Roberto Calasso’s short and epigrammatic posthumous book Bobi (Anagrama, 2026) on the opaque figure of Roberto Bazlen has just appeared in Spanish. It is a nebular autobiographical book that does not attempt to render legible the subterranean and oblique figure of Robert Bazlen, but rather to filter some of his obsessions and tonalities, many times through his own voice. Calasso is well qualified to write such book as a frequent stroller companion of the anonymous man of Trieste. There is no aura of the detective mystery about the person’s auratic psychic life, establishing a sharp contrast to Del Guiudice’s polyphonic narrative in Lo stadio di Wimbledon (1983). But in this short memoir book, I am particularly intrigued by a moment when Calasso inscribes Bazlen’s vortex of thought and life as an affinity for the acoustic.
Calasso quotes Bazlen (we assume that from his own memory): “Bazlen used to say regularly: “This does not sound too good”, and immediately we knew what he meant. His capacity to recognize sound was thorough” [1]. Calasso tells us, moreover, that he cared little about cultural or intellectual polemics of his time. All that matter was sound, the grain of the voice. His meridian crossing was the song and rhythm of another. It is this proximity to the light of the voice what allowed Bazlen to conceive life and writing as a unified sensible reality; mutually interdependent, and always intertwined like the threads in a rigged tablecloth. To inhabit the world without judgement – of History, of morality, of punishment and guilt, of retribution – means to secure an aperture to an acoustics that will remain close to us, albeit incomplete, in the dissonance and impropriety of meaning.
To be able to attune oneself to the voice is a practice that retreats from the order of the world; that is, to descend into anonymity in order to inhabit a subterranean region, which speaks to Bazlen’s insistence on tugurios or spelonche, which Calasso does not hesitate to render as naked spaces, miniature deserts or caves to immunize oneself from the chatter of the world: minima chôra where something could take place or not. It is hard to define them but we know perfectly well what these are. Perhaps we can be more emphatic: to listen to the voice is already the encounter. And very much like Osip Mandelstam’s figure of the interlocutor, true poetics (and first and foremost that of life) “is ever moving toward that more or less distant, unknown addressee, whose existence the poet cannot doubt without also doubting himself. Only a reality can bring to life another reality” [2].
Bazlen’s notion of writing as the writing of life, experience as writing, very much like Mandelstam’s dialogic poetics, finds a tugurio so that language can emerge in absolute presence. And this is precisely what Bazlen understood in the becoming of life against the metabolic strain of survival, since the repression of the voice will result in the annihilation of what is most alive. Calasso recalls Bazlen’s affirmation: “In a world of death – there was an epoch where one was born alive and would later die. Today, on the contrary, one is born dead – and only a few are able, little by little, to be alive” [3].
For Bazlen there is no community of the living granted in immanence, because to live means to conquer the putrefaction of the culture of death, which is only permanent revolution and hostility. But one cannot conquer death from death; that is, by means of the beautiful soul’s literary prose of the world. It does not take Hegel to say that this is still unwarranted insubordination and permanent bondage. What is then to be alive? It is a resurrection that takes place as an existential decision, that is “at a point in life when a fundamental decision has to be made. I believe that was his passion, and his masterpiece” [4]. This is Del Giudice’s indictment, although surely not fully at odds with Calasso’s autobiographical sketch of Bazlen. In the melodic contact the possibility of a vita nuova is transfigured in not-knowing because the Western modernity is devoid of any notion of ethical destiny. Indeed, “et tout le reste est littérature”, as Verlaine famously wrote. For Calasso’s spectral portraiture in Bobbi (2026), the adventure is to remain alive well beyond completion and needs, as evidenced in our encounter with his languishing voice and memory.
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Notes
1. Roberto Calasso. Bobi (Anagrama, 2026), 83.
2. Osip Mandelstam. “El interlocutor”, en Gozo y misterio de la poesía (El Cobre Ediciones, 2005), 71.
3. Roberto Calasso. Bobi (Anagrama, 2026), 55-56.
4. Daniele Del Giudice. A Fictional Inquiry (New Vessel Press, 2021), 123.
In an issue of The Listener in 1935, the renowned British art historian Kenneth Clark penned a short article titled “The Future of Painting” that can be read as an early eulogy to the tradition of the pictorial craft. As a provocation – this was still the high tide of Modernist art – the ‘future’ of painting for Clark was undeniably reaching a point of irreversible exhaustion, at least in the Western tradition. In a phenomenological reduction of two major strands of modern painting – what he called “pure painting” that included Impressionism and Post-Impressionism; and, on the other, “super-realism” as the artistic consciousness that bypassed “spiritual salvation”, such as that of Surrealism and other visual experiments – Clark’s indictment deployed an indictment on what he sought as the end of the “plastic spirit”: “We must keep in mind the possibility that in the western world the plastic spirit is really exhausted and that art will be lost for many decades” [1].
For Clark, it was not that art ceased to exist as an autonomous practice of sensorial activity; it was rather that its imaginative and spiritual endeavors had a future only if mediated and “linked up” (sic) with the evolution of a “new social economic system” driven by the standards of productivity and mass spectatorship. Unlike Clement Greenberg’s reflexive plea of modernist painting as the triumph of the dialectical inversion of flatness over depth, for Clark the convergence of pictorial relation with social objectivity resulted, in the tradition of a post-Cezanne world, in draining the inherent sensible communication of painting and myth. This meant that modernist painting tout court was devoid of any mythical relation. In fact, one could very well claim that the outwardly material support (the flat canvas) of the picture became its most dramatic corroboration. Modernist painting was the triumph of social symbolization insofar as it served as a reminder of the objective space that could only be taken as unserious gratification of its own objectivity.
It does not take too many readings of Greenberg’s large claim on modernist painting to see that behind “flatness”, its very surface, lurks variations of the aura of subjectivity, expressed in “success of self-criticism”, “resistance to the sculptural”, and the drive towards systematic consistency viewed in the mirror of the “convergence of spirit with science; their concern does show the degree which Modernist art belongs to the same historical and cultural tendency as modern science” [2]. Or so writes Greenberg in his landmark text. If Greenberg goes out of his way to invite modern science into the field of aesthetics it is precisely because Modernist art has been able to spell out the potential for representation into an autonomous surface that has given up depth to the conscious effort of its material limitations as its primary concern (imagination, the divine, the liturgical theatrical aura are all secondary). It is perhaps against this backdrop that one can understand what Clark means by the exhaustion of the “plastic spirit” that underpins his prophetic understanding of the decline of painting.
But what is, ultimately, the “plastic spirit”? It is not referring to sacred representation nor artistic inspiration of the artist, but rather the receptive affinity of the pictorial gesture with nature without ever being reducible to its material support (flatness). If painting exists, it is because its lovely being “is neither sensuous nor spirit, but rather the ungraspable, diffusing over the figure…this being is ungraspable yet perceptible to everyone is what the Greek language called [kharis] and we call grace” [3]. What the ‘plastic spirit’ discloses in its suspension of judgement through very disclosure of appearance is the imperturbable space, and by extension ungraspable, where figuration arrest an instance of eternity. In this sense, it always resists any assertion towards the future, because it dwells in the opening of a space “there” that fails to coincide with the material extension and limitation of the canvas.
This is what perhaps Walter Benjamin had in mind in an early fragment where he reflected on painting as an art of paradise or a state other-than-being grounded in visual contours: “Painting, too, generates space spiritually; its generation of form is likewise grounded originally in space, but it generates space in an other form. Not the dimension but the infinity of space is constructed in painting. This happens through the surface, in that, here, things develop not their dimensionality, their extension in space, but their being toward space. The depth yields infinite space. In this way, the form of concentration is given, but this now requires for its fulfillment, for the allaying of its tension, a presentation of the infinite in itself and no longer as dimensional and extended” [4]. Was not this the ungraspable caesura between depiction and nature already pointed out by Schelling?
Painting is depth, or at least it is about a certain way to accout for depth. And depth, fundus, before it takes the form of a flat spatial region in ‘thereness’, it is eminently the display of the figure that emerges from it. This “space otherwise” – that is not just a different spatial arrangement or geometrical calculation – is something of the infinite that makes both flatness and the diachronic arrow of time collapse in its unattainable rigor brought to bear in the affection through figures and colors. Every painting shows therenesss, but that is only possible through the depth of interiority that remains invisible. This can illuminate what Osip Mandelstam said of the plastic spirit when writing that “painting is also much more a matter of internal secretion than of apperception, that is, of external perceiving. To appreciate a picture you must go through a process making of restoring it” [5]. It is in this renewal that the imperturbable depth of painting fulfills before the abdication of the future. And from the “depths of nature” into the blossoming manifestation of appearance, painting recalls, beyond words, what in the sequence of time is understood, and yet often neglected, as the ungraspable.
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Notes
1. Kenneth Clark. “The Future of Painting”, The Listener, October 2, 1935, 578.
2. Clement Greenberg. “Modernist Painting” (1960), in The Collected Essays and Criticism (University of Chicago Press, 1993), 91.
3. F.W.J. Schelling. “On the relationship of the plastic arts to Nature” (1807), Kabiri: The Official Journal of the North American Schelling Society, Vol. 3, 2021, 146.
4. Walter Benjamin. “The Rainbow, or the Art of Paradise”, in Early Writings 1910-1917 (Harvard University Press, 2011), 225.
5. Osip Mandelstam. Journey to Armenia & Conversation about Dante (Notting Hill Editions, 2011), 79.
We have attempted to read Florensky and Schmitt side by side, and certainly many fundamental questions have been raised converging profusely on the problem of Catholic form. At the same time, it is undoubtedly true that some questions have not been pursued at length, and they exceed the modest purpose of this short seminar. As a way of synthesis, I want to press against one question that seems to me to link both thinkers in the wake of secularization, and especially modern representation. Modernity is always too many things at once – it is purely the force of the contingent, but ultimately it is the temporalization of space through objectivity and its necessary legibility. It seems to me that the spatial question is a guiding thread, not the exclusive one, that connects Florensky and Schmitt’s interventions circa 1922. It is obviously the problem that the German jurist never ceased to reflect upon, if we recall how in the very end of his work he situated the very arcana of the law in relation to the visuality of the Homeric “kai nomon egnō”, a predicament for seeing space laying before the law; that is, subsumming the sense of worldly opening into the necessary predicate of a legitimate ground for order.
Schmitt’s purified, prima facie formalist conception of the Catholic form, is also fundamentally spatial, because the primordial essence of the duality of the ekklesia as an institution comes about through the dominion of life unifying the communities and burgs into an internal system of legitimation that builds a concrete order (in recent years the work of Anna Grzymala-Busse has convincingly tracked the morphologies from the medieval church the modern city state and the rule of law). As we know, for Schmitt Rome (Catholic form) is Raum, spatial arrangement, dilation of orders and institutions, representation and decision elevated beyond the fundamental norm. In this sense, the thesis on the ‘visibility of the Church’ hinges upon the opening of the world as always already oriented towards salvation through the structural deficiency of human beings (original sin) and communitarian order of representation and delegation. This is why Schmitt remains a modern political thinker – perhaps the most acutely aware of thinkers when it comes to the fragility of the political project based on the specular visibility of legitimation – because the fusion of the political and that of territory remains indivisible, in spite all of his self-conscious response to the force of immanence noted in Political Theology (1922). The liquidation of the limiting autonomy of the political against technical neutralization is only possible because “space” has been first subsumed into the visible nomos of the nomon egno.
It goes without saying that Pavel Florensky’s strategy is also extremely sensitive to visuality, but his position departs from the assumption that modernity is about the flattening of the unilateral and objective specular regime of visibility. One can recast what Alberti writes quite ostentatiously in De Pictura: “No one will deny that things which are not visible do not concern the painter, for he strives to represent only the things that are seen. Points joined together continuously in a row constitute a line” [1]. In Alberti’s visual inception of pictorial representation, space is already orienting the direction for the flattening of pictorial space that defines modern pictorial representation in the well established argument by Clement Greenberg [2]. Obviously, Florensky wants to break against the flatness of modern representation, which is the condition of possibility for the very nihilism of subject and object that becomes worldness because it has no longer any possible carving out the “thereness” of space. It seems to me that this is what Florensky is after when elaboration of the ‘reverse’ or ‘inverted’ perspective. The inversion here is not just an aesthetic problem of the autonomy of work of art in the new distribution of labor, and here is where liturgy marks a fundamental distinction in terms of the analytical paradigm that frames Florensky’s investigations. Around the same years, Romano Guardini in his The Spirit of the Liturgy (1918) defined the liturgical experience as anti-aesthetic phenomenon, because in its communion of souls, it gathers the visible as well as the invisible, whose exclusive beauty shines in the light of truth and not of delimited notion of “work”. For Florensky moving past linear perspective, and by extension objective representation, is the path that prepares “a new structure of thinking” as such [3]. In virtue of its own experiential depth, “a certain spiritual excitement, a joly that rouses one’s attention to reality itself. In other words, perspective too, if it is worth anything, should be a language, a witness to reality” [4].
The so-called inversion of perspective is a destructive operation at the level of sensibility against the traps of illusionism and abstraction, opening in the concrete and yet not-yet-here space where life and its alterity enter into contact. This is why Florensky claims that it is “the content of space that is transmitted, but not the organization” [5]. And in a more densely and rich moment of the “Reverse perspective” (1920) he writes the most clearly expressed elaboration of this new structure of thinking: “To sum up. It is possible to represent space on a surface, but only by destroying the form of the thing represented. Yet it is form, and only form, that visual art is concerned with. Consequently, the final verdict is proclaimed for painting, as for the visual arts in general, to the degree that it claims to provide a likeness of reality: naturalism is once and for all an impossibility” [6]. As it is obviously clear, Florensky is not thinking destruction in virtue of restating a metaphoric sacralization of nature; rather, for him the liturgical depth of the reverse perspective discloses an experience is only possible in the contact between the possibilities of the world and being. It is this region that he call the “abyss of own freedom”, and that the attempt to contain it through the hegemony of the matheme and calculation only amounts to “as tasks of insane presumptuousness” [7]
The turning of experience must inhabit this abyss of freedom retreating from an “unmoving monumental and ontological massiveness of the world, activity by the cognising spirit that lives and labours in these thresholds of ontology” [8]. Thus, accounting for that ontological reduction makes possible inhabiting realities in the world that never become validated through representation. As Florensky writes in a short piece published around these years: “Obviously our living remoteness from reality must again destroy realism in art as well. There are realities in the world; one comes to know them by coming into living contact with them through work in the worldwide sphere….art can unite us with realities are inaccessible to our sense – such are the formal prerequisites of any artistic reality, and a tendency that rejects even one of them thereby forfeits its right to be called realism” [9].
If the Christian liturgy remains the most “realistic” experiential arrangement for Florensky it is because the texture of space appears in its non-visibility as the “missing aspect of what what we might call the surrounding world…it is this surrounding world, place as such, which the liturgy addresses” [10]. It is this surrounding world, that is both beyond the world and yet within it, almost folded unto it, what I would claim that relates tendentially to the notion of the chora (χώρα), not as an interchangeable modulation of “place”, but as what allows externality as the requirement of experience to be indifferent to sense because it its presence is that of possibility. John Sallis in an essay on the notion of the chôra puts it in a way resonates with the abyss of freedom withdrawn by Florensky:
“One could say—though not without some risk of falling into the dream in which the chora (χώρα) is conflated with place—that the chora (χώρα) is the other of being, not just in the sense of being other than being (as every eidos except being would be other than being), but rather in a more abysmal sense, in a sense irreducible to a difference of sense. One could say, too, that the chora (χώρα) is the outside of being, that it is what enables externality as such and thus makes it possible for something outside being nonetheless to be” [11].
We should linger on those words: “a more abysmal sense, in a sense irreducible to a difference of sense”. But this abyss is not what refers to an ontological vacancy that becomes operative for the subject; it is the excess that allows being, and for that matter “ethical being”, to have composed duration in its region. I think it is possible to accept the minimalist thesis of the liturgy as the sanctification of “time-place that the world is” (this is the syntagm deployed by Hemming) beyond divine revelation, but only if one takes up the chôra as the space of spaces (ur-space) at the end of secularization, a transformative leap that transcends time to land somewhere in the depths of regionality. It is the region that makes the passage, as Florensky would say, fata voletem ducunt, nolentem trahunt, from interiority to exteriority without ever achieving consummation, perhaps as a folded relation. The stakes are enormous no doubt. In an entry in his recent Quaderni XIII (Quodlibet, 2025), Giorgio Agamben defines it in a particular way that traverses Heidegger, but also beyond him. This is a difficulty disclosed by the chôra, and it is the beginning of further challenging investigations waiting for us:
“It is the choice of this misleading conceptualization that leads Heidegger to privilege, like Hegel, time and action over space and contemplation. Not “Being and Space [chôra],” as in Plato, but “Being and Time,” as in Hegel. Even the “wonder that beings are” becomes a task and a “sacrifice”. Instead, the aim is to understand this wonder ethically as “use” (“to use it again in order to contemplate it”). Admittedly, in his later years, Heidegger attempts to rewrite Being and Time as “Being and Space”; yet here too, the conceptualization remains imprecise because it does not sufficiently question itself. (Although he merely acknowledges the inadequacy of language, he continues to propose terms that are necessarily deficient.)” [12].
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NotesNotes
Notes
1. Leon Battista Alberti. On Painting (Penguin Books, 2004), 37.
2. Clement Greenberg. “Modernist Painting” (1960), in The Collected Essays and Criticism (University of Chicago Press, 1993), 90.
3. Pavel Florensky. “Reverse Perspective”, in Beyond Vision: Essays on the Perception of Art (Reaktion Books, 2002), 246.
4. Ibid., 254.
5. Ibid., 258.
6. Ibid., 258.
7. Ibid., 260.
8. Ibid., 269.
9. Pavel Florensky. “On Realism”, in Beyond Vision: Essays on the Perception of Art (Reaktion Books, 2002), 181
10. Laurence Paul Hemming. Worship as Revelation: The Past Present and the Future of Catholic Liturgy (Burns & Oates, 2008), 47-48.
11. John Sallis. “The Politics of the χώρα”, in Platonic Legacies (SUNY Press, 2004), 42.
12. Giorgio Agamben. Quaderni XIII 2020-2021 (Quodlibet, 2025), 248
In several places of his Lectures of Aesthetics, Hegel refers to Dutch painting as a way to thematize the concept of completion that fulfills being in the world. For a moment his commentary brings to bear a state of the mundane while avoiding the vulgarity of the overachieving surface that would define the general tendency of modern painting. True, Hegel’s indictment of Dutch painting does not negate the modern sensibility either, insofar as the portraits of the Flemish tradition fail to disrupt that is always held incredibly visible in the frame of pictorial representation. The artistic triumph of Dutch painting depends on a specific oscillation between the inner and outer experience of the subject visible range of depiction. This is not an exclusive one-directional movement towards the immanence of life; which Carlo Levi will denounce as the estrangement from the world, but rather a synthesis that gracefully falls on the sensuous activity of painting just at the moment that appearance dispenses in the world.
Thus, the emergence of Dutch painting was only possible in a specific form of life that was resolutely experiential in nature and spiritual rich. As Hegel writes in a first moment in the Lectures: “the Dutch in their taverns, at weddings and dances, at feasting and drinking, everything goes on merrily and jovieall, even if matters come to quarrels and blows; wives and girls join in and a feeling of freedom and gaiety animates one and all…this spiritual cheerfulness in a justified pleasure, constitutes the higher soul of pictures of this kind” [1]. And this spiritual freedom, sublated from the necessities and constraints of external things in the world, validates a concept of the ‘ideal of life’ that is transcendent only to its sense of living. Hegel notes that Protestantism facilitated the Dutch a materiality for this sense of worldly transcendence, of communitarian deificatio, allowing them to have, in his words, “some footing in the prose of life” [2]. So, Dutch painting is predominantly concerned with depth; and this depth is not concerned with the absorption of the spectator, but quite literally, almost in a physical way, enmeshed in the inner tonality of everyday figures. This is their inner being made visibly manifest. The manifested and gathered presence of this inner and outer movement of the infinite is precisely what retains the imperturbable trace of the divine beyond time; indeed; an eternal Sunday of life, as Hegel says in another important moment:
“This painting has developed unsurpassably, on the one hand, through and through living characterization in the greatest truth of which art is capable…For this reason we have before us no vulgar feelings and passions but peasant life and the down-to-earth life. lower classes which is cheerful, roguish, and comic. In this very heedless boisterousness there lies the ideal feature: it is the Sunday of life which equalizes everything and removes all evil; people who are so whole-heartedly cheerful cannot be altogether evil and base”. [3]
It is well known that in the art historical discipline, the moment of Dutch painting has been understood within the framework of the scientific and optical revolution of that century; a new “faith in the eyes”, to follow Francis Bacon’s terms, capable of generating a concrete and rational knowledge of the “common world” of a new, more geometrico, regime of light [4]. But nothing could be further from how Hegel’s synthesis approached the sensibility of Dutch painting; mainly, as fundamentally a site of the overcoming of evil because it was not alien to the comic downfall of human experience. In Dutch painting, Hegel reminds us, it is not that evil or wrongdoing is removed from the factical life; rather, it means that the comic is a nested experience that can grasp and transfigure the miseries or the disasters beyond taxative transactions of the social world and preparing the conditions for a kallipolis.
Although it is not clear who are the Dutch painters that Hegel had in mind when writing about a painting that enters into the “Sunday of life”, certainly the pictures of Pieter de Hooch – “A Dutch Courtyard” (1660) comes to mind – where distant and miniscule figures smile at each other in the open encounter of a place. The erasure of evil from painting is achieved not from stating the dogma through which the world could transcend and reverse the fall from nature, that is something like a new “faith in the visible”; it is more the event that accounts for the surrounding as it becomes oblivious to the very artifice of depiction. In this sense, the imperturbable state of Dutch painting is achieved as a life that dwells in the folds of the world as it retreats from the force of anticipation. And, if according to Chrysippus, evil is nothing but losing the capacity of affection or mediation of our inner sensibility; what the Dutch pictorial order brings to bear is that the ‘good’, rather than being a substantive function of the will and contingency, it can only be accessed in a form of life that is indistinct from the inconspicuous and breathable space through which it dwells.
And what is the sensibility of the comic if not what remains ungraspable in each and every in a painterly expression in a world in consonance, a place without remainder? In other words, if there is a painting that has abdicated from evil, it is because its has attuned the soul to an exteriority that is no longer dependent on the weight of the sign. It is still the business of the mute things (Poussin) in order of the beautiful. This is the state the state of grace that Schelling thought the plastic arts could bestow human sensuous experience after the irredeemable apotheosis of nature: “In painting a lovely being that is neither sensuous nor spiritual, but rather ungraspable, diffuses itself over the figure and nestle into all the figures and to each oscillation of the extremities. This being, which as we said, is ungraspable yet perceptible to everyone, is what the Greek language calls kháris and we call grace (Anmut) [5]. And the movement of grace in painting is what initiates the transfiguration of death – the muted voices of the dead – into a divine whose sole task is the disclosure of presence.
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Notes
1. G.W. F. Hegel. Aesthetics. Volume I (Oxford University Press, 1975), 169-170.
2. Ibid., 597-98.
3. G.W. F. Hegel. Aesthetics. Volume II (Oxford University Press, 1975), 886-887.
4. Svetlana Alpers. The Art of Describing: Dutch Art in the Seventeenth Century (University of Chicago Press, 1983), 91.
5. F.W. J. Schelling. “On the relationship of the plastic arts to Nature” (1807), Kabiri : The Official Journal of the North American Schelling Society, 2021, Vol. 3, 146.
In the section of the unclassified “pensées”, Pascal’s meditation on the notion of “opinion” is so incandescent that it is hard to imagine that this was, in fact, written in age of deep religious conflict, an epoch increasingly transformed by the fascination of bodies in space (this is the substance of the counter-reformation and the Newtonian thematization of the limit afterall). In particular gloss 554 strikes a tenor for our current epoch: “Power rules the world, not opinion, but it is opinion that exploits power. It is power that makes an opinion. To be easygoing can be a fine thing according to our opinion. Why? Because anyone who wants to dance the tightrope will be alone, and I can get together a stronger body of people to say that there is nothing fine about it” [1]. In the world after the fall, the intramundane system of felix culpa, is already one of dual power.
In many respects, this image is stronger than that of nihilism as the oblivion of walking upwards gazing at the abyss, because it connects the social pressure of “opinion” to that of the common ground that makes out of blindness the legitimacy of vacuous enlightenment. In the very void that truth will carve out for authority, Pascal seems to imply that the imperium of opinion will reign as a dual power of administration and mediation with the world. This is why for Pascal, force without opinion is indocile; but opinion without force amounts to the persuasion of solitude of the last man in the earth. At the heart of the groundlessness of modern legitimacy there is the necessary organization of opinion or doxa that will regulate the community of the living and the dead because ultimately its end is to master the mystery of language in its inability to name.
Of course, Pascal thought that language could overcome the fictive empire of opinion, which in its modern avatar of propaganda is meant to design apocalyptic tendencies towards self-destruction in the course of historical development. As a “properly speaking wholly animal”, the human can only dwell in a poetic region “entre-deux”, that is, between the abhorrent light and the infinite depth of darkness, where language endures through the symbol well beyond the experience of the fallen corruption of nature. As Lezama Lima reminds us in a short essay on the French thinker, the poetic region in Pascal is ultimately the experience of language as a mystery of creation that refuses to accept the post-mythic condition of nature and human boredom that will euthanize the use of linguistic creation [2]. Now it can be said that the intrusion of the infinite chatter of opinion takes place precisely in the logged forest of speech, which consolidates its rhetorical autonomy of language away from the possibility of distance and self-constrain of the sayable. The statecraft of rhetoric is the infrastructure of the reign of opinion, because here the draining of the depth of being is supplanted by alienated voluntary participation at the very ground of nothingness. Nihilism takes a decisive step forward when language can become any differential sign to communicate what has become impossible to be said outside the cubicle of the enthymeme.
Paraphrasing the ancient wisdom of Pindar’s famous opening verse in Fragment 169 (“Law, νόμος, the king of all”), Pascal assures us of the fragility of this imperium: “An empire based on opinion and imagination resigns for a time, and such an empire is mild and voluntary. That force reigns for ever. Thus opinion is like the queen of the world, but force is its tyrant” [3]. Is it possible to separate, nevertheless, the reign of opinion from that of force; and, secondly, the circulation of force as grounded in a fabric of language that has already descended into the empire of opinion without any trace? In a way, there is no modern politics without the presupposition of the autonomy of a field of opinion integrated into “rational control”, to use the expression of American political theorist Harvey Mansfield. And even if Carl Schmitt could state in his Constitutional Theory (1928) that no democratic secular state could effectively exist out without opinion as a diffused and disorganised form of acclamation, it is now completely obvious to us that the post-liberal state configuration, persists in a constant state of the fluctuation, compartmentalization, and archic steering of opinions. What survives the utter collapse of the category of political modernity is the flattening of language into “opinion” that provides standing to the epochal anomia.
Following classical philologists we are tempted not to ignore that in the word anomia entails not just the suspension of legislated norms and positive commands, but also the decline of the distance between existence and the divine that in antiquity, in the age of Pindar, subsisted under the notion of eunomia as harmonious attunement of the very lived experience. In other words, the consolidation of opinion is a long historical effect of the erosion of distance and perspective that restricts the capacity to “ascertain a spiritual excitement…and if worth anything, a language, a witness to reality” [4]. To bear witness in language is a poetic enactment that, at heart of its solitude, refuses the glacial ripples of the force of opinion vested in reality.
The common Spanish verb “desvivirse” resists obvious translations. Could one translate “desvivirse” as “unliving”, “constructing by destroying”, or “fulfilled life”? It seems that none of them capture the full meaning of an expression that is anchored in practical use. It is important to note that when the term emerged in the intellectual discourse of Spanish twentieth century, its depth was intimately connected to its meaning (life, living, vocation) that it immediately took the life of a concept for cultural milieu and national character. In his lecture “Ideas para una filosofía de la historia de España”, Manuel García Morente suggested that “vivir desviviendose” was the singular form of life of Hispanic being that attained eternity while on the terrestrial world:
“Porque lo típico del hombre hispánico es, por decirlo así, su modo singular de vivir, que consiste en “vivir no viviendo”, o, dicho de otro modo, en “vivir desviviéndose”, en vivir la vida como si no fuera vida temporal, sino eternidad. El hombre hispánico no considera la vida eterna. O la salvación del alma como el remate, término y fin de la vida terrestre, sino como remate, término y fin de cada uno de los instantes y de los actos de la vida terrestre. La salvación eterna no es para él solamente un objeto de contemplación; ni tampoco solamente una norma de conducta, sino que es, ante todo y sobre todo, lo que da sentido y finalidad concreta a cada uno de los actos en que se descompone la vida terrestre” [1]”.
For García Morente, the specific meaning of “desvivirse” entails a tension between interiority and exteriority; and, by extension, between life and death, and in fact of death in life that leads to resurrection and a new life. He writes: “La vida del alma hispánica es un constante morir y resucitar para volver a morir; hasta que la última resurrección” [2]. “Desvivirse”, quite literally, happens at the level of the soul when life continuous through finitude and concrete death. This is why the notion of “desvivirse” has a clear theological underpenning that one can pair with the divine apocatastasis in intramundane life. “Desvivirse” is never about personal salvation and the economy of election, which is why Americo Castro would emphasize that this vocation does not align well with modern individualism, because the “vivir desvivido” experiences its own ruin like a joyous and exuberant Saturnalia” [3].
As in the indication by García Morente, for Castro “desvivirse” entails something like an external perspective in which life can ultimately only take place from its transcendence with a relation to what’s outside ofitself. This outside is neither determined by politics nor rhetoric [4]. To live “desviviéndose” entails an intensity that persists not just as an interior affirmation of self-preservation, but as an erotic relation with what is most desired and venerated (many Spanish thesaurus of the nineteenth century would define desvivirse as “to love or desire with eagerness”, “amar con ansia”). If extracted from the cultural and identitarian historical context, “desvivirse” appeals to the object of passion that overflows the senses of human life.
This overflow is embedded in the word itself. The great Spanish scholar of Benedictine monasticism, García Colombás, in his book El monje y el Misterio Pascual (1984), made a simple, and yet remarkable lexicographical observation about the word “desvivirse”. Colombás noted that while in most of monastic literature the prefix “-des” donates privation and deficiency, the function of this prefix in “desvivirse” suffered a complete inversion, since now it entails to love intensively and thoroughly, as in “se desvive por complacer a todo el mundo” [5]. As a theologian, it should not have passed Colombás that the term in question is a triad of three linguistic units: -des/vivir/-se. This means that it is not just that the prefix exerts the meaning of privation of “life”, but also makes room for the reflexive “se”. It is curious that in in Spanish grammar “vivirse” is often used in relation to location (i.e. “el va a vivirse al campo”), and never as a conventional reflexive action (i.e. “él quiere vivirse solo”, “el se vive solo” = this would be incorrect). Taking this cue, one could perhaps say that the inversion so keenly perceived by Colombás acts upon the living so that they can repeatedly making space for the unfolding of life, rendering possible the soul’s crossing the inside and outside in every form of life.
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Notes
1. Manuel García Morente. “Ideas para una filosofía de la historia de España”, in Idea de la Hispanidad (Espasa-Calpe, 1947), 215.
2. Ibid., 216.
3. Américo Castro. España en su Historia: Cristianos, Moros, y Judíos (Editorial Losada, 1948), 45.
4. Ibid., 279.
5. García M. Colombás. El monje y el Misterio Pascual (Ediciones Monte Casino, 1984), 132.
What does it take to destroy a world? It would seem that the question itself is too metaphoric and impertinent; perhaps also hyperbolic and presumptuous against the flight of the infinite embodied in worldling. But this is the question that we should direct ourselves to according to Mauricio Amar’s short and highly accessible book El Paradigma Palestina: Sionismo, Colonización, Resistencias (DobleaEditores, 2024), which is written in the wake of the ongoing war of annihilation in Gaza in order lay bare the paradigmatic abyss of social death in which humanity finds itself at the peak of its civilizational dominance. Amar does not use the term “paradigm” lightly, and nor is he interested, as recasted recently by none other than Steven Bannon citing Thomas Kuhn’s work about scientific revolutions, in posting a central conflict towards transformation; rather, one must situate this strategic conceptual deployment in light of the Chilean philosopher’s own work on imagination and use, which provides an irreducible and sensible texture to every emergence of a paradigm [1]. This means that if Palestine is, indeed, the paradigm of our epoch is precisely because it has no-space in the world – it is what can be infinitely be destroyed, as Maurce Blanchot famously said commenting Antelme’s work – and what illuminates the core and extension of the “integrated” planetary humanity oriented towards the administrative governmentality of contemporary Western democracies, and its corollary geopolitics of the total artificial spaces, as Bruno Maçaes has recently called it. Reading Amar one senses that under the name “Palestine” he is registering a limit to the Humanist force, where an existential claim reveals the maelstrom of an epoch that has resorted to a grotesque parody of the ancient homeric standards of domination and submission. It is the outlook that Simone Weil described as the paradigm of transforming the world into nonliving things.
If understood as a paradigm, Palestine reminds us that the homeric energy towards the aristocracy of equality through force and death among the human race never truly ceased, but only changed forms and cloaks throughout the ages. The post-mythic West seemed to have constructed itself through the repeated revolutions that accommodate justifications for usurpation and containment, self-deification and legibility of the territory at the service of a fictive ethnos. The belated nationalism of modern Zionism has had the paradoxical quality of being both a project of territorial usurpation after its illegalization in International Law (The Kellogg-Briand Pact of 1928); while, at the same time, a politico-theological configuration that, as Monica Ferrando has shown in L’elezione e la sua ombra: Il cantico tradito (2022), clings upon the manipulation of the theological election of “a People” in order to deploy the coterminous binding between community and territory justified through divine narration. The interdependence of the spiritual goal of Zion is only possible through the construction of a settler state, at the same time that the occupying state’s only legitimacy based on ‘one God, one People’ relies on the restitution of an instrumentalized form of the theological election. This is why for Amar the Zionist state building project is a the paradigm of a specific type of colonial governance whose end is not just to capture errant people into social subjects, but more fundamentally a translatio imperii that folds the Earth into a territorial nomoi of distinct multilevel functions: checkpoints, walls, vigilante control of movements, constructions and erasure of surfaces, administration of critical infrastructures, development of extractive resources, and finally the hunting down of humans that necessarily blurs the line between civil population and battlefield combatants. When Amar reminds us of Israel’s predominance in planetary security and warfare technology, one can immediately recall Emile Benveniste’s suggestion that “measurement” (med*-) and the proportional addition to produce objectivity, entails an efficacy of permanent dominance and governability whose main enterprise is the management of populations through the regime of accumulation. As Andreas Malm reminds us of the current cartography of Palestine: “The genocide is unfolding at a time when the state of Israel is more deeply integrated in the primitive accumulation of fossil capital than ever…This is the political economy of normalization: a sacralization of busines as usual that destroys first Palestine and then the earth” [2]. The ongoing devastation of Gaza is a window into the project as a whole: the necessary destruction of the worlds and the total artificiality of the life-worlds, always at the service of maintaining the needs of anthropological symbolizations.
For Amar this points to an epochal scenario of a people without world; and, following the lead of Sari Hanafi, he will claim that the paradigmatic mirroring of Palestine is also an spatial-cide, in which the living are deprived of a sense of inhabiting and roaming that brings to bear that the nakba is not something that has taken place in history once and for all, it is a catastrophic event that has not ceased from repeat itself, and whose ultimate intention is to suture the world and existence, the soul and the spirituality of the open atmosphere that is needed to sustain life. Reading Amar between the lines – who towards the end of the book finds distant interlocutors in Darwish’s poetry, the philosophy of Gilles Deleuze, as well as in the glosses of Walter Benjamin on history and the prose of Edward Said – one learns that the true arcana of Palestinian resistance is also a secret promise for our apocalyptic times: to hold on to the world, so that we can all passionately land on the Earth and freely breath in its surroundings. The nexus of the Palestinian question and the intrusion of Gaia, although underdeveloped in Amar’s analysis, obliquely runs through a text that is also very much about the central question of ethics that never abandons thought: how to name what escapes without taking the world as such into an object to be possessed, destroyed, and remade anew as a hostile secular imago dei. The vindictive hyper-consciousness of the contemporary unmediated arcana imperii now reveals, as Amar says towards the end of he book, a mirror through which we can observe our own increasing domestication, in which the metropolis is just the luminescent and self-protected hub, but whole ultimate darkening shadow is the Gaza’s pile of rubbles resembling an open air necropolis (Amar 108-109). Through different arrangements of organized destruction, both the metropolis and the necropolis converge in their preeminent ‘struggle against space’ and its form of life for the sake of familiar pieties of enslaved survival of unworldly anomie (Amar 116).
Does this mean that we are all “Palestinians”? Mauricio Amar’s El Paradigma Palestina (2024) rejects the all too well expected craft of solidarity and subjective identifications that can only work on the payroll of the gravediggers of the current civilizational project. On the contrary, if Palestine is our paradigm, and it remains so, it is because it can only refuse measurement and recognition in order to dwell in the only possible exteriority as embodied to Darwish’s poetry that Amar quotes towards to the end book: “Do not trust the poem / absent child / it is the throbbing of the abyss” (Amar 140). From the abyss we nourish the soul as the return to land on Earth prepares itself in order to no longer conquer a territory, an ancient tradition, or a “People” (ethnos), but to dwell on the nearness of a place that is an excess to every location or community of belonging (this is the false exit of the kibbutzim). We do not have political grammar to articulate what this integral freedom could mean, except that it is an exotic relation in Victor Segalen’s sense: a creation of a world alien from the compatible and petty one that currently drains us into its ongoing desperate destruction and passive enslavement [3]. Finally, like all authentic paradigms, it is worth noting that Paradigma Palestina (2024) teaches and preaches nothing; it only invites us into the swirling sensation that crosses over the imagination and the singing voice, from the world of the last remaining lives to the isles of the dead martyrs, and back.
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Notes
1. Mauricio Amar. Ética de la imaginación: averroísmo, uso y orden de las cosas (Malamadre, 2018).
2. Andreas Malm. The Destruction of Palestine is the destruction of the Earth (Verso, 2025), 53.
3. Victor Segalen. Essay on Exoticism (Duke University Press, 2002), 24.
Infrapolitical Reflections 