This extract is the first English translation of Hans Blumenberg's posthumous publication Beschreibung des Menschen, which was published by Suhrkamp Verlag in 2006. Based on lectures concerning the German tradition of philosophical anthropology that Blumenberg gave at the University of Münster, the book's basic project is the explicit fusion of Husserlian phenomenology with philosophical anthropology — an attempt to grasp what the human is by identifying its basic structures. The result is a highly nuanced conception of the possibility of human (...) self-reflection that is at the core of philosophy and of culture as a recipe for the species’ survival. Instead of answering the question “What is man?” Blumenberg proposes here a minimalist anthropology that seeks to answer a different question: “How is man possible?” The chapters selected for translation are intended to give readers a sense of the book, little known in the Anglophone world, which in its original German runs to some nine hundred pages. (shrink)

Using historical rather than philosophical means, this essay responds to a philosophical discussion of the problem of evil. Instead of constructing arguments in support of a general, theoretical position, the author examines a single, paradoxical image from the vision of a medieval anchoress and suggests that those concerned with the problem of evil, including philosophers, should take it seriously. In order to explain or contextualize why, despite the existence of evil, “all will be well... and all manner of thing will (...) be well,” Julian of Norwich narrates how, in her vision, God placed in her hand “something small, no bigger than a hazelnut,” which is both contingent and eternal, all and nothing — opposites coexisting. This essay analyzes how Julian's image of the hazelnut as paradoxical is a simultaneity of opposites and argues that paradox, enacted and experienced in ritual, offers a way to assert and live with opposites such as good and evil, life and death, simultaneously. (shrink)

From mid-2020 until early 2023, the Chronicle of Higher Education published a series of essays that, when summed up, represents a valediction for English and American literary studies as practiced during the last half century. Some of the Chronicle authors, enjoying the privilege of tenure, speak for the profession as it was in healthier times. Others, representing a younger generation of scholars, hold on to unstable teaching positions. All are disconsolate.The essays, collected on the Chronicle website, look back to those (...) earlier times to seek the reasons for today's dreary situation. In dirgelike recitations, external causes are named and excoriated: the drying up of state funding, the growth of administrative personnel at the cost of faculty positions, the reluctance of debt-ridden students to concentrate on studies not leading to jobs, and the general parental and public resistance to anything considered effete. But at least one contributor to the series, Michael Clune of Case Western Reserve University, will not permit his fellow teachers to escape whipping: “Our fuzziness about what we do raises in the minds of our publics the not unreasonable assumption that we don't know what we're doing. The crisis in the humanities requires that we be open and honest about our discipline's rationales.”What does such a call to action mean? Does Clune ask for more exacting curricular control, more agreement as to pedagogical mission, a greater consensus about certifiable merit in professional advancement? About specific alterations to the system, he is not forthcoming, and this generalization applies to most of the other contributors as well: the prognosis is clear but the cure beyond anyone's reach. Why? To propose radical changes to the humane disciplines, even when most necessary, invites deep resistance. If professors are largely political liberals, they are also pedagogical archconservatives. Clune is nevertheless right in asking fellow professors for candor about what they are doing. The one strategy that cannot work is rehearsing their woes in public. Nor can a focus on the theoretical skirmishes in which they entangle themselves create the kind of consumer demand—student demand—that is needed. Unless they can collectively devise (or recover) intellectual attractions to draw in a new generation of students and fill lecture halls and seminar seats with them, humanists will be even further shunted to the sidelines.Another essayist, herself determined to get matters straightened out and thereby save the discipline, imagines her colleagues uniting to establish a stricter definition of what they collectively should do. Hannah Walser of the Harvard Society of Fellows believes that professors teaching literary works have been all too satisfied with the wasteful art of praising or derogating the performance or rhetorical brilliance of their colleagues: “In literary studies’ more affirmative modes, elaborate assurances of our colleagues’ competence—those more-a-comment-than-a-questions that praise a talk as beautiful, brilliant, powerful, and so on—end up standing in for actual arguments about the rightness or wrongness of a claim.” Literary works do not function as truth-telling “claims,” however, but as imaginative creations entertaining both truth and falsehood, the “real” as well as the “unreal.” In order to read those creations, and to share those readings with others, teachers must agree on the empirical terms, the evidentiary tools, to use. Walser rightly wants everyone to play the same game with the same rules. Only then can teachers come to terms with literary objects whose ultimate value is determined by something direct and visceral—aesthetic pleasure. But while Walser is right to call for procedural agreement, such a call will not, by itself, entice students to return to the classroom.In another essay, Katie Kadue looks back nostalgically to a time when, in its modest way, the world of literary studies had “stars,” when the English Institute featured brilliant personages at well-attended meetings, when jobs were plentiful and seminal books about theoretical issues were everywhere discussed. To Kadue, a young scholar, such moments seem all the more dazzling and attractive by virtue of their absence today. Were “stars” again to capture collective attention, a sign would be given that the humanities could recover its health and make literary study attractive to students again.Hence the Chronicle publication concludes with portraits of two humanists, Sianne Ngai and Mark McGurl, who have gained some recognition and acclaim. Perhaps, as the Chronicle suggests, with them a new constellation of stars is coming into view.Ngai is the author of three impressive and widely discussed monographs, the most recent being Theory of the Gimmick (2020), which, with a complexity uniquely its own, asks the reader to study the mixed attraction and repulsion produced by the intrusion of a “gimmick”—something in a text that draws attention to itself and exposes the inner workings of the text. When we encounter a gimmick in a text, it provokes both suspicion and pleasure: “When we say something is a gimmick, we mean it is overrated and deceptive, that you would have to be a sucker to fall for it. Yet gimmicks exert a strange hold on us. As with a magic show, we can enjoy the gimmick even while we know we are being tricked.” Other gimmicks—arousing “small” or “minor” affects—have been overlooked or dismissed in conventional literary discourse. Ngai, entranced by them, also argues that, beyond suspicion, pleasure, and annoyance, gimmicks have the power to reveal deep cultural, economic, and political forces shaped by contemporary capitalism.Ngai's strategy is ingenious and idiosyncratic. Its apparent strength is that it can explain everything—literary, economic, political, and cultural—that comes within its range. But its very originality renders it inoperable by anyone, be it student or teacher, other than its inventor. Like Marshall McLuhan, Hugh Kenner, Leslie Fiedler, and Stanley Fish before her—each of them working with a home-grown methodology—Ngai herself is her theory. Her inimitability prevents her theoretical procedures from becoming a generally shared answer to the classroom problems of literary study.McGurl, a sociologist of textual production, readership, and consumption, is more conventional than Ngai. He is certainly more omnivorous. He is interested in everything out there for the reader or listener to acquire, high or low, bad or good, by way of book, podcast, recording, or any other means or genre. His recent book Everything and Less: The Novel in the Age of Amazon shows how the company “has created the psychological and temporal conditions that not only alter how fiction is bought, sold, distributed, and read, but also how it is produced.” Might it be possible—and attractive—for teachers and students to follow and extend procedures like those of McGurl? An immense panorama of verbal matter might thereby await classroom after classroom. With much to read and much to hear, professors and students could examine and evaluate data aplenty. Might classrooms and seminar rooms once again be filled, this time by sociologists of literature? Professor Clune's query—“Why should students listen to me? What claim do I have on the public?”—could then be answered: We and you hereby claim everything written as our province; we, a new generation of humanists, will thus have work enough.Alas, for universities and colleges to make such a move—to resolve that literary study should embrace all of writing—would be to forfeit the one inestimably valuable form of intellectual capital now and forever readily available to them: that unique body of works known as literature: poetry, drama, fiction. Some professors appear to believe that this capital asset is wanting, depleted as a source, and therefore impotent to generate exciting scholarly work or teaching—which is why, for the last four or so decades, “theory” in its many varieties has proved so seductive. But theoretical discourse, derivative and secondary, proves vapid without the fiction, poetry, and drama from which it derived and on which it survives. Recognizing the rare power to be found in the works themselves and nowhere else, it is to those works that teachers must somehow return. Only then will there be compelling reason to hope that students will follow. (shrink)

Half of this piece appeared under the title “Postscript on Cultivation: Editorial Note” in Common Knowledge 8, no. 2 (spring 2002), and half was written in 2023 by one of the coauthors as a posthumous tribute to the other. The historian Natalie Zemon Davis died on the fourteenth day of the latest war between Hamas and Israel in Gaza. The relevance of “Postscript,” which was written following the attacks by al-Qaeda in the United States on September 11, 2001, is that (...) it redirects the attention of scholars from the battlefield and mass media to the ivory towers in which intellectuals are sometimes said to hide. Cultivated civilians ought to know that cultures strive to erase one another in ways vile but unsurprising. Those who learn history expect atrocity and should busy themselves less with assignment of blame than with archaeology, the preservation of objects, the collection of reports and stories, and the reinforcement — by retiring from the streets into libraries and other spaces of patient cooperation — of the partition between barbarism and civilization. With reference to the religious wars of the sixteenth century, during which — Davis showed in a famous essay — Catholics and Protestants fought each other by day but met by night to collect and distribute alms, Perl commends the urge to withdraw from both combat and protest into institutions doing good works quietly. (shrink)

Jonas, sixty-four, had never had a problem with the police and was reputed to be polite and calm. How then to explain the sudden outburst of violence when, on a given night, he shot a rifle at police officers? No one was harmed, but the perpetrator was arrested. It was in prison, a few hours after the incident, that Englebert, at the time a prison psychologist, met him. Englebert was also able to interview some of Jonas's family and friends, all (...) of whom were astonished by the event. This book, written by Englebert in collaboration with philosopher Grégory Cormann, analyzes the case not so much to find an ultimate explanation for Jonas's act as to show the variety of ways in which one can frame the man and his actions.The most common way of framing the event, the one most of Jonas's acquaintances have employed, is to link the violence with madness, but temporary insanity is not really an explanation. To say that Jonas went mad is no more than saying that his violence was incomprehensible. Still, to assert that he was mad when he fired the rifle qualifies as an interpretation in that it splits the act from the rest of the man's life. By insisting on that separation, kin and friends unburden themselves of any feelings of guilt they may experience at not having been able to prevent the act.Jonas's wife has another version of the event. She connects it with the recent death of his mother. Jonas was very close to his mother: he had dined with her every night of his life, even after his marriage thirty years before she died. Indeed even after her death, a month before the episode with the police, he had continued to go every night to her house. He wanted to carry on his lifelong habit, without change. A dispute about the house with his twenty-year-old son led to the encounter with the police: Jonas had added to his will a provision that his son would inherit the house but would be prohibited from ever selling it. The son found this prohibition unacceptable, and their argument came rapidly to blows. Out of fear, Jonas's wife called the police. Jonas went to the attic and brought down his late father's rifle. The son fled, but Jonas remained on the doorstep, waiting for the police.All the data presented in this book appear to confirm that Jonas suffered from a “major depressive disorder with melancholic features,” characterized by strong attachment to order and regularity. In this interpretation, the shot was a desperate act, aimed somehow at precluding change. Hence the act marked not a break in the man's life but signaled continuation of a long-term disorder.Englebert and Cormann, however, advance a third version—the most audacious, the most original. They compare the shot (a moment of high excitation) to the electroconvulsive therapy sometimes used to treat manic depression. It seems that electroshock produces a temporary disruption in the brain that is followed by a higher neuroplasticity that can help patients to recover. By putting himself in a perilous situation, Jonas produced an excitation that could disrupt his neural circuitry. In the authors’ interpretation, the act suggests neither temporary insanity nor the symptom of a long-term illness, but a first step toward recovery. The rifle was an improvised instrument for self-treatment.The book reflects Jean-Paul Sartre's claim according to which “it is perhaps sufficient to seek the explanation for a crime in the social situation and the criminal's psychopathic makeup, but only a poet can elucidate its human meaning.” Englebert and Cormann prove to be poets by showing how Jonas could free himself from self-bondage. (shrink)

As part of the ongoing Common Knowledge symposium “Antipolitics,” this essay replies to an article by Nadia Urbinati: “The Sovereignty of Chance: Can Lottery Save Democracy?” Urbinati's piece expresses reservations about the tendency of symposium contributions to support what she terms “lottocracy.” Gastil's response argues (1) that random selection in politics can take many forms, none of which need resemble a lottocracy; (2) that a randomly selected body with some measure of influence or authority can complement electoral democracy without replacing (...) it; (3) that prohibiting democracies from experimenting with random selection would undermine their claim to being democratic; and (4) that evidence from experience with random selection warrants continuing to experiment with it as a means of revitalizing imperiled democratic systems. (shrink)

The steady stream of books on medieval manuscripts addressed to a popular audience over the past two decades coincides with the advent of tablets such as Amazon's Kindle. As the flatlands of the digital realm encompass more of life, nostalgia for a tactile realm of reading, whether in the making or the perception of artifacts, asserts itself, as does the desire to immerse oneself in the real space of the conventional book, as opposed to the virtual yet denatured spaces of (...) the metaverse. No accident, then, that, following an introduction that gestures toward medieval subjects and to readers other than Christian, Wellesley's engaging, if episodic, account of medieval manuscripts (published in the United States by Basic Books as The Gilded Page: The Secret Lives of Medieval Manuscripts) opens with a prologue in which she recounts her hands-on visit to a parchment maker, during which she tried to slough the hair off a hide using an implement known as a scudder.Manuscripts permit one to come into contact with the past, or at least to harbor the illusion that one can. Wellesley's book repeatedly evokes the contingency of landmarks and masterworks that make up the history of culture. Pendant chapters treat “Discoveries,” medieval as well as modern, of books that, when first encountered, had been lost to view for the better part of a millennium, as well as the “Near-Disasters” by which famous works such as Beowulf (or indeed entire libraries) made it down to modernity by only a hair's breadth—despite the devil's assurance in Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita that “manuscripts don't burn.” Within a binding held tight by clasps, parchment—even when exposed to fire—can survive, if it is not then reduced to a mess by the water used to douse the flames. Having been rescued from the ruins of Ashburnham House, which burned in 1731, the detached pages of the Cotton Genesis at the British Library—one of a handful of illustrated biblical manuscripts from late antiquity—now look like soggy, burned toast pressed between glass sheets to conserve what little is left.Other chapters in this book make things personal, matching brief biographies of celebrated manuscripts with famous (or not so famous) persons, whether patrons, scribes, or artists—a sequence that reflects their order of importance in the Middle Ages. To have included an afterword as well as an epilogue seems indulgent: one, too brief, on the impact of printing (focused on the English printer Caxton), the other on “The Use and Misuse of the Past,” which dwells on the dispersal of monastic libraries after the English Reformation. The focus on the British Isles, to the neglect of the continent, risks being too narrow for a book so general in scope. The book's very British flavor, however, is also part of what lends it a familiar, chatty tone. A pleasant, companionable read, this extended essay does not advance our knowledge of medieval manuscripts, but it does help diffuse it to a larger audience in a way that makes old books seem companionable. Rather than Hidden Hands, the book might well have been called Comites latentes: hidden friends. (shrink)

Sometimes I think: I'm flying. And why am I flying? Because of the dress. The flesh, I think, is multiplying itself. Here are the children, I think, going away from me and coming to me. If all is one, I think, why this split?My body of thought is likewise made of a womb of wombs. Whatever it begets begets its own body [in this sense I may be said to be multiparous].I am beautiful like a snip of ivory. My face (...) is like the negative of another woman's face. Whatever she does I do moving backward.I spread a hundred fingers up against the wind and the wind dries the lacquer. At these parties I have no given name. I may be called Flora and I may be called Rosamund. The images of color that I set up in space redeem me.In the morning. After the dreams. I see the white body stitched in bed. My corporal body. The veins that store the precious fluid. What I think have they hauled up there from the deep?I get up as in the miracle that Our Teacher Rabbi Loew worked upon a lump of clay and turn on the stove.Sometimes the light bounces off of forks and knives into the eyes. The light of the fork into the eye of the fork and the light of the knife into the eye of the knife.What am I what am I I am thinking flattening out knives and forks on those wooden headstones they call a table?The bread is the showbread and the butter is the clot of my blood. What are they looking for in these blue thighs?The kitchen windows [as in the ancient Icelandic language] are the wind's eye. This is the house and these are the children's table-napkins.... Now. When everything is in place. I am waterboiling. Water pours out of the mouth of the tap into the mouth of the kettle and I am thinking about these hairs that I have. About the hundreds of thousands of fine threads that rise at night in utter silence from the skin. The walls close in on me but my head. As in the Book of Creation. Extracts from nothingness black streams.Through the drinking glasses I see a great field of ice. A white antelope eating a fish.... What am I with a round shoulder and milk muttering prices of chemicals. The cash registers cut the boundaries of my skin.In supermarkets with thousands of tins of canned peas ought to ambulate people covered with hair. Let them block one another's cart like they once did in the hippodromes of Byzantium.Let them speak—with those colorful rags that they tie around their necks—into mouthpieces of telephones. Let their voices run crisscross like stifled crow calls between wires inside the earth. Why have they enclosed me—I, who can cover entire fields like Bermuda grass—within the confines of an electric bell?At 7:20. As if down the ladder of angels painted by Raphael. The child descends the wooden staircase. His toes are depressed precisely according to the divine image of grief. Each toe and its mirror reflection in the other foot.The forest creatures on the pajama fabric with their mouths gaping open as in the sudden vision seen by our primogenitor when they spread the coat of many colors before him and said: Surely he has been torn to pieces.... When the child turned inside me and stood in the placental fluid with his head to the ground, the two of us were the complete converse figure. One head toward the outer boundary, the other head toward the middle point.It was unnatural how the head emerged. Why did it pierce the membrane in which it was enfolded and discharge the water?Windows previously shut were torn apart. Lids of cookware dropped to the floor. This rupture [Michael. Michael.] gave birth to unreason.The child [in my imaginations he is chasing gadflies] is sitting at the table waiting for his cornflakes. He is eating them flake by flake and inside every flake are little crystals of sugar.This game [being able to hold shreds of sugar inside tiny dents] fills his heart.... The light that radiates in every thing is the light of late autumn. I play with it the age-old game. Ask for its name and it replies.The kitchenware too bear their names [just as they bear the form].... I can write an inner play about The Non-Intervention of Time in Kitchenware. Time will get the leading role.In Act One it will set out [like Ulysses] on a journey. The kitchenware will stay put, each ware in its respective place, within daily life.In Acts Two and Three time will travel so far that one or two wares should drop out of place.Act Four will be called Fatal Incidence and Act Five, The Return of Time.... I shout [an inner shout] Dolores Dolores as if I had a friend whose name were like that.How do you do Dolores [I say in my heart] and exchange recipes for dresses with her.Then Dolores sets out in both directions at once. The direction of the great bird in the sky and the direction of Nachlat Binyamin St.... I can see [by means of two mirrors] my silk dressing gown.The silk dressing gown enfolds me and prepares me for verbal exchange. It enables me to communicate information. If it slides down I kneel down until it slides up [and then I kneel down].... When I think of recollection I wonder how the image of myself gets duplicated.The bathtub gets duplicated and the light above the bathtub. Time sends a facsimile of itself.In the black margins outside the sheet of paper hides my mother. Come out come out she is calling to me like you would to a snail.At that time were created the archetypes of things.The complete washbasin. The complete mirror. Next to every sound was inscribed the right clef.Every movement was a perfectum mobile: I jump and by force of this jump I jump again.... Through the window I see the crow called Salpeter.Good morning Old Salpeter. Did you get your black robe back from the dry cleaner?Sometimes you see me obliquely from the right and sometimes obliquely from the left. What am I? A very strange female crow?I adore your rich language. This single word of yours that has in it all the verb stems.... What is so logical about the sky? The window frame.The window frame is like the twelve apostles. Three in each lintel and in their midst [behind the nebula] is sitting the child Michael.The motion of a doll turned over and the motion of the trains sent by him flying in the air are the divine edict. Get'p get'p he tells me all of you and go'ver there.... See Dolores how simple everything is: There is the kitchen. There is the child. There is the wooden staircase.Whom are we to thank for this grace. The colors are so right Dolores and the shapes precise. Every thing I spell out is cut with utmost perfection for the space allotted to it and for the sequence of time.... My biography may easily be canceled.First cancel the alienation. Then cancel the kneeling in the dark. The joy of the assigned date. The bridal veil and the porcelainware.If a medical ground is required I can say I have edema.... I like the words earth quake.Sometimes I think the earth is quaking and the words are not and sometimes the words are quaking and the earth is not.The great catfish know the earth is about to quake and the Chinese who paint the words with a fine paintbrush six lines for the earth and fifteen for this quake set guards to watch the great catfish who knows what is about to take place.... As if after a very severe accident I have to practice life anew.My physiotherapist tells me: Now a slight movement with the right hand. Now a shake of the head.I learn to press handles. To turn sharply in this or that direction.Lately when they ask me anything I pretend that the reply answers the question.Look Dolores how I refute the theory about the formation of species:I take a bubble of soap from the sink and elevate it to the sun.... There is a thing Dolores and it is infinitely good and I shall not tell you what it is.You can hear it in the first hours of the night when darkness is gaping. It has the property of withdrawing into a point tiny as a tittle.Or you can search for it in places where there appears to be something and there is not. (shrink)

The first time I bought something at the Japanese clothing retailer Uniqlo, I casually handed the cashier my credit card, barely grasped in one hand, while I riffled through my bag with the other. He received it reverently with both hands and a slight bow of the head. It was handed back to me in the same manner, held between the fingers and thumbs of both hands like an important document and presented in one fluid movement with a graceful downward (...) slope. I had paid extra to have my item gift wrapped—a scarf for my sister-in-law for Christmas—and that too was a ritual of careful ornamentation. The result was a delightful origami of polyester cloth instead of paper, wrapped and tied around the scarf without the use of tape or visible seams, creating a package that was more attractive than the simple black scarf it held.I was reminded of my Uniqlo purchase when Han discussed “the intense formalism and aestheticism that... dominates everyday ritual practices in Japan.” Japanese parcels are his favorite example of this overabundance of the signifier—a case where the envelope outshines the item inside. The signifier so overwhelms the signified that it displaces the very longing for meaning. For Han, “the liturgy of emptiness dispels the capitalist economy of the commodity.” Han must not have shopped at Uniqlo.“Ritual” is a notoriously difficult concept to pin down, and our longing to define it is often tied up with our sense of its loss or absence. In Han's elliptical chapters, “ritual” shifts referents, entangled variously with other ideas that are meant to define it or sit near it: play, rites of passage, aestheticism, and formalism. Ritual is most definitely not work, productivity, or commodity. If ritual is best known as the absence of work, production, and commodities, it becomes hard to see the work that rituals themselves can do, or their own productive power. Indeed, there are almost no rituals named or encountered in the book except through historical distance and nostalgia.It is not Han's experience of Japanese parcels that is offered as a counter to the commodity logic of our age, but Roland Barthes's. Ritual is already assumed to be lost, shrouded in the mists of ages past or civilizations frozen in time, accessible primarily through white European nostalgia, mediated by Han's own pronouncements of judgment on our deritualized present. But nostalgia for ritual and a longing to capture its affects was one of the first levers for the global economy propelled by early modern European colonialism. Our assumption that ritual is already always lost obscures the way our very longing for it works upon us. Surely the executives of Uniqlo knew all of this, implicitly, when they trained their American workforce in the careful rules of ornamentation and empty signifiers and convinced me to cough over a few extra dollars to purchase the “magnificent envelope.”. (shrink)

This thoughtful, learned, well-written, extensively illustrated, and heavily documented study deserves to be regarded as a landmark in art history. Traditional art history has dealt for the most part with the “fine arts” (chiefly painting, drawing, sculpture, and architecture), whereas other human creations that take physical form (such as furniture, ceramics, textiles, and metal and glass items), whether utilitarian or decorative (or both at once), are considered “craft” or “applied art” and are studied by folklorists, anthropologists, and archaeologists and often (...) displayed in different museums. Cooke wishes to break down this “hierarchical taxonomy,” this “fragmented, hierarchical field,” that emerged from Western Europe's “misunderstanding of art,” which valued “the cerebral over the manual.” His goal, in other words, is to outline “a more inclusive human history of art”— “a connected art history.” This phrase from his subtitle refers not simply to connecting “fine art” with “applied art” but also to crossing temporal and regional boundaries. Still another act of connecting is to examine all parts of an object's life history, and thus the three main divisions of the book deal with the making of objects, their circulation from one person and place to another (and “their ability to transmit ideas” in the process), and their meaning for the persons who possessed or encountered them.Over the years I have repeatedly said that all objects made by human beings are worthy of preservation and study because they bring us into direct contact with the past and, as part of our surroundings, affect our thoughts in the present. Every object, I have argued, including copies of a single printed edition of a book (so-called duplicates), is an independent witness to the past. I am particularly pleased, therefore, to welcome a major book that explores in detail, with a wealth of examples from many centuries and cultures, the place of objects in human history. Cooke's pursuit is “object-driven,” beginning with the nature of the materials and finally coming to “the inherent power of the object itself to influence human thought and action.” (Compare the subtitle of Sherry Turkle's 2007 anthology Evocative Objects: Things We Think With.) Cooke's refusal to separate “materials” from “people,” or “technologies” from “values,” reminds me of John Szarkowski's approach to photographs. In Photography until Now (1989), Szarkowski points out that histories of photography generally treat technical matters separately from artistic ones—a split between the “empirical” and the “intuitive” that he finds indefensible, for “these two ways of knowing meet in the process of making things.” He adds, “The meeting can be cordially symbiotic or aggressively competitive, but its resolution defines the character and meaning of the thing that is made.” This statement has been a favorite of mine as an elegant characterization of the nature of art, and it is one that Cooke would clearly agree with.Cooke does not discuss photography, but he makes clear that he is not attempting a “comprehensive history that charts the complete ebb and flow of objects over time.” Rather, his book is meant to be a “suggestive guide” to the “principles of material literacy,” a “kit of tools for future complex constructions of history.” Even so, I find some of the omissions puzzling. Why, for example, are glass objects not taken up, when he so thoroughly deals with other common materials? More serious, in my opinion, is the exclusion of the fine arts. (Of the 215 illustrations, five are of oil paintings and one is of a Japanese print, but they are present only as the sources for information drawn from their pictorial content; one Hogarth engraving is shown because its image was often reproduced on punch bowls; and there is a very brief passage on the “uneasy relationship” between sculpture and material culture, but no sculptures are illustrated or used as examples for discussion.) Presumably Cooke felt it was unnecessary for his book to encompass the fine arts after demonstrating that functional objects are just as sophisticated artistically and culturally as products of the fine arts are. Yet those products also belong to the universe of “entangled objects” (How could they not?), and it would have been illuminating to see them adduced among the examples Cooke cites. One could argue that by excluding them—and by referring to the makers of the objects he does discuss as “artisans” and “craftspeople”—he comes close to reinforcing the division he wishes to eliminate.Less easy to explain is Cooke's omission of books, for they have been one of the largest and most widely circulated classes of utilitarian objects. Most people never think about books as objects, treating them only as disposable receptacles for transmitting verbal texts in tangible form (which is why so many books are destroyed when their texts supposedly become available in another form). Such people do not realize that texts have connections with their physical embodiments. (For example, books, whether manuscript or printed, often contain clues revealing how their texts were affected by the production process; and readers’ attitudes toward texts can be influenced by their presentation.) Cooke, however, with his deep understanding of the way objects function and his impressive knowledge of the scholarship, cannot be one of these uninformed people. He would obviously be aware of the vast literature devoted to leather and cloth bookbindings and their decoration, as well as to the myriad styles of letters and the varieties of paper and parchment; he would also know how letterforms and binding designs reflect a complex interplay of social, political, and artistic forces. Bibliographers have long studied books as Cooke advocates studying other objects: “working from the inside out,” beginning with the evidence in books themselves for reconstructing the routines that were followed in their creation. And book historians are recognizing the necessity for an international approach like Cooke's, since many of the books circulating in one country originated in other countries. Books would have been a prolific additional source for illustrating Cooke's analyses.My admiration for Cooke's book is not altered by these few disappointments. Even without discussions of paintings, sculptures, and books, it is still exhilarating in its scope and depth. One hopes that art and material-culture historians will pay attention to it. But it ought to have a wider audience, for the daily lives of all of us would be enriched by a greater appreciation of the objects that make up a significant part of our environment. (shrink)

In the context of the ongoing Common Knowledge symposium “Antipolitics,” this article responds skeptically to the numerous contributions calling for the supplanting of elections by sortition. While lottocracy is proposed as a solution to the flaws of electoral democracy — notably, corruption and violent partisanship — this response focuses on a single theoretical issue: the logic of chance or randomness, which, according to its proponents, should rid politics of corruption and relieve representation of partisanship so as to ultimately prevent the (...) formation of a ruling class separate from the rest of society. The problem with the solution, according to this essay, is that, however useful in many ways, the lottery system of lawmaking is not democratic. (shrink)

Juergensmeyer's interviews of ex-fighters—Muslims in Iraq and Mindanao, Sikhs in Punjab—illustrate how stubbornly they refuse to conform to Western narratives about “religious violence.” Among the Sikhs, “almost none of the militants surveyed... were said to be noticeably religious”; in ISIS, “many in the movement were attracted not by the ideology or the ideals, but by the excitement of being involved in an alternative culture, one of largely male militancy.” For the Moros in Mindanao, likewise, Islamic theology is one factor among (...) many, and one of relatively minor importance for the majority. These are all, nevertheless, treated as exemplars of religious violence, as Juergensmeyer puzzles through how to end it. His final chapter is called “How Imagined Wars End,” though we have been informed in the first chapter that “every war is an imagined war.” War is an “alternative reality,” “an inversion of ordinary reality where differences are negotiated through civil discourse.” Religion—whatever that is; no definition is offered—is also an alternative reality, one based on fear of one's own death. When these two alternative realities are joined, and “religion is thought to be war, and war religion,” the result is “cosmic war,” which is the worst. The book seeks to understand how cosmic war fades into more mundane conflict (and eventually peace).The internal factors that bring cosmic war to an end—fighters lose faith in their movement when it loses battles, when there is infighting, when new alternatives offer hope—and the external factors—a strong military or police response, concessions by the government, gestures of respect from opponents—do not seem different from the factors that bring all wars to an end. Juergensmeyer never convincingly distinguishes cosmic from other kinds of war. But the book exudes a bias toward the status quo, such that the violence of armed anticolonial movements is of a fundamentally different order than the everyday violence of established governments. It is hard to resist the conclusion that cosmic wars are simply wars that we “secular” Westerners find distasteful. We puzzle over cosmic religious violence to assure ourselves that our “ordinary” violence does not really count as violence. (shrink)

Amartya Sen's teeming account of an ecumenical life lived across three continents and over nine decades, in the interstices of colonial encounter, takes the reader on an intimate journey through some of the most significant global, intellectual, and historical events of the second half of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. We learn of Sen's formative years at Rabindranath Tagore's Shantiniketan University (he was named by the sage himself), and of the lasting impact of the Bengal Famine of 1943 on (...) his oeuvre and outlook. At Cambridge (where Sen was a student and later master of Trinity College, becoming the first Asian head of an Oxbridge college), his interlocuters included Edward Morgan Forster and Piero Sraffa—the Italian economist who reputedly catalyzed Wittgenstein's later work by scratching his (own) chin with an upward sweep to communicate a non-verbal “form of life” expletive. Sraffa and the Marxian Maurice Dobb, among others, fueled Sen's interest in welfare economics at a time when the discipline was all about capital and growth. Several chapters also point to the little-known impact of the ancient Indic renunciatory tradition on Sen's dazzling, counterintuitive vision of economics as an ethical enterprise, more concerned with living well than with factors of capital growth or prosperity as such. “Even though economic growth is important,” Sen writes, “the single-minded pursuit of it... is terrible... for people's quality of life.” A good life gains more substantially from opportunities for the development of existential capabilities. This insight is at the heart of Sen's modified social choice theory. He tells us that it was fully anticipated and realized in ascetic outlooks that proliferated around the fifth century BCE across the Eastern Gangetic Plain, incorporating parts of modern Bihar, Nepal, and Bengal (proximate stomping grounds of Sen's childhood and early youth). It's worth lingering on this point.The German philosopher, Karl Jaspers—a winner of the Peace Prize of the German Book Trade, awarded to Sen as well in 2020—discerned early signs of non-Western modernity in these subcontinental ascetic philosophies, instigated by eccentric proponents, such as Kashyapa the elder, Makkali of the cowshed, Ajita of the hairshirt, and Vardhamana Mahavira and Siddhartha Gautama, the more reputable founders of Jainism and Buddhism, respectively. By modernity, Jaspers means individual self-sufficiency, in the Kantian sense: a dissociative freedom from the paraphernalia of law, custom, habitual observances, and the lives and examples of others. Sen agrees and disagrees. In his reading, the Indic enlightenment tradition pioneered by the Buddha and his contemporaries calls for critical yet compassionate coexistence, points of reentry into, rather than rupture from, the mainstay of human interaction. Buddhist asceticism (much like Sen's brand of economics) takes the suffering of the destitute as a conceptual springboard. Its proposal to end suffering—or capability-deprivation, in Sen's formulation—through the liberation of transformative resources for living well (agencies and choices) is revealed only in the company of others, on plural ground (to follow Sen's thinking about justice) and as a program of joint action. The program is thwarted by systemic inequality and interpersonal intolerance when, for example, interest groups (identified by gender, race, religion, caste, sexuality, and so on) insist on privileged distance or divergence from other groups.Sen's memoir tempts us to imagine the earliest Buddhist disciples in his own likeness: fearless, free, highly sociable, brimful of curiosity and clarity, a touch impatient, compassionate, tolerant, restless, immeasurably sane. (shrink)

As a contribution to the Common Knowledge symposium “Caroline Walker Bynum across the Disciplines,” this article argues that Bynum's work on gender has overturned bedrock interpretations of the religious significance of the widespread ascetic practices of the Western Christian Middle Ages. Bynum's claim has been that medieval asceticism is best understood not as an upshot of dualism — of the soul and body understood as in opposition — but as “an effort to plumb and realize all the possibilities of the (...) flesh.” Drawing on underused religious sources, analyzing in their larger social and cultural context the images that medieval women and men used, and employing a comparative analysis of female and male spiritualities, she has demonstrated that each had its own different emphases. In this effort, she has pioneered what is sometimes called a “history of masculinities.” Focusing on women's own experience and ferreting out basic assumptions of their religious thought and practice, she has argued for women's profound contributions to their contemporary theological culture by drawing on the dominant culture's hierarchical gender binaries in order to undermine them and accentuate their shared (bodily) humanity with Christ. Bynum has shown successfully that medieval women had confidence in their own ability to love and imitate Christ and thus to participate in the salvation of the world. (shrink)

A contribution to the Common Knowledge symposium “Caroline Walker Bynum across the Disciplines,” this essay explores the side of Bynum's scholarly personality that may be regarded as comparativist. She is interested in comparison with regard to periods of time, with regard to ritual and gender-based religious practices in the Christian West, and with respect to similarities that might be claimed between elements of Christian and non-Christian cultures. Her thoughts about morphology, materiality, and gender extend beyond medieval Europe to the world (...) at large. Her coedited volume Gender and Religion (1986), the first of its kind, has figured importantly in the development of the field many call comparative religion. Here Bynum's impact on selected scholars of Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, and Sikh religion — as well as of non-Western Christianity — is assessed. This essay concludes with the text of a response delivered by the author, who is a scholar of Hinduism, to Bynum's Lionel Trilling Lecture at Columbia University, “Am I My Body? Medieval Theories of Bodily Resurrection and Some Modern Implications” (1991). (shrink)

In this afterword to the Common Knowledge symposium “Caroline Walker Bynum across the Disciplines,” Bynum's early work is seen to have revolutionized the fields of medieval studies and religious studies by disclosing the need to account for the embodied and gendered aspects of Christian spirituality. It reflects on the enduring influence of her book Holy Feast and Holy Fast on the study of premodern mysticism, sanctity, and witchcraft, then discusses the impact of Bynum's later works on the reception of Holy (...) Feast and Holy Fast in the third decade of the twenty-first century. (shrink)

As a contribution to the Common Knowledge symposium “Caroline Walker Bynum across the Disciplines,” this essay stresses Bynum's commitment to the methods and questions of history but also the unparalleled impact of her work on adjacent fields, including and perhaps even especially art history. Furthermore, her body of scholarship registers a consistent engagement with art historians. Weaving together personal memoir and historiography, this article sketches the manifold ways in which Bynum's publications have responded to and shaped the contours of medieval (...) art history in America since the early 1990s — particularly with respect to questions of gender, body, identity, violence, and materiality — and the formative role that her mentorship and pedagogy have played in the author's development as an art historian. (shrink)

Caroline Walker Bynum's work illustrates how a historian engages in conversation about matters of interest to historical subjects, matters of interest within the academy, and matters of concern to the general public. The key methodological paradox is how she respects the past for its otherness and strangeness, yet her books are always relevant to the present. Holy Feast and Holy Fast deals with the function of eating and fasting in ways that have had resonance for discussion of anorexia, but her (...) interest in the meaning of food and fasting leads her in the epilogue to reflection on medieval and modern approaches to religious symbols more generally. The Resurrection of the Body contributes to recent discussion of personal identity. Wonderful Blood explores the character of late medieval religion but also anti-Semitism. Christian Materiality builds on the “material turn” in history and the humanities. In each case, however, Bynum addresses contemporary issues (whether academic or public) always on her own terms and with clear emphasis on matters of interest to her historical subjects. (shrink)

As a contribution to the Common Knowledge symposium “Caroline Walker Bynum across the Disciplines,” this essay traces the origins and development of Bynum's interest in the material artifacts of late medieval Christian spirituality. The author narrates these evolutions through analyses of a single object, the Louvain beguine cradle from the collections of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The essay begins by treating Bynum's research from the 1980s to the early 1990s as moving toward a “visual theology” and then charts her (...) movement from an interest in matter to an interest in materiality over the second half of the 1990s and first decade of the twenty-first century. Finally, the author uses the Louvain cradle's appearance in Bynum's most recent book, Dissimilar Similitudes, to articulate and reflect upon her contribution to material culture studies. (shrink)

The Choicebetween writing and livingchoosing the latteris simply naturalthough you don't always havea choice—so said the womanchosen by the formerif the second is more naturalwhy do I keep being thrown to the shorefrom the water whereI am a fishon the landI am catching my breathwith respiration inspirationwriting with my tail on the sanduntil I'm washed up into livingby the waveagainyou do have a choicebut you always make the wrong one2018The Serpent of SilenceFriday evening. There's nothing left to talk about.A silver-headed (...) serpent of silence slithers out.You warm it, let it sparkle on your breast,spreading the fragile cavities of language with its body.The ones that escape don't hurry to acquire possessions,the smaller and lighter the load, the faster the steps.Don't admit what was said hurts you, burns you,the blossoming wrinkles around your mouth hardly noticeable.Embrace me. A thousand sentences crawl toward the light—and rush down, flying apart in all directions, like arrows.I pretend that I don't notice the serpentthat encircles your neck with iron rings.2018Then the Poems ComeThen the poems come and stand at the door like children,asking for bread. Asking to be led out into the light.Bread crumbs scattered. What should I give you, little ones?Days are going through a countdown like soldiers do.I pull the rusty blade of language from my throat.What should I treat you to? A cutout from my calf again?I can't shove them into the oven, fairytale-like, or abandon them.Just embrace them carefully, these large-eyed calamities.Kiss them on the forehead, like those who have gone too soon,lying like seeds in the earth that hasn't been plowed,with rabid holes that are screaming into space.Stop asking for food, you should finally grow up.There's a long road ahead in the tunnel along the rail spines.What's this light? On the horizon, wheat is burning.2022On a Knife's EdgeThe voice of a bird is a breath in the fluteof time, the stalk of a reed.How much longer should wind catch us, how longmust our shadows be carried on his wings?How long must we follow the paths of the deadwhich are like a noose or a talisman?Burdened, trudging thousands of kilometers—they lead us astray from new roads ahead.Not a single day of solitude or quiet,peace—on a knife's edge.We are mountains. And we would grow taller,if no one interfered.We would grow rebelliously far and wideand cast rays of sunlight all around.The flowers of strawberries. The path smells of steps.The oak swallows the light from graves.2020. (shrink)

The first book for which I had title-envy was Peter Laslett's The World We Have Lost (1965). At once mysterious and memorable, the phrase on the cover promised (at least to my undergraduate eyes) a kind of history that was shadowy and unfamiliar. Thanks to the success of the social history it launched, the work now looks surprisingly straightforward: its facts and figures documenting premodern English society—its class structures, marriage practices, literacy rates, and so on—make the past feel found. So (...) much so that the very existence of so much data threatens to belie the claim of the title.But loss, for Laslett, is not absence; it is, rather, the condition of change through time, and his book was written to show precisely how much England had been transformed during the long course of the Industrial Revolution. In this sense, his title might serve for almost any account of people, places, or things that are no longer as they were.Worlds do nonetheless get lost, and we do not have to travel very far back into the past to become aware of the gaps in the record. Martin Mulsow has written a book that, finally, does justice to the precarious nature of what becomes history, and this new translation (sensitively rendered and beautifully produced) will prevent this magisterial work of German intellectual history from being lost on Anglophone readers. As a title, Knowledge Lost is not, to be sure, as catchy as Laslett's formulation. Nor does it capture the nuance of the name given to the original German publication (issued by Suhrkamp in 2012): Prekäres Wissen. What Mulsow recovers with a combination of historical narrative, historiographical analysis, and good old-fashioned sleuthing is the fragility of knowledge (and of those who traded in it) in early modern Europe.In a nice neologism, Mulsow names this group the Wissenprekariat (or “intellectual precariat”): his “knowledge underclass” includes radicals, obsessives, and cranks, but also mainstream scholars who simply became what Michel Foucault liked to call “infamous”—both scandalous, that is, and obscure. What makes the book essential reading even for those with little interest in the fringes of the Renaissance or Enlightenment is the anatomy of precarity itself, a state that shadows knowledge in many times and places. With a nod toward the “material turn” in historical writing, Mulsow pays particular attention to the risks involved in certain media or types of transmission. But he also looks at the social, disciplinary, and ideological forces that drive certain forms of knowing—and the figures with whom they are associated—underground.Thus his book amounts to nothing less than an alternative intellectual history of the early modern period, one that offers countless correctives to the received narratives that continue to favor the successful publications of major thinkers. But it is also a book for our own time. Mulsow's “Concluding Word” attempts to be optimistic, and he ends with a tantalizing list of the other unwritten histories that this one calls for—including “a history of maskings,” “a history of the ways knowledge could be appropriated on note cards that could easily be lost,” and “a history of the generational transfer of embarrassing knowledge.” His final paragraph acknowledges that “many kinds of precarity have declined” since the seventeenth century: now “we can insure ourselves against many risks, and... packages are reliably delivered.” Written only ten years ago, these words seem to come from another world we have lost, one before disrupted supply chains and the resurgence of populist politicians bringing back forms of precarity we thought we had left behind. If ever a book needed a new afterword, it is this one. (shrink)

In browsing the contents of this book, my first thought was, “Well, sure, to a hammer everything looks like a nail.” Or, more cryptically to those in earshot, I uttered, “Well, sure, once you've made it through Ulysses everything can sound like Joyce.” But the joy and mental workout of All Future Plunges come not from nitpicking particular Joycean tropes or images but rather from considering Joyce as a cultural phenomenon for all who followed to engage with, immerse themselves in, (...) and speak to. His works anchor Vergara's five case studies in twentieth-and twenty-first-century Russian literature (Olesha, Nabokov, Bitov, Sokolov, and Shishkin). Joyce is deployed as a source of intertexts and influences and as the lens through which the Russian works are read. Vergara includes “points of contact” for each author to show knowledge of Joyce as well as the context in which Joyce was being read and discussed in Soviet, émigré, and post-Soviet literary spheres. The framing work on intertextuality is significant in its own right and leads to compelling notions of how literary influences can be detected and discussed. Behind it all looms the bespectacled presence of Joyce (gazing out from the book's cover in pop-art primary colors) with his Oedipal tensions, modern epic style, bawdy language, and sonorous prose. But essentially what Vergara's book gives us is a glimpse of creative and smart people reading the work of another creative smart person.Vladimir Nabokov, an outspoken devotee of Joyce, had a peculiar rationale for not believing in heaven. He wrote that even if, in the afterlife, he found himself in paradise surrounded by all of his dead loved ones, he would not be able to shake the gnawing doubt that at any point these beloved phantoms might pull off their masks and reveal themselves to be demons. After reading All Future Plunges, a similar fear may grip the reader of modernist literature—that the many varied and nuanced references we find in these works may one day all prove to be simply myriad instantiations of Joyce in disguise. But even when that happens, I suppose we may still think to call it heaven. (shrink)