοποιούν τη σχέση
τέχνης και πραγματικότητας δεν αποτελεί βέβαια νέο φαινόμενο,
ούτε συνιστά ανακάλυψη του Βαλτινού. Συνδέεται άμεσα με τη
μετα-νεωτερική δυσπιστία για το αληθές και συγγενεύει με ανάλογα
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ζητήματα που αναδύονται από τις μετα-νεωτερικές αφηγήσεις.4 Η
πλαισιοθέτηση αυτή βοηθά σε κάποιο βαθμό να κατανοήσουμε την
ευρύτερη προοπτική στην οποία λειτουργεί το έργο του. Ωστόσο,
δεν εξηγεί τη σχέση του περιεχομένου της αφήγησης κα της μορφής
που υιοθετείται για να αποδοθεί αυτή η αφήγηση. Τι καθοδηγεί την
επιλογή των συγκεκριμένων μορφών που και όχι κάποιων άλλων; και
πως επιλέγεται η μορφή στην οποία επενδύεται η εκάστοτε αφήγηση;
Αυτά τα ερωτήματα σκοπεύουμε να αντιμετωπίσουμε στη συνέχεια,
εξετάζοντας Το Συναξάρι του Αντρέα Κορδοπάτη, ένα από τα πρώτα
έργα του Βαλτινού, στο οποίο ίσως βρίσκονται οι καταβολές της
προοπτικής του.
2. Το Συναξάρι
Το Συναξάρι εξιστορεί το χρονικό των αποτυχημένων
προσπαθειών του Αντρέα Κορδοπάτη, ενός υπαρκτού προσώπου,
να μεταναστεύσει στην Αμερική κατά τις αρχές του 20ου αιώνα.
Παρακινημένος από την ανέχεια, την οικονομική και κοινωνική
αστάθεια, αλλά και τη μαζική μετανάστευση που ξεκινά εκείνη
την περίοδο, ο ήρωας της ιστορίας αποπειράται να μεταναστεύσει
τέσσερις φορές. Κάθε φορά όμως αποτυγχάνει να περάσει τον
απαιτούμενο υγειονομικό έλεγχο. Κατά την τελευταία προσπάθειά
του, μετά από πολλές ταλαιπωρίες και κακουχίες, φτάνει, μαζί
με χιλιάδες άλλους μετανάστες από την νοτιο-ανατολική κυρίως
Ευρώπη, στην Αμερική. Πάλι όμως απορρίπτεται από τις αρχές.
Αυτή τη φορά, ωστόσο, αποφασίζει να παραμείνει παράνομα.
Παραμένει έτσι στην Αμερική με τη βοήθεια των αδερφών του που
είναι ήδη εκεί, από τον Νοέμβριο του 1907 μέχρι τον Ιούνιο του 1910,
έξι περίπου μήνες λιγότερο από ό,τι απαιτείται για να πάρει άδεια
παραμονής. Το μεγαλύτερο μέρος της ιστορίας αφιερώνεται σ’ αυτό
το διάστημα και ειδικότερα στις περιπέτειες του Κορδοπάτη ως
παράνομου μετανάστη που αναγκάζεται να ματακινείται συνεχώς
από πόλη σε πόλη για να αποφύγει τον εντοπισμό του και την
απέλασή του από τις αρχές.
Η ιστορία του Κορδοπάτη είναι επομένως μια αποτυχημένη
προσπάθεια επανεστίασης. Ο Βαλτινός αποφασίζει έτσι να αφηγηθεί
μια ιστορία που αντιβαίνει τις στερεότυπες κοινοτοπίες για τη
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μετανάστευση. Δεν έχουμε εδώ την επιτυχή ιστορία ενός ανθρώπου
που εγκαθίσταται σε μια άλλη χώρα και κατορθώνει να ξεκινήσει
μια νέα ζωή μακριά από την ανέχεια, ούτε ενός ανθρώπου που
επιστρέφει ευκατάστατος στον τόπο του. Αλλά, την ιστορία ενός
ανθρώπου που περνά αφάνταστες δυσκολίες στην προσπάθειά του
να μεταναστεύσει και που στο τέλος γυρνά πίσω στο τόπο του με
λιγοστά υλικά αγαθά - τεκμήρια της περιπέτειάς του - από τα οποία
το σημαντικότερο ίσως είναι η ίδια η ιστορία του.
Αυτός είναι ίσως ένας από τους λόγους για τους οποίους ο
Βαλτινός επιλέγει να βάλει τον ίδιο τον Κορδοπάτη να αφηγηθεί
την ιστορία του. Πέρα από το ακόλουθο σημείωμα που παρατίθεται
στην αρχή του σύντομου αυτού βιβλίου, η φωνή και η παρουσία του
Βαλτινού φαινομενικά τουλάχιστον αποσύρρονται στο παρασκήνιο:
Ο Αντρέας Κορδοπάτης [γράφει ο Βαλτινός το 1964] ζει στο
χωριό Δάρα Μαντινείας. Κοντεύει τώρα ενενήντα πέντε χρόνων.
Τα περιστατικά που ακολουθούν, είναι ένα κομμάτι από τη ζωή
του. Μερικά τα είχε γράψει ο ίδιος, άλλα μου τα διηγήθηκε. Αυτό
στάθηκε το πρώτο υλικό. Ξανάφτιαξα την ιστορία από την αρχή,
φροντίζοντας να διατηρηθεί το ύφος και η απλότητα της κουβέντας
του. Αλλαγές στα γεγονότα έγιναν ελάχιστες, κυρίως σε σημεία που
ήσαν απαραίτητες για λόγους τεχνικούς.5
Όλη, λοιπόν, η ιστορία αποδίδεται από τη φωνή και την οπτική
γωνία του Κορδοπάτη, δίνοντας την εντύπωση πως ο Κορδοπάτης
είναι ο συγγραφέας του κειμένου. Το ότι ο Βαλτινός στηρίζεται στο
υλικό μιας πραγματικής ιστορίας και ότι επιφέρει ελάχιστες αλλαγές
στα «γεγονότα» δεν είναι βέβαια ταυτόσημο με την απλή καταγραφή
της ιστορίας. Όπως επίσης το ότι βάζει ένα πραγματικό πρόσωπο να
αφηγείται την ιστορία του δεν σημαίνει ότι ο Βαλτινός λειτουργεί
απλώς ως αντι-γραφέας. Κι αυτό γιατί υπάρχει μια τεράστια διαφορά
ανάμεσα στο βίωμα των γεγονότων και στην αφήγηση του βιώματος
ακόμη κι αν το πρόσωπο που έζησε τα γεγονότα είναι ίδιο με αυτό
που τα αφηγείται. Το βίωμα δεν είναι η γλώσσα, αν και πολλά
πράγματα μπορούν να βιωθούν ή να αναβιωθούν μέσω της γλώσσας.
Από τη στιγμή, ωστόσο, που ο Βαλτινός αποφασίζει να φτιάξει
την ιστορία με αυτόν τον τρόπο, και όχι αποδίδοντάς τη σε μια
συνηθισμένη «κλασική» αφήγηση, η πρόκληση που αντιμετωπίζει
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είναι να διατηρήσει τον προφορικό τόνο της αφήγησης και συνεπώς
ζωντανή την ψευδαίσθηση ότι όντως ο Κορδοπάτης είναι ο αφηγητής
της ιστορίας. Δεν έχει άλλη επιλογή παρά να φτιάξει μια λιττή και
απέριττη αφήγηση, ανάλογη των δημοτικών τραγουδιών, εστιάζοντας
στα κύρια περιστατικά των τεσσάρων δρομολογίων του ήρωά του.
Έτσι, μολονότι η ιστορία στηρίζεται σε ένα πραγματικό πρόσωπο και
σε πραγματικές εμπειρίες, δεν παύει να είναι μια ιστορία, που, όπως
όλες οι ιστορίες που έρχονται στο πεδίο της γλώσσας, αποδίδεται
με μυθοπλαστικό τρόπο. Χρήσιμα από αυτή την προοπτική είναι
όσα μας πληροφορεί η Ι. Κλεφτογιάννη από συνομιλία της με τον
Βαλτινό:
Ο Κορδοπάτης ήταν θείος συμμαθητή του. Τον γνώρισε όταν
είχε πατήσει ήδη τα 80 του. «Ηταν ωραίος τύπος. Βάλανε τον συμμαθητή μου κι έγραψε σε μια λαϊκοκαθαρεύουσα πέντ’-έξι σελίδες τα
απομνημονεύματά του. Τα διαβάζαμε και σπάγαμε πλάκα». Οι σελίδες αυτές είχανε μείνει στα κιτάπια του. Και όταν τυχαία ο Βαλτινός
τα ξαναβρήκε, σκέφτηκε «τι ωραίο θέμα είναι η μετανάστευση και
δη στο πρώτο κύμα της». Ετσι πήγε και βρήκε τον γερο-Κορδοπάτη,
ο οποίος «έγραφε με το μυαλό. Θυμόταν τα πάντα». Ο Βαλτινός κράτησε σαν αρχή του κατά τη συγγραφή του «Συναξαριού» «τη λιτότητα της αφήγησης». Και μας παρέδωσε έναν απαστράπτοντα, καθάριο
προφορικό λαϊκό λόγο. «Παρ’ όλο που δεν υπάρχει προφορικός λόγος
όταν κάτι είναι γραπτό. Διότι ναι μεν είναι λαϊκός λόγος, αλλά είναι
επεξεργασμένος, έντεχνος».6
Πρόκειται επομένως για μια ιστορία που βρίσκεται ή που θέλει
να δώσει την εντύπωση πως βρίσκεται ανάμεσα στην πραγματικότητα
και στη μυθοπλασία. Εκεί όπου συναντιώνται οι δύο αφηγητές - ο
Κορδοπάτης που αφηγείται την ιστορία και ο Βαλτινός που βρίσκεται
συνεχώς πίσω του. Ο ένας θέλει να φέρει τις εμπειρίες του στο
πεδίο της γλώσσας, ενώ ο άλλος θέλει να δώσει φωνή στον ίδιο τον
Κορδοπάτη και συνεπώς να φέρει στη γλώσσα τον προφορικό τόνο
της φωνής του. Θα υποστηρίζαμε μάλιστα πως ο Βαλτινός δεν θέλει
κάν να αναπαραστήσει την ιστορία, τον ήρωα και τις εμπειρίες του,
αλλά τη φωνή του ήρωα. Γι’ αυτό βάζει τον ίδιο τον Κορδοπάτη να
αφηγηθεί την ιστορία του. Η φωνή του Κορδοπάτη αναπόφευκτα
προσθέτει στην αληθοφάνεια και στη γνησιότητα της αφήγησης,
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ενώ παράλληλα γίνεται η αντιπροσωπευτική φωνή χιλιάδων άλλων
μεταναστών. Μέσα από αυτήν ακούγεται μια ευρύτερη συλλογική
εμπειρία και αναδύεται ενδεικτικά το κλίμα μιας ολόκληρης
εποχής. Κατά συνέπεια, η συγκεκριμένη μορφή σε συνδυασμό με το
σημείωμα του συγγραφέα στην αρχή του βιβλίου παίζουν λειτουργικό
ρόλο στην αφήγηση ακριβώς επειδή τοποθετούν την ιστορία σε ένα
πεδίο ανάμεσα στη μυθοπλασία και στην πραγματικότητα. Για
να διερευνήσουμε όμως περαιτέρω αυτό το πεδίο χρειάζεται να
σταθούμε περισσότερο στην ιστορία του Κορδοπάτη, ξεκινώντας από
την απόφασή του να μεταναστεύσει.
3. Η απόφαση του Κορδοπάτη και η νέα υπαρξιακή ζώνη
Ο Κορδοπάτης αποφασίζει να μεταναστεύσει για λόγους
που δεν προκαλούν έκπληξη: κοινωνική και οικονομική αστάθεια
που καθιστούν αδύνατες τις όποιες προσπάθειες για βιώσιμες
οικογενειακές επιχειρήσεις, καταστροφές από φυσικά φαινόμενα, ο
πόλεμος του ‘97. Ο φυσικός του χώρος είναι ένας τόπος που δεν του
προσφέρει ούτε ασφάλεια, ούτε ευκαιρίες, αλλά ούτε τη δυνατότητα
να πραγματοποιήσει τα όνειρά του. Κάθε ένα νέο ξεκίνημα, κάθε
όνειρο και κάθε προσπάθεια υλοποίησής του διαγράφουν μια τροχιά
που τον επιστρέφει σε εκείνο που ήταν πριν το ξεκίνημα. Παραμένει
έτσι ένας άνθρωπος χωρίς προοπτική, χωρίς κατεύθυνση και χωρίς
κέντρο, ένας άνθρωπος ανέστιος, όντας στον τόπο του. Ο τόπος του
είναι ένας τόπος που δεν του επιτρέπει να ξεδιπλώσει τα όνειρά του
και συνεπώς ένας τόπος που δεν του προσφέρει τη δυνατότητα να
διεκδικήσει το είναι του.
Όπως κάθε επιθυμία, έτσι και η επιθυμία της μετοικεσίας
ξεκινά κι εδώ από μια έλλειψη ή από μια στέρηση. Πίσω όμως
από την απόφαση δεν βρίσκεται απλώς και μόνο η δυσκολία της
επιβίωσης, αλλά κάτι πιο ουσιαστικό που κινητοποιεί κάθε ύπαρξη,
η δυνατότητα του ονείρου. Το όνειρο είναι προϋπόθεση ύπαρξης
και η ανεστιότητα προϋπόθεση για τη διεκδίκησή του. Η απόφαση
του Κορδοπάτη στηρίζεται έτσι στην ελπίδα πως υπάρχει κάπου
αλλού ένας χώρος στον οποίο κάτι τέτοιο είναι πιθανό. Πρόκειται
για μια ελπίδα που τροφοδοτείται από τυχαίες ειδήσεις, φήμες και
προσωπικές μαρτυρίες� και αναδύεται από την ανάγκη να διοχετευθεί
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η ενέργεια ενός νέου ανθρώπου που πιστεύει πως μπορεί να φτιάξει
και να γίνει. Αβάσιμη ή όχι δίνει πρόσβαση στη δυνητικότητα του
ονείρου. Γι αυτό κυρίως, ο Κορδοπάτης, όπως και κάθε μετανάστης,
αγκαλιάζει την αβεβαιότητα ενός άγνωστου χώρου. Ο χώρος αυτός
παραμένει βέβαια για την ώρα μια υπόσχεση, μια αφηρημένη εικόνα
χωρίς συγκεκριμένα χαρακτηριστικά. Παρ’ όλα αυτά, η άγνοια και
η τυφλότητα που τον συνοδεύουν δεν αποτελούν τροχοπέδη, αλλά
τροφή της ελπίδας.
Από τη στιγμή που αποφασίζει να φύγει, ο Κορδοπάτης
εισέρχεται σταδιακά σε μια άλλη υπαρξιακή ζώνη στην οποία
κυριαρχεί ο μέλλοντας χρόνος. Η ζωή του αποκτά νόημα και
προοπτική. Τώρα, μπορεί να σκεφτεί και να ονειρευτεί το μέλλον.
Η ενικότητα της προηγούμενης ύπαρξής του δίνει έτσι τη θέση της
σε μια σειρά χρονικών αλλά και χωρικών εντάσεων. Ο κόσμος του
χωρίζεται ανάμεσα στο εδώ και στο εκεί, στο παρόν και στο μέλλον,
στην πραγματικότητα και στην επιθυμία της επανεστίασης, στο χώρο
που βρίσκεται και στο χώρο που θα ήθελε να είναι, στο πεδίο που
κινείται το σώμα του και στο φαντασιακό πεδίο που κατοικεί ο νους
του. Στο πλαίσιο αυτών των διχοτομιών, όλα μένουν στην άκρη για
να προετοιμάσουν εκείνο που δεν έχει έρθει ακόμη. Η ζωή στο εδώ,
όπως γίνεται φανερό από το ακόλουθο χωρίο, τίθεται σε αναμονή.
Η μάνα μου με έβλεπε που είχα βάλει το κεφάλι κάτω να φύγω
και στενοχωριόταν. Δεν ήθελε να ξενιτευτώ. Και τότε σκέφτηκε να
με παντρέψει. Έβαλε μια αδερφή της να μου το πει. Ήταν ένα ωραίο
παχουλό κορίτσι, χαρούμενο. Μου έπεσε η θειά μου από κοντά, να τα
φτιάξουμε να την πάρω. Της λέω δεν γίνεται τίποτα. Το κορμί μου
με παίδευε [,] δεν την άντεχα τη μοναξιά. Αλλά είχα άλλα στο νου
μου. (σ. 37)
4. Η εμπειρία του ενδιάμεσου χώρου
Αυτή η ενδιάμεση κατάσταση επιτείνεται όταν πλέον ο
Κορδοπάτης ξεκινά το ταξίδι για την Αμερική. Ήδη στο πλοίο
βρίσκεται ανάμεσα σε διαφορετικές εθνικότητες με κοινή
μοίρα, αλλά με διαφορετικές αντιλήψεις και αξίες, διαφορετικές
πολιτισμικές και θρησκευτικές πρακτικές, διαφορετικές διατροφικές
συνήθειες και γλώσσες. «Ήμαστουν», γράφει, «κοντά τρεις χιλιάδες
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από διάφορες φυλές: Έλληνες, Βούλγαροι, Αλβανοί, Τούρκοι, Ρώσοι,
Ρουμάνοι, Σέρβοι, Αυστριακοί.» (σ. 47). Από τη στιγμή που αρχίζει
να ξεμακραίνει από την αρχική του εστία, παύει να κατοικεί στο
πεδίο της τοπικής ομοιομορφίας. Εισέρχεται σε «ζώνες επαφών»�
με άλλους πολιτισμούς και εκτείθεται συνεχώς σε διαφορετικές
παραδόσεις.
Άνθρωποι, οι οποίοι στο παρελθόν, εξαιτίας πολιτισμικών,
γεωγραφικών και ιστορικών διαφορών έμεναν σε απόσταση ο
ένας από τον άλλο, τώρα με τη μετανάστευση ακολουθούν πορείες
που βρίσκουν σημεία επαφής. Τα σημεία αυτά διακρίνονται από
πολιτισμικές μείξεις και συνεπώς συνιστούν περιοχές μεταμόρφωσης.
Η προοπτική του Κορδοπάτη έτσι διευρύνεται. Η ιδιοσυστασία
του, ο κόσμος του, αλλά και ο τρόπος που βλέπει τον εαυτό του
αλλάζουν. Η προοπτική της μίας οπτικής γωνίας δίνει τη θέση της
σε μια ποικιλία οπτικών γωνιών. Ο κόσμος του αρχίζει να ξεφεύγει
από τα όρια του τοπικού και του εθνικού και γίνεται ένας κόσμος
διασταυρώσεων με άλλους.
Όπως είναι επόμενο, όταν καταφέρνει να ξεφύγει στην
αμερικανική ενδοχώρα, οι αλλαγές που υφίσταται γίνονται ακόμη
μεγαλύτερες. Τα ίχνη τους αποτυπώνονται κατ’ αρχήν στη γλώσσα
του, που επίσης αρχίζει να κινείται σ’ έναν ενδιάμεσο χώρο:
Ιταλιάνο; μου λέει.
Νο, Γκρέκο, του λέω.
Μπόνο Γκρέκο.
Ιταλιάνο; τον ρωτάω.
Γιες, μου λέει
Μπόνο Ιταλιάνο, του λέω κι εγώ.
Τον ρωτάω ύστερα, γκρικ σάλα, δωμάτιο ύπνου. Έκλαιγαν τα
μάτια μου. Δεν μπορήγαμε να συνεννοηθούμε. (σελ. 59)
Κάτι ανάλογο συμβαίνει και με την ταυτότητά του. Αναγκασμένος
να παίζει κρυφτό με τις αρχές, σε κάθε πόλη που πηγαίνει, επιννοεί
συνεχώς διαφορετικά ονόματα και υιοθετεί διαφορετικές ταυτότητες.
Ο πραγματικός εαυτός του μένει στο περιθώριο. Έτσι, που στο τέλος
γίνεται σχεδόν ο σωσίας της ταυτότητας που θέλει να αποκτήσει.
Πήγαμε στο εργοστάσιο κι έγραψαν τα ονόματά μας. Εγώ
έβαλα Τομ Κάλας, όχι Αντρέας Κορδοπάτης, γιατί με κυνηγούσαν οι
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κλητήρες, να χάσουν τα αχνάρια μου. Άλλαξα ονόματα και επίθετα
πολλά. (σ. 93-94).
Ίσως, όμως, τίποτε άλλο δεν φανερώνει περισσότερο το
ενδιάμεσο πεδίο που κατοικεί ο Κορδοπάτης, κατά τη διάρκεια
της παραμονής του στην Αμερική, όσο η εμπειρία του χώρου.
Προσπαθώντας να αποφύγει το βλέμμα των αρχών, δεν έχει άλλη
επιλογή παρά να μετακινείται συνεχώς. Ως παράνομος μετανάστης,
ο κόσμος του γίνεται έτσι ο κόσμος της λαθραίας περιπλάνησης.
Όταν αναλογισθούμε πως σε διάσημα δυόμισι ετών αλλάζει
διαμονή δεκαοκτώ φορές8, ο χώρος, για τον Κορδοπάτη, είναι ένα
πεδίο άφιξης και αναχώρησης. Ο προσανατολισμός του στο χώρο
δεν έχει να κάνει με τη γεωγραφική θέση των πόλεων, αλλά με την
ασφάλεια που αυτές μπορούν να προσφέρουν. Οι πόλεις υπάρχουν
ως προσωρινοί σταθμοί. Είναι απλά σημεία στο χάρτη, που οδηγούν
από τη μια προσωρινή εστία με την άλλη. Το πιο χαρακτηριστικό
παράδειγμα αυτής της ανεστιότητας είναι όταν, σε κάποιο σημείο
της περιπλάνησής του, χώρος διαμονής γίνεται ένα τραίνο - το κατ΄
εξοχήν ενδιάμεσο. Ζει, τρώει και κοιμάται εν κινήσει, σε μια εστία,
που εξ ορισμού αντιβαίνει το νόημα της εστίας.
Μέναμε σε βαγόνια επίτηδες για εργάτες. Μαγειρεύαμε μέσα,
κοιμόμαστουν τo βράδυ κι όταν η εταιρεία είχε ανάγκη για άλλο μέρος, μας έπαιρνε και μας κουβάλαγε τη νύχτα. Έτσι ξημερωθήκαμε
και δουλέψαμε σε διάφορες πολιτείες: Σέντερ Πάρκ, Λόγγαν, Μπόζεμαν, Λίβινστιν. (σ. 89).
Ο Κορδοπάτης αναγκάζεται έτσι να μετακινείται από πόλη σε
πόλη, από εργασία σε εργασία, να μετακινείται στο χώρο και στο
χρόνο. Το παράδοξο αυτής της εμπειρίας είναι ότι προσπαθεί να μην
αφήσει ίχνη σε ένα χώρο που θέλει να κάνει δικό του. Επιθυμεί ένα
σταθερό σημείο, για να μπορέσει να ανήκει, αλλά αυτή η επιθυμία
τον ωθεί να μετακινείται. Έχουμε κι εδώ μια επανάληψη και μια
επιστροφή σ΄ αυτό που ήταν. Ωστόσο, η επιστροφή, αντίθετα από ό,τι
συνέβαινε στην αρχική του εστία, δεν οδηγεί στο ίδιο σημείο, αλλά σε
έναν διαφορετικό χώρο και σε μια διαφορετική ταυτότητα. Ο χώρος,
βέβαια, κρατά την υπόσχεση της μόνιμης εγκατάστασης, αλλά ακόμη
δεν έχει επενδυθεί με μνήμες και δεν έχει δημιουργήσει δεσμούς για
να γίνει τόπος. Κι εδώ ο Κορδοπάτης παραμένει ανέστιος.
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Σ’ αυτό το πλαίσιο συνεχούς κίνησης, το μόνο φαινομενικά
σταθερό σημείο είναι οι συγγενείς και οι συχωριανοί του. Κάθε φορά
που βρίσκεται σε μια νέα πόλη, το πρώτο πράγμα που αναζητά είναι
άνθρωποι από το χωριό του. Από αυτούς η προσμονή υποστήριξης
είναι αυθόρμητη και αυτονόητη. Αν δεν βρει τέτοιο στήριγμα, τότε η
ακτίνα του κύκλου μεγαλώνει σε μια μεγαλύτερη νοητή επιφάνεια,
πάντα όμως με κέντρο την αρχική του εστία. Η παρουσία αυτών των
ανθρώπων συμβάλλει στη σταδιακή μετατροπή του χώρου σε τόπο.
Με αυτούς υπάρχει μια αίσθηση του γνώριμου μέσα στο ανοίκειο,
όχι μόνο λόγω κοινής καταγωγής και κοινών βιωμάτων, αλλά κυρίως
λόγω της κοινής γλώσσας. Διαφορετικά μένει βουβός: «Ταξίδευα
τριάμισι μερόνυχτα. Χωρίς φίλους, χωρίς Έλληνες να κουβεντιάζω,
μόνος μου σα σακί δεμένο.» (σ. 74). Το οικείο γίνεται το αντίδοτο
στην απειλή του άγνωστου.
Μια δεύτερη ανθρώπινη παρουσία που συμβάλλει σ’ αυτή την
αλλαγή είναι άλλοι μετανάστες. Παρά τις όποιες διαφορές τους,
έχουμε εδώ μια σιωπηρή αναγνώριση συγγένειας. Η αποξένωση
που μοιράζονται δημιουργεί μια αίσθηση συλλογικότητας η οποία
προφανώς απορρέει από την αναζήτηση μιας νέας εστίας και τις
εμπειρίες με τις οποίες συνδέεται αυτή η αναζήτηση. Μαζί τους
μοιράζεται το βίωμα του ενδιάμεσου χώρου. Σε καταλαβαίνω γιατί
έχω περάσει ή περνάω αυτά που περνάς. Σ’ αυτόν το καινούριο κόσμο,
εκείνο που φέρνει τους ανθρώπους κοντά είναι η παραπλήσια γλώσσα
μιας κοινής εμπειρίας, ακόμη κι όταν η γλώσσα αυτή βρίσκεται σε
σπασμένες ή άναρθρες φράσεις.
Η αίσθηση του χώρου καθορίζεται έτσι από σημεία ασφάλειας
ανάμεσα σε ανθρώπους με κοινά σημεία και κοινές εμπειρίες. Με την
πάροδο του χρόνου, παρά τις συνεχείς μετακινήσεις, μέσα από αυτά
τα σημεία, ο χώρος αρχίζει να αποκτά μια οικειότητα γιατί πάνω του
εγγράφονται εμπειρίες και μνήμες, συναντήσεις και διασταυρώσεις
με ανθρώπους που είτε είναι δικοί του είτε μοιράζονται μαζί του
παραπλήσιες εμπειρίες.
5. Η δυναμική του ενδιάμεσου χώρου
Οι αντίξοες συνθήκες που συναντά στην Αμερική όχι μόνο δεν
διαφέρουν από εκείνες που αντιμετώπιζε πριν φύγει από τον τόπο
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του, αλλά είναι ακόμη χειρότερες. Μετακινείται από πόλη σε πόλη,
δυσκολεύεται να βρει εργασία, ζει ως φυγάς που έχει συνεχώς κατά
νου να σβήνει τα ίχνη που αφήνει πίσω του. Σ’ όλα αυτά έρχεται
να προστεθεί η οικονομική κρίση του 1908 που δυσχεραίνει ακόμη
περισσότερο τα πράγματα. Παρ’ όλα αυτά ο Κορδοπάτης επιμένει,
γιατί αρκετά πράγματα του δίνουν τώρα τη δύναμη να υπομείνει
καταστάσεις που πριν δεν μπορούσε.
Ο χώρος, ανάμεσα στην επιθυμία για μια καινούρια αρχή και
στην πραγματικότητα που αντιμετωπίζει, διαμορφώνει ένα δυναμικό,
ανοιχτό πεδίο απελευθερωμένο από τις αγκυλώσεις του παρελθόντος.
Έχοντας αφήσει πίσω του τις συντεταγμένες της προγενέστερης
ύπαρξής του και κατ’ επέκταση όλα όσα περιόριζαν το ξετύλιγμα του
είναι του, βλέπει τώρα ότι, παρά τις τεράστιες δυσκολίες, αν επιμείνει
μπορεί κάπου να φτάσει. Βασικό κίνητρο παραμένει η εκπλήρωση
της τρίχρονης παραμονής που θα του εξασφαλίσει νόμιμη άδεια
παραμονής. Κάθε μέρα που περνά, τον φέρνει πλησιέστερα σ’ αυτό
το στόχο. Κι όσο κοντύτερα βρίσκεται σ΄ αυτόν, τόσο μεγαλύτερες
είναι οι πιθανότητες της μόνιμης εγκατάστασής του.
Η πρόκληση της επιτυχίας μέσα σε αντίξοες συνθήκες, ιδιαίτερα
από τη στιγμή που αυτή εντάσσεται στο πεδίο της προσωρινότητας,
αποτελεί ένα ακόμη κίνητρο. Η προσωρινότητα αποτελεί μια ανάπαυλα
από τη δέσμευση. Απελευθερώνει από όλες τις έγνοιες, εκτός από τη
δέσμευση της παραμονής. Όλα τώρα, συμπεριλαμβανομένης και της
μόνιμης εγκατάστασης, βρίσκονται σε αναστολή. Χωρίς ρίζες στον
τόπο και με το χρόνο να μην έχει βρει την κανονική του ροή, είναι
πιο εύκολο να αφήνει το ένα για να κάνει το άλλο. Προσηλωμένος,
έτσι, στο στόχο της μελλοντικής παραμονής, το παρόν αποτελεί ένα
διάλειμμα ανάμεσα σ΄ ένα παρελθόν που δεν τον αφήνει να ονειρευτεί
και σ΄ ένα μέλλον που υπάρχει ως υπόσχεση. Γι αυτό τώρα μπορεί
να αντέξει όλες τις δοκιμασίες και να υπομείνει όλες τις αναποδιές.
Από αυτή την προοπτική, οι αντιξοότητες λειτουργούν σαν μέσο
για να αποκαλυφθούν δυνατότητες που ίσως ακόμη και ο ίδιος ο
Κορδοπάτης δεν ήξερε ότι είχε.
Αντίθετα, λοιπόν, από ό,τι θα περίμενε κανείς, η απουσία μιας
μόνιμης εστίας δεν δηλώνει μόνο έλλειψη. Γεννά παράλληλα μια
παράξενη ενέργεια που πυροδοτεί την ελπίδα και τη δυνατότητα του
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ονείρου. Το να βρεθεί κανείς ανάμεσα στην αφετηρία και στην άφιξη
σημαίνει πως βρίσκεται μπροστά σ’ ένα αχαρτογράφητο πεδίο που
προσφέρεται ως δυνατότητα εξερεύνησης και ανοίγει νέες προοπτικές
ύπαρξης. Με βάση την εμπειρία του Κορδοπάτη, θα λέγαμε πως η
μονιμότητα μιας κατοικίας παραπέμπει σε στάση, η έλλειψή της σε
κίνηση. Γι’ αυτό το ενδιάμεσο, ένας χώρος ανάμεσα στην επιθυμία
και την πλήρωση, είναι ένα ζωτικό πεδίο που δεν τροφοδοτεί απλώς
και μόνο την υπόσχεση της ευζωίας, αλλά διατηρεί ζωντανό το
ενδεχόμενο να ανακτήσει κανείς όλα όσα έχει χάσει, ακόμη και να
ανακτήσει το είναι του. Σκιαγραφεί ένα χώρο, όπου η υπόσχεση της
άφιξης πληροί την επιθυμία του «κατοικείν»9, περισσότερο ακόμη κι
από τη μόνιμη κατοικία. Διαθέτει μια ανεξάντλητη δυναμική, γιατί
συνεχώς καλεί το άτομο στη δυνητικότητα της ύπαρξης. Είναι ίσως
ένας χώρος ανάλογος με αυτόν της παιδικής αθωότητας που πιστεύει
πως μπορεί να πετύχει εκεί που η λογική του ενήλικα λέει πως είναι
αδύνατο. Δεν θα ήταν επομένως υπερβολή να υποστηρίξουμε πως ο
Κορδοπάτης είναι στο σπίτι του ακριβώς όταν βρίσκεται ανάμεσα,
αφού εκεί η ελπίδα έχει στη διάθεσή της μια ενέργεια που δεν της
την παρέχει η μονιμότητα της εγκατάστασης.
6. Το ενδιάμεσο της αφήγησης
Για να φτάσεις πρέπει να κατοικήσεις εκείνο που δεν είναι
ούτε εδώ ούτε εκεί. Το ενδιάμεσο είναι η προϋπόθεση της άφιξης.
Ο Κορδοπάτης, όμως, δεν φτάνει πουθενά. Διαγράφει έναν κύκλο
και γυρίζει εκεί από όπου ξεκίνησε. Όταν αρχίζει να νιώθει άνετα
στο νέο χώρο φανερώνει το πραγματικό του όνομα, προδίδεται από
συντοπίτες του, συλλαμβάνεται και απελαύνεται. Η εμπειρία του
παραμένει η εμπειρία του ανάμεσα, όπως είναι η εμπειρία κάθε
μετανάστη. Στην περίπτωσή του, όμως, όχι ανάμεσα σε δύο τόπους,
όπως συνήθως συμβαίνει με έναν «τυπικό» μετανάστη, αλλά ανάμεσα
στην αναχώρηση και στην άφιξη, στην επιθυμία για εγκατάσταση και
στο χρόνο που η επιθυμία αυτή θα μπορέσει να γίνει πραγματικότητα.
Το μάλλον μυθοπλαστικό κλείσμο του βιβλίου έρχεται να επιβεβαιώσει
τη σημασία αυτού του ενδιάμεσου χώρου. Μετά την απέλασή του,
στο δρόμο της επιστροφής προς το χωριό του, φτάνοντας πλέον στην
Τρίπολη, ο Κορδοπάτης σχεδιάζει ήδη το επόμενο ταξίδι:
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Κατεβαίνω και πάω στο πραχτορείο Μαλούχου. Ήταν ένας νέος
υπάλληλος. Του λέω: Σε έξι μήνες ειδοποίησέ με όταν έχει πλοίο. Και
άφησα όνομα και σύσταση. (σ. 138).
Από όλα αυτά γίνεται φανερό πως ο τρόπος με τον οποίο ο
Βαλτινός αποδίδει την ιστορία δεν είναι τυχαίος. Δεν επιχειρεί
απλώς να αφηγηθεί την ιστορία με έναν τρόπο που ξεφεύγει από τα
συνηθισμένα. Διαμορφώνοντας έναν χώρο που βρίσκεται ανάμεσα
στην προσωπική εξιστόρηση και στη μυθοπλασία, επιλέγει μια μορφή
που ανταποκρίνεται στο ενδιάμεσο της εμπειρίας του Κορδοπάτη.
Παράλληλα, η επιλογή του Βαλτινού έμμεσα παραπέμπει σε μια
άλλη συνθήκη που βρίσκεται στο κέντρο κάθε αφήγησης, ιδιαίτερα
μάλιστα όταν πρόκειται για την αφήγηση μιας πραγματικής
εμπειρίας. Τη στιγμή που ο Κορδοπάτης αφηγείται την ιστορία του
μετά από χρόνια είναι επόμενο ότι ιστορία αυτή είναι εμβολιασμένη
με τη μυθοπλαστική εκδοχή που αθόρυβα της προσαρτεί η μνήμη.
Θυμάται αυτά που ήταν σημαντικά για τον ίδιο και την επιβίωσή του
μέσα στο πλαίσιο της αναδρομικής θεώρησής τους. Κατά συνέπεια,
στην ιστορία του βρίσκονται ήδη συνυφασμένα η πραγματικότητα και
η μυθοπλασία, τόσο από τα κενά που άφησε η μνήμη και τα γέμισε
ο νους και η φαντασία, όσο και από τη σημασία που ο ίδιος απέδωσε
στα γεγονότα που έζησε. Η ιστορία φτάνει έτσι στον Βαλτινό ήδη
διαμεσολαβημένη από τη γλώσσα αλλά και από τη μνήμη. Γι’ αυτό
ίσως ο πιο αποτελεσματικός τρόπος απόδοσης αυτής της ιστορίας
είναι ακριβώς όπως αποδόθηκε, δηλαδή σαν ένα ανάμεσα στο πως
την έζησε πραγματικά ο Κορδοπάτης και στο πως την έπλασε στο
νου του.
Το γεγονός, βέβαια, ότι το ίδιο το κείμενο αξιώνει πως βρίσκεται
στα όρια της λογοτεχνίας και της προσωπικής εξιστόρησης ενός
υπαρκτού προσώπου ενδέχεται να μας αποξενώνει ως αναγνώστες
από το κείμενο ως λογοτεχνία. Γίνεται, κατά τρόπο ανάλογο με τον
ήρωά του, ο ξένος της «τυπικής» λογοτεχνικής αφήγησης για να
αποσταθεροποιήσει εκείνο που εκλαμβάνουμε ως δεδομένο και να
μας βάλει να ξανασκεφτούμε κριτικά τις συνηθισμένες κοινοτοπίες
περί μετανάστευσης. Όσο όμως μας αποξενώνει με τη μορφή του,
τόσο μας ελκύει με τον προσωπικό τόνο και την προφορικότητα της
αφήγησης. Ο αναγνώστης μπορεί να μην αισθάνεται σαν στο σπίτι του
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στο κείμενο του Βαλτινού, αισθάνεται όμως άνετα στην απλότητα
και στην αμεσότητα της φωνής του Κορδοπάτη. Παρακολουθεί
με συμπάθεια την περιπέτειά του, συμπάσχει με τα δεινά του
και συγκινείται με την αγωνία του, γιατί είναι σαν να ακούει την
περιπέτεια ενός δικού του ανθρώπου. Το κείμενο παρουσιάζεται
ανοίκειο και οικείο ταυτόχρονα, σαν ένα ανάμεσα, όπως η εμπειρία
του ίδιου του Κορδοπάτη.
Δεν υπάρχει αμφιβολία ότι πίσω από την ιστορία του
Κορδοπάτη βρίσκεται ένα υπαρκτό πρόσωπο και μια συγκεκριμένη
πραγματικότητα. Τη στιγμή όμως που αυτή η πραγματικότητα
έρχεται σε μας διαμεσολαβημένη από τη γλώσσα και τα απομεινάρια
της μνήμης, η πρόσβασή μας σ’ αυτήν θα είναι πάντα προβληματική.
Ο μόνος ίσως τρόπος με τον οποίο μπορούμε να τη γνωρίσουμε είναι
μέσα από την υποκειμενική αντίληψη και το προσωπικό βίωμα. Για να
γίνει αυτό, ο συγγραφέας πρέπει να αποσυρθεί στο παρασκήνιο, έτσι
ώστε η ανώνυμη μονάδα να αποκτήσει φωνή και όνομα. Μια τέτοια
αφήγηση κατορθώνει να αποφεύγει τη γενίκευση και ταυτόχρονα να
την ανακαλεί. Συγχρόνως, δημιουργεί ένα πεδίο μέσα από το οποίο
κοιτά λοξά και την πραγματικότητα και την αφήγηση, με αποτέλεσμα
να τραβά τη ματιά μας τόσο στους τρόπους με τους οποίους μιλάμε
γι’ αυτήν όσο και στους τρόπους με τους οποίους την επενδύουμε
με νόημα. Όπως, λοιπόν, ο ενδιάμεσος χώρος του Κορδοπάτη κρατά
ανοιχτή τη δυνατότητα του ονείρου, έτσι και ο ενδιάμεσος χώρος
της αφήγησης του Βαλτινού ανοίγει τη δυνατότητα της γραφής
στην εμπειρία και στο βίωμα, ενώ παράλληλα παραπέμπει στην
προβληματική που συνοδεύει την αφήγησή τους.
Η μυθοπλαστική «επένδυση» μιας πραγματικής ιστορίας συνιστά
συνθήκη της ανθρώπινης ύπαρξης που συνδέεται άμεσα με το τρόπο
που βιώνουμε αλλά και θυμόμαστε μια δεδομένη πραγματικότητα.
Η αφήγηση της ιστορίας του Κορδοπάτη φαίνεται να στηρίζεται
στην προβληματική αυτής της συνθήκης και συνάμα να αντανακλά
στη δομή της την εμπειρία του ήρωα. Αν τούτο ισχύει για όλο το
έργο του Βαλτινού συνιστά μια υπόθεση εργασίας που θα άξιζε να
διευρευνηθεί περαιτέρω. Υπάρχουν, ωστόσο, αρκετά παραδείγματα
από το έργο του Βαλτινού που παραπέμπουν σ’ αυτή τη συνθήκη.
Εδώ περιοριζόμαστε να σημειώσουμε ότι κάτι ανάλογο γίνεται και
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στον Ανάπλου, το τελευταίο του βιβλίο, όπου η «μυθοπλαστική»
αυτοβιογραφία του συγγραφέα δίνεται υπό τη μορφή συνέντευξης
σε μια νεαρά ερευνήτρια. Το πρώτο μέρος του βιβλίου αναπαράγει
μια πραγματική συνέντευξη, η οποία στη συνέχεια γίνεται η μορφή
της αφήγησης με την οποία ο Βαλτινός αποδίδει μυθοπλαστικά τις
καταβολές του έργου του. Η επιλογή κι εδώ δεν είναι τυχαία. Το
περιεχόμενο της αφήγησης αναζητά μια κατάλληλη μορφή και τη
βρίσκει στη συνέντευξη ενός γνωστού συγγραφέα.
Notes
1 Στ. Ζουμπουλάκης, «Αναπλέοντας προς τη Σκοτεινή Ρίζα», The Athens Review of
Books, (Ιούνιος 2012), σ. 9.
2 Σε συνέντευξή του για το έργο Στοιχεία για τη Δεκαετία του ’60, ο Βαλτινός
σημειώνει: «Στη Δεκαετία του ’60 έγινε μια εκμετάλλευση υπαρκτών πραγμάτων,
αλλά ταυτόχρονα καιμια αναίρεσή τους, μια ανατροπή τους. Αυτός ο χώρος, ο
ιστορικο - κοινωνικός, μιας εποχής δεν μπορούσε να αντιμετωπιστεί με άλλον τρόπο,
διότι δε θα είχε νόημα πια. Το να κάνεις ένα κλασικότροπο μυθιστόρημα πάνω σ’
αυτή τη σημαντική δεκαετία θα οδηγούσε πιθανότατα, τουλάχιστον αυτοί ήταν οι
δικοί μου φόβοι, πάλι σε μια μερίδα από τα ίδια. » στο «Μια συνομιλία με τον Σάββα
Παύλου», περ. Ακτή, Έτος Β΄,Τεύχος 6, 1991, σ. 15. Η υπογράμμιση δική μας.
3 Βλ. λ.χ. Jean-Francois Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge,
Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1987, Fr. Jameson, Postmodernism, or the
Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism, London & New York: Verso, 1991, L. Hucheon, A
Poetics of Postmodernism. History, Theory, Fiction, New York & London: Routledge,
1988 και L. Hucheon, «The Politics of Parody.» The Politics of Postmodernism, New
York: Routledge, 1989. 93-117.
4 Χρησιμοποιώ την έκδοση Θ. Βαλτινός, Συναξάρι Αντρέα Κορδοπάτη, Αθήνα: Άγρα,
1990, σ. 9. Στο εξής οι παραπομπές δίνονται εντός του κειμένου. Το Συναξάρι
πρωτοδημοσιεύται σε συνέχειες στο περ. Ταχυδρόμος τον Ιανουάριο- Φεβρουάριο
1964.
5 Ι. Κλεφτογιάννη, “Η Ιστορία ενός Σύγχρονου Οδυσσέα”, Ελευθεροτυπία, 5 Νοεμ.
2011. Σε εισαγωγικά αποδίδονται τα λόγια του Βαλτινού.
6 Ο ακόλουθος διάλογος με έναν μετανάστη που επιστρέφει για λίγο στον τόπο
του είναι χαρακτηριστικός του τρόπου με τον οποίο ο Κορδοπάτης συλλέγει
πληροφορίες:
Πως περνάγατε στην Αμερική;
Πολύ καλά, ό,τι θέλαμε τρώγαμε. Φτηνά πράματα, ρούχα, παπούτσια.
Το μεροκάματο;
Άλλος δύο δολλάρια, άλλος ένα κ’ εβδομήντα πέντε, άλλος ενάμισι.
Δουλειές πολλές;
Πολλές. Γραμμές, μίνες για το χρυσό, για κάρβουνο και άλλες. (σ. 24)
541
C u l t ure
7 M. L. Pratt, «Arts of the Contact Zone», Profession, (1991), σ. 33–40.
8 Νέα Ορλεάνη - Σανλαίκι Σίτι - Ποκατέλο - Νάμπα Αϊντάχο - Βόισενς Αϊντάχο
- Ποκατέλο - Μπιούτη Μοντάνα - Σέντερ Παρκ - Λόγγαν - Μπόζεμαν - Λίβινστιν Μισούλα - Σαν Ρίτζι - Μισούλα - Μπιούτη Μοντάνα - Ποκατέλο - Νέα Υόρκη.
9 Βλ. M. Heidegger, «Building Dwelling Thinking», Poetry, Language Thought, (μετ.
A. Hofstadter), New York: Harper Perennial, 2001, 141-159.
Refernces
Βαλτινός, Θ., Συναξάρι Αντρέα Κορδοπάτη, Αθήνα: Άγρα, 1990.
Βαλτινός, Θ., “Μια συνομιλία με τον Σάββα Παύλου”, περ. Ακτή, Έτος
Β΄,Τεύχος 6, 1991, σ. 169-182.
Βαλτινός, Θ., Ανάπλους, Αθήνα: Βιβλιοπωλείο της Εστίας, 2012.
Cresswell, T., Place. A Short Introduction, Oxford: Blackwell, 2004.
Heidegger, M.,“Building Dwelling Thinking”, Poetry, Language, Thought,
(αγγλ. μετ. A. Hofstadter), New York: Harper Perennial, 2001, 141-159.
Hucheon, L., A Poetics of Postmodernism. History, Theory, Fiction, New York & London: Routledge, 1988.
Hucheon, L., “The Politics of Parody.” The Politics of Postmodernism, New
York: Routledge, 1989. 93-117.
Fr. Jameson, Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism, London & New York: Verso, 1991.
Κλεφτογιάννη, Ι.,“Η Ιστορία ενός Σύγχρονου Οδυσσέα”, Ελευθεροτυπία, 5 Νοεμ. 2011.
Kriseva, Julia, 1991, Strangers to Ourselves, NY: Columbia Uni Press.
Lefebvre, H., The Production of Space, (μετ. D. Nicholson-Smith), Oxford:
Blackwell, 1991.
Lyotard, Jean-Francois, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge,
Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1987.
Malpas, J. E., Place and Experience, New York: Cambridge University Press,
1999.
Παπαθεοδώρου, Γ., “Το Παιχνίδι της μνήμης και της Λήθης. Ζητήματα
Ιστορίας και Ιδεολογίας στην πεζογραφία του Θανάση Βαλτινού”, Νέα
Εστία, 1802 (2007), σ. 82-94.
Παϊβανάς, Δ., Βία και Αφήγηση. Ιστορία, Ιδεολογία και Εθνικός Πολιτισμός
στην Πεζογραφία του Θανάση Βαλτινού, Αθήνα: Βιβλιοπωλείον της Εστίας,
2012.
542
C u l t u re
Pratt,M. L., “Arts of the Contact Zone”, Profession, (1991), σ. 33–40.
Ραυτόπουλος, Δ.,“Το Μυθιστόρημα Τεκμηρίων κατά Βαλτινόν”, Νέα Εστία,
1802 (2007), σ. 29-54.
Rapport,N & Dawson, A., Migrants of Identity. Perceptions of Home in a
World of Movement, Oxford: Berg, 1998.
Ζουμπουλάκης, Στ., «Αναπλέοντας προς τη Σκοτεινή Ρίζα”, The Athens Review
of Books, (Ιούνιος 2012), σ. 6-10.
543
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large nude
544
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Dimitris Paivanás
Thanasis Valtinos’ Three Greek One-Act Plays
and its critical Reception
«... man’s suffering with all the amplification of tragic masks»1
Abstract
Three Greek One-Act Plays (1978) is a short, tripartite work of postwar fiction comprising seemingly unrelated documents supposedly quoted
verbatim from their original sources. They are: a) the proceedings of a trial
held in 1957 and related to National Army operations in the last phase of
the Civil War; b) a series of letters received by a prison inmate between
1954 and circa 1970; and, c) the undated instruction manual to a Kenwood
mixer. In a play of generic terms on the cover and title page the slim volume
is described with salient irony from the outset as a “novel”.2 The somewhat
risqué quotation of apparently authentic documents with minimal extraneous commentary in a soi-disant “novel” is a pioneering narrative technique
at least in Greek literary prose. Critical commentators who did not neglect
the text altogether either offered partial readings of it in the cultural milieu
of post-dictatorship Greece or, baffled until recently by its ostentatiously
unconventional form, treated it as little more than “experimental” literature. As a result, the text’s underlying criticisms of the dominant ideology
in Greece and the nation’s socioeconomic crisis since the end of the Civil
War and right up to the first years of the Metapolitefsi have largely gone
unnoticed. The purpose of this paper is to propose a reading of Three Greek
One-Act Plays as a parody3 with a potential political message that transcends
the stated or implied chronologies of reference, and to explore the cultural
and ideological conditions that contributed to the text’s partisan or unceremonious reception.
545
C u l t ure
1. Background
When Three Greek One-Act Plays was first published, Valtinos was well
known in Greek literary circles. His novella The Descent of the Nine (1963) had
inaugurated his accession to the literary scene and was well known among
intellectuals.4 It was a quasi-testimonial narrative about the demise of a platoon of leftist guerillas in the final year of the Civil War. In the inimical climate of the Colonels’ dictatorship it was a ‘cult text’ which circulated secretly
in photocopies among university students and teachers. Indeed, until its
publication in book form, in 1978, it had been published in English (1973)
and German (1976).5 Its additional relevance for this article is that the author considers Three Greek One-Act Plays as a “comment on and sequel to” The
Descent of the Nine.6 In 1978 Valtinos was also known for his short story “The
Plaster Cast”, his contribution to Eighteen Texts (1970), the first collective
volume by Greek writers protesting against the Colonels’ censorship.
In comparison to Three Greek One-Act Plays these texts by Valtinos
were more conventional narratives. In the zeitgeist of post-dictatorship
Greece avowed commentators treated these works as party-minded leftwing statements,7 but they were far from according with the partisan spirit
that evolved from the 1973 Polytechnic events after seven years of military
rule and spawned the populism of PASOK in the ensuing years.8 As one 1979
review of the text suggests,9 Greece’s return to parliamentary democracy
germinated a wholesale dismissal of liberal conservatism and the elevation
of leftism to exclusive benevolence. This new polarization was an offshoot
of the dictatorship which probably also cloned Cold-War antinomies at the
time. Some of its many effects in Greece were idealized interpretations of
the left’s involvement in the Civil War10 and a subdued self-criticism within
a large majority of the Greek left and its intelligentsia. Stifled self-criticism,
ideological consensus and historical oblivion are the principal objects of critique in Three Greek One-Act Plays.
2. The subsidiary texts of Three Greek One-Act Plays
The first document [“Πρακτικά μιας δίκης (ξεσηκωμένα από τις
εφημερίδες της εποχής)” (henceforth “Πρακτικά”)]11 is strongly reminiscent of a dramatic work. It is structured in two parts and interspersed
with brief descriptions extraneous to the dialogue. In it a retired general
(Vasilopoulos) sues one of his peers (Zafiropoulos) for misrepresenting him
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C u l t u re
in his book on the Civil War.12 Seven witnesses reveal Vasilopoulos’ catastrophic contribution to National Army operations on Mount Vitsi in 1948
but also display tolerance for his laxity. In the second part of the trial, the
testimony of an officer with amputated lower limbs brings an unexpected
volte face: the plaintiff and the accused compromise, indeed as the presiding
judge had recommended before the beginning of proceedings. Zafiropoulos
withdraws his published criticisms and Vasilopoulos emerges as a competent leader. “Πρακτικά” is a scathing comment on the distortion of the officers’ experience on the battlefield, the muffling of self-questioning within
the military and its collaboration with the judiciary and the press in establishing an ideological concord after the Civil War.
The second text [“Γράμματα στη φυλακή” (henceforth “Γράμματα”)] is reminiscent of the epistolary novel. It is an archive of 14 letters received by the inmate Stelios Thomaidis. Allusions to his political affiliation
and that of his relatives fade in comparison to the text’s emphasis: a profound malaise in the lives of almost everyone involved. The sympathy that
Valtinos creates for most correspondents is counterbalanced by pressures
they exert on Thomaidis to be more compliant. In spite of expectations for
his release, the inmate’s fate remains unknown. At the end of the text, an
authorial note states that the letters were discovered in 1972 in the toilets
of the disused Kalami Gaol in Chania (p. 64). In reality Valtinos found four
letters addressed to different recipients which inspired him to compose this
putatively authentic epistolary archive.13
The last document is undated and bears the title of a well-known advertising catch-phrase in Greece: “Ναι, αλλά Kenwood” (henceforth “Kenwood”). It seems to be a verbatim quotation of a manual to the appliance.
I could not ascertain the degree of Valtinos’ personal input in the text’s
composition. The author claims to have come across the (now misplaced)
manual in his sisters’ home in Athens. In it the impersonal narrator ceremoniously promises to emancipate the prospective user from the daily
toil of food preparation while simultaneously announcing his/her subjugation to the appliance’s advanced technology. Three recipes make up the
denouement of the book. In the context of Three Greek One-Act Plays it is a
bitter and humorously ironic comment on post-war economic growth that
scoffs at the partial and illusory prosperity of the Greek urban home.
The references to effective homogenization of materials in the kitchen
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C u l t ure
relate metaphorically to the theme of ideological uniformity in the other
two texts and, by extension, to literary cohesiveness.
For the casual reader, Three Greek One-Act Plays is at a certain remove
from this aesthetic principle. In spatial terms the quasi-logical transition
from the courtroom to prison is followed by an incongruous one to the
domestic kitchen. In discursive terms there is a notable transition from
dialogue to epistolary monologues followed by the quasi-apostrophic or
impersonal monologue of a manual. However, my brief description above
suggests that the three texts share at least one thematic opposition (freedom ≠ suppression or control of people, views, or behaviour) which is
treated with varying degrees of irony in each text. It is therefore significant
that the referential impetus of the subsidiary texts to actual situations and
discursive practices is repeatedly displaced or reversed with the “true” and
the “authentic” being consistently exposed as fiction. In their totality, the
three texts refer to an all-pervasive ideology in post-Civil-War Greece whose
partialities, falsehoods and modes of dissemination the reader is invited to
question beyond the stated or implied times of reference. It appears, however, that the cultural ambiance of post-dictatorship Greece was not altogether conducive to reading Three Greek One-Act Plays in this way. Rather
it might explain the omissions, bewilderment and reservations of the few
critics who commented even fruitfully on the text.
3. The critical reception of Three Greek One-Act Plays
Mario Vitti and Vasilis Rafailidis were the first to review the book approximately seven months after publication.14 Later critics drew from and
commented on their commentaries both directly and indirectly.15 Vitti’s was
an incisive, albeit understandably cautious, review. His sensationalistic description of the work as “an authorless novel” was supplemented by references to a “conscientious editor”, “selection”, “appropriation” and “initiative”
which culminates into a “more radical objectivity”.16 Commenting on “Γράμματα” and “Kenwood”, he identified a “violence exercised on the inmate” and
a “distortion” of reality respectively. Although, he appears to have purposely
avoided commenting on the very same issues in “Πρακτικά”, his wording
suggests that they relate to both the times of reference and publication.17
Rafailidis’ review the same year was less restrained. He described the
text as a “daring montage of impressions” which “creates a synecdoche” that
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C u l t u re
signifies what he termed as the “optimistic tragedy” of Greek history. This
he explicitly related to the “dramatic defeat” of the Democratic Army in the
Civil War by “farcical victors”. Optimism is perceived in the survival of Nasios (the narrator of The Descent of the Nine) in his surrogate, Thomaidis.18
In true antimilitarist spirit of the period, the officers in “Πρακτικά” are
shown to participate in an “intra-class civil war… squabbling over their mislaid honour” while the “drama of an entire people” is limited to Thomaidis’
hapless relatives. In the text itself, however, the inmate’s idealization on
grounds of political affiliation is meticulously avoided. Indeed the generals
compromise their differences which is part of the “drama” that Rafailidis
eschews.19 In spite of this, he seems to doubt his optimistic appraisal of the
Metapolitefsi as the “symbolic end of the Civil War”.20 His interpretation may
be described as historically contingent, brimming with post-dictatorship
leftist enthusiasm, but also containing uncertainties on its own findings.
Approximately a decade later, Dimitris Daskalopoulos declared reservations about Rafailidis’ gloss but he expressly refused involvement in
“ideological discussions”.21 His reserve describes eloquently the climate that
prevailed during the 80s in relation to the left’s idealized role in the Civil
War.22 Daskalopoulos described Valtinos’ text as an “interesting experiment”. Michel Fais drew similar conclusions referring to “an experimental
undertaking whose accessibility remains problematic even nowadays”.23 If
these hermeneutic restraints can be attributed to critical inhibitions fomented during the Metapolitefsi, a broader neglect of the text resulted from
other, perhaps more tangible, causes.
In a relatively recent newspaper article, Elisavet Kotzia observed that
Valtinos gained a place in the multi-volume series Η μεταπολεμική πεζογραφία – Από τον πόλεμο του ’40 ως τη δικτατορία του ’67 on the basis
of four works of prose fiction, Three Greek One-Act Plays among them.24 In
the introductory volume of the series, however, Alexandros Argyriou makes
no mention of Valtinos’ text. Indeed, it does not feature in his annual catalogues of published works of fiction.25 This philological oversight in a highly
regarded critical anthology seems to have had some adverse consequences
for the work’s reception thenceforth,26 perhaps because it was not republished until 1989 along with the similarly styled Data from the decade of the
60s whose instant success seems to have overshadowed the shorter book.
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C u l t ure
Valtinos himself has described Three Greek One-Act Plays as his least
“commercial” book,27 a fact that perhaps documents that unconventional
narratives do not necessarily enjoy a wide readership, critical commentary
or philological listings. It would appear that as a result, the author orchestrated a reexamination of the text in a dedicatory issue of the periodical
Πόρφυρας and with the reprint of the first reviews in the volume of critical
writings Για τον Βαλτινό.28The critical efforts that germinated remained
within the limits of general or theoretical commentaries and one commentator reiterated a difficulty to treat it as literature.29 According to another
critic, the text referred to the “theme of the Junta” possibly in prolonged
accordance with the post-dictatorship zeitgeist.30 The allusions to the Colonels’ dictatorship, however, are only marginal in the work’s preoccupation
with social inequities, prolonged repression and interment of socio-political
antinomies after the Civil War.
In retrospect, the polarizations that evolved from the internecine conflict and featured in both literary and critical writings before and after the
dictatorship were not an unexpected development. During the 90s, however, and until recently when historians, writers and press commentators resuscitated a widespread interest in the Civil War, the author’s preoccupation
with the subject was frequently described as regressive.31 Consequently, the
critical negligence of Valtinos’ text may be partly attributed to problems of
“accessibility”, as Fais pointed out in 1989, but included other factors such
as philological oversight, the nature and preoccupations of critical practices
in Greece, the stereotypical labeling of Valtinos as a leftist writer, and the
ideological climate that predominated throughout the Metapolitefsi. In my
view, it is also attributable to the inherent difficulties of parody as a literary
genre, in particular its ambiguity.
4. Irony, Parody and Satire in Three Greek One-Act Plays
The terms “irony”, “parody” and “satire” overlap but they are not of
course synonymous. Irony is based on differences between form and content or stated and implied meaning. The discrepancy imposes a semantic
shift that rules out possibilities of their convergence.32 Parody and satire are
generic carriers of irony. The former in that imitates a text and at the same
time distances itself from it without necessarily mocking it. Thus, parody
is rebellious but it is also conservative. Satire on the other hand usually
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C u l t u re
targets social institutions. When it targets a literary piece, it comments
on the aesthetic status quo. In such cases, parody and satire cooperate in
acknowledging and simultaneously undermining the hegemony of a given
cultural condition. Research findings of the last decades state that parodies
have a broad spectrum of effects that vary according to the context of each
composition. However, the oscillation of parody between its polemic and
conservative functions33 and its description as “quotation or repetition with
a critical difference” gives sufficient broadness to the term for a preliminary
understanding of Three Greek One-Act Plays.
4.1. “Πρακτικά”: Severed logic
“Πρακτικά” comments on the catastrophic consequences of individual contributions to collective efforts with the expected formality and
seriousness. The use of Katharevousa befits the occasion and reinforces its
verisimilitude; the idiom is not an object or the means of satire. The plot,
however, leads to the evaluation of personal responsibility as a negligible
misdemeanor, exposing institutional involvement in the biased appraisal of
an historical event. This interpretation serves the “practical” purpose of ideological consensus but the irony of the pun does not mock the institutions
involved, regardless of how conducive to this interpretation antimilitarism
may have been in post-dictatorship Greece. On the contrary, the tragic results of misguided individual inputs are maintained and are at the furthest
possible remove from satirical treatment.
In the first part of the trial Vasilopoulos questions Zafiropoulos’ historiography claiming that he is represented as cowardly. Similarly, during
the trial, the validity of other official documents is questioned.34 In a selfreferential turn, this questioning is directed towards “Πρακτικά” itself as a
document. In spite of this, Zafiropoulos’ account is supported by witnesses
and shown to have been justified. So, the scales of justice lean in his favour
as the text creates expectations for a development that leads logically to a
confluence of justice and truth. The formality and dryness of expression,
a systematic arrangement of testimonies and their internal organization
reinforce such expectations. Their eventual deflation, however, does not invalidate or mock the text’s putative authenticity either.
In the second part of the trial, witnesses characterize Zafiropoulos’
account as “false”. The last witness, the legless veteran in his wheel chair,
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C u l t ure
fails to answer a question on events at the battlefront due to “expressed
emotion” (p. 31). The question is withdrawn, the proceedings come to a
close and the historiographic plot of what actually happened on Mount
Vitsi in September 1948 is dissolved in a mist of emotional uncertainty.
The next day, Zafiropoulos withdraws his views and the social status and
heroism of his brothers in arms is reinstated. The tragic developments on
the battle field, as they are expressed in the loss of the officer’s lower limbs
were the result of a general laxity in the National Army Corps including the
sluggishness of Vasilopoulos. The severing of logic in the evaluation of the
events intensifies the tragedy. Judgments based on solidarity and camaraderie, emerge as logical and just whereas those founded on logic and criticism are shown to be injurious. The outcome of the trial exudes a cultural
inclination towards ideological consensus over and above critical dialogue.
Part of the text’s irony arises from the illogicality of this outcome.
In “Πρακτικά”, historiographic verity is largely based on synecdoche,
perhaps the most unifying of rhetorical tropes.35 What short-circuits this
homogenization is a contamination of the characters as epic figures by less
heroic attributes which force them to succumb to a coerced self-deception.
This is not a feature of the side they served but a component in the way
their experience was interpreted posthumously. What the reader is invited
to do is question not only the oversight of individual responsibility but also
the imaginary conscience formed on the basis of muffled criticism and partial historical narratives. Parody introduces this very possibility of distance
from this dominant interpretation at the expense of another. Thus, Three
Greek One-Act Plays is a “sequel to and a comment on” The Descent of the Nine
because it refers to what the pursuers of the nine guerillas suffered in 1948
and exposes the ideological use of narratives on the internecine conflict.
Perhaps the most savage irony at the expense of those involved is that the
revelation of “unfortunate events”36 implies an epic narrative for the Democratic Army at least for the Vitsi clashes. However, mutinous behaviour and
lack of discipline in a generally exhausted National Army after the Grammos battles puts the epic nature of this narrative under serious doubt for
either side of the conflict. This is particularly evident not only because details of the contested events are silenced, but also due to Democratic Army
representatives’ conspicuous absence. They are either in exile or have signed
so-called “declarations of repentance”.
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“Πρακτικά” challenges the reader’s logic by making him/her question the reliability of formal documents, the validity of personal testimonies, the significance of individual contributions to collective enterprises
and the ways in which these are interpreted posthumously. At the end of
proceedings the presiding judge delivers a speech that contains a series of
contextual ironies:
“Mετά ταύτα ο πρόεδρος του κακουργιοδικείου έλυσε την
συνεδρίασιν ειπών ότι ο επελθών συμβιβασμός θα ήτο καλόν να
εγένετο πριν προχωρήσει η δίκη ―δεδομένου ότι όλοι αγαπάμε
τον στρατόν― οπότε θα απεφεύγετο η αποκάλυψις ωρισμένων
γεγονότων της περιόδου του συμμοριτοπολέμου 1948.
H Eλλάς, ετόνισε, με την βοήθειαν μεγάλων συμμάχων, εκέρδισε
την μάχην υπάρξεώς της. Mε την βοήθειαν των ίδιων συμμάχων
εκερδήθη η μάχη της ανασυγκροτήσεως της ερειπωμένης
πατρίδος μας. O αγών βεβαίως δεν έπαυσε ακόμα. Aπομένει διά
τον λαόν μας η φάσις κατακτήσεως της ευημερίας, προϋπόθεσις
εκ των ουκ άνευ, διά πάσαν περαιτέρω πολιτιστικήν πρόοδον.
Γενναιόφρονες σύμμαχοι ίστανται παρά το πλευρόν μας και εις
την φάσιν αυτήν. Δεν θα πρέπει να το λησμονούμε. Όπως δεν
θα πρέπει να λησμονούμε το ύψιστον χρέος μας: Λήθη διά το
παρελθόν και ομόνοια.
Tο τέλος των εμπνευσμένων λόγων του κυρίου προέδρου διεδέχθησαν
παρατεταμένα χειροκροτήματα εκ του ακροατηρίου” (σ. 33-4).
In 1978, the excerpt would have certainly echoed the rhetoric of
George Papadopoulos’ speeches. The parenthetical remark “όλοι αγαπάμε
τον στρατόν” and the references to “γενναιόφρονες συμμάχους” suggest anachronistically the coup d’état of 1967 and hint at the American aid
to Greece after 1947, respectively. The speech, however, is in a mixture of
direct and indirect speech that restrains its grandiloquence. The satirical effect, therefore, is not unquestionably clear.
What seems to be the object of satire here is the rhetoric rather
than the content (the personification of Greece as a reconstructed entity
and the contradictory call for remembrance and oblivion at the end of the
second paragraph). Valtinos shares the view that prosperity is a prerequisite
for cultural advancement and the judge seems to be aware of its insecure
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prospects.37 The struggling relatives of Thomaidis confirm this, making the
irony of such an ambition even more pronounced. If, therefore, one discerns satire at the expense of those involved, this relates to the institutional
cover-up that has been achieved. The references to “λήθη” and “ομόνοια”
in the judge’s final appeal are salient in that regard. The former echoes the
compound “αλήθεια” (truth), which was never sought ab initio. The latter
underlines the violence of Zafiropoulos’ legal defeat and the stifled selfcriticism within the military. However, by means of controlled sympathy
for at least two of its members, the text formulates a direct challenge to the
endorsed ideology. Arguably it foreshadows a similar challenge to the corresponding zeitgeist spawned during the Metapolitefsi.
The satire that underlies the denouement of “Πρακτικά” reaches its
climax in the indeterminate audience’s endorsement of the judge by “extended applause”. This human ensemble appears to succumb to paternalism
and sentimental rhetoric rather than seek dialogue and proof. Placing emotional appraisals above logical argument is presented as the distinguishing
feature of a collective attitude whose acquiescence betrays a desire for solidarity. Parody in “Πρακτικά” exposes human propensity to credulity and
the shaky foundations of such solidarity but does not seek their unquestioning condemnation.
4.2 “Γράμματα”: Severed links
In “Γράμματα” there are four basic narrative sequences involving
Thomaidis and his relatives. The first one relates to his marriage. In the first
four letters and a two-year span his marriage to Tasia heads inexorably towards dissolution. Four letters and five years later a lawyer informs him of
his divorce. Three letters and six years later he is prompted to transfer the
guardianship of his children to their new stepfather. His dramatic condition
is counterbalanced with justifications of Tasia’s choices, mild chastisements
of his attempts to blackmail her and his non-involvement in graver family
issues.38 The promises of his relatives to visit him are quickly replaced by
declarations of difficulty in their fulfillment. Thus, Thomaidis character is
presented as severed from both family and society.
The second narrative sequence relates to the difficulties of his parents,
the deterioration of their health and death of his mother. The third sequence
involves his sister’s family. The relevant descriptions include unemploy554
C u l t u re
ment, poverty and struggle for daily subsistence. The prosperity envisaged
by the judge in “Πρακτικά” and resonantly announced in “Kenwood” are
in ironic inconsistency with the central text. The fourth sequence relates to
Thomaidis’ release. The absence of date in the last piece of correspondence
in conjunction with the author’s note at the end of “Γράμματα” where the
prisons he patronized are enumerated in asyndeton,39 create the impression
of an incarceration ad infinitum.
Thomaidis’ correspondents make references to letters received by him
but the epistolary dialogue is rudimentary. In its totality, however, the text
is in dialogue with “Πρακτικά” in a number of ways. To begin with, there
is a kind of parallel between Thomaidis and Zafiropoulos. Thomaidis’ correspondents refer to stubbornness (p. 49) on his behalf and possible insubordination (p. 48 and 50). This behaviour suggests that his incarceration is
the result of a refusal to sign a “declaration of repentance”. Zafiropoulos too
submits a semblance of a repent at the end of the trial. His criticisms are suppressed metaphorically whereas the uncompromising Thomaidis is in literal
confinement. The two texts do not juxtapose right-wingers to left-wingers
with the stereotypical addenda of comfortably acquiescent members of the
middle class against justly combative or struggling proletarians. What underlies both texts is a criticism of the post-Civil-War state for its prolonged
Manichaism and intolerance. Indeed the outcome of the trial functions as a
signifier for this ideological climate and as a cause of Thomaidis’ incarceration which is seemingly extended thanks to the Colonels’ dictatorship.40 The
other ways in which the two texts are in dialogue relate to irony.
Some of the content of the relevant letters agglutinates to coerce Thomaidis into compliance. His relatives ask him to be “disciplined” (p. 48),
to “not change his mind again” (p. 50) and to “shave, because facial hair
doesn’t suit [him]” (p. 52). His mother’s piety (p. 39 and 41) is extended
to a kind of guidance of Thomaidis41 while some developments in his life
are presented as divine justice.42 The possibility of self-censorship seems
to underlie the phraseology at times,43 but the correspondents appear to
accept their condition as a natural development, almost like an incurable
ailment.44 Their acquiescence betrays the treatment of their condition as a
fateful outcome similarly to the consenting audience in “Πρακτικά”.
Valtinos seems to refuse to transpose this acquiescence to Thomaidis
himself. In spite of haziness in his characterization, he functions as a struc555
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ture of resistance to authority which pretends to permit expressional liberties but, essentially, abolishes dialogue and endorses concealment of facts
in the interest of ideological consensus. There is a confluence of his confinement “inside” with corresponding restraints “outside” but he also represents
the opposite of “outside” which in reality is another form of “inside”. The
literary effect of these inconsistencies which reinforce and simultaneously
undermine differences between opposing concepts is irony. This is intensified in the final letter, where a supplier informs Thomaidis of some material
he has ordered for making artifacts. The undated letter abstracts time and
its last paragraph expands spatial reference to a global context. This makes
Thomaidis appear as a dissolved entity in spatiotemporal non-specificity
and at considerable distance form idealized interpretations of his character:
“EIΣAΓΩΓAI - ΔIAPKHΣ ΠAPAKATAΘHKH
α―Πρώται ύλαι ψηκτροποιΐας: Tρίχες Kινεζικές, Aλόγινες
Eυρώπης-Aμερικής, Συνθετικές Nάυλον, Xόρτα Mεξικού TαμπικόΛουστρέ.
β―Πρώται ύλαι καθεκλοποιΐας και πλεκτών επίπλων: Kαλαμάκι,
ψαθίον, ξυλεία Pοτέν, κορδέλα, μπανέλες, νάυλον σωληνάκι και
πλακέ, ψάθες Viscose, κάλαμοι Iνδιών Bamboo.
γ―Πρώται ύλαι πιλοποιΐας: Λέζες, σπαρτρί, ψάθινες ταινίες
Eυρώπης-Kίνας-Άπω Aνατολής, ροκανίδι Iταλίας, κορδόνι
χάρτινο, πιλήματα Mερινός ανδρικά-παιδικά, μοχέρ καστόρινα,
βελούρ γυναικεία βούρλινα-ψάθινα-κοντινεντάλ-Bangkok.
δ―Διάφορα: Tζίβα Μαρόκου κοτσίδα και ξασμένη, χόρτο
νικελωτηρίων, τινακτήρια Iνδιών, μπαστούνια περιπάτου
αναπήρων εκ bamboo κλπ” (p. 63).
Parody in “Γράμματα” manifests itself in the imitation of correspondence which preserves the relevant conventions and concomitant expressions of emotional solidarity towards the inmate, but also employs their
ironic potential. Thus, it functions very similarly to “Πρακτικά” in that it
cuts both ways: on the one hand with subdued satire at the expense of the
relatives and critical stance towards the sociopolitical climate in which they
express themselves, and, on the other, with an oxymoronic mixture of sympathy and distance from their plight. This distance relates to their apparent
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C u l t u re
compliance with authority and the acceptance of their condition as fatal.
Thomaidis’ apparent vanishing at the end, leaves a void in the resistance to
such acquiescence. So, if, as Pylarinos intuitively perceived in 2002,45 the
text empowers its reader politically it does so not through catechism but by
severing semantic links and through ironic displacements that undermine
teleological judgments on all relevant issues.
4.3 “Kenwood”: Domestic Technology and Freedom
When one is forced to read a manual to a kitchen appliance as literature, the initial irony is largely due to the absence of the machine and the
“accompanying documents” referred to in it.46 In the first sentences “Τώρα
έχετε και σεις ένα νέο KENWOOD CHEF” and “Aπό σήμερα η ζωή σας
στην κουζίνα αποχτάει καινούργιο νόημα” (σ. 67) this irony is intensified by stylistic features like the use of the cluster “χτ” (instead of “κτ”)
and the uncontracted ending “-άει” (istead of “–ά”), due to inconsistency
with the formality of the plural address. In this literary context, therefore,
the appliance is a linguistic mélange of different registers, vocabulary and
rhetorical devices: saliently its personification initially in the French term
“Chef” (also meaning “leader”, “superior”, or “boss”) and later in its presentation as “companion”.
The prospective user is presented as the master of this appliance devoted to his service and wellbeing,47 but the hierarchy of this relationship is
gradually reversed when the machine – perhaps an early postmodern cyborg
– is said to surpass human dexterity and accommodate the inefficiencies
of its user who is encouraged to show fidelity in following instructions.48
The description of various components emphasizes superlative juicing and
blending capabilities arguing for economy of time and materials. The phraseology, however, is excessively lavish and often tautological. The ironic humour is set off by differences in register between titles (in Katharevousa)
and explanations (in a popular kitchen idiom) and results from inconsistencies between claims to economy and verbal recklessness.49
The irony resulting from the almost simultaneous declaration of one
thing and its opposite is reinforced intra-textually through the transition
from dialogue in “Πρακτικά” to monologues in “Γράμματα” and to the
apostrophe of “Kenwood”. This transition is incongruous with the dialogic
operations the reader is invited to perform in order to produce contextual
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C u l t ure
meaning.50 If the humorous ironies have a satirical edge to them, they do
not involve the denial of gastronomic pleasures. The object of satire is not
an actual user of a Kenwood Chef or the average bon-vivant. In the broader
context of the work, the “Ναι” of the title is followed by the inducement of a
theoretical prospective user to consent to a substitute of personal will with
that of an impersonal enunciator. The target of the text’s satire is the (self-)
enfeeblement of the individual in his or her compliance with an ideological
climate that promotes consumerism as a vision of wellbeing in conjunction
with loss of historical memory.
Consequently the repetitiousness of parody is not in itself sufficient
for it to be ironic or satirical. The other texts and an understanding of the
cultural context are prerequisites for the effectiveness of irony. So, the recipe for kourabiédes in the denouement of “Kenwood” parodies cook book language but its irony is not satirical. The irony becomes more poignant in the
final words (“ζάχαρη άχνη”, p. 83) which offers the semblance of a happy
ending illustrating how sweet the veneer of the exerted clandestine violence
can be. If it simultaneously questions this, it is thanks to the text’s dependence on similar techniques in the traditional novel, on the reader’s memory
of details in the previous texts and the author’s complicity in bringing them
together despite his apparent withdrawal.
Three Greek One-Act Plays can be read as a critique of a national ideology founded on dubiously partial interpretations of historical events and
on a concomitant loss of historical memory combined with fallacies of domestic affluence and the comforts of consumerism. Thus, by exploiting the
ironic potential of parody Valtinos calls for a more realistic aesthetic in the
contemporary novel rather than proclaim the genre’s demise. Indeed, the
text activates the reader’s participation in recognizing literary conventions
of the novel in the construction of both reality and literary meaning. The
text also exposes the connivance of literary discourse in the formation of
ideology and cultivates its potential to politically motivate through critical analysis rather than catechism. Thus, the “experienced violence” by the
work’s “conscientious editor”, aptly noted by Vitti in his inaugural review,
is transformed into its symbolic or benevolent exertion with the acknowledged complicity of the reader.51
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C u l t u re
Notes
1 R. Barthes, ‘Wrestling’, Mythologies, Hill and Wang, New York 1972, p. 19.
2 Τhe description features in all three editions of the text to date [Κέδρος (1978), Στιγμή
(1989) and Εστία (2008)]. All page references to the text are to the 1978 edition.
3 My shorthand definition of “parody” is “quotation or repetition with a critical
difference”. See L. Ηutcheon, A Theory of Parody, Methuen, London and New York
1985, p. 26 and 31-2; W. Οmmundsen, Metafictions? Reflexivity in Contemporary
Texts, Melbourne University Press, Melbourne 1993, p. 10-11 and S. Dentith Parody,
The New Critical Idiom, Routledge Τaylor and Francis Group, London and New
York 2000, p. 9-21.
4 Η κάθοδος των εννιά, first published in the periodical Εποχές 5 (September 1963) p. 32-45.
5 For a critical commentary, see D. Paivanas “A post-modern lesson in history: the
incomplete rhetoric of Thanasis Valtinos’s The Descent of the Nine”, BMGS, Vol. 29,
No 2 (2005), p. 203-234.
6 S Alexandropoulou “‘Η πόλη αλλοίωσε τη λαϊκή γλώσσα’ λέει ο συγγραφέας
Βαλτινός” Πρωινή (7 March 1979) p. 8.
7 On the renewed lustre of the Greek left after 1974 see, e.g., Γ. Βούλγαρης Η
Ελλάδα της Μεταπολίτευσης 1974-1990. Σταθερή δημοκρατία σημαδεμένη από τη
μεταπολεμική ιστορία, Θεμέλιο, Athens 2002, p. 8 and D. Close Greece since 1945,
Pearson Education Limited, London 2002, p. 103-110.
8 The 1978 edition of Three Greek One-Act Plays includes a seemingly relevant
postscript which is absent from subsequent editions: “H σύνθεση τους άρχισε
περί το 1966. Για λόγους αντικειμενικούς μέχρι το 1974 ― και για λόγους εξίσου
αντικειμενικούς από το ’74 και εντεύθεν, ο συγγραφέας είχε αρνηθεί να τα εκδώσει”
(p. 87) At the “Hommage à Thanassis Valtinos” workshop held at the Frei
Universität in Berlin (21 June 2014), the author revealed that the post-1974 reference
involved a more personal kind of censorship: the manuscript of Three Greek One-Act
plays was withheld by what appears to be a malcontent partner at the time. His
“refusal” to publish the text between 1974 and 1978 suggests a piquant response to
institutionalized and personal forms of censorship.
9 V. Rafailidis “Ελληνική αισιόδοξη τραγωδία σε τέσσερα μέρη” Διαβάζω 22 (July
1979) p. 69-70. For a brief discussion of this review, see section 3 below.
10 See e.g. Γ. Θ. Mαυρογορδάτος “H ‘ρεβάνς’ των ηττημένων” Πενήντα χρόνια
μετά τον Εμφύλιο, Ερμής, Athens 1999 and Ν. Μαραντζίδης “Η ‘ρεβάνς των
ηττημένων’” Το βήμα (9 July 2006) electronic archivehttp://www.tovima.gr/opinions/
article/?aid=174364.
11 According to the author (personal interview 16/08/2003), their publication in the
daily press was common practice in the 50s.
12 D. Zafiropoulos, Ο αντισυμμοριακός αγών 1945-1949¸ private edition, Athens 1956.
The book is a well known work of historiography on the Greek Civil War. I’ve seen
a copy in Valtinos’ personal library at his village home in Karatoula.
13 See Th. Valtinos “Ημέρες καλοκαιριού του ‘72” Συνέχεια 2 (April 1973) p. 86 and V.
Rafailidis, op. cit., p. 70.
14 M. Vitti, “Ένα μυθιστόρημα χωρίς συγγραφέα. Τα ‘Τρία ελληνικά μονόπρακτα’ του
Θανάση Βαλτινού” Το βήμα (29 July 1979) and V. Rafailidis, op. cit., p. 67-70.
15 See, e.g. footnotes 17, 20 and 21 below. Cf. also V. Chatzivasileiou «Άτομο και
Ιστορία στην πεζογραφία του Θανάση Βαλτινού» Νέα Εστία 1802 (July-August 2007)
p. 58-9, footnotes 5 and 6.
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16 Similar comments are echoed in Κ. Χρυσομάλλη-Ηenrich’s “Tο ύφος της αμεσότητας,
η αρμονία λόγου και περιεχομένων” Πόρφυρας 103 (April-June 2002), p. 32-3.
17 See, e.g. “...αρνητικές όψεις της ελληνικής ζωής, εμπειρίες μιας νόθου ζωής που η
συνείδηση [του Βαλτινού] τις αποκρούει με δυσφορία” (Μ. Vitti, op. cit.).
18 V. Rafailidis, op. cit, p. 70.
19 See also the indirect comment on Rafailidis criticism by D. Raftopoulos who notes
correctly that what seems to be “more lost than their honour is the truth” [D.
Raftopoulos, “Το μυθιστόρημα τεκμηρίων κατά Βαλτινόν” Νέα Εστία 1802 (July
-August 2007) p. 31.] Cf. footnote 36 below.
20 “Το δράμα μοιάζει να τελειώνει, ή μάλλον, ν’ αλλάζει μορφή, μόλις το 1974, δηλαδή
είκοσι πέντε χρόνια απ’ τη λήξη του Eμφυλίου” (V. Rafailidis, op. cit., p. 69, my
emphasis).
21 D. Daskalopoulos, “Θανάσης Βαλτινός” in H μεταπολεμική πεζογραφία. Από τον
πόλεμο του ‘40 ως τη δικτατορία του ‘67, vol. 2, Σοκόλης, Athens 1989, p. 312.
22 See footnotes 7 and 10 above and Valtinos’ own letter of protest against PASOK’s
cultural policies in “Ένα κείμενο” Mανδραγόρας 30 (September 2003), p. 79,
reprinted in Th. Valtinos, Κρασί και νύμφες, Εστία, Athens 2009, p. 206-209.
23 M. Fais “Ένα αιρετικό μυθιστόρημα” Τύπος της Κυριακής (26 November 1989);
reprinted in Th. Pylarinos (ed.), Για τον Βαλτινό. Κριτικά κείμενα, Αιγαίον, Nicosia
2003, p. 126-8.
24 Ε. Kotzia “Δαιμονικός δημιουργός” Η Καθημερινή (23 October 2011) p. 10.
25 A. Argyriou “Εισαγωγή” in H μεταπολεμική πεζογραφία. Από τον πόλεμο του ‘40 ως
τη δικτατορία του ‘67, vol 1., Σοκόλης, Athens 1989, p. 164, 242, 374 and cf. p. 308, 383
and 425.
26 See D. Tziovas’ seminal attribution of “heteroglossia” to Alexandros Kotzias’
Αντιποίησις Αρχής (1979) in Tο παλίμψηστο της ελληνικής αφήγησης. Aπό την
αφηγηματολογία στη διαλογικότητα, Οδυσσέας, Athens 1993, p. 210 and 213.
Chrysomalli-Henrich refers to “fragmentation… dialogism… heteroglossia… and
polyphony” in Three Greek One-Act Plays in “Tο ύφος της αμεσότητας…” op. cit. p.
32-4. See also a later bypassing of Three Greek One-Act plays in M. Kakavoulia “In
and Out of the Text: Games across Genres in Modern Greek Fiction” in P. Mackridge
and E. Yannakakis (eds) Contemporary Greek Fiction in a United Europe: From Local
History to the Global Individual, Legenda, Oxford 2004, p. 117-8.
27 M. Chartoulari, “‘Η κακοπιστία είναι πάντα κακοπιστία’” (interview with Th.
Valtinos) Tα Nέα (24 January 1996) p. 12.
28 Th. Pylarinos, op. cit., p. 25-29.
29 Th. Pylarinos described it as a “cryptic… anti-novel”. Th. Pylarinos’ “Tρία
ελληνικά μονόπρακτα. Tρεις μικρογραφίες από τον μυθιστορηματικό κόσμο
του Θανάση Bαλτινού (η μετεμφυλιακή Eλλάδα σε τρία πολυσήμαντα κρυπτικά
καρέ)”, Aφιέρωμα στο Θανάση Bαλτινό, Πόρφυρας 103 (April-June 2002) p. 49-61.
Chrysomalli-Henrich, refers to «μυθιστόρημα ψηφιδωτικής τεχνικής... σύνθεση που
εκφράζει την κοινωνική παθολογία της εποχής της», in “Tο ύφος της αμεσότητας”
op. cit., p. 33.
30 V. Chatzivasileiou, “Εικόνες και ρόλοι της Χούντας στη σύγχρονη ελληνική
πεζογραφία” Νέα Εστία 1766 (April 2004) p. 519-20. Chatzivasileiou’s later discussion
of the text on the basis of the antithesis between the individual and the collective
is perhaps more fruitful. See his “Άτομο και Ιστορία στην πεζογραφία του Θανάση
Βαλτινού” op. cit., p. 58-9.
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C u l t u re
31 See, e.g. E. Kotzia “Το έργο των μεταπολεμικών πεζογράφων στη μεταδικτατορική
περίοδο” Αντί 688 (Second Period – June 1999) p. 33. See also D. Kourtovik’s
disapproval of the themes of the Resistance and the Civil War in post-1974
literature in D. Kourtovik, Ημεδαπή εξορία, Οpera, Athens 1991, p. 39-40.
32 See P. de Man, “The Concept of Irony” in A. Warminski (ed.), Aesthetic Ideology,
THL 65, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis and London 1996, p. 170 and
Η. White Metahistory. The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe,
Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore 1973, p. 37-8. Claire Colebrook has also
referred to “situational irony”, “dramatic” and “tragic” varieties as well as to “irony
of fate” as modes of thinking about the relations between human intentions or
expectations and contrary outcomes (C. Colebrook Irony, New Critical Idiom Series,
Routledge Τaylor and Francis Group, London and New York 2004, p. 13-15).
33 L. Hutcheon, op. cit., p. 67-8 and S. Dentith, op. cit., p. 33-4.
34 These are reports by General Gerakinis (p. 15 and 24-5) and the Democratic Army
(p. 28)
35 V. Rafailidis correctly notes that “What has precedence is uniformity of an
opinion”, op. cit., p. 69.
36 From a National Army point of view, the Vitsi events are described as “ατυχίες” (p.
13) and “ατύχημα” (p. 19).
37 See M. Pimplis, “Θανάσης Βαλτινός ‘Η ισχυρή οικονομία δημιουργεί πολιτισμό’” Τα
Νέα - Πρόσωπα (14 October 2000). Valtinos also stated to me in a personal interview
(17/8/2003): “Εγώ έμαθα πολλά απ’ το στρατό” where he served as a lieutenant in
the Commando Mountain Units in the beginning of the 50s.
38 V. Rafailidis observes: “Tο δράμα δεν είναι τόσο δικό του, όσο των συγγενών του και
κατά συνεκδοχή, ολόκληρου του λαού...”, op.cit., p. 70.
39 «Από τις διευθύνσεις στους φακέλους τεκμαίρεται ότι ο παραλήπτης τους είχε
εκτίσει μέρος της ποινής του και στις φυλακές Κερκύρας, Τρικάλων, Αιγίνης» (p. 64).
40 Chronologically the trial is interpolated between the fifth and sixth letters received
by Thomaidis (p. 47-8).
41 See, e.g.: «[π]αρακαλιέμαι στον Ιησού Χριστό και σε αυτόν να έχεις κάθε μέρα τα
θάρρη σου, όχι αλλού» (p. 50).
42 See: «πρέπει να γίνει το νομικό και το θεϊκό» (p. 56) and «[ό],τι κι αν συμβεί μην
στενοχωρηθείς, αυτά είναι του θεού» (p. 59).
43 See, e.g. the potentially humorous reference of Thomaidis grandmother to Russian
medicine: («εγχειρήσεις [που] μόνον στη Ρωσία μπορούν να γίνουν αλλά και εκεί δεν
γίνεται τίποτα», p. 55).
44 See, e.g.: “θα περιμένουμε να έλθει το μοιραίον” (p. 55) and “η μαμά είναι
καταδικασμένη... ό,τι θέλει ο θεός θα γίνει” (p. 57).
45 Th. Pylarinos “Τρία ελληνικά μονόπρακτα...” op. cit., p. 55.
46 See, e.g., “Σε περίπτωση που διαπιστώσετε ότι ένα από αυτά [τα εξαρτήματα]
λείπει ή είναι κατεστραμμένο, αποταθείτε αμέσως στο κατάστημα από το οποίο
εξυπηρετηθήκατε” (p. 68), and “[ρ]ίξτε μια ματιά στα σχέδια που σας δόθηκαν μαζί
με την συσκευή” (p. 71).
47 “‘Ευτυχία είναι η δυνατότητα να ανταποκρινόμαστε στις μικρές καθημερινές μας
επιθυμίες’” (p. 67).
48 E.g.: “[κ]αθαρίζει ταχύτατα πατάτες, καρότα κρεμμύδια. Ξεφλουδίζει λεπτότερα και
γρηγορότερα από το χέρι, αφήνοντας ανέπαφο το καλύτερο μέρος του λαχανικού”
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C u l t ure
(p. 73), “[α]ν το ξεχάσετε αυτό, τότε και πάλι το CHEF σας θα κάνει καλά τη
δουλειά του” (p. 77) and “αποφεύγετε τις άσκοπες ενέργειες και ακολουθείτε πιστά
τις οδηγίες των συνταγών” (p. 78).
49 E.g. “EΞAPTHMA AΠOΦΛOIΩΣEΩΣ APAKA KAI KOΠHΣ ΦPEΣKΩN
ΦAΣOΛIΩN. MONTEΛO A760 / Kόβει τα φασολάκια και ξεφλουδίζει τον αρακά”
(p. 74). Use of foreign loans such as “μίξερ” (p. 71), “μπλέντερ” (p. 75), “τσιπς” (p.
76), “μπαιν-μαρί” (p. 79), hellenised words such as “κροκετάκια” and “αντζούγες” (p.
80) and expressions such as “έως ότου πήξει και γίνει παπάρα” (p. 80) in conjunction
with pseudo-formality (e.g. “Ολίγος βασιλικός”, p. 80) also contribute to humour.
50 E.g. the references to food, wellbeing, safety and care for the elderly are in stark
contrast with the conditions of Thomaidis’ relatives. According to one of them:
“τρώμε πότε εδώ και πότε εκεί” (p. 58).
51 In a personal interview (12/9/2004) Valtinos stated to me: “Eγώ ήθελα να
σκανδαλίσω τότε και με το εξώφυλλο”. For the cover of the 1978 edition the author
had proposed a dated photo (17/7/77), showing a female pubis. The resulting layout
was turned down “for reasons of decency”. In the second edition (1989) the painting
of the German artist, and Valtinos’ long-time partner, Sigrid Hacker, features on the
cover. It shows the upper part of a naked female figure. The third edition shows the
picture of a house with a red flag by the same artist. It is a palimpsest painted on a
page torn from a copy of Valtinos’ Data for the Decade of the Sixties.
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P i e ro B i g o n g i a r i
Sections X-XVII
Eugenio Montale
On the Sacred Way
Translated with Introduction and Notes by Theodore Ell
Introduction
n the catalogue of travel writing, fellow travellers are not always aware
of one another. They may follow the same routes and arrive in the same
places, and their impressions may resonate or dispute with each other as
though in intimate talk. Yet in so many cases the travellers are held apart
by vast stretches of time, or by the narrowest miss. That interval, great or
small, focuses the uncanny harmony that patterns of travel can influence in
separate intellects. Each mind arrives at a place with its own learning and
expectations, but the legacy of the place itself, human or natural, loads the
reaction. Its associations work their way into an individual’s language and
begin speaking for themselves. What each traveller expresses is both unique
to the moment and a speck in the mosaic. After coming home to the printed
page, a piece of travel writing may be surprised to find that it has company,
as it emerges that one traveller has followed in another’s footsteps, all but
reliving the experience of a different person. One consciousness finds itself
side by side with another, in the memory of the Heideggerian feeling of
Dasein, ‘there-being.’ Identities may be insolubly remote, but in opening the
eyes to foreign surroundings, the same sights may inspire similar vision,
and closeness, generations apart. The physical condition of a place is a great
equaliser. Even a site’s most vehemently intellectually dissenting visitors
are united by a sense of standing there, and not somewhere else.
Mediterranean lands must have seen more of these overlaps than
most, having hosted countless intellectual pilgrims. The Mediterranean’s
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mental territory has a vast spread, but its physical territory leads thought
into more compressed space. Land journeys are dictated by passable terrain and around the islands there is a net of regular shipping routes. Any
harbour pilot knows there are only so many ways to approach a certain
port, so that while a visitor might read the figuring of a shore for the first
time, the inbound route means that the experience is also a recital of coastline, to a mature script. Even a gap of years between such readings cannot
outlast topography. Barring catastrophe, a city, village, temple or theatre
essentially stays put, as do the mountains, headlands and plains that are
its contours, boundaries and signatures. The ancient Greeks in particular
seem to have had a talent for building in ways that magnified a natural setting, a sense of harmony they took with them to their colonies. The amphitheatre at Taormina was built to frame Mt. Etna as a backdrop to the stage,
and the volcano is as dramatic now as it was for ancient theatregoers. It is
only more recent human activity which threatens to disrupt the pattern.
Modern buildings and urban sprawl break up the long-enduring outline,
so that a landscape takes on an involuntary camouflage, distracting the
visiting eye and frustrating those who would prefer an unhindered gaze at
the past. Yet underneath rising and falling streets, or the suddenly lifted
and squared skyline of rooftops, there are still the folds and flatlands of the
earth, implied as a rock’s form is by a coat of barnacles. So in built-up areas
the older condition of a place transmits even now, and a sensitive traveller
can interpret a message. The difficulty is translating the power of Dasein
into language.
Between this and the previous issue of Modern Greek Studies, I present
a pair of travelogues which pinpoint this experience of looking on ancient
Mediterranean sites for the first time, shadowed by other minds and other
readings. The travelogues represent departures in a literary as well as literal
sense, as both were written by poets making forays into their ‘second’
medium of prose. Greece in Italy, or A Great Silence, the first part of which
appeared in the previous issue, is an account by Piero Bigongiari (19141997) of travels in southern Italy – Puglia, Calabria, Sicily and Campania
– to visit the remains of the Greek colonies known as Magna Graecia, in
March and April 1952. The shorter On the Sacred Way by Eugenio Montale
(1896-1981) is a piece of reportage Montale produced during a literary tour
of Greece proper in May 1962, as a guest of the Italian Institute of Culture.1
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The two pieces obviously differ materially, having been written ten
years apart and on opposite shores of a sea, but Bigongiari and Montale show
themselves to be true fellow travellers, and not only because they happened
to know one another well and to have shared a great deal in their formation
as poets in Florence.2 The writing itself is united by sensibility. Both poets
find their understanding of ancient Greek culture through readings of its
grounding in landscape, and both accept landscape as they find it, seeing
Magna Greece and Greece proper as essentially unchanged settings, which
allow meaningful connections to ancient personalities. Indeed, in many
important respects, it is as though the travelogues represent two stages in
the same journey. As described in the previous issue, Greece in Italy was in
fact the prelude to a larger-scale trip Bigongiari made to Greece proper in
1953, which produced Testimone in Grecia [Witness in Greece], a magnificent
volume of essays and photography co-authored with his travelling
companions. Their ‘witnessing’ of ancient cultures continued the following
year in Egypt, which produced an equally absorbing volume. Altogether
these travels contributed to one of Bigongiari’s central preoccupations, the
nature of origins, cultural and personal, which preoccupied his writing in
the 1950s and persisted subliminally throughout his life. Montale did not
have the luxury to travel so extensively or on so broad a theme, but On the
Sacred Way comes across as a long-awaited leap into similar territory. Its
brevity intensifies Montale’s savouring of the experience.
The difference in the two pieces’ length is a matter of style rather
than effort. Bigongiari’s prose is conversational and generously flowing, in
tune with his first perception of the south as “long wave landscape,”3 while
Montale’s manner is quite clipped, his phrases often depending on a single,
intensely calculated word to refract the intensity of his impressions. The
most inventive of these, and the hardest to translate, is polipaio, denoting
the slimy, suckered, tentacled contents of an octopus salesman’s basket. In
this context the suffix -aio denotes a gathering or some kind of forum or den,
and modifies polipo (octopus or polyp) into a slippery heap of itself, a next
to impossible feat in English. Octopile was one possible rendering, but in
the end it took two words, octopus nest, to evoke the tangled overlapping of
many octopus bodies and situate such an image, credibly and sonorously, in
a basket. To a degree, Montale’s concision was dictated by the constraining
column inches of the Corriere della sera, but the density of his turn of phrase
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is in fact typical of his other work. He was known for his reserve, even in
conversation rarely saying more than he had to; his poetry is renowned for
pithy and unsettlingly deep insights arising from odd everyday trivialities.
Indeed, in writing poetry, Montale reportedly followed the maxim that it
was pointless to write a sequence where one poem would do – better to face
the one, glaring truth than circle around or dilute it. It is ironic, then, that
On the Sacred Way is actually the first piece in set of three. The other two are
brief accounts of interviews with Greek journalists and intellectuals, which
may well be of interest another time, but which all but write Montale’s
voice out of the scene. They also simply concentrate on matters concerning
modern rather than ancient Greece, and are more concerned with discussion
than with travels in time and timelessness. As Montale suggests at the end
of On the Sacred Way, he had not experienced all that he had hoped to. What
he did experience seems to have impressed him deeply, for all his restraint.
On the Sacred Way stands as a radiant miniature, in which Montale found
some space to touch on something metaphysical, outside his official roles as
correspondent and honoured guest.
Bigongiari’s more relaxed approach to his travelogue is also typical,
in that he considered prose the natural dimension for exploring and
experimenting, in which a poet was allowed, even obliged, to kick loose. He
had set his own maxim in this respect as a student, declaring that in writing
prose a poet “throws himself in and disciplines in some way the avalanche
of thoughts,”4 prior to setting them down in poetry’s distilled shapes. As
described in the introduction to the first part of Greece in Italy, this was
precisely what was happening as Bigongiari explored Magna Graecia. The
long and difficult process of writing his second poetry collection, Rogo
[Pyre or Blaze], was nearing its end, and with it Bigongiari’s consuming
preoccupation with Italy’s Second World War traumas. Greece in Italy was the
first of Bigongiari’s writings to break free of it, at least materially: nowhere
in the text is it obvious that Bigongiari was still dwelling on the emotional
contortions and often crazed imagery that built up over eight years in
Rogo. The pyre or blaze of the title refers to a central motif of consuming
fire, which over the course of fifty-four poems achingly transforms from
an agent of destruction into the heat of a crucible, in which the matter of
life is reorganised and adapted to new conditions. By the time Bigongiari
toured Magna Graecia, this fire had died down, and was all but out. Then
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the journey and the working-through that Greece in Italy represents brought
about two last bursts of poetic activity, which sealed off Rogo in a way that
the earlier poems had barely anticipated (and much to the surprise of
Bigongiari’s publisher, who had already delayed the book twice because of
other sudden additions).
The two closing poems of Rogo, “Ibis redibis” and “Un lume velenoso”
[“A venomous light”], evoke the volcanic landscape of Campania and its
associations of past destruction. Bigongiari reached this area at the end of
his trip, writing about it in the last two sections presented here, “Elea” and
“Paestum.” In the poems that the visit inspired, the rogo of the war settles
into the same menacing dormancy as Vesuvius, joining cataclysms already
deeply buried in the Italian psyche. In conceiving of this, Bigongiari made
himself a fellow traveller of Giacomo Leopardi (1799-1837), whose last great
lyric, “La Ginestra, o il fiore del deserto” [“The Genista, or the flower of the
desert,” 1836] had also seen on the barren slopes of “Sterminator Vesevo”5
a vision of Italy’s frail endurance and the mute catastrophe of its decline.
Leopardi’s shrub must bow its head beneath the lava flows, but it dies more
nobly than modern man, who is a shallow and ignominious creature beside
the ancients, the remains of whose elegant and uplifting civilisation litter
that lonely region. Bigongiari looked on the same sights during his journey
and was well alive to their desolation. During the writing of Rogo, however,
he had come to believe in a basic vital impulse, which, despite working at the
most remote and incremental level of consciousness, fundamentally resisted
the destructive forces that Leopardi saw as inevitable – and there was nobility
in this. Walking in Campania, Bigongiari’s thoughts engaged in a quiet,
understated dialogue with Leopardi’s, consisting of nods and references
rather than outright questioning. The effect of this subtle intermingling of
impressions anchors both poets in the one place, as they talk across time.
In 1836, Leopardi describes bats huddling in crevices, shielding their young;
in 1952, in “Un lume velenoso,” Bigongiari projects himself into Leopardi’s
frame as a “Florentine bat,” “calmly flitting about.”6 In 1836, the lava glows; in
1952, the volcanoes are spent.7 And where in 1836 the genista must resign,
burn and perish, and the world go silent, in 1952 the vital impulse flickers and
pushes life to go on making sense of itself:
...in the fire what remains
of you of me, crackles, advances, adores
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its funereal essence, which is to disappear
from here and in the blue find once again
among the stars its body, in the sleepless
drone that fatigues the universe
towards a voice.8
So two divergent poetic inspirations spring from the one Dasein, and
in Greece in Italy we can witness Bigongiari working his out. For Leopardi,
the ancients were the youth of the world and the moderns its decrepit old
age. Bigongiari, gazing around at the moody coast of Elea, mused on the
depths of geological history surmised there by “the rhapsodist Xenophanes”
and on Leopardi’s grand, despairing metaphors, and sensed the elements of
the place and the presence of both former visitors transmitting to him – but
he rephrased what they implied altogether about time: “The world is not yet
completely born: we are its eternal youth.”
On the Sacred Way, too, preserves in its concise, laser-like descriptions the fleeting moments when Montale also sensed a oneness of things
in Greece proper. His lack of space compelled him to favour generalities
over detailed descriptions, for instance proclaiming “the long snaking road
that leads from Athens [...] to Delphi,” the ‘sacred way’ itself, as a “miracle
of harmony.” Hackneyed phrases such as those are rare, though. Most of
Montale’s generalities are not intended to brush broadly over meanings, but
sew them up tightly together, delineating quickly the conceptual lining of
the experience and leaving emotional implications to the weighted effect
of individual words. The travelogue is written in a saturated shorthand. After that unpromising beginning with the “miracle of harmony,” the actual
journey along the ‘scared way’ is made of intensely radiant elements. It is a
collage of single images, each held in its own tightly-spun sentence, many of
which sketch out a thought system or extended metaphor, adding together
to evoke an ancient presence that endures as an undercurrent of undercurrents. The changing patterns of vegetation suggest the attention-holding
drama of an epic; rugged landforms suggest “irregular strophes” that will
not be fused together in the heat of writing poetry; the wind “sighs from
distant throats”; the whole atmosphere is one of “subterranean convulsed
exuberance” that has breached the surface and now glows everywhere. Even
if his schedule did not allow him to look long at things, it is clear that Montale was able at least to notice them and think deeply on their potency.
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The trouble with On the Sacred Way is that Montale’s perception of
transcendent forces is constantly interrupted by contemporary rubbish:
obnoxious new hotels, coaches, ignorant crowds. At one point, at Delphi,
Montale ponders the merits of a UNESCO residence for artists, writers and
philosophers, under construction nearby. Although highly sceptical – he
wonders what good it could do a Hölderlin or a Nietzsche, given that both
of those writers produced ideal evocations of Greece without ever needing
to go there – Montale does sense that “the air of Delphi is electric, exciting,
probably mysteric,” and when he leaves off the subject of the residency, he
leaves open the possibility that future writers may not necessarily find it
pointless. But if mystery and literature could still be partnered at Delphi,
Montale laments, “Mystery and tourism cannot be reconciled.” Montale’s
disdain for tourism, and the way its mob rule drowns out the individual
connection to places, is evident throughout On the Sacred Way and may
raise a reader’s smile at several points. It is a serious matter, though, as it
put Montale’s attitude in danger of being jaundiced. Even the inspirational
journey along the ‘sacred way’ itself became “tedious.” It might have been
hindered a little by a sluggish travelling pace and a flat tyre, but under any
other circumstances Montale would have welcomed such opportunities to
slow down his time there. As it was, touristic vulgarity in the midst of spiritually charged landscapes tried his patience to the limit.
Bigongiari was just as aware as Montale of the less savoury aspects
of some of the places he visited. In southern Sicily, he passed through the
towns of Palma di Montechiaro and Gela. The latter he described as “an
extremely poor city tak[ing] the place of the great Gela which welcomed
Aeschylus,” and in exploring Palma di Montechiaro noted that instead of
drains the streets had central ditches, the air smelled of urine, and “misery
[had] transformed faces into impenetrable masks.” Yet he was far from believing that the modern age in Magna Graecia was a fallen one. The region’s
people might have been poor, even at this point in the twentieth century
(or perhaps especially then, with war legacies still lingering), but they were
people nonetheless. Bigongiari could not dismiss their psychology, especially as, in his view, it was inseparable from their Dasein. Beneath their
emotional inscrutability he detected “a primitive happiness,” a positive
and ineffaceable sense of belonging, derived from working the land, living
off its fertility, being what it dictated: “A happiness without smiles, full of
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restraint, all returns and departures, to be purchased like an object, by the
power of sweat and solitary cogitations, like bread and what little else fills
up those tables.” There was no looking down upon these country Sicilians.
Bigongiari’s description of the nightly return of workers from the fields –
“what seems a whole people migrating by cart” – is full of surprise at the
spectacle, but also appreciation for its emotional meaning locally: “At the
entries to these poor cities there is a festive atmosphere for these returns
at dusk: children, goats, dogs, chickens come out to meet the people coming
back, they overfill the street in quiet tumult.” The muted quality Bigongiari
perceives cancels out any hint of the merely picturesque: the atmosphere at
Palma di Montechiaro and Gela is one of mixed feelings, as subtle a Dasein
as anything Bigongiari considers at an ancient site empty of people. As with
Montale, in this case Bigongiari could not devote more attention to this
subject, as he was travelling on the theme of the dead rather than the living,
but again like Montale, he did at least notice that the living offered much
else to think about.
In this respect Bigongiari disagrees profoundly with another fellow
traveller, this time one taking exactly the same route through Magna Graecia, in the distant years of 1897 and 1898: the English novelist George Gissing (1857-1903).
Gissing had gone in search of myth and self-forgetfulness, which he
imagined he would attain while standing on the same ground and looking
on the same landscapes as his long-vanished literary icons. As he put it,
Every man has his intellectual desire; mine is to escape life as I know it and
dream myself into that old world which was the imaginative delight of my
boyhood. The names of Greece and Italy draw me as no others; they make me
young again, and restore the keen impressions of that time when every new
page of Greek or Latin was a new perception of things beautiful. The world of
the Greeks and Romans is my land of romance; a quotation in either language
thrills me strangely, and there are passages of Greek and Latin verse which
I cannot read without a dimming of the eyes, which I cannot repeat aloud
because my voice fails me. In Magna Graecia the waters of two fountains
mingle and flow together; how exquisite will be the draught!9
Gissing recounted his progress, rarely without grandiloquence, in a
long travelogue called By the Ionian Sea: Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy.
The moments of bliss he sought turned out to be rare, and the reasons why
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can be found in one early description, written on the first stage of the journey southwards from Naples:
The stillness of a dead world laid its spell on all that lived. To-day seemed an
unreality, an idle impertinence; the real was that long-buried past which gave
its meaning to all about me, touching the night with infinite pathos. Best of
all, one’s own being became lost to consciousness; the mind knew only the
phantasmal forms it shaped, and was at peace in vision.10
Gissing’s notion of travel was fatally one-sided. He might on this occasion have dissolved in contemplation of the ancient setting around him,
but he assumed that he could demand this of Magna Graecia whenever he
wished, which was all the time. Furthermore, his desire to forget himself
meant that he laid the trap of perpetual disappointment. Travelling alone,
with little knowledge of Italian and meeting no locals he considered capable
(or even worthy) of intellectual conversation, Gissing’s attempted escape
saw him further imprisoned. Small wonder, then, that his temper quickly
rose – but unfortunately he vented his frustrations on the Italians around
him, thus completing his alienation from the land he so dearly wished would
embrace him.
In many other respects Gissing’s rambling in 1897-1898 predicts
much of Bigongiari’s journey to an eerie degree. Both their narratives begin in Puglia (Gissing’s after a Neapolitan prelude), trace the Greek sites
around the Gulf of Taranto, stand at the southern tip of Calabria, then
swing northwards again to the Strait of Messina. This Bigongiari crosses
and their ways part, at least on the page, but the parallel is more than a
question of routes. At many points Gissing and Bigongiari describe particular sights as though standing together, one a ghost in the other’s presence.
Looking on the remote Sila, the last range of the Apennines that reaches
down to the tip of Calabria, “dark with climbing forests,”11 both writers imagine the same emptiness. Gissing in 1897 “dream[s] of sunny glades, never
touched, perhaps by the foot of man since the Greek herdsman wandered
there,”12 while in 1952 Bigongiari hears his ‘great silence’ for the first time:
“deserted plains, dunes, grey marlstones, meadows, scrubland, olive groves
run wild. [...] The silence has mysterious dimensions because, more than
space, it occupies a limitless time.”13 At the site of Sybaris, a city destroyed
in war at the time of Pythagoras, what preoccupies both writers is the density of earth between them and the ruins. Between their accounts, we can
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witness the ground uncovering itself. In 1897 Gissing laments that the remains of Sybaris lie out of reach “beneath some fifteen feet of alluvial mud
[...] as on the day when [the river] Crathis first flowed over them,”14 while in
1952 those same remains are just emerging under Bigongiari’s feet: “Stone,
worked stone, square cut, lies immediately beneath. There are glimpses of
coins, bones, fragments of pottery funereally striped in black and red.”15 At
Capo Colonna, a dramatic promontory on the Calabrian coast, stands a single Doric column, the last of the great Temple of Hera. In 1897 it appears to
Gissing like a defiant lighthouse;16 in 1952 Bigongiari watches a real lighthouse there, “sweep[ing] through the night over the Ionian.”17 And there
is the howling wind, disturbing sleep in 1897 at Capo Colonna (“The wind
would not roar itself out. Throughout the night it kept awaking me”)18 and
in 1952 at Syracuse (“At night, in the hotel, the wind comes into our rooms
under the doors and almost lifts our sheets off” – see below). Isolated down
the end of Italy, as though thrust out over the sea on a gangplank, Gissing
and Bigongiari find themselves compelled to react as one to many powerful
stimuli.
They are likewise united on the questions of Italian suffering and
endurance. No foreign invasion had ravaged southern Italy in 1897 as it
had a few years before 1952, but in 1897 Italy certainly had been invaded
by Italy. The chaotic effort to unite the country socially and economically as
well as politically had seen southern people taxed and seconded for military
service in the name of causes they could hardly be expected to understand.
Gissing, for all his faults, perceived the people’s hardiness in struggling on.
“One remembers all they have suffered, all they have achieved in spite of
wrong,” he wrote, “A wandering stranger has no right to nurse national superiorities, to indulge a contemptuous impatience. It is the touch of tourist
vulgarity.”19 But such noble understanding came too late. Gissing felt himself besieged by vulgarity and had already decried his various lodgings as
“ill-kept stable[s]”20 “heavy with indescribable stenches,”21 and if southern
children looked “burdened before their time,”22 Gissing was less likely to
put it down to injustice than to the fact that in the south “for the most part
one walk[ed] on the accumulated filth of ages.”23 The Dasein of Magna Graecia was transmitting powerfully, but Gissing lacked the openness to receive
most of the message. He succumbed to the jaundicing that tinged Montale
in 1962 in Greece proper.
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Montale’s journey, too, was shadowed by a fellow traveller. Only a
matter of weeks after he left, there came in search of the ancient Greek Dasein
Martin Heidegger himself. His brief travel book Sojourns describes many of
the sites that Montale had just visited, particularly Delphi (“disfigured [...]
by the unfinished new buildings [to become] hotels for the American tourists”),24 as well as several of the islands, which Montale had not reached. Yet
despite travelling further than Montale, Heidegger saw far less. He was so
preoccupied with the conceptual nature of the Greek Dasein, so daunted by its
intensity and so appalled by commercial tourism, that several times he simply
refused to explore. At Rhodes, he would not even leave the ship, finding that
the island’s nearness to Turkey unsettled his very identity as a westerner – a
conundrum he contemplated the whole radiant summer day:
the confrontation [Auseinandersetzung] with the Asiatic element was for the
Greek Dasein a fruitful necessity. This confrontation is for us today – in an
entirely different way and to a greater extent – the decision about the destiny
of Europe and what is called the Western world. [...] As the blue of the sky
and the sea changed by the hour, the thought arose, whether the East could
be for us another sun-rising of light and clarity, or rather whether these are
illusionary lights that feign the revelation to come from there and thus are
nothing more than historical fabrications artificially sustained.25
And Heidegger wondered why Greece “remain[ed] so hard to describe,
if it [did] not reject any description.”26 He had suspected that there might
be such difficulties before arriving. “The Greece of today could prevent the
Greece of antiquity [...] from coming to light,”27 he wrote early in the trip.
By the end, he was sure he had the culprit. “[W]ith the unthoughtful assault of tourism an alien power enforces its own commands and regulations
over ancient Greece,”28 he proclaimed. But in attributing full blame where
Montale had merely expressed irritation, Heidegger only distanced himself
further from the Dasein that his journey was meant to reveal. He chided
tourists who were endlessly taking photos for not truly contemplating their
surroundings – “They abandon without [a] clue the feast of thinking that
they ignore”29 – but it was an undernourishing feast if its main ingredient
was prejudgement. Heidegger knew this at least in the abstract: “What is
of necessity is to look back and reflect on that which an ancient memory
has preserved for us and yet, through all the things that we think we know
and we possess, remains distorted.”30 Yet he did not act on this knowledge
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in any meaningful way during his Greek journey. It might have illuminated
some subtleties in the pure concept of Dasein, but as a traveller, Heidegger
had stayed mentally at home, ending up with the same disillusionment as
Gissing, more than half a century earlier, and on the opposite shore of the
sea. “So hard a thing to catch and to retain,” Gissing brooded in 1898, “the
mood corresponding perfectly to an intellectual bias.”31
Bigongiari and Montale demonstrate that a successful foray into the
ancient world depends on two-way traffic in time and space. These two modern Italians incline eastwards to look into ancient Greek places and culture,
and are met half-way by the ancient Greeks themselves, speaking out of the
land, towards a future that was theirs to invent, and looking westwards, to
Italy. “Nothing so distinguishes ancient from modern man,” wrote Walter
Benjamin, “as the former’s submission to a cosmic experience of which the
latter is scarcely aware.”32 Be that as it may, the other distinguishing factor
is that moderns are fervently aware of the ancients. Their legacy is open
to whichever modern mind can translate their former influence. The result
may be only a glimpse of the earlier reality and not a panorama, but even
to sense that for a moment can suggest the larger radiance. What we have,
we hold.
Sydney, 2012
As explained previously, Bigongiari’s text is divided into numbered
sections, not all of which have been included. There are also some omissions
within certain sections, marked: [...]. These omissions were made because
Bigongiari often quotes at length from other works, ancient and modern,
without much commentary, this being a diary rather than a formal discussion. My intention was to focus Bigongiari’s own distinct voice and attitudes, which these long and unanalysed quotations rather diluted. Montale’s text appears in its entirety.
Piero Bigongiari,
Greece in Italy, or, A Great Silence (continued)
X – Between the Anapo and the Cíane
Having wandered around in search of ancient things in stone, we decide to go to the Anapo, in search of ancient nature; we head to the harbour to hire a boat, but the sea is impossible, rough everywhere, even in the
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Porto Grande. A great wind is up. But we do not want to give up and so in
the car we head along the arc of the shore towards ancient Syraca, the now
very fertile great bog-land, from which Syracuse may have taken its name.
What a magnificent wind, at Syracuse. Under its force the wheat, already
high, very dense, breathes vehemently between the Anapo and the Cíane.
We move from one watercourse to the other, as they run very close together
without touching, opening our way through the tussocks. The tall eucalypts
shimmer in the wind. And the wind has a taste of ancient words. What if we
listened? It seems we might understand something...
Nothing remains of Cyan, who melted into water, if not this slow
brook rippling in green. “Nothing remained of her that could be held.”33 A
country man guiding us, having put down amongst the wheat a great bundle of flowers he had in his arms, cuts the fringes of some papyrus flourishing in the water and hands them to us. Here it is. Reckless. We handle its
intensely white pulp, the green filaments which hang down like a tuft of
hair, but we cannot keep them, take them away with us. We are gripped by
an almost sacred terror. Here they lead their seabound life, here they have a
last murmur of rebellion. Let us leave them here.
What a wind at Syracuse! At night, in the hotel, the wind comes
into our rooms under the doors and almost lifts our sheets off, bringing us
the aroma of Capo Plemmirio and the whistles of the tugboats. We remember then, or perhaps we are already dreaming, that even the white and bony
rock in which the Greek theatre is cut, under this wind seems to change colour, becoming agitated with a life which cannot tear itself away in the sighing over its stonebound spell. This is a land of ghosts; fate has been invoked
here too many times.
XI – The oranges of Gela
The southern coast of Sicily senses Africa close by: we are level with
Carthage: the African sea blows on these lands with its hot breath. In the
most desolate places where the dunes cover and uncover, unstably, ruins
and vegetation, it would not surprise us to see a great lion leap out, its roar
breaking the muteness of this air, its bewitching spell. In leaving Syracuse we
have turned south-west, heading for the region of almond trees and carobtrees, towards those places where the remains of Athenians who had been
under Alcibiades and then Nicias and Demosthenes, driven back by Syra575
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cuse, found their final resting place, on the banks of the Cassibile and the
Assínaros.34 We go through places where race became indissolubly confused,
descending towards Capo Passero and Pachino and then turning properly
west. So: Avola, Noto, Rosolini, Ispica, Modica, Ragusa, Comiso, Vittoria,
and then an area where the bandit Vincenzo Rindone is making a name for
himself locally, seeking in vain to follow in the footsteps of his great forerunner.35 In fact our drivers have asked to be allowed to get along this road
much faster, before night falls... Siculi, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs,
Normans, Swabians, the Aragonese – together they are a graft on this land,
so thick as to give a mysterious depth to its inhabitants and, in the townships, a taste for history, or disgust with it, so pronounced that now history
has dissolved into a compact humus, a sort of geographical aura, indifferent by nature. We are approaching Gela, we are approaching the sea. It is
evening. And we are present for what seems a whole people migrating by
cart: it is the farm workers going back to town from the distant fields, the
workers who, having left at dawn, with the setting of the sun take the road
back to their houses, with their horses, their donkeys, their little mongrel
dogs padding along beneath the carts, tied to the axels of the wheels. The
workers appear like Arabs crossing the desert, with their cloaks or cloth
caps draped over their heads like burnous. Inscrutable old women watch us,
with the gazes of lizards. At the entries to these poor cities there is a festive
atmosphere for these returns at dusk: children, goats, dogs, chickens come
out to meet the people coming back, they overfill the street in quiet tumult.
Two large sheaves of grass waggle prettily here and there, tied to the backs
of horses who sense, like landlords, that their stalls are near. Gela, Licata,
Palma di Montechiaro...
It is already evening when we pass through Palma di Montechiaro,
dark blue on the saplings on a mountainside smelling of nocturnal sea: here
we enjoy a childlike happiness in the dark, broken by lanterns at the doors
which face on to the street: doors which set you imagining a dinner table
waiting, on which a lamp is flickering weakly, and which flashes through
the blue darkness outside enclosing the last homecomers. The street has
no drains: instead of a hump, in the middle runs a ditch; so that rivulets
run constantly along it, as it leads only downwards. Poverty, rust-red candles, the smell of urine and of a primitive happiness mixed into the misery
which has transformed faces into impenetrable masks. A happiness without
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smiles, full of restraint, all returns and departures, to be purchased like an
object, by the power of sweat and solitary cogitations, like bread and what
little else fills up those tables. Even for us the oranges bought at Gela had
the flavour of an ancient, happy mirage. Today an extremely poor city takes
the place of the great Gela which welcomed Aeschylus, who died here in
456 B.C. After Syracuse and Agrigentum it was the most important Greek
city of Sicily: from Gela in 582 B.C. the founders of Acragas departed. And
Gelo, later tyrant of Syracuse, of the race of Dinomenides, also came from
Gela, of which he had already proclaimed himself tyrant and which he ceded to his brother Heiron. Gelo pursued the programme of his predecessor
Hippocrates, whose cavalry commander he had been; this can be defined
as an attempt to give pre-eminence to the Doric element in Sicily, over the
Ionic-Chalcidean element.
In 424 B.C. Gela held the great Siciliot congress, which proclaimed
the unity of interests of the Greeks in Sicily against Athenian intentions. Until in 405 B.C.36 Gela, too, after Agrigentum, ceded to the Carthaginian inundation. Today at Gela, with new fervour, excavations have started again: they
are trying to lift away the immense blanket of sand which has buried it over
the centuries. Some fortunate excavation campaigns at Capo Soprano, at the
western extreme of the long hill of Gela, uncovered a series of extremely interesting ruins which established that the limit of the fortified area of the city
lay far beyond what was believed, even by Paolo Orsi,37 to have been inhabited. Whoever gazed at the city from the sea would have seen it sprawling for
more than four kilometres. And so truth returns through the story – anachronistic though it is – that Aeneas told Dido of the voyage along the southern
coasts of the island and the appearance of “wild” Gela.
Apparet Camerina procul campique Geloi
immanisque Gela fluvii cognomina dicta.
Arduus inde Acragans ostentat maxima longe
moenia, magnanimum quondam generator equorum.
Teque datis linquo ventis, palmosa Selinys...38
Thus this Greek coast unfolds, evoked again to Dido’s gaze “the
dark fire blazing in her veins.”39 And the Geloan fields, the great valley
which turns downwards in a plain to touch the sea, protected far away by
high mountains, all green and uninhabited, with its sweet ripples and folds
and the dunes which shelter it from the sea, this country without trees,
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where cotton and wheat grow, and which heads towards the night like a sky
overturned, even colouring itself with darkness as though, like the earth,
it were made of air and infinite transparency – it brings on us a shiver of
the ancient Mediterranean happiness. We are making for lands of ash, of
sulphur and of asphalt; we are heading towards the brown tuff of Agrigento,
a mirage which yet maintains its signs within reality, between Saracen olive
trees and a black sea which comes to meet you in a breaker of sunlight, if
you look down from the height of Agrigento, through the enflamed skeletons of columns, on the African sea. We are in the lion’s throat, there is
no escape. Not for nothing does Agrigento find its origins with the tyrant
Phalaris, with his bull of red-hot bronze to which he threw his enemies so
as to hear their lamentation of death, mixed with a monstrous bellowing: it
was the god Moloch who from nearby Carthage had set foot in Sicily.
XII – Agrigento
In 490 B.C. Pindar saw in Agrigentum, home of the flautist Midas who
was victorious at Delphi, “the fairest among all cities of mortals”.40 And yet
Agrigentum had not yet crowned itself with the series of temples, which
between 480 and 420 B.C., in less than six decades, in a sort of building
fury, arose all together within its walls. Whoever has seen Agrigentum, even
without having been to Greece can say that they know the full intellectual
and affecting enchantment that this ancient civilisation has handed down,
intact, as far as ourselves. The whiteness of the marble of the Parthenon has
the purity of an idea; but this shelly tuff of Agrigentum through which that
idea returns, out of abstraction, to become, let us say, pathetic and dolorous, to become anxiously light and flame, consuming itself – this cannot be
forgotten: it is the other, human face of a perfect cycle. We are facing the
temples. The wind, with its eddies that surprise us low around the columns,
has consumed the base. The shelly, crumbly tuff does not withstand the vocal biting of the wind that seems to wish to carry these giants away with
them, tearing them out of the soil.
[...]
[...] Until 480 B.C., for a century, Agrigentum was a warlike city. After
the victory of Imera, the city was transformed: it was taken by a fever to
build: slaves, who had been obtained in great numbers, cultivated its famous vineyards and olive groves, tended to its racehorses, raised the tem578
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ples. The wheat rippled all around. At the pan-Hellenic feasts its athletes
drew honour. Simonides and Pindar lived here for long period, as hosts of
Theron. And Gellias of Agrigentum was famous for his richness and liberality throughout Greece.41 Until in 405 B.C., after Himera and Selinus, Agrigentum’s time came: after eight months under siege, the city was sacked
and set ablaze by Carthaginians craving to get their own back after their
undoing 75 years before.
Now we head towards the western part of the hill of the temples,
towards the one known as the temple of the Dioskouroi, and which would be
better called the temple of chthonic divinities. In this archaic sanctuary we
see in the bothroi, that is, in the central cavities of the ancient altars, round or
rectangular, the mysterious artesian wells of a primitive faith. Here where the
Greeks and the indigenous people lived together before the official founding
of Agrigentum, the bothroi seem as though they were dug into the earth in
search of the subterranean world, a mysterious richness which would spring
out, once found, to reassure the inhabitants of the consonance of that world
with all in the darkness of the soul which they could neither dig out nor define. Man dug into the earth to give it this sense of chthonic liberation: man,
too, that is the human need to believe, together with the compressed forces
of nature, riddled the earth with these supernatural volcanoes. And here at
Agrigentum, these Flegrean Fields of faith, these mysterious eruptions open
to the sun are particularly affecting: the worn-out tuff of which they consist
seems to be the solidification of an eruptive matter, and you do not know if
it came from the depths of the earth or the ambiguous folding of the soul.
The sun blazing overhead does not break that halo of reserve and suspension
which surrounds them. Neither can it discount the possibility of a scream
or blood emerging from them, regurgitated from the earth. So that in the
end it seems natural to us that Agrigentum’s greatest son, Empedocles, as the
legend tells, ended his days by leaping into a smouldering volcano, Etna, to
rediscover in the primal fire a heat for a new fusion of his being. Empedocles,
the last rhapsodist of Hellenic philosophy, saw chimerical monsters on earth,
exploding chance into fantasy: “On the ground there sprouted heads without
necks, and bare arms wandered without shoulders, and lone eyes drifted lacking brows.” There could be seen “many creatures born with doubled faces and
breasts, oxen with the faces of men, human bodies with ox heads and shapes
mingling the male and the female.”
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[...]
With Empedocles the Orphic intuition of the four Elements of the
world – air, water, earth and fire, considered “the limbs of Pan” – transforms
into scientific theory.
[...]
But Empedocles was not a pure thinker: for him experience is fantasy, and vice versa: with him we move away from a purely abstract Greek
thought: he leads us towards Galileo and Leonardo, that is, we might say,
towards that other aspect of the Mediterranean intelligence which is more
Italian than Greek. It was Empedocles, it was said, who worked in strictest contact with nature, as far as modifying its structure in a way that was
almost thaumaturgic. Not for nothing was a Hellenistic temple at Selinus,
the little Temple B, supposedly dedicated to Empedocles, who would have
cleansed the Selinuntian marshes; not for nothing is the cutting which divides the Rupe Atenea42 from the hill where the city rises called “Empedocles’ ravine”, because he envisaged it allowing a purifying North wind to
enter and spread over the city, stirring the still air, drawing out its African
malaise.
XIII – Selinus
We move away from the crumbling tuffs of Agrigento, which did
not permit the development of a great plastic art – and indeed the temples are devoid of any sculpture – and we turn towards the great sculpture
of Selinus and its rocky ruins. Between Agrigento and Selinus the variety
of stones blazing in the sun is infinite, now white as white, now golden,
now silvery, alternating with burnt ground, great meadows, barley fields,
oat fields, agaves. High above the road hangs the falcon, over the expanses
where spring frolics and the eucalypts breeze lightly. The African air of tragedy which assails the green oases gives these places a sense of transparent
apparitions forgotten in the hard air.
Selinus: columns strewn like small change over the gigantic rock
bases, cog wheels at a standstill in the grass: on the high plain the wind
and the solitude rage before the grasses, the harvests, the wildflowers are
engulfed into the sea, around the catastrophe in stone which the earth
seems only barely to support. It still seems possible to hear the sound of
ancient disasters, the terrestrial scream of earthquakes, in this tense air
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which even the mildest breeze can make alert, ringing; between Africa and
what is most remote in Sicily, this air cloistered in time more than in infinite
space. Here man can find himself, by gigantic catastrophe, as by the defeat
of giants, restored to his own nature. The human voice is filled with meaning among these rocks, which were given form by man: a note on a violin
would be enough to articulate this wildness. Indeed the human stature is
a sanctuary, here where Orpheus is a household name, and where everything verges on the desert, except that the wind that runs across it is a wind
in flower. Such high folly makes us more masters of ourselves, it brings a
physical happiness, a jolt to our deepest self: at ease among the ruins, free
of tiredness, merry (perhaps what drives us is a desert ecstasy), we talk as
though standing in a colonnade in the time of Plato. Who would not feel
like a Raphaelesque Plato or Aristotle? In effect the ruin raises up imaginary
columns, temples of light, the fantastic speaking limbs of a city opposed to
the tangible space surrounding it, to the winds from the interior and from
the sea which penetrate it, linger there and suddenly fly for the open like
migrating birds, shrieking. But with a shiver we remember, as we turn away
from the ruin to look for an inhabited place (the closest, Castelvetrano, is
fifteen kilometres away), that this could also be the place where Leopardi’s
Icelander encountered Nature,43 and that all that broken ground could also
be the giant body of a Nature torn to pieces by a god gone mad.
And now thinking back: there, in that desert, we had spoken low, as
though in a place that had witnessed a god erupt: it was, even with its signs
of rage, a certainty, which left us no longer feeling orphans, although we
were alone.
XIV – Misery and manna
As we leave Segesta as though from some dark and stony full stop,
already the liquefied blue of the little houses of Partínico introduces us to
the Tyrrhenian. And from here on, all that we see is colour turning into
stone, water, vegetation, words. Things yield to the hour that transforms
them, time is space, the mountains are light which stays behind, suffocated in the sky even after the sun has set. Here the moon can do nothing:
its reflected light, not made of matter, has no power over the glow of the
land, over which it falls with a mysterious incredulity. So it is with the sunlit bastions which defend Palermo, for whoever follows them along the
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seashore. So it is too with the immense riverbeds (as short as their courses
might be), which open wide on the shoreline their debris of stony, blinding
light, dropping straight from the Madoníe or from Val Dèmon: from the ash
trees on their banks pours manna. Himera is a memory on the stony mouth
of the Himera river: the remains of a Doric temple are debris among debris:
they give off a calcified light. You would know Himera: here Hamilcar was
undone in 480 B.C., here his nephew Hannibal inflicted the bloody rematch
that made Greek Sicily overflow with mourning. And so here Greece is a
noonday demon, or an ignis fatuus: anything but a consistent reality; and so
it is that history yields to geography, nature triumphs over centuries of the
efforts of men. If man has ever believed in truly pacifying nature, this place
will disillusion him. Here Greece leaves us on tiptoe, an ever more sublime
host to our thinking. [...]
[...]
Everywhere on these shores one has the sense of an eternity which
acquires its earthly form as though by illusion; but it is a tangible illusion:
reality is pitiable precisely by the grace of its extraordinary ambiguity. The
fragility of its appearances testifies all the more to the height and ungraspability of its substance. Here life seems a vision, with what in every vision in
effect slips out of reach, if in every glance there is also a farewell. Here one
gains mastery over life with the eyes. Seeing is seeing things that change,
hours that seem like things. Beneath every conquest is the subtle artifice of
spectacle: beneath every thought also. Here one feels watched even within
one’s most intimate self: hence a more jealous closure of oneself, a diffidence as brusque as it is disarmed. What ardour is in these glances! Everyone is a particle of the fire which, between the Aeolian Islands and Etna and
everywhere along this coast, is the implied leavening. Everyone carries it
with them, into these valleys perpetually on the point of shifting from the
pastoral to the tragic.
On the northern coast of Sicily, Hellenic colonisation was spread
thinly, without great epicentres. To the west of ancient Himera is Termini
Imerese, where the crudest of the Syracusan tyrants, Agathocles, was born,
and where Heracles, guided by the Nymphs, refreshed himself in the restorative waters after his bout with Eryx.44 To the east is Cefalù, which also may
have grown out of the calamities of Himera. Alongside its ashen-grey cliff, a
sort of immense natural Castel Sant’Angelo, there rises the Norman church,
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built in a shelly limestone similar to that which we saw had been used in the
Greek temples, at Paestum for instance, but with a more subtle mixture,
a more crumbly compactness, which glows in the evanescent and illusory
light peculiar to these places, which it restores to nature even as it tries to
flee from nature. This is a visionary Sicily; perhaps those other navigators,
the Normans, knew better than the Greeks how to read its coasts.
XV – Tindari45
Tindari encapsulates this forgetful awareness of Greece. High above
the sea, reaching out into the middle of the gulf of Patti, between Capo Calavà and the slender, silvery peninsula of Milazzo, Tindari welcomed us in
pastoral calm, bringing us face to face with the loveliest watercolour of the
Tyrrhenian we had ever seen: the sea of a Japanese print. Here we really expected to see the roselli, a kind of white swan which they told us about at Palinuro.46 Much of the city has slid into the sea, swept away by a landslide, so
Pliny says; and leaning out over the precipice we see strange, lunar tongues
of sands emerging, with the play of currents, from the sea floor. A silvery fine
dust blurs the infinite distance all around. Watching over it in silence, here
there is the most incredible Greek theatrette in the world. It is small, and the
seating tiers, which are of a silvery silicate, succumb here and there to a green
gully where sheep browse; you could never see sheep so pastoral they seem
imaginary: tethered to a peg, they are the only regulars at the theatrette, the
low sun seems to get entangled in their fleece and to give their astonished
idiocy the same importance as the restless surfacing of the seating tiers; in
place of the fallen scenery, there is the spectacle of the green plunge towards
the sea, with the Aeolians ghosting on the horizon. We might compare it to
the theatres of Taormina, of Syracuse, but this theatrette, with its beauty not
delirious but muted, does not lose in the comparison. Here nature retains a
human form, but has returned to being nature. Here, if anything, we would
see best not the fatal tragedies of Aeschylus, but the familiar “corrections” of
the myth brought about by Stesichorus.
[...]
Tisias, who was known as Stesichorus, co-ordinator of choruses,
is the first Greek poet of the western Mediterranean, from the end of the
Seventh Century B.C.. Between Homer and Pindar this legendary figure
emerges in the West, who in the fatiguing period of the elaboration of
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myths manages an interpretation, an arrangement of them that we could
call rational. Between lyric and epic, he uses an intermediary language,
with an impassive transfusion of epic data into lyric, and vice versa, which
seemed, and is, a great thing. The most Doric of the Greek lyrics, that is the
most impersonal, so it was said, with his psychological explanation of myth
he decisively opened the path to Euripides and even Theocritus.
[...]
We go on, thinking: not far from here flourishes the great broadleaved wild fig with broad leaves Ulysses clung to in saving himself from the
black sea of Charybdis.47 And so, arriving here, Nausicaa has turned to us
with the voice of the sea: we heard nothing else.
XVI – Elea48
Elea is almost, at least for now, more a dream than an archaeological reality. The Alento, advancing down its broad valley of multicoloured
patches, far-reaching, through the Cilento mountains, has spread out
a dusty plain north-east of the hill of Elea, precisely where the sea once
reached in and surrounded the whole place, recalling its birth, refilling it
with light – that strange light of the sea – and with mirages. The sea is now
far away, off-white, soundless as we climb up through the “yellow thorns”, a
species of genista, which in the sunlight inflame this high ground deserted
by any other voice. Another village died up here, on the ruins of Elea, Castellammare della Brusca: born soon after the year 1000, by 1600 it was already
a memory: now an ancient little church has become a farm hut, but is uninhabited, and the fortress, further on, belongs to a priest who no longer lives
here because he was frightened away by lightning. In all, it seems that Elea
wishes to preserve its solitude. Few ruins see the light of day. The rest is all
underground. Whoever reaches the acropolis and contemplates the plain on
the south-west, stretching towards Marina di Ascea and in the far distance,
a great whale turned blue by the horizon, Capo Palinuro; whoever approaches the fortress which tightly hugs the ancient traces of Elea left open at its
feet, will forget themselves: it is possible to feel spreading all around the
shape intuited by Parmenides: the sphere without shadows, without relief,
without folds, spreading in the mind. Here space is like time. The enduring
moment echoes out from this centre, all around, in a thickness that can
be seen and touched. Magic, infinite, the true silence of Being, unmoving,
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unchanging, incorruptible. If even a dash of new colour runs through it,
it is like blood reddening on the round cheek of a young girl. Truth, the
“well-rounded Truth” of Parmenides, is still a virgin truth. The fire running
through it is that of the intelligence enraptured by the fire of poetry, but
which does not lapse into imagining traditional theogonies. The mind rebels
not against poetry, but against false imagining: that mind desires poetry
returned to its earliest steps.
[...]
One day, from faraway Colophon, there arrived here the rhapsodist
Xenophanes, absorbed in the development of Ionian speculation.
[...]
Here he began to claim that the earth is finite in its upper part, in
which we move about, limited by the air; and that it is infinite in its lower
part, which makes things take form and grow from an intermixing of earth
and water. Our Earth, like an extraordinary plant, put down its roots here;
as well as whoever held it in his thoughts, he too put roots down here, having carried it with him on the infinite, rolling expanses of the Mediterranean. Xenophanes said furthermore that the shells found in the mountains
and the imprints of fish in Sicilian caves showed how the Earth had slowly
freed itself from the waters that submerged it in the beginning. It was an
emergence from the Flood. On these very shores. And the seeds of this
knowledge which Xenophanes carried with him seem to coincide with the
Greek adventure in the west: it is a knowledge which knows of water and of
earth: truth ripples like the eye of the sailor, of one seeking a homeland, and
who set out to discover it far from the Persian tyranny. An affair of water
and earth: as land is outlined on the horizon after an unending navigation.
[...]
The world is not yet completely born: we are its eternal youth. The
crows, even the crows which fly away from the castle of Bruca in the fragrant sunlight have a childlike cry: their cawing seems to ripple in a cradle, it does not recall death. And only here, among the many crows which
come to the ruins, did we have this strange sensation: that they might be at
the origins of the world, a moment of distraction before its rigorous logic.
Descending, we pass by the opening of the railway tunnel that perforates
the acropolis of Elea, and Sestieri49 points out to us that the stones of the
tunnel archivolt, so beautifully carved, are none other than the stones
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which the Eleans themselves had worked. He makes a disappointed gesture,
and who can blame him, but what a marvellous tunnel mouth!
XVII – The coast of legends
Between Palinuro and Paestum, as far as the mouth of the Sele, extends a coast which has not finished holding back all its surprises. Here
there are always new discoveries and new hypotheses. The left bank of the
Sele was even part of very ancient Oenotria,50 which spread to the east as far
as the Gulf of Taranto. The Oenotrians, who by the Fifth Century B.C. had
branched out into Morgeti, Siculi and Italics, are the most ancient inhabitants of this patch of Italy, and they are spoken of like the ancient Dorians
who came to Italy seventeen generations before the Trojan War, following
the two sons of Lycaon, king of Arcadia, Oenotrus and Peucetius. In this way
we see opening out in Magna Graecia a positively fabled Greekness, or at
least a Doric-ness, which likens the Oenotrians to the Arcadocypriots; and
the Greeks of the colonies known to history did no more than rejuvenate a
land that, ab antiquo, was similar to their own. Besides, along the Ionic and
Tyrrhenian coasts we catch more and more glimpses, in the substratum,
of a land held deep and tight by a unity of lineage, indeed the Oenotrians,
which discoveries confirm. When one speaks of pre-existing populations
at the advent of the Greek colonies, we must not forget these Doricising
foundations. This is the coast on which, as far as Campania, the Chalcidian
sailors spread the legend of the travels of Ulysses. And Elpenor, companion
to Ulysses, and helmsman to Menelaus, have lent a little of their shadow to
Palinuro. Here scientific research picks out the origins of myths, rediscovering their basis in a history which can be glimpsed through a cloak of legend,
and which is no less fascinating. Even the foundation of the Heraion, at the
mouth of the Sele, whose discovery constitutes the greatest archaeological
surprise of our time, was attributed by Strabo to Jason and his Argonauts.
What does this show if not that ancient sailors landed at the mouth of the
river and, as a sign of thanks, founded a sanctuary which over the centuries
was destined to grow so much in fortune as to become a sort of Delphi or
Olympia of Magna Graecia?
We arrive at Paestum from the south, cutting through the middle of
mountainous Cilento; first along the valley of the Alento which sends from
side to side across its slopes, where we too are invaded by that light which
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is diffuse, uniform, solitary but also, from switchback to switchback, serene
and absorbed by the farmlands and crags far away, without reflections, and
ourselves made almost transparent, so that the journey unfolds in silence
and with each of us reading in the other, without error, the calm becoming
lost and absorbed in that land; and then heading down on to the plain of
Paestum where it is evening, and the temples rest in the first long shadows, their columns and architraves becoming once again the tentacles of
that mysterious nocturnal coral polyp which feels around, hunting outsiders: there is something terrible about night at Paestum, especially if some
wind clouds up the hard, stony air. Then the temples seem to extinguish
themselves, seeking the original darkness: their travertine, so luminous and
animated by day, and patient with the temptations of life, becomes blacker
than the night, redescends to chaos, chases man and his designs into a fabulous mirage: history. At night the temples of Paestum disappear from history and its dimensions as from any human comprehension: in the shadows
they seem to breathe like ferocious animals, and the plain, as far as Capaccio
on one side, and far away to the deaf sea on the other, seems to ring with
a savage howling, as from a lion or a tiger, like the forest or the desert. To
sleep at Paestum demands a fearless heart.
1952, Translated at the University of Sydney, 2011
Eugenio Montale
On the Sacred Way
To the telluric laceration of the Earth’s crust the reply, in Greece, is
an almost luxurious richness of poor vegetation. Little or nothing new for
whoever knows the Italian landscape; but for us variety meddles with the
continuity of pleasure, it provokes a satisfaction that alters hour by hour
and does not allow the fruitful ruminations of a most elevated boredom. We
Italians enjoy our landscape by the teaspoonful; while in Greece the measure is the gallon. Here the meddling of the human species, too, is thwarted.
It is possible to travel one hundred kilometres meeting only a few donkeys
or a few goats; and the only snag is the great torpedoes of tourists, frequent,
fast and bothersome. Those who troop off on these trips, though, have the
advantage of being able to spend the night more or less comfortably out587
C u l t ure
side Athens, because the best hotels belong to the tourist agencies, which
reserve rooms for their own clients. The lone traveller has very little hope
of spending the night at Delphi or at Olympia if he does not have his own
caravan; and he must limit himself to a few brief incursions followed by a
necessary return to base.
Arriving at Delphi, whoever does not wish to retreat to Athens has
only two choices: either to be ferried along the seashores of the Peloponnese, where the landscape is much less interesting but where there exists
the possibility of finding a decent hotel; or to carry on as far as Lepanto,
along a road riddled with screes and holes, judged unfeasible even by guidebooks printed many years before. And this was the solution that I myself
had to choose, because at Lepanto someone was waiting for me: an important personality who knows perfectly our language and our literature.
But first I should say something of Delphi, the sacred place castled
along an impervious rise that dominates the buttered steep of a waterless
river and a little triangle of sea, far off. At Delphi, I was told by my friend
Fenton, an American writer who has lived in Greece for years, one must settle for waiting a long time for the hour of revelation. Failing that, one must
limit oneself to admiring the famous auriga with the enamel eyes and to immersing one’s hands in the fountain of Castalia while expressing, mentally,
a wish. I did not hold back from this rite, but unfortunately my wishes were
many and at odds and I do not think they can be granted. Around Delphi
there are ruins of all kinds that can be visited on mule-back. The air of Delphi is electric, exciting, probably mysteric; but mystery and tourism cannot
be reconciled. There exists, if I am not misinformed, a project, backed by
UNESCO, to found at Delphi a phalanstère reserved for intellectuals, poets
and writers “at a high level” in the hope that a flicker of sacred fire will fasten to their souls. But I do not see how a Hölderlin or a Friedrich Nietzsche
(neither of whom ever came to Greece) could find any advantage in lodging
in such a friary. Probably the few elect will be chosen according to scientific
criteria overseen by technocrats of intelligence and literary production. And
Greece, the truly immortal Greece, will be known and venerated only by a
few great spirits who will have never set foot there.
Not that the Ellada of today could disappoint a “sentimental” traveller (a type of tourist that is destined to disappear) because even today it
can offer much to those who have eyes and sensibility; but it is a question
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C u l t u re
of years. Allow the river of tourism to turn to a flood and even here you
will see the consequences. For now the Greek landscape has known how
to defend itself: I suppose constructions that are too high are forbidden by
certain laws, and also by the fact that here we are on volcanic ground, jolted
by not uncommon earthquakes. The one sad exception, the Hotel Hilton,
under construction in Athens: a monstrous semicircular building51 which
will be able to host at least a thousand people. Another hotel of enormous
proportions rises at an altitude of one thousand one hundred metres on the
mountain of Parnitha, sixty kilometres from the capital. It cost enormous
sums and this expenditure even threatened the stability of the Government. However on the summit of that mountain, which in winter is covered
in snow, the white stain of the hotel cannot be called a dissonance.
A miracle of harmony, on the other hand, is the long snaking road
that leads from Athens to Eleusis, to Thebes (earthquaked several times and
today little more than a village), to Levadia and finally to Delphi. Here the
vegetation has the highs and lows of an epic in which aspiration alternates in
phases with nourishing torpor. The landscape is all a succession of irregular
strophes; the evident work of man does not arrive at making of it a humanistic frame. The valleyings and the brief uprisings exchange one with another,
the pines, the olive trees and the eucalyptus give place to little vineyards protected by drystone walls made of large stones. A thick flock of goats can be
seen assembled, with goatherd and dog, in the shade of a tree. But perhaps
the greatest surprise is elicited by the variety of minute grasses, by the velvety
cushions that reclothe the rocks, by the proliferating wild red berries. The
daylights are often blinding, the wind that sighs from distant throats disturbs
the carpet of mosses in places where some splashes of green insist on growing on ledges of rusted earth. Monotony and waste, misery and subterranean
convulsed exuberance seem thus the characteristics of this “sacred way” of
the ancient world. The most frequent bird is that black magpie streaked with
white that the Spanish call hurraca and that is seen in such quantities only in
Provence and Catalonia. The crows, too, are numerous; later the falcons will
appear. After Delphi I saw two, young, robust, squabbling amorously on a little wall by the road, indifferent to the passing of our car.
Leaving Delphi, having had a brief look at what is left of the Temple
of Apollo, the most tedious part of the journey began. At first the attention
falls on an endless woodland of wild olive trees (endless but not so much as
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C u l t ure
to form a forest: more of an immensely long arboreal gallery), then the road
becomes almost impassable, full of humps and holes, scattered with screes
and mountains of debris. The sea can no longer be seen; one rises and falls
continually surrounded by rocks and the vehicle is forced to travel almost
at walking pace. On reaching the village of Amfissa we succeeded in finding
two worthies of the township (a policeman and the mayor) who courteously
offered to telephone to Naupactus (Lepanto) to inform our host that, with
the help of the gods, we would arrive at our destination extremely late. In
the meantime it had grown dark. We did not meet a living soul; on resuming the journey a wheel had to be changed. We would have felt more at ease
if only we had been able to see the sea; but the road – if that rocky crust of
earth could be called that – continually goes on rising through bristling rock
faces and only in its last kilometres plunges over the little city. Luckily the
worthies of Amfissa had kept their promise and on the last stretch we were
met and relieved by the car belonging to our host, Mr. Novas, deputy of the
college of Missolonghi, belonging to a dynasty of deputies of that college,
many times a minister and academician at Athens. A writer and poet, as well
as a politician marshalled alongside the ralliement of opposition political
parties headed by Papandreou, Kyrios Novas is the most important public
figure in Lepanto, his native city. Recently he rebuilt his house, destroyed in
a fire during the civil war, and he has assembled an impressive documentation of all that has been published about the famous battle that unfolded
almost four centuries ago off the coast of what is now Naupactus.
With him and with the bearded papas of the city, who arrived to give
us his auspicious greetings (and what a surprise to see a thick black beard
looming into our car window at dead of night) without incident we continued
the journey as far as the hospitable house of our protector. On arriving there
I consulted I do not know how many carmi and epinici [victory odes], for the
most part published in Venice in 1571-72 in honour of Don John of Austria
and his admirals. Nor does the rare collection end here, because it is completed with curious prints from that era: in one of these, evidently executed ad hoc
by a modern draughtsman, it is even possible to see Cervantes, who with the
one hand left to him is embarked on a fight to the death with a Turk.
Apart from this collection, which will eventually go to a local museum, there is not much to see at Lepanto. The port forms a quite harmonious ring and between little oleander woodlands one makes out the ruins
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of a Venetian castle. There is much silence at Lepanto and if the little city
possessed a comfortable hotel it could be recommended to anyone wishing
to live out a few days in peace.
The following morning, waking up early, I heard the lamenting
sound of a human voice, alternating with a chatter of sparrows. It was a
travelling octopus salesman letting out his call. It is possible that in a few
years the name of Lepanto will be associated in my memory with the tentacles and suckers of an octopus nest in a basket. All of Greece is this, it is
also this, for whoever happens not to be an archaeologist and not to know
how to command the relics of its vanished civilisation. It is a togetherness
of natural apparitions that could be said to be impossible elsewhere and
that in reality can be seen everywhere, but that only here assume the value
of a mysterious calling: it is in the visionary magic of its landscape, poor but
intense, indigent and sublime. Unfortunately such a discovery would have
had another value in other times, when to come to Greece was a much more
difficult undertaking. To become spiritual citizens of Greece meant something in the time of Byron who met his death here; it is impossible today
for those who arrive by jet52 for a few days. And yet it is an error to come
here with the soul of someone entering a museum. One must dissolve the
fascinating and sometimes fearful curtain of images that are seen, of forms
that are touched, to enter, live, into the Greece of today, to know its men, to
learn how they love, what they can still give us and what we can learn from
them. To know, in short, if there is a living Greece alongside the land of the
dead that can be studied and loved while standing closed inside a library.
And that is what sooner or later I would like to attempt, even if my visit
today has been too brief.
1962, Translated at the University of Sydney, 2011
Notes
1
Giorgio Zampa, ‘Cronologia,’ in Eugenio Montale, Tutte le poesie (Milan: Mondadori, 2004), p.
lxxvii.
2
Montale had been a mentor to Bigongiari and several other younger poets in the 1930s, when,
despite the strictures of Fascism, Florence had a remarkably rich and liberal literary culture.
When Bigongiari arrived in Florence as a student in the early part of the decade, Montale was
director of the prestigious Gabinetto Vieusseux archive, a position from which he was later
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sacked for refusing to join the Fascist party. Montale embodied the browbeaten stoicism of
the intellectual unable to take action for fear of reprisals, waiting instead for better times.
Bigongiari and company, who had grown up under Fascism and so had no experience of
better political conditions, looked to him for moral strength as well as advice on poetry. On
that count, Montale’s contributions were invaluable, but his technical influence turned from
inspiration into benign addiction. Montale’s writing was increasingly turning inwards and
voicing the ironies of ordinary life under repressed conditions. His style was abstract, pithy
and memorable, built incrementally from densely-worked and emotionally loaded syllables,
and it became infectious. Bigongiari and other poets such as Mario Luzi, Alessandro Parronchi
and Alfonso Gatto had to work extremely hard not to lapse into it. They eventually succeeded
and had diverse and interesting careers, but Bigongiari stayed closer to Montale than the
others. He was also among Montale’s most sensitive critics in that younger generation.
3
Piero Bigongiari, Greece in Italy, or A Great Silence, trans. Theodore Ell, in Modern Greek Studies
15 (2011), p. 75.
4
Piero Bigongiari, L’elaborazione della lirica leopardiana (Florence: Le Monnier, 1937), p. 7. My
translation.
5
Giacomo Leopardi, “La Ginestra o il fiore del deserto,” in Canti (Milan: Rizzoli, 1953), p. 135.
6
Piero Bigongiari, “Un lume velenoso,” in Tutte le poesie I: 1933-1963 (Florence: Le Lettere,
1994), p. 172. My translation.
7
Piero Bigongiari, “Ibis redibis,” in Tutte le poesie I: 1933-1963 (Florence: Le Lettere, 1994), p.
172.
8
Ibid., p. 172. My translation.
9
George Gissing, By the Ionian Sea: Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy (London: T. Fisher and
Unwin, 1905), p. 9.
10 Ibid., p. 10.
11 Ibid., p. 32.
12 Ibid., p. 32.
13 Piero Bigongiari, Greece in Italy, or A Great Silence, trans. Theodore Ell, in Modern Greek Studies
15 (2011), p. 78.
14 George Gissing, By the Ionian Sea, p. 43.
15 (2011), p. 77.
15 (2011), p. 82.
19 Ibid., pp. 130-131.
20 Ibid., p. 15.
21 Ibid., pp. 26-27.
22 Ibid., p. 166.
23 Ibid., p. 187.
24 Martin Heidegger, Sojourns: The Journey to Greece, trans. by John Panteleimon Manoussakis
(Albany: State University of New York, 2005), p. 12.
25 Ibid., pp. 25-26.
26 Ibid., p. 31.
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27 Ibid., p. 4.
28 Ibid., pp. 55-56.
29 Ibid., p. 54.
30 Ibid, p. 3.
32 Walter Benjamin, “One-way Street,” in One-way Street and Other Writings (London: Penguin,
2009), p. 113.
33 Ovid, Metamorphoses, V. When the water-nymph Proserpine is abducted to the Underworld,
her companion Cyan despairs and melts in tears into her own river. Bigongiari’s citation,
“Nulla rimase lei che si potesse prendere,” is from the Italian translation by Salvatore
Quasimodo, a contemporary with a very different view of the legacy of Magna Graecia (see
Introduction in previous issue). See Salvatore Quasimodo, “Proserpina, Cyane (Lib. V – vv.
385-520),” in La vita non è sogno (Milan: Mondadori, 1949), 29.
34 Between 415 and 414 BC an Athenian force, led by Alcibiades, Nicias and Demosthenes,
attempted to conquer the territory of Syracuse. The invasion failed disastrously thanks to
overconfidence, bungled tactics and acrimonious leadership disputes. The Athenians who
survived the battles against Syracuse were scattered and confused. They were taken prisoner
and were so numerous that they could only be held in quarries in the region described here by
Bigongiari. There, hemmed in, diseased and starving, great numbers of them died, and only a
few managed to return to Athens, much later, to tell of the catastrophe.
35 The original Vincenzo Rindone was a black market racketeer and robber in this area during
the Second World War. He was gallant and charismatic but ruthless – landowners died at
his hand. He avoided capture and escaped to Rome but was eventually discovered, tried and
imprisoned for life. We should assume that the Vincenzo Rindone whom Bigongiari names
here was a less noteworthy copycat.
36 Most sources date this event at 406 B.C.. Bigongiari’s source may have differed or he may have
been slightly mistaken.
37 Archaeologist (1859-1935) who pioneered the excavation of sites throughout the region.
38 Virgil, Aeneid, III, 701-705. The Aeneid was translated by C. Day Lewis in the exact year
of Bigongiari’s journey, 1952. Day Lewis renders this passage thus: “and now, far off, is
Kamarina, which fate said / Must never be reclaimed, and the Geloan plains, / And Gela,
which is named after its own wild river. / Then Acragas [Agrigentum] on its crag shows from
afar its great walls – / A town renowned one time for its mettlesome breed of horses. / The
wind blows fair, and we leave palm-fringed Selinus behind...” The Aeneid of Virgil (New York:
Doubleday Anchor Books, 1953), 79-80.
39 Virgil, Aeneid, IV, 1-2 (“At regina gravi iamdudum saucia cura / vulnus alit venis et caeco
carpitur igni...”).
40 Pindar, Pythian Ode XII, str. 1.
41 Gellias, an opulently rich citizen of Agrigentum, met a tragic end. When the Carthaginians
besieged the city he sought refuge in the Temple of Athena, but on realising that there was no
redeeming the barbarity of the invaders, he set fire to the temple and was swallowed up in the
flames.
42 A long and spectacular cliff running eastwards from the city of Agrigento.
43 Giacomo Leopardi, “Dialogo della Natura e di un Islandese,” in Operette morali (Milan:
Garzanti, 1982), 147-158. In this philosophical fable an Icelander complains to Nature that
he has been driven from place to place across the world by hardship and suffering, and that
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C u l t ure
he no longer believes that man can be capable of peace or happiness while Nature treats him
so cruelly. Nature replies that it is not Man’s place to expect anything from her, or to assume
that the world is made to suit his happiness at all.
44 Eryx was a formidable boxer, but Heracles vanquished him.
45 In antiquity, Tyndaris.
46 The site of ancient Palinurus, in Campania. We should assume that Bigongiari had already
passed through there on his way south, to return towards the end of his journey.
47 Homer, The Odyssey, XII, 425-436.
48 Bigongiari does not describe the journey from Sicily northwards to Campania.
49 Sestieri, we should assume, was Bigongiari’s guide on this particular day.
50 Among the most ancient of names for the south of Italy; very little survives of Oenotria.
51 Here Montale uses the actual word building, the English intrusion into his Italian matching
the intrusion of the Hilton.
52 Once again, the English word jet intrudes into Montale’s Italian.
References
Bigongiari, Piero, 1985. “La Grecia in Italia, o Un grande silenzio.” In Visible invisible,
46-84. Florence: Sansoni.
Gissing, George, 1905. By the Ionian Sea : Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy. London: T.
Fisher and Unwin.
Heidegger, Martin, 2005. Sojourns: The Journey to Greece. Trans. John Panteleimon
Manoussakis. Albany: State University of New York Press.
Leopardi, Giacomo, 1982. “Dialogo della Natura e di un Islandese.” In Operette morali.
Milan: Garzanti, 147-158.
Montale, Eugenio, 1995. “Sulla Via Sacra.” In Prose e racconti. Ed. Marco Forti. Milan:
Mondadori. 483-488.
Quasimodo, Salvatore, 1949. Translation from Ovid, Metamorphoses, “Proserpina,
Cyane (Lib. V – vv. 385-520), in La vita non è sogno, 25-32. Milan: Mondadori.
Virgil, 1953. The Aeneid of Virgil, translated by C. Day Lewis. New York: Doubleday
Anchor.
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Ναυσικά
Κωνσταντίνος Παρθένης
595
Contributors
Tatjana Aleksić
Daniela Cosmini-Rose
[email protected]
daniela.rose@f linders.edu.au
Tatjana Aleksić is Associate Professor of South Slavic
and Comparative Literature University of Michigan,
Ann Arbor. She has published her monograph
Sacrificed Body: Balkan Community Building and the
Limits of Freedom (2013) and edited a volume on
Mythistory and Narratives of the Nation in the Balkans,
(2007). Her contributions have appeared in many
academic journals in Europe, USA and Australia.
Daniela Cosmini-Rose is Lecturer of Italian and
Coordinator of the Italian Section in the Department
of Language Studies at Flinders University. Her
primary area of research is the history of Italian
migration to South Australia. She has published
nationally and internationally and her most
well-known publication, with Professor Desmond
O’Connor, is Caulonia in the Heart, The story of the
settlement in Australia of migrants from a Southern
Italian town (2008). She is currently working on a
project which investigates the ageing Italian migrant
community in South Australia as well as being actively
involved in a Migrants’ belongings project, which
examines the significance of belongings included in
the ‘trunks’ of post-Second World War Greek and
Italian migrants who settled in South Australia.
Eric Bouvet
[email protected]
Eric Bouvet is Associate Dean (Academic) in the
School of Humanities and Creative Arts at Flinders
University. He is also Coordinator of French in
the Department of Language Studies. His research
interests are in applied linguistics, with a focus
on language learning strategies, and in migration
studies. In particular, he has been researching the
history of French community in Australia. He is the
the co-editor, with Diana Glenn and Sonia Floriani,
of Imagining Home: Migrants and the Search for a new
Belonging (2011). He is currently involved in the
Migrants' belongings project, to which Tales of glory
boxes, suitcases and dreams contributes.
George Couvalis
[email protected]
George Couvalis teaches philosophy at Flinders
University. His research focuses on ancient Greek
philosophy with special emphasis on Aristotle and
late Greek philosophers. His publications also include
essays on Plato, John Philoponous and David Hume
Martyn Brown
Anthony Dracopoulos
[email protected]
A n t h o ny. D ra c o p o u l o s @ s y d n e y. e d u . a u
Martyn Brown is currently a Ph. D. student with the
School of History Philosophy Religion and Classics
at the University of Queensland. Previously he
completed an M.A. in Modern Greek Studies at the
University of Sydney. His research area is the New
Zealand-Greek wartime relationship.
Anthony Dracopoulos is a senior lecturer with the
department of Modern Greek and Byzantine Studies
at the University of Sydney. He has published
extensively on the works of G. Seferis, C.P. Cavafy and
Greek Modernism. His latest publication is the study:
C.P. Cavafy: The Open Work (2013).
596
Theodore Ell
Nicolas Evzonas
t h e o d o re . e l l @ s y d n e y. e d u . a u
[email protected]
Theodore Ell obtained his PhD in Italian at the
University of Sydney, Australia, in October 2010,
with a thesis on the poetry and philosophy of Piero
Bigongiari from the time of the Second World War.
As well as Bigongiari, his subjects have included
18th Century Italian geology, Romanticism, and
Italian poetry of today. Theodore remains active as
a translator and his own poetry has appeared in the
Sydney Morning Herald. He has wide interests in
writing of all kinds, ancient and modern. He is the
chief-editor of the literary journal Contrappasso.
Nicolas Evzonas, after receiving his BA in Classics
from the University of Athens, completed his M.Phil
degree with distinction in Modern Greek Literature
from the University Paris-Sorbonne Paris IV and
subsequently his Ph.D with highest honours from the
same university. His thesis entitled Erotic Desire on
the Work of Alexandros Papadiamantis is scheduled to
be published by Harmattan by the end of 2015. His
publications include articles on Ancient and Modern
Greek literature as well as forthcoming contributions
on cinema, psychopathology, and psychoanalysis.
Since 2012, he has collaborated with the French
Freudian journal Topique and been a member of
the committee of the International Association
Interactions of Psychoanalysis.
Anna Efstathiadou
[email protected]
Anna Efstathiadou is a post-doctoral Fellow at the
School of English, Media Studies and Art History in
the University of Queensland. Her area of research
is cultural history, and in particular visual imagery
and expressions of nationhood through propaganda
posters and photography produced during the Second
World War in Australia and Greece. She is a member of
the Australian Historians Association and a honorary
fellow of the Hellenic Photographic Society in Athens,
promoting Greek photography and organizing
exhibitions around Australia. Her publications appear
in a number of international journals, while she
frequently writes brief articles for the Greek photomagazine ΦΩΤΟγράφος.
Eleni Elefterias Kostakidis
Diana Glenn
[email protected]
Diana Glenn is Dean of the School of Humanities and
Creative Arts at Flinders University. She is the author
of Dante’s Reforming Mission and Women in the Comedy
(2008) and has published numerous scholarly articles
nationally and internationally. She has jointly edited
the following volumes: Dante Colloquia in Australia
1982-1999 (2000); Flinders Dante Conferences 2002 &
2004 (2005); Imagining Home: Migrants and the search
for a new belonging (with Eric Bouvet & Sonia Floriani,
2011); The Shadow of the Precursor (2012); and (with
John Kinder) ‘Legato con amore in un volume’: Essays
in Honour of John A. Scott (Olschki, 2013). She is
currently active in the Migrants’ belongings project.
E l e n i . E l e f t e r i a s . K o s t a k i d i s @ s y d n e y.
edu.au
Eleni Elefterias-Kostakidis teaches Modern Greek at the
University of Sydney. Her research focuses on Music,
Ethnomusicology and Cinema. She is currently a M.Phil
student exploring Balkan Documentary Films.
597
Eleanor Hancock
Ioannis Kalaitzidis
[email protected]
[email protected]
Eleanor Hancock is an Associate Professor of History
at the University of New South Wales, Canberra.
Her area of academic interest is the history of 20th
century Germany. She has published a study of The
National Socialist leadership and total war, 1941-5
(1992) and Ernst Röhm Hitler’s SA Commander (2008).
Her most recent research project (with Associate
Professor Craig Stockings) concerns the Axis invasions
of Greece in 1940-1.
Ioannis Kalaitzidis holds a BSc Hons in Psychology
and a MA in Counselling Psychology from the
University of Nottingham. He received a BSc Hons
in Education from Patras University and a Certificate
in Professional Education from Harvard University.
He is currently a PhD candidate at the Department
of International Studies at Macquarie University. The
title of his thesis is “The relation between Working
Memory and Creativity”. He is working as an
educational psychologist and a teacher.
Andrew S. Horton
[email protected]
Andrew S. Horton (Ph.D., University of Illinois
at Urnbana), is the Jeanne H. Smith Professor of
Film and Video Studies. Horton is the author of 18
books on film, screenwriting, and cultural studies,
including Screenwriting for a Global Market ( 2004),
Henry Bumstead and the World of Hollywood Art
Direction (2003), Writing the Character Centered
Screenplay (2000, 2nd edition), and The Films of Theo
Angelopoulous (1999, 2nd edition). His films include
Brad Pitt's first feature film, The Dark Side of the Sun,
and the much-awarded Something in Between (1983,
Yugoslavia, directed by Srdjan Karanovic)
Joanna Hyslop
Vrasidas Karalis
Vra s i d a s . K a ra l i s @ s y d n e y. e d u . a u
Vrasidas Karalis holds the Sir Nicholas Laurantos’
Chair in Modern Greek Studies at the University of
Sydney. He has published extensively on Byzantine
historiography, Greek political life, Greek Cinema,
European cinema, the director Sergei Eisenstein and
contemporary political philosophy. He has also worked
extensively as a translator (novels by Patrick White)
and the theory of the transcultural translation. He
has edited volumes on modern European political
philosophy, especially on Martin Heidegger, Hannah
Arendt and Cornelius Castoriadis. His recent
publications include A History of Greek Cinema (2013)
and Greek Cinema from Cacoyannis to the Present
(Forthcoming by I.B. Tauris).
[email protected]
Joanna Hyslop is a professional artist and teacher
based in England. She is conducting research on New
Zealand military chaplains of the First World War and
is the granddaughter of Charles Dobson, Anglican
Chaplain at Smyrna in 1922.
598
Elizabeth Kefallinos
[email protected]
Elizabeth Kefallinos is the Head of the Program
of Modern Greek Studies in the Department of
International Studies at Macquarie University.
She has published mainly on literature and social
narratives but some publications also appeared
on language and education in various academic
journals. Her research focuses on oral historical
intergenerational narratives in order to examine the
maintenance, the development, the transformation or
the rejection of Greek traditional values in Australia.
She currently investigates the Jews of Zakynthos and
their survival during the 2WW.
Patricia Koromvokis
[email protected]
Patricia Koromvokis has a BSc in Greek Literature,
Philology Studies and a MSc in “Teaching Modern
Greek as foreign language” from Greek National
Kapodistriako University of Athens. She is a PhD
candidate at the Department of International Studies
at Macquarie University. The title of her thesis is
“The acquisition of gender in Greek for adult second
language learners”. She works as an Associate Lecturer
at Macquarie University.
Eleni Leontsini
[email protected]
Eleni Leontsini is Lecturer in Philosophy at the
Department of Philosophy of the University of
Ioannina, Greece. Currently, she is also teaching at
the Greek Civilization Undergraduate Program of the
Hellenic Open University and at the Postgraduate
Program (M.A. in History and History Didactics)
of the Department of Primary Education of the
National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. She
specializes in ethics and political philosophy and the
history of these subjects, particularly Aristotle. She
has given papers in conferences and has published
widely in journals and collected volumes at home
and internationally. She is currently completing a
monograph on Acts and Omissions: Problems in Applied
Ethics and a book on Aristotle’s moral and political
philosophy, both in Greek. Also, she is currently
co-editing (with Emrys Jones) a volume of collected
papers on Friendship in Society: The Idea of Friendship
in the Age of the Enlightenment and working on a
monograph on Aristotle’s notion of civic friendship,
both in English.
George N. Leontsinis
George N. Leontsinis is Emeritus Professor of
Modern Greek History and Teaching of History at
the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens,
Greece. He is currently teaching at postgraduate
level at the National and Kapodistrian University of
Athens and at the Harokopio University in Athens.
He is also President of the newly established “Society
of Theory, Research and Teaching of General and
Local History” that aims to promote the research and
teaching of general and local history in Greece. He has
written widely on Modern Greek History and History
Didactics, having published 25 books (authored) and
11 conference proceedings volumes.
Golfo Maggini
[email protected]
Golfo Maggini (PhD, University of Paris, 1997) is
Associate Professor of Philosophy at the University
of Ioannina, Greece. Since her undergraduate years at
the University of Athens, Golfo has been concerned
about the modern technology and the ontological,
ethical, and political questions it poses to mankind.
Her research takes contemporary phenomenology,
especially the hermeneutic phenomenology of
Martin Heidegger. Her books include: Technoscientific
Posthumanism: a Philosophical Approach, (2014) ;
Towards a Hermeneutics of the Technological World
(2010); Habermas and the Neoaristotelians. The Ethics
of Discourse in Jürgen Habermas and the Challenge of
Neoaristotelianism, (2006).
599
Panayota Nazou
S. Nikoloudis
Pa n ay o t a . N a z o u @ s y d n e y. e d u . a u
[email protected]
Panayota Nazou teaches Greek language and culture
at the University of Sydney. She has published
extensively on women’s writing in Greece and
Australia. Her latest publication is the book Proxy
Brides: Experiences and Testimonies of Greek Women
in Australia (1950-1975) (Periplus, 2013). She is
currently contacting research on Melina Mercouri - an
International Star and a Cultural and Political Symbol.
Stavroula (Stephie) Nikoloudis, is an Honorary Fellow,
with the Department of Classics and Archaeology
School of Historical and Philosophical Studies at
The University of Melbourne. She has published on
the history of Greek language especially of the early
Mycenaean period.
Dimitris Paivanas
Toula Nicolacopoulos
T. N i c o l a c o p o u l o s @ l a t r o b e . e d u . a u
George Vassilacopoulos
G . Va s s i l a c o p o u l o s @ l a t r o b e . e d u . a u
Toula Nicolacopoulos and George Vassilacopoulos
lecture in Philosophy at the University of Melbourne.
They have published books and articles in European
philosophy, political theory, critical race and whiteness
theory and the history of Greek-Australian political
activism. George Vassilacopoulos is the author of
Monumental Fragments: Places of Philosophy in the
Age of Dispersion, Melbourne: re.press, 2013. Toula
Nicolacopoulos is the author of The Radical Critique of
Liberalism: In Memory of a Vision Part 1, Melbourne:
re.press, 2008. Together they are the co-authors of
The Disjunctive Logic Of The World: Thinking Global Civil
Society With Hegel, Melbourne: re.press; Indigenous
Sovereignty and the Being of the Occupier, Melbourne:
re.press, 2014; Hegel and the Logical Structure of
Love, Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999; and From Foreigner
to Citizen: Greek Migrants and Social Change in White
Ausralia 1897-2000, (Greek), Melbourne and Pireas:
Eothinon, 2004.
600
[email protected]
Dimitris Paivanas has studied Greek and Modern
Greek Literature at Melbourne University and has
taught Modern Greek Literature at Melbourne and
La Trobe Universities during 1984-1993. He has
published articles in the weekly Australian newspapers
as well as in literary periodicals in Australia, USA
and Greece. In 1997, he published a book of poetry
and prose titled Monyeloi kai dioptres. He received his
doctorate from Birmingham in 2008. His monograph
on the work of Thanassis Valtinos appeared in 2012
(Estia Publications).
Maria Palaktsoglou
[email protected]
Maria Palaktsoglou is a Lecturer in Modern Greek
language and culture at the Department of Language
Studies, Flinders University, and the Director of
Studies and the Coordinator for first year topics in
Modern Greek. She has an MA (1996) and a PhD
(2002) on Greek Literature from Flinders University.
Her areas of research are: twentieth century Greek
literature and literary criticism and Greek-Australian
migration in Australia. She has published one book
and a series of articles on literature and migration and
has taken part in many National and International
Conferences both in Australia and Europe. She
is currently involved in several projects such as
Migrants’ belongings, Migrant Domestic servants, and
Migration Experiences through Blogging.
Peter Prineas
[email protected]
Peter Prineas is an independent scholar and
researcher. He has published a number of monographs
on Greek and Australian history; amongst them
Katsehamos and the Great Idea (2006), Britain’s Greek
Islands (2009) and Wild Place (2012).
Catalina Ribas Segura
[email protected]
Catalina Ribas Segura has completed dissertation
on Greek-Australian Literature at the University of
Barcelona (Spain). She has also worked on migrant
literature and has finished her PhD on “Neither here
and nor there does water quench our thirst”: Duty,
Obedience and Identity in Greek-Australian and
Chinese Australian Prose Fiction, 1971-2005.
Cheryl Simpson
[email protected]
Cheryl Simpson is a research student with the
Department of Modern Greek at Flinders University.
She has published many essays on the cultural
implications of tourism, as well as contributed to
volumes on popular cultures, with special emphasis on
Greek textiles. Recently she co-edited a book on From
Heritage to Terrorism: Regulating Tourism in an Age of
Uncertainty (2011).
Craig Stockings
[email protected]
Craig Stockings is an Associate Professor of History
at the University of New South Wales, Canberra.
His areas of academic interest concern general and
Australian military history and operational analysis.
He has published a history of the army cadet
movement in Australia entitled The Torch and the
Sword (2007), and a study of the First Libyan Campaign
in North Africa 1940-41: Bardia: Myth, Reality and
the Heirs of Anzac (2009). He has also edited Zombie
Myths of Australian Military History (2010), Anzac's
Dirty Dozen: 12 Myths of Australian Military History
(2012), and Before the Anzac Dawn: A military history of
Australia up to 1915 (2013). His most recent research
project (with Associate Professor Eleanor Hancock),
concerning the Axis invasion of Greece in 1941.
Nick Trakakis
[email protected]
N.N. Trakakis is Senior Lecturer in Philosophy at the
Australian Catholic Philosophy. He works primarily
in the philosophy of religion, and his publications in
this area include The God Beyond Belief: In Defence of
William Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil (2007),
The End of Philosophy of Religion (2008), and (as coeditor, with Graham Oppy) The History of Western
Philosophy of Religion, vols 1-5 (Acumen, 2009). He
also has a strong interest in literature and poetry:
he has edited Southern Sun, Aegean Light: Poetry
of Second-Generation Greek-Australians (Australian
Scholarly Publishing, 2011), and has published several
collections of poetry, the most recent being From Dusk
to Dawn. His translation of Tasos Leivaditis,
The Blind Man with the Lamp, was published by Denise
Harvey Publications in 2014.
601
Michael Tsianikas
[email protected]
Michael Tsianikas is Professor of Modern Greek at
Flinders University. He has published extensively on
modern Greek, comparative and language studies.
Amongst his publications Homo Tremulus: Enthusiasm,
Trembling, and Spirit (2011), Kavafis' Photo-Mind and
Other Texts (2007), The Fingers on the Skin: Critical
Texts for Literature (2003) and Flaubert's Trip to Greece:
One Stop After the Orient, One Stop Before Literature,
(1997).
John Yiannakis
J. Y i a n n a k i s @ e x c h a n g e . c u r t i n . e d u . a u
John Yiannakis was born and educated in Perth,
Western Australia. He is a Research Fellow and
Historian at Curtin University. He recently completed
researching Greek migration and adaptation to W.A.
since 1947, and the History of Dentistry in Western
Australia. Two major books resulted from this
work: "Odysseus in the Golden West" and "A History
of Dentistry in Western Australia". In 2009 he also
contributed an article to and edited a special edition
volume about the Perth locale of Northbridge.
602
603
Hercules battle with the amazons
Κωνσταντίνος Παρθένης
Vo l . 1 6 - 1 7 B
2 0 1 3 - 2 0 14
C r i s i s , C r i t i c i sm and
C r i t i q u e I n C ontemporar y
Greek Studies
Part B
-
Language
Commemorating the decipherment of Linear B and
the discovery of Mycenaean Greek
Αυτοαντίληψη και αυτοπαρουσίαση: η
Αυτοβιογραφία της Μελίνας Μερκούρη,
Γεννήθηκα Ελληνίδα
Self-perception and Self-presentation: Melina
Mercouri’s Autobiography I Was Born Greek
Παναγιώτα Νάζου
Panayota Nazou
C. P. Cavafy: Anthonism
Michael Tsianikas
The acquisition of grammatical gender in Greek
I. Kalaitzidis
Torture, Performance and Power in Elias Maglinis’
The Interrogation
Tatjana Aleksic
Culture
Hume’s Lucianic Thanatotherapy
George Couvalis
Contemporary Greek Philosophy at the Crossroads:
Neokantianism – Existentialism – Phenomenology
Η Περιπέτεια του Αντρέα Κορδοπάτη και ο
Ενδιάμεσος Χώρος του Θανάση Βαλτινού
The Adventure of Andreas Kordopatis and the
Interstitial Space of Thenanis Valtinos
Anthony Dracopoulos
Golfo Maggini
A Passionate Saint
Thanasis Valtinos’ Three Greek One-Act Plays and
its critical reception
Nicolas Evzonas
Dimitris Paivanás
Who is Kazantzakis’ God?
Sections X-XVII
Nick N. Trakakis
Μια Φιλοσοφική Ανάγνωση του
Κίτρινου Φακέλου του Μ. Καραγάτση
A Philosophical Reading of M. Karagatsis’
Kitrinos Fakelos
Ελένη Λεοντσίνη
Eleni Leontsini
Piero Bigongiari
On the Sacred Way
Eugenio Montale
Theodore Ell

a Journal for Greek letters

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