Usable pasts

 

Thinking that it might be good to teach with, I recently looked up the essay from which the phrase “usable past” is generally said to come. The full title of the essay is, “On Creating a Usable Past,” it’s centrally concerned with novels and poetry, and is by a literary critic or literary historian, Van Wyck Brooks. I don’t expect to use it in an undergraduate classroom. But it is interesting, and so here I’m going to point out what I think is worth retaining from it. Also, I want to record some ideas about the surprising (to me) essay that immediately follows Brooks in this same issue – a labor organizer and activist named Helen Marot writing a brief for what I would call syndicalist educational ideas. The April 11, 1918 number of The Dial featured an impressive list of contributors. John Dewey leads the issue, then comes Charles Beard, then Brooks, and finally Marot, who compared to these other luminaries is basically unknown. This is a special issue on education, and the comparison between American and German institutions is arguably the through-line of the four texts, with Brooks something of an outlier. So it is worth returning to also as an example of a moment, maybe not unlike ours, when perhaps the relationship between intellectual life or cultural activity and the institutions of higher education was very much in question.  

What is our relationship to the past, and what ought it be? For Brooks, speaking mainly about literary culture, the answer to these paired questions is that we Americans have been robbed of our birthright – what should have been our tradition – and that it is time to create, in the famous titular phrase of his essay, “a usable past” in order to combat the emptiness that disables our literature. No doubt the essay could be put into the broader context of early 20^th century readers of Nietzsche, of the debate around philosophical pragmatism, and, on an even larger scale, arguments over objectivity in the decades around 1900. One might look for instance to Peter Novick’s That Noble Dream, although Brooks, since he was not a professional historian, is not a figure of particular interest to Novick. For now though, let us just replace  questions with our own: a past that is usable – usable for who and what?

Brooks opens with a distinction between two kinds of anarchy: one that “fosters” and one that “prevents growth.” Brooks does not himself come back to this former kind of anarchy, although it’s worth thinking about what he means by it. The latter kind is “the sudden unbottling of elements that have had no opportunity to develop freely in the open.” In America there are no “inherited resources,” there has been no “cumulative culture,” and so every individual who wishes to do creative work feels that they must start from the very beginning, all alone. Bad anarchy, then, is each individual responding to their particular conditions on their own. This, clearly, is a somewhat artificial situation, and Brooks places the blame very clearly on professors of literature and literary history who “have placed a sort of Talmudic seal upon the American tradition.” They exhibit a “pathological vindictiveness” toward those who are attempting to do creative work. Nothing made today can be as good as what came before, can even enter into conversation with it.

Whence this hatred for creative work in the professoriate? It is because anyone who is successful in American academic life – and again this is in 1918 – must have fully accommodated themselves to “the exigencies of the commercial mind.” The professor by default orients himself toward “the ideal not of the creative but of the practical life.” The professor “passively plays into the hands that underfeed his own imaginative life.” Finding his own fulfillment and meaning in the closed and perfect past he tips the balance against “the living present,” which, for his own psychological protection, he can only despise. Hence, says Brooks, the histories of American literature that exist always treat the present (starting around 1890) as a total failure, and “stumble and hesitate” when it comes even to Whitman. Practicality means commercial life and is antithetical to creative production; it is destructive of tradition. We may note that usability for the novelist or poet is to be distinguished from the practical. 

The university has already been conquered by the latter, indeed scholarship in a merely objective mode is the deformation of intellectual life in the spirit of commercial practicality.

For the professorial mind, as I have said, puts a gloss upon the past that renders it sterile for the living mind. Instead of reflecting the creative impulse in American history, it reaffirms the values established by the commercial tradition; it crowns everything that has passed the censorship of the commercial and moralistic mind. And it appears to be justified because, on the whole, only those American writers who have passed that censorship have undergone a reasonably complete development and in this way entered what is often considered the purview of literary criticism.

And here Brooks makes an interesting claim: successful literature thus far has been “chiefly a literature of exploitation, the counterpart of our American life.” Following the literal exploitation of the frontier there is its cultural exploitation (“Irving and Longfellow and Cooper and Bryant”). The very exceptionality of Emerson, Thoreau, and Whitman proves the larger point. Exploitation, however, lasts only so long. After the initial “unbottling,” there is nothing substantial left, only “lachrymosity” and spectacle.

For particular writers, as we can see from the sorry record, there are only episodes of success, no full development of authorial character. And yet, “the spiritual welfare of this country depends altogether upon the fate of its creative minds.” These creative minds are in a catastrophic position: “We want bold ideas, and we have nuances. We want courage, and we have universal fear. We want individuality, and we have idiosyncrasy. We want vitality, and we have intellectualism. We want emblems of desire, and we have Niagaras of emotionality. We want expansion of soul, and we have an elephantiasis of the vocal organs. Why? Because we have no cultural economy, no abiding sense of spiritual values, no body of critical understanding? Of course.” And why? Because “the present is a void, and the American writer floats in that void because the past that survives in the common mind of the present is a past without living value.”  The past ought to anchor, provide one with some footing that would be secure enough to allow forward motion.

For Brooks, the Europeans are in a much better situation. They have continuous tradition, livings pasts, literary histories that allow new writers to pick up a project already begun. European professors have “intellectual freedom” that does not exists in America. And looking to Europe can help the American in other ways. First, they offer us the example of created, invented, useful pasts. Carlyle and Michelet, for instance, have made just that. But in America “the grey conventional mind casts its shadow backward” and not much of use has been written by the historians. Second, as even a little foreign travel (spiritual or physical) demonstrates, different countries have different and differently useful ideas about each other. The Italians, for instance, have a very different understanding of French history than the British have, because these two nations need different things from it. Similarly, the tradition of American literature appears in a new light when seen from abroad. “Englishmen will ask you why we Americans have so neglected Herman Melville…Russians will tell you that we never really understood the temperament of Jack London.” Thus by leaving America, we can learn to ask ourselves what really matters in it for us so that “the past experience of our people can be placed at the service of the future.” 

We begin to arrive here at Brooks’ positive program for getting “a vital order out of the anarchy of the present” and reconnecting the “warm artery that ought to lead from the present back into the past,” which has been severed by the anarchic disdain of the professoriate. What do we get if we focus our attention on the creative impulse as it has appeared in American life? “What emerges them is the desire, the aspiration, the struggle, the tentative endeavor, and the appalling obstacles our life has placed before them.” We have the continual appearance of creative energies, and their interruption by the practical. Again, “sudden unbottling” rather than open development, has been the rule. This problem itself, Brooks suggests, becomes the heart of a usable American history. One example is the thwarted development of Theodore Dreiser. “And there is Vachel Lindsay,” who comes to value sound and color alone because that’s what they like in small towns. So, for Brooks, it is not individual works that ought to draw our attention, rather we should seek “tendencies.” And this seems to mean to him mainly patterns of failure in the trajectories of particular writers. “Why did Ambrose Bierce go wrong?” Or Stephen Crane, or Herman Melville again. Brooks concludes thus: “Knowing that others have desired the things we desire and have encountered the same obstacles, and that in some degree time has begun to face those obstacles down and make the way straight for us, would not the creative forces of this country lose a little of the hectic individualism that keeps them from uniting against their common enemies? And would this not bring about, for the first time, that sense of brotherhood in effort and in aspiration which is the best promise of a national culture?”

So for Brooks cultural or spiritual life is defined not by particular texts, but by the development of authorial personalities – styles, we might say. The national community in its capacity for self-reflection is both the condition and the telos of literary production. For it to develop, individuals must be able to develop themselves as personalities within it. The university is not an aid to this, but is itself so caught in the practical and exploitative life of the country – at least of America – that it is an active enemy of intellectual or creative life. We must go abroad in order to see ourselves and our own options more clearly. There is a naturalness to the development of tradition (the “warm artery”) but also clearly it can be created. At the moment, the universities are actively sabotaging the construction of a national cumulative tradition, but the European example suggests they could – were they free enough from the influence of commerce – help in the good work.

We can see Nietzsche floating around in the background here, as well perhaps as Turner’s famous argument about the frontier and American character, and even the kinds of arguments that Carl Becker would make in “Everyman his own Historian” about the usability and living nature of the past. We should also not forget that this literary moment, in retrospect, will belong to modernism. TS Eliot and Ezra Pound are only two of the Americans who went to Europe in search of something very different from the usable national past that Brooks seems to see on the horizon. So we could read Eliot’s “Tradition and the Individual Talent” as a response here, although perhaps it would be better to understand “Prufrock” as, already, offering a radically different account of the relationship between past and present and future.

I’ve gone on very long already, but I want just to end by suggesting that Helen Marot’s text offers us, I think, a different kind of critique. Who was Marot? She was a librarian and a labor organizer. There’s a good deal to say about hergood deal to say about her, and one might start here, but for present purposes it’s significant that she wrote in 1914 a book about the IWW and had a stint on the editorial board of The Masses before it was shut down by the US government in 1917. She joined The Dial shortly after.

Where Brooks cares mainly about literature, Marot takes the industrial school as her object. Marot frames her intervention in line with Dewey’s at the beginning of the issue – should the United States attempt to adopt a German style of industrial education? – but goes on to make an argument about the emancipatory possibilities of what might otherwise be derisively referred to as industrial or vocational training. Like Brooks, she presents us with a dichotomy, this time between predatory and creative profit-making. Like Brooks, she wishes to save the future and foster creative activity. Unlike Brooks, for Marot it is precisely within practical life that this emancipation of creativity can happen. Also unlike Brooks, her project is profoundly and essentially democratic rather than elitist.

German education has contributed to making what she – and she says everyone – recognizes as an extraordinarily efficient industrial plant. The workers are effective and docile. Yet this kind of education, Marot says, does not fit the United States. “The German has no pressing sense of the need to experiment with life” – here in the USA, we do. Marot presents an alternative path forward for industrial schools which are, today, she says, indeed not very effective. Her vision is a frankly syndicalist one: “No work in the subject matter of industry is education which does not in intention or in fact give the persons involved the ability to participate in the administration of industry.” As things stand, industrial education does the opposite: “the pupils gain more the sense of the power of the subject to control them, than an experience in their power to master the subject.” This mastery, this capacity to manage modern industrial production, is what Marot wants for every working person.

We cannot give up modern industrial production, there is no going back to an old craft system of production. The division of labor, technological development – these are conditions that, we should understand, in fact contain new possibilities. “Technological subject matter…is not part of common experience” – at least not yet. It ought to be. “If released for common experimentation, it is fit matter for making science a vital experience in everyday life.” Educators ought to seize this opportunity and “initiate produce enterprises wherein young people will be free to gain first-hand experience in the problems of industry.” We must, this is to say, fully embrace technological production as what we might call an element of civilization.

The people to ally with here are not so much the businessmen or financiers as people like architects and especially “engineers, not under the influence of business, are qualified to open up the creative aspects of production to the workers.” Marot cites Robert B. Wolf (on whom, see here), speaking at the Taylor Society, as an inspiration here, who argued that Scientific Management ought to bend its science to “making him [the working man] self-reliant and creative.” That’s not what happens now, because industrial education is carried on entirely from the side of business, and so “turn industrial education into industrial training” Educators, on the other hand, are positioned to bring out the “adventure” that exists in industry. “Industrial problems carry those who participate in their solution into pure and applied science, into the study of the market for raw materials and finished products, into the search for unconquered wealth.” Their goal is “to give young people, not an experience which is tagged on to industry under the influence of profits, but an experience which is inspired by the desire to produce and the opportunity to develop the inspiration.” Going a little beyond what Marot has written, and thinking about Taylor’s own writings – we can say that this is of course directly opposed to the plain meaning of Taylorism, which sought precisely and explicitly to strip from the worker all his accumulated store of knowledge and turn it over to the manager, to reduce to zero the ‘inspiration’ of the worker so as to achieve docile efficiency.

This is just what Marot is against. The big industrialists and financiers may well attempt to impose German style efficiency education in the USA. They’ll fail, but the cost will be high for everyone. We shouldn’t let them try: “the problem for American educators is the retention of our native concept of experimental life and the attainment of standards of workmanship – the realization of the strength of associated effort, together with the advance of wealth production.” What we need to do is insist on, says Marot, is a creative rather than a predatory industrial structure. Wealth exploitation must not be allowed to be synonymous with wealth production. For the creative concept to win out, it must “rest upon a people’s desire for productive experience, and their ability to associate together for that common end.” What Marot is trying to do, this is to say, is link a critique of shop floor and classroom practices with a larger critique of capitalist accumulation.

I’ve called Marot’s line of argument here syndicalist, and I was struck by how familiar some of it sounds from the French context. It fits to some degree with the populist mode of thinking about education. However it is revolutionary because Marot sees industrial education and education more broadly neither as training for the shop floor nor as an engine of class mobility, but rather as enabling the transformation of class relations themselves. Brooks had introduced a distinction between the practical and the useful, Marot one between predatory and creative wealth – both are supposed to mark a distance from a certain kind of bad commercial exploitation. Both want to re-activate or make available the past for use in the present, but for Brooks this is a basically elite project; for Marot the technical aspect of production is to be separated from the commercial one in order to render it – the adventure of scientific and technological capacity – available for popular use. Marot wants, we could say, to make of industrial production a usable past for all people.  

Considerations on Western Liberalism

Samuel Moyn, Liberalism Against Itself: Cold War Intellectuals and the Making of Our Times. Yale, 2023.

 

Our intellectual landscape is shaped still by the ruins of the Cold War – here moss-covered but visible, there only suggestions underground, in a few places still habitable after appropriate renovation. Sam Moyn’s new book urges us finally to have done with this ruin, but not by flattening it all or moving to an entirely new place. Rather, we need to understand what it covers over, what other possible ways of thinking have been obscured by it. “Emancipatory and futuristic before the Cold War, committed most of all to free and equal self-creation, accepting of democracy and welfare (though never enough to date) liberalism can be something other than the Cold War liberalism we have known” (7). “Liberalism had been, along with socialism, one of the two great doctrines of modern emancipation, and many of its theorists undertook to craft a framework of individual and collective progress—that their heirs must now reconstruct” (25). We can locate Moyn’s book politically by saying that it responds to the failure of the democratic party to have any ideas, especially the incapacity of its constellation of think tanks and pundits to offer any kind of positive response to Trump and all that he represents. This made Jonathan Chait very annoyed, and it is safe to say that Chait is among those who ought to feel themselves attacked here. We can also understand it as a response, in a broader sense, to the polemics launched by Patrick Deneen’s Why Liberalism Failed, about which more below.

 

Moyn’s particular intervention is to show not just that the Cold War liberal cohort represented a narrowing and reduction of the liberal tradition, but further along just what dimensions this narrowness was inflicted, and just what equipment was jettisoned to achieve the reduction. Moyn draws on what is now a significant body of scholarship renovating the history of liberalism, some of it older but much of it from this past decade. There are meaningful differences between the story he tells and the narratives in Helena Rosenblatt’s Lost History of Liberalism, or Annelien de Dijn’s Freedom: A Unruly History – but there is also substantial agreement. In the 19^th century, liberalism was not primarily focused on the limitation of government action. Rather, it was a politics of freedom in which collective life conditions for individual flourishing. We can be better than we are, and in order to become better, we need each other. Rosenblatt, de Dijn, and others see liberalism as a complex tradition, and also – to varying degrees – see it as one that links a certain kind of politics to a certain kind of self. Although, see the Conti and Selinger’s long review of Rosenblatt for an assertion of the centrality of the political. Still, all agree that the later 20^th century came to misrecognize its own tradition. Moyn is building on and offering some specific and trenchant arguments about this Cold War moment.

 

The chapters of Liberalism Against Itself were initially given as lectures, and they retain to a strong degree this flavor. For the most part this is a good thing – Moyn moves quickly, is bold and clear, and also loves a nice turn of phrase. You can still hear the audience laughing or groaning at certain moments. There is a brief and programmatic introduction, then there are chapters on Judith Shklar, Isaiah Berlin, Karl Popper, Gertrude Himmelfarb, Hannah Arendt, and Lionel Trilling. The Arendt chapter is perhaps the most interestingly polemical, and in article form has been the subject of some push-back (most of which, it seems to me, was beside the point). I myself found the chapter on Himmelfarb the most surprising and also depressing. Many figures recur and could have their own chapters. Talmon and Hayek are maybe the most significant; Edmond Wilson perhaps the most to be regretted.  

 

The Cold War liberals were, by and large, ready to stand shoulder to shoulder – often regretfully and sadly, of course – against projects of collective emancipation. There was one exception: Israel. There are many ways of explaining this, but its symptomatic nature is what interests Moyn. And it also is the opportunity for a striking and telling turn of phrase: “perhaps Arendt, like the Cold War liberals, wasn’t Zionist enough.” Not Zionist enough in that not sufficiently universalist in her – their – Zionism. Among Moyn’s most significant briefs against the CWLs as a whole is their “geographic morality.” Hannah Arendt, for Moyn, is useful because she is more explicit and less quiet about her preference for (in a phrase Moyn borrows from Tyler Stovall) “white freedom.” These are intellectuals who are supposed to stand for freedom, but, as he says elsewhere, they cannot imagine an international politics of freedom that is not also the extension of empire. Decolonization does not appear to them as an explosion of human freedom, only of danger. They could not approach it in any other mode. That was a catastrophic failure. One might ask how much ideas had to do with it at the time – but only if one wishes further to argue that our ideas today will make no difference either.

 

This connects back to debates (involving Gary Wilder and Fred Cooper) that took place a few years ago now around the significance of the nation-state form in the moment of decolonization. Moyn’s position (I believe) is that the nation-state, despite its many flaws, occlusions, and oppressive potentialities, remains a necessary and indeed the major successful form in which we humans have made our own lives better. The failures of decolonization here are not the result of excessive national sovereignty, but of cynical attacks on the not-yet-postcolonial world by the old imperial powers. If it is hard to know, sometimes, how a nation-state can resist the imperatives of global finance capital, it is yet harder to know what other political form will be more capable of it. The 19^th century liberal tradition – and here we can think back to Moyn’s defense of, for instance, Mazzini – saw the nation as a space of freedom, Cold War liberalism stood finally disabused of this illusion at just the moment it left Euro-America. 

 

Shklar, especially her early After Utopia (1957), is Moyn’s guide and inspiration in the book. She is, as he writes, “less Beatrice than Virgil” in the passage through this selection of Cold War Liberals. Certainly Moyn makes me feel very acutely that I need to sit down and read After Utopia pretty much right now. Moyn wants to read Shklar for the possibilities that she this early book contains, and he writes that Shklar’s “own maturation cut off certain trajectories she might have followed. For us, however, those trajectories remain open” (37). Which leaves us with a question – open for whom? For whom is this book written? Why try to reactivate the liberal tradition in 2023?

 

One answer I think is that Moyn recognizes that this is the only idiom that stands a chance of being heard by what remains of the policy making intelligentsia in the United States. ‘Liberalism’ might just mean the imaginary space within which mainstream Democratic politics takes place, but the language is one worth fighting over in order to expand the realm of what is not only possible but possible to imagine working toward. In important respects the book is an argument about the neoconservative movement that, Moyn implies, was profoundly indebted to the intellectual machinery and canons of the Cold War liberals. Himmelfarb’s husband Irving Kristol, for instance, is a case in point. At issue here are the people who convinced themselves, on the basis of Cold War reasoning, that invading Iraq in 2003 was a good idea. Similarly, although in a different vein, the neoliberals who dominated domestic policy debate since the 1990s are presented as very much occupying space opened for them by the Cold War liberals. Indeed it would be recklessly optimistic to think that neoliberalism as policy has really been finished off by Covid.

 

All that said, however, it is legitimate to ask what is the usefulness in 2023 of exploding the false binary of Reagan or Clinton. Moyn mentions Patrick Deneen’s 2018 Why Liberalism Failed, and we can perhaps see Moyn’s larger aim as providing an answer to this sort of conservative cultural politics. Deneen’s “liberalism” indeed is an ahistorical boogey-man – unfolding its cruel logic across the history of the United States, an unmoved mover of history. A convincing argument that Karl Popper’s reading of Hegel was badly wrong is not going to demonstrate, even though the possibility is delicious, that Deneen is himself working with a pessimistic Hegelian theory of history – never mind convince anyone who takes Deneen seriously to return to an emancipatory Hegelianism. Of course Moyn does want to defend that tradition, I think, from Deneen’s superficial reading. This is why it matters that “there are liberal resources for surpassing the limits of Cold War liberalism” (2). The first step toward this, of course, is a historical account of how this possibility fell away or – in a wonderful turn of phrase – was “deaccessioned” from the liberal tradition.

 

Deneen and others who might be said to be auditioning for parts in some future historian’s Politics of Cultural Despair tempt leftists to respond in a simple way: what you ascribe to liberalism is in fact the fault of capitalism. There’s much truth in that complain, but it’s to be resisted for, I think, obvious reasons. The move Moyn is making here, however, is to meet Deneen et al on something like their own ground by attempting to recover liberalism as a political project that could be a source of meaning rather than alienation and irony in the lives of actual people in the 21^st century. 

 

The recent revival of scholarship on the history of liberalism sees that there was a liberal self, as well as a liberal approach to government intervention in market relations. Moyn takes cues here partly from Amanda Anderson’s Bleak Liberalism – on which he lavishes praise, and which he castigates intellectual historians for ignoring. As Anderson wrote in 2011, speaking especially about the Cold War liberals, “it is precisely the belated and disenchanted quality of this liberalism that requires exegesis, so as to better understand it as a response to a historical situation, one that dwells in the existential register of crisis and repair as much as it does in the normative regions of principle and procedure” (Anderson 2011, 216). Trilling is the key but not unique figure for Moyn in this approach to liberalism as a specific form of self-fashioning (or, in this case, garrisoning). Describing the state of things especially after January 6, 2021, Moyn writes that “the liberal tradition had devolved into a torrent of frightened tweets and doomscrolling terror” (174). One might see a narrative of decline here – the existential angst of the Cold War was deeper, more fully felt, than our own – one might also suggest that the coordinates of this catastrophizing have changed too significantly for the comparison to be of any use. Here an analysis of capitalism as it shapes everyday life is very much in order, it will be what allows us to index these changes, and also to think consecutively about what may be possible now and here (wherever that is). That attention to the way capital structures individual experience must be matched, for political effect, to a clear understanding of the limits a somewhat different sort of capitalism puts on the actions of particular states -- goes without saying. 

 

What Moyn wants us to find in the liberal tradition are the resources – and perhaps here it is really just the courage – to embrace collective emancipation as a meaning-making project for ourselves. Or so it seems to me the logic of his position suggests. Asking an intellectual history of a clutch of mid-century intellectuals to help us do this is, after all, a tall order. Really this book is preparatory to such a project – the architectural survey of what ruins remain undertaken before we can build something new.   

Halévy, liberty against democracy

Daniel Halévy’s 1931 Décadence de la liberté begins with the confession or boast that the author has only voted once in his life (in 1919). It ends with a funny story about Orientals. The emperor decides that a particular man will be executed by the best, most skilled executioner there is. This marvelous man arrives, the condemned man kneels and watches the executioner flourish his sword. Very impressive, he says, but will it look so beautiful when my head is cut off? Then, of course, his head falls off, having been sliced off without even his noticing. Perhaps we with our discussions of liberté are like that condemned man, still speculating although the stroke has already fallen and liberté is already dead. How, Halévy wants to know, did we come to such a pass?

Why is worth considering, more than a century after some of these texts were written, how an elitist liberal of Halévy’s stripe—that is, a “pétanist historian” (136)—confronted and diagnosed the new mass politics of the 1920s? There are two things happening in Décadence. The first is Halévy’s approach to the 19^th and 20^th centuries as a historian – how to make sense of them? Then there is the question of liberty, of its failure in the 20^th century, which itself is related to this larger problem of understanding. Fundamentally, for Halévy, there are those who should understand and those who should obey – the 19^th century’s mistake was to commit itself to democracy, which denies this fundamental truth. Authentic liberté, for Halévy, is not democratizable. And yet Halévy sought always to maintain contacts with the left, or at least a certain version of it. Those of us in the 21^st century who are committed both to the value of specialized academic research or expertise and to democratic politics ought to take very seriously the kinds of dilemmas into which Halévy runs.

The book is a product of the 1920s and of Halévy’s longstanding attempt to make sense of the Third Republic. The first of the four chapters, “Vox populi,” was written in 1923, in advance of the elections of 1924. The avowal that Halévy doesn’t vote is followed there by an analysis of the significance and meaning of the major elections that shaped the history of the Third Republic. The aim is to show that, in those cases where it is possible to see the results of the elections as expressing a clear will on the part of the people, that is a sovereign decision – for instance a rejection of the pursuit of empire in Africa and Asia (38-40) – that decision was never respected. There are elections, and then there are those who actually make decisions, but one mustn’t confuse the two. In fact, Halévy argues, there is a pattern to elections, to the distribution of voters, so that we can see elections simply as the reflection or evidence of a social fact (not Halévy’s language). Thus, for instance, although Poincaré is elected after the war as a conservative darling, if we look at the Chamber from which he drew his support, in fact we find (by Halévy’s reconning) 224 conservatives to 370 republicans: “nous connaissons cette proportion, elle existait exactement la même dans la Chambre de 1876” (71, and see 45). Elections are not sovereign actions, they are, Halévy feels, morally degrading and useful only, apparently, to distract the masses and offer a sort of cover for the real forces in French society. Of course the meaninglessness of electoral results leaves us with a problem: “Si l’Etat se disperse, que fera l’historien? Une même gêne atteinte l’action et la recherche” (19). Here is the central problem of the book.  

The middle two chapters examine what Halévy regards as the real forces in French society and politics. Much verbiage must be stripped away to get at this material foundation – in a monarchy the writers must flatter one person, in a democracy they must flatter everyone – but it is not inaccessible to research. In “De re Gallica” Halévy takes his readers on a tour of the genuine achievements of the Third Republic, identifying in each case the – état? corporation? – cité, finally he decides, behind each one (122ff). “Corporation contre corporation, voilà la réalité” (106). The immense new apparatus of social legislation, the primary and secondary schools, but also the universities, the empire – each one has its own real substrate. People, not ideas, although in each case people dominated by a certain way of thinking. Halévy wants to be not a materialist historian, but a realistic one: “L’histoire est moin matérialiste, elle est plus romanesque que nous le pensons aujourd’hui. Le francais électeur était hostile à l'aventure coloniale ; mais le francais lecteur de journal la suivait avec faveur. Dans la politique si ennuyeuse de la Troisième République, elle seule n'était pas ennuyeuse » (113).

The fascinating third chapter, “Clio aux enfers” turns its attention to the police. Halévy is interested in this first of all because he is interested in the occult forces that in fact govern politics, and the police are almost definitionally occult. Those in opposition may always criticize the way those in power use the police, but all governments, once in power, love the police. And it is a deep channel, we might say, through which despotism can enter into the regular practices of government. Halévy says that he has himself witnessed police agents provocateurs at work (in 1893), trying to gin up a riot useful to the government. And Halévy expresses skepticism about the number of suicides that take place in jail cells – from colonel Henry during the Dreyfus Affair to the more recent past. Second because, from the perspective of the late 1920s, he is interested in places from which popular authority might derive – in short, if there is to be a dictator in France, where will it come from? Perhaps the police. Perhaps specifically Jean Chiappe, who is popular, who knows himself to be popular? Halévy, it’s important to remember, is after all a defender of liberté, but one who rejects its identification with the practices of parliamentary democracy: “La France est trop pénétrée, trop imbibé aussi, d’idées et de préjugés démocratiques pour qu’un fascisme y puisse réussir. Pourtant le malaise existe, et la recherche et le désir d’une réaction autoritaire » (187). He’s interested in the fascist solution because, indeed, he accepts that there is a profound problem to which it may be the answer. As distrustful as he is of the police – what ought to be a service, become a power – still it is worth considering as a solution to the problem of the masses. 

Where are the beginnings of liberalism? Do we see them already in Montesquieu or Locke, that is in the 17^th or 18^th century, or do we understand liberalism rather as fundamentally a response to the new problems posed by the French Revolution – that is when the word emerged, but perhaps the thing itself is older? Halévy speaks of course of liberté rather than liberalism. For him the 18^th century was the century of freedom, where the forms of life available were most varied, even if this freedom was limited to a relatively small part of the population. He quotes d’Alembert from the Encyclopédie to the effect that the world obeys laws that can be understood, and that freedom is to be found through understanding the real laws that really govern the world. This is about physics, but it’s a lucid statement of a fundamental Enlightenment politics. The great gambit of the 19^th century, he thinks, was the extension of liberté of understanding to the whole of the people. Parliament, Halévy suggests, is a basically 18^th century institution – a group of educated men will sit together and by talking matters out arrive at a satisfactory solution. Inasmuch as we should see most of 19^th century French history as a Restoration, this extends deep into the century. Again Halévy says that anyone in the chamber of 1825 would feel at home in that of 1875 – he would see the sons of men he knew well, and even a few familiar faces (Adolphe Thiers, mainly).   

By 1925, we are in another world. Parliament is no longer supposed to understand. The central metaphor of this chapter is that parliament is like an electrical system, but through which social obligations flow. It works fine at moderate levels, but when emergencies arrive, “les plombs saute” – the breakers flip, and a dictatorship is required. This is not Schmittian decisionism, although one must imagine that Schmitt read Halévy and perhaps Halévy read Schmitt.   

Generally, people are no longer supposed to understand, only to obey. This is a tendency Halévy identifies everywhere in his contemporary society. Parliament of course is no longer a place for understanding and debate, to suggest that is what deputies do is a joke (205ff). The newspapers – that other great institution oof 19^th century liberal civilization – are also no longer plausibly described as tools for understanding. Halévy traces the consequences of the discovery, during the Dreyfus Affair, that papers would do better if they simply ignored what was happening politically and focused on the fait divers, together with the usefulness to the powerful and wealthy of owning papers: “L’ancienne presse fourniessait de réflexions et de documents une élite libérale ; la nouvelle fournit de lecture, de papier, un publique qui se laisse faire » -- the presse d’information today conveys its facts with colorful pictures and as few words as possible, like a book for small children just learning to read (216). The substrate of liberal society no longer exists.  And new technologies only make things worse. Radio and film are new media that, far from emancipating or democratizing knowledge, are simply and obviously in need of careful control by authority. The contrast here is with the theater which, despite the many attempts of the French state to control it in the 19^th century, is essentially impossible to censor because so much of the meaning of the thing inheres not in the words themselves but arrives in the moment of performance, as a sort of aleatory bargain or wager between the audience and the performers (225-27).

There is a sort of technical obligation to simply carrying out the instructions one receives. This isn’t like the mysteries of the ancient world, it is simple obscurity. The factory worker does not stand in awe before the work he is obliged to do without understanding it, his hands simply have to obey. The engineer may seem to be more in charge, but here too much of what he does, Halévy says, is governed by formula from mathematical physics that he does not really understand (233). And in just the same way, high finance appears as outside of all discussion. The settlement of 1919 was not worked out by politicians, rather it was presented as fiat by the financiers: “les décisions de la Haute Banque, comme celles de la science, ne se discutent pas » (236). Human being, man himself, Halévy says, is simply overcome by all this. The dream of understanding and control – which really is of ancient Greek vintage as well as finding expression among the encyclopedistes – is snuffed out. And, Halévy writes, “L’homme qui avait espéré d’être libre, se trouve dépossédé. L’émancipation est manquée, toutes les classes de l’ancienne humanité tombent ensemble, prises aux rets d’un vainqueur invisible” (233). It is difficult not to see here a different and a conservative version of the sort of critique of modern society under capitalism that one finds in The Dialectic of Enlightenment, but with some important differences. First of all, of course, there is the question of the invisibility of this new tyrant. It is clearly, one wants to say, capitalism. But Halévy himself would say that this is not adequate, this is to conjure up an enemy that one cannot really explain, which acts everywhere and isn’t in any one particular place.

Another difference between later critical theorists and Halévy is that he writes in 1930, before the war, before the definitive arrival of Nazism. He is of course intensely interested in the new tyrannies – as his brother Elie called them – which for him are the Soviets and the Fascists. Halévy accepts or at least airs the suggestion that, in France, one possible nucleus of fascism would be the revolutionary syndicalists, especially the more aggressively antidemocratic among them. But he thinks the French are basically too libertarian, and too democratic, to turn in this direction. Halévy accepts the idea, which he presents as coming from a newspaper report – that the success of the National Socialists in Germany is due not really to any of the specific things they say or do, but generally to their capacity to convince people that they will allow Germans to take back control of their country. They name and promise to destroy what had previously seemed a series of more or less anonymous tyrants. This is a return of sovereignty – which, after all, even Halévy understands, is a fantasy – but a powerful one.

Halévy has his own fantasy of sovereignty. This we can see in the line, quoted above: “Si l’Etat se disperse, que fera l’historien? Une même gêne atteinte l’action et la recherche” (19). This is a fantasy not of political autonomy, but rather of a natural object for a history of politics. Halévy as a historian wants to be able to explain, and he wants to be able to explain not a natural process (that would be too materialist) but a human one, which can only mean a process of rational purposive action. Yet is there such a thing in the political realm? As a member of the literati he wants to be able not only to express himself, but to do so in a way that will carry some weight. He wants his own rational discourse to matter in the political realm. He wants to escape the cités that he identifies as French political life into mere inter-corporate competition. He would not be satisfied with the sort of shallow influence that he achieved (172-73) with his late work on the acceleration of history. The natural historical object that he wants is a political realm in which his speech would be effective.  

My own suggestion is that this dissatisfaction ought to be a warning to those historians who today wish to assert their own expertise in public as expertise that ought to be compelling in itself. Halévy ultimately managed his own dissatisfaction by simply rejecting democracy in either its revolutionary or its liberal parliamentary forms. This is a standing temptation and therefore a reason to attend, in the mode of self-reflection, to anti-democratic liberalisms of the past.

Computer games & history

The American Historical Review is now taking an interest in games. In the most recent issue, Andrew Denning provides “an autoethnographic journey through recent presentations of the Nazi era in video games” (182). This essay, together with a three-review subsection on Assassin’s Creed games, might be taken as an official entrance of historical game studies into the profession. The attention is merited, but the questions asked, it seems to me, are not always the right ones.

Andrew Chapman, who is among the scholars who has done the most to constitute historical game studies into a field, last month posted an introductory essay for the new Historical Games Network. Historical truth will be the theme for this forum’s opening quarter. One point of Chapman’s short text is to re-assert the usefulness of the fundamental observation made by defenders of postmodernism in history – and Chapman looks here especially to Alan Munslow and Robert Rosenstone and Rethinking History – that, minimally, history is not just facts. Indeed not! As Chapman points out, this is an old observation. Arguably it has by now been so fully assimilated into professional historical practice that what is interesting is not whether or not scholars acknowledge the existence of something other than facts, but what exactly they think that other stuff is. Chapman here focuses on the point that any plausible notion of historical truth admits at least a place for fiction. This opens the way to discussing games, which must be, in some sense, fictions. Now, Chapman is in this instance simply putting in a plea for scholars to take seriously the fact that “these games are still out there doing some kind of work in the world by communicating through historical imagery, narratives and ideas.” Very few people, at this point, would disagree. But – should the games “out there” be hunted down and brought to justice for their historical crimes? Or should we be glad they are out in the world? Are they doing work we historians cannot or will not do? Perhaps the AHR can help us decide.  

 

Denning’s main object is the new Wolfenstein games, reboots of the OG FPS, which now are set in an alternate future-past in which the Nazis won. Why exactly games are so interested in these alternative future-pasts – famous other examples include the Bioshock and Fallout series – is worth considering under the rubric of postmodernism and the historical transformation it names. In any case, Denning notes—as Eugen Pfister for instance has as well—that Wolfenstein manages to have much more to say about the Holocaust than WW2 games like Call of Duty that might otherwise be thought to be much more “realistic,” a descriptor that here is genuinely obscene. For Denning it is not really the plot of Wolfenstein that does interesting historical work (so much for the narrative turn of historiography). It is rather what we might call the game’s worldbuilding. Perhaps we need to pervert the Barthesian reality effect into a historiographic effect to name this. That in the game’s world the Nazis found eager allies in the KKK, for instance, implies an important historical point about the nature of white supremacy in the USA. But of course the game also reproduces fairly appalling stereotypes, from the sexually deviant SS-Woman all the way to affirming the existence of globe-spanning ancient Jewish conspiracies (189). If reality effects work on any reader, the historiography effect requires a historian to interpret it, to guide the player as to which vulgarization and brutality ought to be taken seriously, and which not.

 

The Nazis of course are a privileged object. Denning, whose footnotes indeed contain a whole syllabus in historical game studies, is right to point out the dangers here. “The mechanics of video games, the details of alternate history, and the obsessions of popular history reinforce one another. The public fascination with these subjects, and the public’s desire to comprehend the minutiae of military uniforms, the atrocities in prisoner-of-war camps, and the intimate details of history’s heroes and villains, can teeter on the edge of fetishization” (192). What would be a critical, rather than a fetishistic, gamic representation of National Socialism? Denning’s goal is to point to moments of such critique in Wolfenstein, but it’s difficult to know how to achieve this in a more durable way. Certainly it does not have to do with the energy invested in the simulation. Arguably developers of games like Call of Duty shy away from complex depictions of Nazis precisely because the meaning of the game is not in the developer’s hands. It is in fact extremely difficult – and perhaps Wolfenstein succeeds in this? – to build a game involving Nazis that cannot be repurposed into something pro-Nazi. The tortured history of Hearts of Iron modding communities suggests that this is the case.

 

Denning grasps the basic problem here, which throws us back to a form of historical thinking that is modernist rather than postmodernist. The historical realities to which games refer, Denning writes, are

 

always already politicized when the public encounters the subject in publications and classrooms…Video games are forms of digital history and public history…that shape public understanding before and oftentimes in lieu of our [historians’] input. If we criticize video games for placing entertainment and aesthetics over analysis and significance, we ignore an influential medium in the creation of public knowledge of the past and perpetuate a false division between (serious) work and (juvenile) play (196).

 

Denning wants historians to embrace the pedagogical possibilities afforded by the play of these games – experiences that, at least properly framed, lead to good questions about the historical past. Denning of course does not in fact wish to reject the distinction between serious work and juvenile play – the Geertzian references are not really helpful:  

 

It is not our task to separate serious historical work from frivolous historical play; our task is instead to explore the potential of deep play while encouraging the critical thinking and analytical tools that will inspire broad play…When students play with history through the eyes of first-person avatars and interact with virtual historical worlds, they build knowledge through experience and share their creations with one another and the world. Recognizing the potential of historical play, let’s join in the fun (198).

 

Indeed rather than censoriously rejecting frivolity, let us encourage broadness rather than narrowness and deepness rather than shallowness. Well, sure. Still the point here is that historical pedagogy will be successful when students get a critical distance from their games, are able to pause and analyze the cultural logics in which they are so eagerly immersing themselves. This is a worthy goal, and it should of course be pursued in terms of games as well as movies, television, media in general. But what is the specificity here of the game? It seems to me no more plausible that historians will be able to go meet the youth—or, really, just people in general—where they are in this than in any other case.

 

It is worth paying attention at least to the ways digital games shape memory and historical consciousness. That is a minimal position. Constitutively, indeed, games are fictional. Since they require the agency of the player, they cannot be a mimetic representation of a past that we perhaps admit is, even if unavailable, in itself fixed.

 

But of course our evidence of the past is not fixed. This is Abe Gibson’s concern in a May 17th column in Perspectives about the “deepfake” phenomenon. It is getting easier to manipulate images, and that means that the vast numbers of ‘historical’ images online are suspect not only because of context collapse. This is of course also not a totally new thing, but the ease with which it can be done is new. DeepNostalgia allows you to animate, in a limited way, a still photograph. Is this a charming gimmick? Does anyone actually want to see their dead grandmother re-animated in this way? Sometimes digital manipulation of photographs or old images leads to no more than an amusing embarrassment; but also in more insidious forms they can be a profound moral violation. Gibson admits the usefulness of these in enlivening history – movement, we learn, even uncanny, is life – but puts such fakes rather in the context of other dangerous falsifications, for instance the Protocols of the Elders of Zion.  

 

Surely very few people, when they are playing a game, think they are seeing real footage for instance of Ronald Reagan giving a black ops hit squad “whatever they want” to “take out” a terrorist, however realistically the Gipper is animated. Some of the pleasure of the thing is in the conscious mixture of historical (real) footage of the politician and this fictional (false) animation. But, just as surely, whatever the politics of the game, for many more people, this little snippet of historicity contributes to what we might call the Reagan myth. He was just the sort of strong president who would have ordered the hard choice made, we can imagine. We are very much on the unstable terrain of the sense of things that people get from their exposure to contemporary media. Here we have the kind of thing that worries Gibson – not, perhaps, a weirdly animated photograph of Lenin belting out a Britney Spears hits from the late 1990s, but what about politician of your choice with Jeffrey Epstein? Or, in one of Gibson’s examples, a video of Barack Obama calling Donald Trump a dipshit? Any such image or set of images can be debunked, but that takes time and investment. The damage will already be done. Truth decay, as Gibson writes, will already have taken place. Gibson does not sound very confident that the historical profession has any real response to such deepfakes. He even suggests a return to a sort of authority of archival experience; it is hard to believe that this time, on this occasion, after everything, expertise will save us.  

 

Together with Denning’s longer essay the AHR has a section of three short reviews of Assassin’s Creed games. The review editor justifies this in terms of public perception and understanding of history – “For good or for ill, many young people receive their initial impression of historical epochs, characters, and events in this visually compelling ludic format, and historians should pay attention to these virtual renderings of the past” (214). That is, this is where the undergraduates are getting their ideas about history, so we should know about it. As Michael Hattem writes about AC:III, the game “must be understood as an expression of popular culture and as a product of the cultural memory of the Revolution.” On this basis, Hattem seems pleased that the game does not take sides in the American Revolution – avoiding a good vs evil representation of the conflict, and that the game represents the everyday experience of common people (through architecture and NPCs, mainly). Thus, “the game reflects the historiographical efforts of the New Left, neo-Progressive, and more recent “inclusion school” historians not only in its depiction but in its foregrounding of the racial and ethnic diversity of the colonies in this period.” Ultimately, for Hattem, the game brings “the spirit of recent academic scholarship” the “collective memory” of the Revolution in a way much superior to Hamilton. We are in the presence again of a historiography effect.

 

There is however an interpretive divergence between Hattem and Julien Bazile’s review of Assassin’s Creed: Freedom Cry. Hattem reads the conflicting personal motivations of the main character, Conner, as a historiographic intervention, writing that they give the game “a greater degree of contingency than one might expect in a game about a historical event for which the outcome is known.” For Bazile, in contrast, because of “the fundamentally interactive nature of the video game medium, the character design cannot give the player anybody else to control but a hero.” That a hero should have conflicted motives is not especially interesting – what matters is rather that, almost by generic necessity, an individual agent is setting events in motion.

 

Many commentators have noted that Freedom Cry at least puts the player into the shoes – let us not raise too many questions by saying the skin! – of a subaltern figure. (Especially useful here is Alyssa Sepinwall’s discussion of the game alongside earlier games thematizing slave resistance designed by Muriel Tramis and written by Patrick Chamoiseau). Yet the subaltern playable in Assassin’s Creed is exceptional:

 

Freedom Cry’s history is one of touristic exploration punctuated by bursts of violent liberation. The game strongly suggests that Adéwalé’s commitment to the Maroons led him to plant the seeds of the Haitian revolution (1791–1804), the first largely successful slave revolution. That is to say, without the protagonist—and through him, the player’s—intervention, there wouldn’t be a savior enabling the insurgents to make history by giving birth to the first Black republic. While being a beautifully crafted and engaging game, Freedom Cry is also a great example of the historiographical implications of video game design. In the writing of history, whether in academia or in video games, the risk of colonialism remains real.

 

Games, it has recently been argued, essentially involve shaping agency, staging specific kinds of agency. There has been a temptation in historical game studies – going back it seems to me to Uricchio’s classic article on this subject – to conflate player agency and the idea of the contingent or indeterminate or unknowable in history. This I think is the result of too narrow a reading of the claim that history is narrative. The logic goes like this: if history is narrative and games are sort of narratives that nonetheless demand the agency of the player, then games are historical narratives that foreground contingency within limits, undecidability, and so on. Yet this cuts both ways! We have Hattem praising contingency in the US case for very much the same reason that Bazile warns of subtle colonialism, through the agency of the player, in the Haitian one. We are back to the “always already political” observation Denning made about representations of Nazis in games.

 

The issue is neither novel nor pedagogical. History is political because it is about who we are. Hence the anxieties over multiplicity, instability, contingency. So the interesting question is not whether or not games can be used in the classroom or have cultural significance – of course sometimes yes in both cases – but rather, as has been asked many times of other forms of historical representation, what kinds of politics do they allow? If games work in the medium of agency, and if historical games are necessarily political ones, then what kinds of collective action, what modes of living together, are games capable of helping us to imagine? What possibilities do games foreclose? What new subjects do they allow us to become? 

Reading Péguy

Some people—even Anglophones—do still read Charles Péguy. Even write about him. Antoine Compagnon champions him, which is perhaps enough to locate Péguy in the contemporary field. Although see here. And why people do not read him is perhaps obvious. He’s so Catholic, a mystical nationalist—practically a fascist, it will be said, or a reactionary or conservative antimodernist, others will say. Then there is also the prose itself, the form, the problematic of argument and engagement, which is what most interests me here. When we say “the prose itself,” though, maybe the most serious problem has already been dodged. Péguy is above all a writer among other writers, a person among others in a certain place and time, intensely of his own place and time, wanting more than anything, I think, to make his own writing of and for his place and time.

I’m looking at Péguy at this particular moment because I have been running across (to me) surprising references to Péguy in the interwar. Walter Benjamin admired and read Péguy. Just after the First World War. Lines from Péguy serve as a mutually-recognizable badge of Frenchness in Marc Bloch’s narrative of French collapse in the next war, Étrange défait. At much he same moment as Bloch was writing, Aimé Césaire adopted and adapted Péguy in his own journal, Tropiques, under the Vichy-aligned government in Martinique. The appearance of Péguy in Tropiques is sometimes waved off as a sop to the censors, who were likely to find that poet more congenial than some others. But Péguy was, of course, much more than a poet, and it seems to me that one place to begin is by assigning the same weight that he did to the Cahiers de la quainzaine—certainly this aspect of Péguy’s life is relevant to any consideration of what Césaire was up to with the Tropiques. So here too we come back to the point that Péguy—in strong distinction from, for instance, Proust—is difficult to read disconnected from a worldly project, given flesh, as it were, in the Cahiers.

Thinking about all these things, I’ve picked up Notre jeunesse. Together with some of the poems and, perhaps, l’Argent, this is Péguy’s best known and most read work. Few and far between are the historians writing about the Dreyfus Affair who can resist Péguy’s distinction between mystique and politique, or his dictum that the former inevitably is consumed by the latter—to which I’ll return below. But the text itself is a great deal more than that, about 250 pages in a modern edition (I’ve been reading and marking up an old edition in the idées-nrf Gallimard series).

In general terms, we can characterize the text—and I think it is better to call it a text than a book—as belonging to the genre of post-Dreyfus score-settling. It is an explicit response to Daniel Halévy’s Apologie pour notre passé (Péguy doesn’t feel he has anything to apologize for), and the triptych is filled out by Sorel’s Mes raisons du syndicalisme—all three are from 1909-10. Péguy is also concerned to defend himself—to differentiate himself—from the younger intellectuals around the Action français. Jean Variot is just one acquaintance who is called out to by name in the text. It is easy to poke fun at the act of voting, at the “formalité grotesque, universellement menteuse” that is the modern election

Et vous avec le droit de le dire. Mais des hommes ont vécu, des hommes sans nombre, des héros, des martyrs, et je dirai des saints, -- et quant je dis des saints je sais peut-être ce que je dis, -- des hommes ont vécu sans nombre, héroïquement, saintement, des hommes ont souffert, des hommes sont morts, tout un peuple a vécu pour que le dernier des imbéciles aujourd’hui air le droit d’accomplir cette formalité truqué. Ce fut un terrible, un laborieux, un redoubtable enfantement. Ce ne fut pas toujours du dernier grotesque. Et des peuples autour de nous, des peuples entiers, des races travaillent du même enfantement douloureaux, travaillent et luttent pour obtenir cette formalité dérisoire. Ces élections sont dérisoire. Mais il y a eu un temps, mon cher Variot, un temps héroïque où les malades et les mourants se faisaient porter dans des chaises pour aller déposer leur bulletin dans l’urne. Déposer son bulletin dans l’urne, cette expression vous paraît aujourd’hui du dernier grotesque. Elle a été préparée par un siècle d’héroïsme. Et je dirai du plus français. (29-30)

This chunk of text, less than a whole paragraph, which I already feel to have cut off before the main thought really got out, is a fine taste of Péguy’s prose. It is, I want to say, oratorical, as though it is a formal address that simply goes on for days. Péguy wants to defend the republican tradition, but he wants to defend it in its heroism. Indeed the above passage comes just before the famous sentences on mystique and politique, the most famous of which—“Tout commence en mystique et finit en politique”—is worth putting into its context:

Vous [Variot] nous parlez de la dégradation républicaine, c’est-à-dire, proprement, de la dégradation de la mystique républicaine en politique républicaine. N’y a-t-il pas eu, n’y a-t-il pas d’autres dégradations. Tout commence en mystique et finit en politique. Tout commence par la mystique, par une mystique, par sa (propre) mystique et tout finit par de la politique. (31)

The point, Péguy goes in to say, is not that a particular politique has triumphed, but rather to figure out how what is essential to each particular mystique may be preserved from generalized politicization (not his word).

Péguy repeats many times that “we are heroes” (cf 190). The first person plural here mostly refers to the subscribers to the Cahiers (although see p 99 for Louis Louis-Dreyfus unsubscribing himself). The Affair itself as a mystique was “une culmination, un recoupement en culmination de trois mysticismes au moins: juif, chrétien, français” (73). And he goes on, in one of many extraordinary statements about the “cahiers”:

Je suis en mesure d’affirmer que tous les mystiques dreyfusistes sont demeurés mystiques, sont demeurés dreyfusistes, sont demeurés les mains pures. Je le sais, j’en ai la liste aux cahiers. Je veux dire que tout ce qu’il y avait de mystique, de fidèle, de croyant dans le dreyfisisme c’est réfugié, s’est recueilli aux cahiers, dès le principe et toujours... (73-74)

But the real hero of the text is certainly Bernard Lazare. And the villain, the perfect embodiment of politique, is Jean Jaurès. I do not want to try to untangle the relations and events involved here—the apparent betrayals, the hysterical fidelities, all that. There are a number of monumental studies on the Cahiers to consult, and many involved, after Péguy’s death in the war, wrote about their relationship with him (Romain Rolland, for instance, and Daniel Halévy). But if we must set out a social location, this is it: on the outside, happily on the outside. 

Péguy is, certainly, vocally anti-modern, and against what he identifies as modernisme in the Church, a tendency he defines, I get the sense, much more loosely and broadly than is usually done, as the mechanism that transforms mystique into politique within christianity. His socialism, too, is anti-modern, siding we might say with William Morris rather than Edward Bellamy (156, 167)--although he knew more than a little about Marx and German socialism, having learned both from Sorel and Charles Andler. And this critique of modernity is one route by which he attacks the Action français. They are decidedly modern, decidedly intellectualist, precisely what they claim to attack (193-4). And, more generally, “Les antisemites sont beacoup trop moderne” (209). The antisemites, Péguy goes on to say, don’t even know Jews. The divide between the wealthy and the poor is so great, that any difference in general between Jews and non-Jews is immaterial beside it. In particular the antisemites, at least their propagandists, are themselves wealthy and imagine all Jews to also be wealthy. “Nous qui sommes pauvres, comme par hasard nous connaissons un très grand nombre des Juifs pauvres, et même misérables” (205). The betrayals of the Dreyfus Affair have ruined an number of these lives. And, with Bernard Lazare, Péguy has learned to read the news, to read about pogroms in the east, to read about refugees betrayed by various states. Jaurès is here the great betrayer (with Hervé as a sort of familiar). Again I don’t want to go into the details of this, but will rather point to the extraordinary five pages in which Péguy, having laid out his attacks on the socialist leader, ventriloquizes Jaurès’ response: “Jaurès ici intervient, au débat, et se défend. Si je reste avec Hervé, dit-il, dans le même parti, si j’y suis resté...” (182-186).

Péguy is where we should look, his writing is what we should understand, if we want to understand what it is to take public language as morally serious. Péguy really believes in the moral consequences of public speech, of logical failures, of one’s alliances, their purity. More than that, the torrential quality of his writing, its constant repetitions and self-references, perform a sense of the weight of the act. I don’t know if there is an archive, if there are manuscripts for Péguy’s writing. But it is hard to imagine that these sentences were re-written many times. They are too earnest in their translation of the act of intelligence itself, of esprit made physical in the text. The final pages assert that the only motive for “our” action—and here, finally, we get a definition of sorts for mystique—is the pursuit of freedom, especially freedom of conscience or mind. Péguy then considers the AF’s orthography, for instance, mocking the republic by referring to Respubliquains. Péguy rejects this, for a number of reasons but especially because, “on ne refonde aucune culture sur la dérision et la dérision et le sarcasme et l’injure sont des barbarie. Ils sont même des barbarismes. On ne fonde, on ne refonde, on ne restaure, on resititue rien sur la dérision” (251-252). Finally, Péguy recounts Variot, or some other AF cadre, asserting during one of the famous Thursdays that “Nous serions prêts à mourir pour le roi, pour le rétablisement de notre roi”—this, he says, is something. And it merited a response from another, Michel Arnauld, who “interrompit, conclut presque brusquement: Tout cela c’est très bien parce qu’ils ne sont qu’une menace imprécise et théorique. Mais le jour où ils deviendraient une menace réelle ils verraient ce que nous sommes encore capables de faire pour la République, tout le monde comprit qu’enfin on venait de dire quelque chose” (254).

Much could be said about the distinctions Péguy draws, the theory of moral force that he elaborates, his understanding of the Third Republic, the kind of socialism, the kind of nationalism, that he unfolds in these pages. His approach to antisemitism, his way of thinking about Jewishness and Frenchness I think would be especially interesting to untangle. Certainly his own death—shot in the forehead in September 1914—gives a certain taste to the above declaration (which might as well be Péguy’s own) of willingness to die for the Republic in 1910. It seems to me, though that it is not so much the death as the desire “enfin...de dire quelque chose” that should really draw our attention today. The emphasis should be on the dire, and we should understand, like Péguy, that one cannot speak except among other people. So, finally, I want to try to think through Péguy about public speech, public thought, and the conflation of—overlap between—speech and action in what is taken to be a defective or failing democratic society. Much separates us from Péguy, but not perhaps as much as we would like.