Vladimir Jankélévitch: A Reader’s Diary
There are writers you do not so much read as live alongside: writers of a depth, a density, a multiplicity of suggestions that resist the sort of encapsulation by which their names wither into the occasion for empty allusions and knowing nods. For nearly twenty years now, the French philosopher Vladimir Jankélévitch has been such a writer for me. I know of few accounts more moving of the tragedy of the human condition than his The Irreversible and Nostalgia. His Pure and Impure has aided me in keeping my distance from many petty fanaticisms fashionable at present. He reminds me that “philosophy is not the construction of a system, but the resolution to look naively in and around oneself,” that the first sincere impulse toward knowledge is the patient articulation of one’s ignorance.
Born in 1903 in France, the son of Jews from Odesa, he studied in Paris with Henri Bergson, who was the subject of his first book in 1931, and whose ideas would remain central to his philosophical and musicological writings over the following half a century. He fought in the French Resistance in Toulouse, writing tracts encouraging Russian collaborators with the Wehrmacht to abandon their posts and giving the underground lectures in moral philosophy that would form the basis for his three-volume Treatise on the Virtues. Though he had written his dissertation on Schelling, and had even declared in his twenties to a friend that “only the Germans think deeply,” after the end of the Second World War he made an acrimonious public break with German culture (with exceptions for Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Liszt, and a few others) that extended even to Jewish thinkers writing in German.
This intransigence, and more specifically his contempt for Heidegger and his relative indifference to Marx, placed Jankélévitch outside the major currents of French thought, though thinkers from Levinas to Derrida acknowledged a debt to him. (He also cared little for Freud, ironically, as his father had translated him into French.) Hence he was little known and little read even as friends and peers — Sartre, Foucault, Derrida — became minor or even major celebrities. It is hard to say how deeply this affected him. Biography is an English and American genre, and sadly, a recent life of Jankélévitch, François Schwab’s Vladimir Jankélévitch: Le charme irresistible du je-ne-sais-quoi (Vladimir Jankélévitch: The Irresistible Charm of the I-Don’t-Know-What), is uninformative on this and many other matters. He did say that he saw himself more as a teacher than as a writer, and remarked, who knows whether with bitterness or ironic forbearance, “This era and I are not interested in each other. I’m working for the twenty-first century.” He died in 1985.
In the present diary, I have not wished to arrange into any schema the thoughts of this philosopher who affirmed that his only system was to have no system, for whom philosophy was a living thing rather than a specimen to be preserved in the formol of empty deliberation. I would only like to share, as though from one friend to another, a sampling of what I have learned — what I am still trying to learn — from him, for the benefit of those who cannot read his many works not yet translated into English, or for others who have yet to make his acquaintance.
Time
Time is the medium and ultimate boundary of human freedom. In The Irreversible and Nostalgia, Jankélévitch describes movement as the elementary form of freedom, and locates the basic tragedy of human life in our inability to travel back and forth in time as we can in space. The irreversibility of time is the root of nostalgia, of guilt, and of regret; its unceasing transformation of present into future is the ground of hope; and the inevitable conclusion of this future in death is the origin of anguish and despair. Yet so long as death has not yet come, it is the endless openness of time, the endless regress of its horizon, that permits an endless rejuvenation of hope, and hope is, and must be, populated by yearnings shaped by the past.
These considerations seem elementary, and my attempts to share my enthusiasm for Jankélévitch have more than once foundered before the shrugs of people to whom this all appears obvious. I can only respond that its obviousness is not an indictment of its truth, and that to ignore the obvious, perhaps even because it is obvious, because it lacks the airy beguilements of the contemporary and the urbane, is unserious; it suggests that we are justified in living as though the most superficial values pertained, or that by some strange alchemy our frivolous engagements might ripen into significance, or that we have not yet reached the moment when we must look at our life as a whole, and shall do so later, when this or that more pressing business is dispatched. Jankélévitch frequently cites “The Death of Ivan Ilyich” to illustrate the error of this way of thinking. Too much time devoted to subsidiary lives (it is noteworthy that in Tolstoy’s tale life is divided into “family life,” “married life,” “official life,” and so on) impairs an awareness of life taken as a whole.
The Adventure, Boredom, The Serious
Of the many ways conceivable of distinguishing the philo-sophical from the sophistical, the most urgent takes as its point of departure what we already know in our hearts. The heart’s knowledge is like the appeal to the stone in Boswell’s Life of Johnson:
After we came out of the church, we stood talking for some time together of Bishop Berkeley’s ingenious sophistry to prove the non-existence of matter, and that every thing in the universe is merely ideal. I observed, that though we are satisfied his doctrine is not true, it is impossible to refute it. I never shall forget the alacrity with which Johnson answered, striking his foot with mighty force against a large stone, till he rebounded from it, “I refute it thus.”
Johnson wasn’t so stupid as not to grasp Bishop Berkeley’s idealism; he simply knew that it was inconsequential outside the realm of idle speculation. We cannot live, he means to say, with the idea of the immateriality of objects; we must live with the intuition that the things we know are real. No knowledge of the limitations of the human eye can disabuse me of the certainty that I see things the way things are; and no matter how persuasively Thomas Metzinger and others argue against the existence of the self, they cannot begin to offer me a way of living that dispenses with it as though you and I do not exist. Being inevitable, the acceptance of these pragmatic certainties, however unstable their foundations, has the character of a duty one can only shirk from insincerity or irresoluteness.
Freedom is another such elemental fact that persists irrespective of its confirmation. Let us say that I am a determinist; let us admit that science persuasively argues that we may reduce behavior to its biological and physical determinants. This is fine for my abstract view of human life, but you and I will never grasp it in the innate manner in which we grasp freedom. The truth of determinism is like the existence of dark matter or the unsettling properties of quantum objects: all are incidental to the kind of being we are doomed to be. Freedom reveals itself in the moment when something must be done; its privileged instance is the recognition that only I can decide whether and how I must act. This, and the fact that the burden of responsibility is coeval with consciousness or conscience (the same word is used for both in French, and in Jankélévitch’s thought they are rarely separable) is what makes morality the a priori of all problems, the “chronologically first question.”
There are three privileged responses to freedom in Jankélévitch’s thought: adventure, boredom, and seriousness. These correspond to the passion for the future, to the contempt for the present, and to the recognition that all that is and will be must elapse. Each of these maintains a more or less sincere relationship to death. The adventure is the passionate expectation of the future; it is by its nature a beginning, which in its continuity will be serious or boring. Erving Goffman’s “anticipated fateful activity” is a nice approximation of what Jankélévitch means by adventure, and Goffman, like Jankélévitch, recognizes the centrality of the sense of risk, which, when taken in its greatest extension, is always the risk of death (“death is at the end of all avenues prolonged indefinitely, no matter where they may lead”). Adventure is the freest possible response to the semi-openness of life: to the brief but indefinite concession to live and to the perpetually postponed imminence of death.
Adventure, in advancing toward the future, has in a sense sidestepped the present; it is by definition underway. Boredom, meanwhile, remains mired in the moment prior to the decision. Boredom is scarce in vitality: it is the privilege of those who need not concern themselves with the basic tasks of life. Boredom is exemption from the stream of life, the relegation to observer status of one who feels he should be a participant, but cannot participate, or knows not how, or despairs of his capacity to do so. The hostage, the soldier, the base jumper are not bored; the bored person is rather one for whom the surrounding world falls short. It is the fruit of a civilized, convoluted consciousness that does not so much struggle to satisfy its needs as it satisfies them and finds no satisfaction in this satisfaction. Boredom is acquainted with the adventure, but has lost the taste for it; its longing for experience, too enfeebled to seek out new thrills, remains as the “froth” of self-consciousness upon a bodily sensation of unease.
Boredom that persists into general malaise is a consequence of selfishness. What it lacks is “the tender solicitude of the second person, which alone is capable of filling an entire existence.” What Jankélévitch means here is love, a concept central to his work but one not adequately defined. He calls love a duty, fidelity, the essence of all virtue, the realization of the good, the endless and unconditional obligation to the other, but these seem like attributes or signs of love rather than its sensuous core. Love is not love of self, the love of abstract principles, or love of being in love; it is ecstatic, but falters when it revels in ecstasy at the expense of the beloved. Given Jankélévitch’s assertion that consciousness is always involved, it strikes me that what he means by love is the sincere recognition of others’ presence and the zealous embrace of living alongside them — the channeling of the élan vital into shared rather than “proprietary” happiness.
The adventure turns intervals into instants, boredom turns instants into intervals. The person of adventure, in frenzied pursuit of he knows not what — because without the element of enchanted ignorance, his pleasure would be the serene one of seriousness or the cloyed hedonism of the bored — gives life no time to open up and take on texture, complexity, resonance. The adventurer moves through life rather than gathering it, whereas the bored person has gathered erroneously, asking time to yield freely to him what can only occur when he lives generously in time. Of him, Jankélévitch writes, “How many years so short are made of hours so long?” The bored person is like the connoisseur of wine, who believes that his attunement to ever finer distinctions is the prelude to recognizing higher sorts of pleasure, when in fact he is teaching himself to enjoy less and less, making the objects of his fancy so rare that it may be finally said that he does not like wine at all. It goes without saying that such a person has entirely missed the point of drinking.
What makes adventure and boredom unserious is their failure to reckon with the possibility of death. Jankélévitch is careful to differentiate between the possibility of death and death itself. Death is nothing; death eludes thought; death, in Wittgenstein’s phrase, “is not an event of life” — but the possibility of death is an ever-present reminder that desire, the remit of our freedoms, is bound by time in ways that we cannot understand. Adventure and boredom are unserious in averting their eyes from this boundedness. Adventure mistakes the brief pleasure of insouciance as evidence that we can live without care, and too often, when the taste or the aptitude for adventure are past, the instances in which we might have employed our freedom in the service of care are past as well. Boredom delays beginning in the delusion that the impulse to begin is growing within us, when with every calling — apart from the most frivolous and barren of pleasures — appetite comes with eating.
Seriousness is wedded to sincerity; it demands an earnest inquiry into what matters, and the courage to pursue it with a steadfastness that avoids the siren song of adventure and the cavalier aloofness of boredom. Seriousness is the reasoned approach to duration. It does not shout carpe diem in the thought that death may come at any time, because it may well not come quickly and we will be stuck with the consequences of our actions; and it does not tell itself there will always be time, because a time will come when there is none. “The serious is an allusion to passion and a call to order” that seeks the just measure in the pursuit of enduring joy.
Virtue
Desire places limits on freedom, but it is in responsibility that freedom is realized. Hence the freest gesture is the response to the call of conscience. Conscience is of a piece with consciousness: the stimulus that rouses the mind from its stupor, sharpening the edges of awareness, is at the same time a state of distress, the intimation that something unresolved is at play that we have a role in rectifying. The tragedy of the human condition is that the wrongs that call conscience and consciousness into being can never be fully righted, because they exist in time, which cannot be reversed. And so conscience and consciousness strive together for an impossible but also impossible-to-ignore reconciliation.
Fundamental to Jankélévitch’s ethics is the belief that “all consciousness is more or less adhesive,” that all consciousness tends inescapably toward virtue or dissipation. Virtue is fidelity to the moral orientation that suffuses consciousness in the moment of becoming conscious; dissipation, or neglect of this orientation, cannot quell the ache of consciousness or conscience, both of which attach preferentially to the sense of something not right. The person who tries to drown out his scruples in nihilism or forget them by exalting the sensuous over the moral is like a cat trying to run away from its burning tail. “Not only does the a priori of moral valuation anticipate and impregnate all paths of consciousness, but also seemingly, through the effect of an ironic ruse, the rejection of all valuation accentuates its impassioned character: as if, in clandestinity, axiology [the belief in an ordered scale of values] had recovered its strength and acquired a new vitality: repressed, harried, persecuted, it becomes only more fanatical and intransigent.”
Jankélévitch’s rejection of hedonism puts one in mind of the contrasting meanness and extravagance of certain heroes in Dostoevsky, whose conscience stalks them even in their fits of vice, and who preach morality and religion over banquets of suckling pig and cognac. They are prey to the “anarchic and even contradictory system” of pleasures — but at the same time good deeds exert a depraved temptation upon them, and they mistake this temptation for virtue. What they lack, first of all, is sincerity: the understanding that what they call good in a drunken fit of penitence is merely an “aesthetic intermittency… a luxury article, a supplementary and gratuitous ornament of our nature” coveted by the morally enervated consciousness. They cannot admit that they are not yet ready for “the infinite movement through successive exponents that constitutes moral life.”
Good deeds bear the same relation to virtue as the lone note to a musical composition. No inherent property of good deeds forces virtue into being. The passerby who, he knows not why, flings a dollar at a beggar’s feet is not virtuous, nor is the abuser who, in a fit of remorse, hysterically showers his victim with gifts. The bad person’s good deeds are “spasmodic,” representing a temporary concession to others’ ideas of virtue or the flareup of a truncated conscience that tries but fails to overtake the whole person. “Virtue (if it exists) must be chronic,” Jankélévitch writes. It reveals its presence in “the occasion”: the test we face to show that our idea of goodness is substantial.
Pure and Impure
Jankélévitch contrasts the “relativism of effort” with the “absolutism of perfection.” The latter, a property of Kantian maxims officiously fulfilled, of the realization of all utopias from Plato’s republic to the workers’ paradise of socialism, is instantly repugnant to whomever loves the human. What will there be to do when heaven has come to earth? What will the point of doing be when our acts are no longer consequent, because there is no more evil to banish nor good to bring about? A moral life demands friction, the possibility of failure, whereas the ossification of virtue into reflex divests it of moral content, yielding a world of good deeds populated by morally vacuous individuals. Virtue cannot be static: it requires the tension of temptation. For this reason, “the moral is, in essence, the rejection of selfish pleasure.”
The je-ne-sais-quoi and the presque-rien
Rarely does Jankélévitch proceed by telling us what things are. His method is reductive — he glimpses his object, a je-ne-sais-quoi, an I-don’t-know-what, as yet unidentifiable, and peels away the predicates that opinion spuriously attributes to it, until what is left is the pure but elusive intuition of the presque-rien, the almost nothing. Emblematic here, once again, is death, the object of “a crepuscular thought,” a “pseudo-thought,” the center of ruminations that progress not forward but only deeper into themselves. We can say of death only that it is there — but death is nothing, and it is not. An almost-nothing, an “opaque destiny,” it exerts a refractory effect not on our understanding of life but on the feeling of being alive. Let us add to the list of the je-ne-sais-quois time, the self, consciousness, love, being, and all else that the eye fixes upon in a philosophical mood. To say what they are requires saying what they are not, and when all that they are not has been said, what remains — the presque rien — is as elusive as mercury. The je-ne-sais-quoi “is a manner of naming the impossibility of going to the end of things, of digging into their limit,” and a reminder that philosophy is a vocation rather than that laborious enumeration of primitive notions, inference rules, hypothetical cases, and ideal solutions by which the Anglo-American analytic tradition seeks less to philosophize than to render philosophy obsolete. Indeed, if Jankélévitch is right that what is moral cannot be the act itself but the only nature of the consciousness of the act, then the gargantuan ethical cheat-sheet to which utilitarian ethics aspires would mean not the perfection of morals, but their disappearance into rote obedience. The same is true of epistemology: the texture of existence, its bittersweetness, is indistinguishable from the heuristic value of error and uncertainty, and to replace these with facts, axioms, and laws is to divest human consciousness of the very things that make it human.
The organ-obstacle
The organ-obstacle is an impediment to a desired state and a catalyst that makes possible its attainment. Fear is the organ-obstacle to courage: courage must overcome fear, but without fear what might otherwise be courage would be mere rashness. It is transcending frugality that elevates generosity above extravagance, transcending selfishness that makes altruism altruistic. The body is the organ-obstacle of the soul; words are the organ-obstacle of thought. In the broadest sense, freedom, bound to irrevocable choices, is the organ obstacle to freedom.
“The resistance of matter is the instrument-impediment of form that the artist’s hand pulls from the rebelliousness of marble: you cannot sculpt a cloud! Poetry and music, in turn, invent a thousand arduous problems, impose the gratuitous rules of the sonnet and the often arbitrary prohibitions of fugue and counterpoint, enclose themselves in a strict play in order to find their reason for being… to feel free, the artist must find quandaries in his anagrams and calligrams.”
Austerity and Moral Life
Jankélévitch denounces the “pseudo-austerity” of moral purism which, driven by a hatred for pleasure, offers its exponent “an aesthetic compensation for ethical disorder.” Pseudo-austerity is a degeneracy that imputes moral value to self-castigation. This malady is especially prevalent now, when so many have learned to prefer to sacrifice on behalf of ethical causes the fabrication of virtual moral avatars that will earn them the accolades of others, in the pretense that, if the gospel of self-abasement spreads, the moral order of the universe will be restored. We call this virtue-signaling. Such behavior “attests to the will to power of a spirit in delirium on the lookout for alibis for its basic indigence”; in plainer terms, it is a way of feeling righteous while doing nothing. In this stylization of his own existence, the would-be moral agent “disappears beneath the pathetic characters he finds it opportune to embody, is blurred behind the statue he deems it opportune to sculpt.” Sham mortification, melancholy for public consumption, trauma and despair twice-removed from tragedy – they all masquerade as the prelude to ethical action while burning through the moral impulses that might drive it. The pseudo-austere subject scrutinizes his conscience not for the good of what he does but for the good he tells himself and others he wishes to do, in the illusion that his zeal is a prelude to action when in truth it is a byproduct of his reluctance to act.
Forgiveness
Forgiveness is not forgetting. It is not exculpation through attenuating factors — for if there is no naked, undiluted fault, then there is nothing to forgive. It is not the oblivion into which the offense vanishes into over time, because time cannot affect the moral gravity of wrongs. It is not the expression of an imperturbable magnanimity: rancor being the organ-obstacle of forgiving, the person who does not feel the pain of the offense has never truly been harmed and is thus in no position to forgive. Forgiveness is not a dogma or intellectual disposition that accepts the place of evil in the world: neither theodicy nor determinism has a second person; both concern the “anonymous universality” of third persons, which are creations of the mind with no necessary relation to persons of flesh and blood. Nor can we excuse a person without debasing him morally: forgiveness is the mode of acquittal proper to relations among equals, but we reserve excuses for children, drunks, the senile, the mentally unwell. The mutual recognition of dignity that invigorates equality collapses when I treat myself as master of my decisions and the other as a plaything of destiny. “It is possible that a forgiveness free from any ulterior motive has never been granted here below,” but this is no rationale for surrendering before the “replacement products” of unwarranted grace or forgetting; forgiveness is a presque-rien, but this does not make it a rien.
Music
Jankélévitch’s writings on music are nearly as numerous as his books of philosophy. In the Russian émigré community in the France of his childhood, he recalls, musical ability was more highly prized than good spelling. Visitors to his apartment invariably mention the two grand pianos and the teetering piles of musical scores; privileged guests were allowed to accompany him as he played his favorite composers. His taste was stuffy, with a pronounced favor for the romantic: the “anti-hedonism” of the twentieth-century avant-garde lacked the enchantment of evoking “affective reminiscence,” which was, for him, one of music’s primary functions.
With music, as with death, as with love, his aim is to clear away the discursive ornaments that delude us into thinking we have something to say about it. Being “both expression and constituent element,” music lacks the gulf between thought and its objects of which language is the bridge, and for this reason, it has no communicable meaning. Music is rather a mode of organizing experience. It possesses a vital structure, with a tentative beginning, a moment of plenitude, and an end; but unlike lost and yearned-for days, we can revisit it again, and because hearing the second time is not the same as hearing the first, re-exposure to it is “not repetition, but the beginning of an order,” an arrangement of the sentiments in some sense analogous to the self. To relisten to a favored piece again is like seeing the arrival of dawn that tells us death has not yet come for us. The passionate energies invested in music, lived in repetition, make of it “a protest against the irreversible.”
Decadence
Jankélévitch examined decadence explicitly in a brief essay in 1950, but it is alluded to in other works, and his philosophy in its entirety may be described as the attempt to rescue the primary moral intuitions from the distortions that decadence effects upon them. Decadence is “the confusion of pure and simple consciousness with the consciousness of consciousness,” and mistakes conscious involvement in the world with consciousness’s involvement with itself. Decadence produces “two families of monsters: narcissistic monsters of introspection and monsters of excessiveness.” Both of these abound at present, the one busy attuning itself to ever more microscopic violations of pseudo-moral tenets that serve only to browbeat others and exalt the faithful, the other renouncing mutual respect and decorum in the name of a supposed authenticity, as though a self constrained by care and consideration were somehow less valid than the one whose meanest impulses are allowed to run free. The decadent consciousness redoubles on itself infinitely: “In despair at its own ease, the decadent spirit will create imaginary difficulties and invent artificial obstacles in order to salvage by diktat that resistance which is the only thing capable of preserving life from boredom and stagnation; for want of real problems, the spirit takes refuge in charades, riddles, rebuses.”
The nostalgia for a supposed golden age, almost always a veil for reactionary tendencies, is a symptom of decadence and not its antidote. Decadence is a loss of attunement in moral and aesthetic terms: in the moral realm, it prefers the virtual to the material; in the aesthetic, it opts for the copy over the original or for the mise-en-abîme of ironic parody. Decadence is “crumbling and bloated,” seeking creative unity in vain. But this seeking itself remains a positive force that may announce the spring to decadence’s autumn. In this way, decadence is in fact inherent to progress. What it requires, in the first place, is seriousness: a sense of the brevity of time and the gravity of what is at stake.