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Editors: Jonathan Crary, Michel Feher, Hal Foster, Sanford Kwinter Special Editor of this Issue: Michel Feher Associate Editors of this Issue: Ramona Naddaff, Nadia Tazi Managing Editor: Ramona Naddaff Designer: Bruce Mau Translation Editor: Siri Hustvedt Translations: Anna Cancogni, Lydia Davis, Roger Friedman, Janet Lloyd, Ughetta Lubin, Ralph Manheim, Sarah Matthews, Ian Patterson, Alyson Waters. Editorial Assistance: Judith Aminoff, Ted Byfield, Reynolds Childress, Barbara Czarnecki, Deborah Drier, Meighan Gale, Freya Godard, Astrid Hustvedt, Mike Taylor, Nancy Worman. Production: Steven Bock, John Calvelli, Alison Hahn, Anita Matusevics, Damian McShane, Susan Meggs-Becker, Greg Van Alstyne, Dorothy Vreeker. Picture Research: CLAMI (Christine de Coninck, Anne Mensior) and Marie-Helene Agueros. Special thanks to: Archie, Ron Date, Mark Elvin, Mickey Fear, Madeleine Feher, Albert Fuss, Marvin Green, Judith Gurewich, Krista Hinds, Jonathan Joaquin, Barbara Kerr, Gus Kiley, Kerri Kwinter, Rick Lambert, G.E.R. Lloyd, Janet Lloyd, Sandra Naddaff, Lisa Naftolin, Mary Picone, John Scinocco, Alice Sindzingre, MikeTibre. Typesetting by Canadian Composition. Film Preparation by P.B.C. Lithoprep. Printed in Canada by Provincial Graphics. Distributed by The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts and London, England. We gratefully acknowledge translation assistance provided for this volume by the French Ministry of Culture and Communication. © 1989 Urzone, Inc. ZONE 611 Broadway Suite 838 New York, NY 10012 All rights reserved. First printing February, 1989 Second printing April, 1990 No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, microfilming, recording, or otherwise (except for that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press) without written permission from the Publisher. ISSN: 0887-0411 ISBN: 0-942299-26-4 (cloth) ISBN: 0-942299-24-8 (paper) Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 88-051439
P a u l V a l e r y , e t c h e d e n g r a v i n g . F r o m P a u l V a l e r y , Album d e Monsieur Teste ( P a r i s , Bibliotheque nationale).
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APPENDIX
Some Simple Reflections on the Body
Paul Valery
On the B l o o d and Us
1. How we can kill the living creature by giving it gratis (and in the best quality) what is ordinarily supplied by its organism and by its own acts in its environment. 2. W h e n I look at a living thing, what I see and what first occupies my attention is this mass, all of a piece, which moves, bends, runs, jumps, flies or swims; which howls, speaks, sings, performs its many acts, takes on many appearances, assumes a Multiplicity of selves, wreaks its havoc, does its work, in an environment which accepts it and from which it is inseparable. This thing, with its discontinuous activity, its spontaneous movements springing suddenly from a state of immobility to which they always return, is curiously contrived: we note that the visible organs of propulsion, legs, feet, wings, occupy a considerable part of the creature's total bulk; and we discover later on that the rest of its volume is made up of organs of internal work, some of whose outward effects we have witnessed. It would seem as though the creature's whole life span were the effect of this work, as though its entire production, visible or not, were expended in feeding the insatiable consumer of matter that the creature itself is. 3. But I also know that what the system of implements which is almost the whole animal is continuously looking for or manufacturing might be provided by other means than his own. If his blood were supplied directly, from the outside, with the substances whose preparation now requires so many coordinated industries and so elaborate a directing apparatus, if all this equipment and its functioning, now useless, were eliminated, it seems likely that life might still be sustained, perhaps more efficiently and reliably than it is by the natural mechanisms. An artificial mode of 395
conversation would first do away with the organs of relation: the senses, the muscles, the instincts, the "psyche"; and then with the grinders, mixers, conveyors, filters, tubes, burners and radiators, in short, the whole production line that is put to work when the senses give the signal. 4. The whole organism has no other function than the renewal of its blood — except perhaps the maintenance and service of the reproductive equipment, a very special, almost lateral function, which is often suppressed without vital damage. But the blood itself has no other use than to restore to the apparatus which regenerates it what that apparatus needs in order to function. The body makes blood that makes body that makes blood Actually all the body's acts are cyclic in relation to the body itself, for they break down into comings and goings, contractions and decontractions, while the blood itself pursues its cyclic journey around its world of flesh, the continuous circumnavigation wherein life consists. 5. There is something absurd about this monotonous system of mutual conservation. It shocks the mind, which abhors repetition and even ceases to understand or to pay attention once it has grasped what it calls a "law"; for a law is what does away with "eternal r e t u r n s . " . . . 6. Yet we observe two escapes from the body's life cycle: on the one hand, the body inevitably wears out; on the other hand, it reproduces itself. 7. To go back for a m o m e n t : if we suppose that the blood is regenerated directly from the outside, that the creature is preserved as today we preserve bits of tissue in an appropriate medium and temperature, in this case the animal will be reduced to nothing, or perhaps to a single " c e l l " endowed with some sort of elementary life. O n c e what we call sensibility and action have been done away with, the mind must disappear along with what permits and compels it to emerge, for it has no other function indispensable to life than to cope with the variety, uncertainty, unexpectedness of circumstances. It devises actions which respond to the formless or the m u l t i f o r m . But w h e r e unconscious operations or reflex (that is, u n i f o r m )
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responses suffice, the mind is superfluous. At most it will disturb or prevent the proper functioning of the organism. This it does not fail to do, and there are famous examples to show that it is sometimes quite proud of the fact. 8. Accordingly, such products of life as memory, thought, feeling, invention, etc., with all the quality of the marvelous we attribute to them, are inevitably reduced to the rank of accessories. All our intellectual passions, our superfluous actions, our strivings to know or to create, a m o u n t to developments, impossible to calculate in advance, of a function that tended originally to do no more than compensate for t h e inadequacy or ambiguity of o u r i m m e d i a t e p e r c e p t i o n s and to relieve the resulting indeterminateness. The great variety of species, the amazing diversity of the forms and instruments they manifest, their resources, their many different solutions to the problem of living, suggest that sensibility and conscious thought might have been replaced by entirely different properties rendering the same services. W h a t one species obtains by trial and error, by a kind of statistical m e t h o d , another achieves with the help of a sense that the first does not possess; or e l s e . . . by some internal process akin to "reasoning." 9. I note that our senses provide us with only a bare minimum of hints, which transpose into forms of sensibility only an infinitesimal part of the probable variety and variations of a "world" we can neither conceive nor imagine. 10. To sum up what I have said above: if we divest what we call our life of everything we have considered as replaceable — if its organs, forms, functions are replaced by artificial devices and so relegated to the rank of useless accessories (we are reminded of the cases of atrophy that have occurred in the course of evolution) — life is reduced to nothing or next to nothing; then sensation, feeling, thought, are not essential to it, but mere accidents. There is an example of this: life reduced to nothing but life gives us the embryo, such a paltry thing at the beginning of its career, and sprung from next to nothing — from a germ.
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11. And now one last reflection in the form of a question: In what way is the mind's peculiar activity indispensable to the preservation of life, under circumstances that offer a man the possibility of action? I think it would be interesting to look into this. We should be led no doubt to define the mind as the "power of transforming" its own formations, a power such that, in the face of a situation that cannot be met by simple automatisms and reflexes and therefore calls for the exercise of that power, it seeks to provide the corresponding idea and impulses to action which will ultimately restore the living system to a state in which its resources are again available to it — the state one might call "freedom." Whatever internal combinations, creations, modifications have occurred — the process as a whole will always tend to restore the system to a state of free possibility.
The Problem of the Three B o d i e s
In c o m m o n usage the word " b o d y " responds to several very different needs of expression. O n e might say that each of us in his thought has Three Bodies — at least. Let me explain. The first is the privileged object of which, at each instant, we find ourselves in possession, although our knowledge of it — like everything that is inseparable from the instant — may be extremely variable and subject to illusions. Each of us calls this object My Body; but we give it no name in ourselves, that is to say, in it. We speak of it to others as of a thing that belongs to us; but for us it is not entirely a thing; and it belongs to us a little less than we belong to i t . . . . It is for each of us, in essence, the most important object in the world, standing in opposition to the world, on which, however, it knows itself to be closely dependent. We can say that the world is based on it and exists in reference to it; or just as accurately, with a simple change in the adjustment of our intellectual vision, that the selfsame body is only an infinitely negligible, unstable event in the world. But n e i t h e r the word " o b j e c t " that I have just used n o r t h e word " e v e n t " is appropriate. There is no name to designate our sense of the substance of our presence, our actions and feelings, not only in their actuality, but also in an imminent, deferred or purely potential state — something more r e m o t e and yet less intimate than our secret thoughts: we find in ourselves a capacity for modifications almost as varied as t h e circumstances surrounding us. This My Body obeys or disobeys,
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favors or obstructs our designs; it engenders surprising strengths and weaknesses connected wholly or in part with its perceptible mass, which at times takes on a sudden charge of impulsive energies that make it " a c t " in response to some interior mystery, and at other times seems to b e c o m e the most crushing and immovable weight T h e thing itself is formless: all we know of it by sight is the few mobile parts that are capable of coming within the conspicuous zone of the space which makes up this My Body, a strange, asymmetrical space in which distances are exceptional relations. I have no idea of the spatial relations between "My Forehead" and "My Foot," between "My Knee" and "My B a c k . " . . . This gives rise to strange discoveries. My right hand is generally unaware of my left. To take one hand in the other is to take hold of an object that is not-I. These oddities must play a part in sleep and, if such things as dreams exist, must provide them with infinite combinations. This thing that is so much mine and yet so mysteriously and sometimes — always, in the end — our most redoubtable antagonist, is the most urgent, the most cons t a n t and t h c m o s t variable thing imaginable: for it carries within it all constancy and all variation. Nothing moves before us unless this My Body traces a corresponding modification that follows or imitates the movement perceived; and nothing ceases to move unless some part of it is immobilized. It has no past. The word "past" has no meaning for this My Body which is the present itself, wholly made up of events and impending events. Sometimes certain of its parts or regions make themselves felt, light up, take on an importance before which everything else ceases to be; they dominate the m o m e n t with their incomparable pleasure or pain. Our Second Body is the one which others see, and an approximation of which confronts us in the mirror or in portraits. It is the body which has a form and is apprehended by the arts, the body on which materials, ornaments, armor sit, which love sees or wants to see, and yearns to touch. It knows no pain, for it reduces pain to a mere grimace. This is the body that was so dear to Narcissus, but that drives many to despair, and is a source of gloom to almost all of us once the time comes when we cannot help admitting that the aged creature in the glass, w h o m we do not accept, stands 399
in some terribly close though incomprehensible relation to ourselves. How can we admit that we are that wreck of a m a n ? . . . But our knowledge of our Second Body goes little farther than the view of a surface. O n e can live without ever having seen oneself, without knowing the color of one's skin; that is the fate of the blind. But life compels none of us to know what is under the relatively unbroken skin of our Second Body. It is worthy of note that the living, thinking, acting man is w i t h o u t knowledge of his inner organization. He is not equipped to know it. Nothing leads him to suspect that he has a liver, a brain, kidneys and the rest: in any event such information would be useless, for under normal conditions he has no means of acting on these organs. All his faculties of action are turned toward the "outside world," so much so that the "outside world" might be defined as what can be affected by our means of action. Everything I see, for example, can be transformed by my movement; I act upon my environment, but by what mechanisms I do not know. Thus there is a Third Body. But it has unity only in our thought, since we know it only for having dissected and dismembered it. To know it is to have reduced it to parts and pieces. It gives off scarlet or whitish liquids, or hyalines, some of t h e m quite viscous. We remove elements of varying sizes, fashioned so as to fit quite exactly in place: sponges, vessels, tubes, fibers, articulated rods Reduced to thin slices or tiny drops, our specimens reveal under t h e microscope corpuscular shapes that resemble nothing at all. We try to decipher these histological cryptograms. We wonder how this fiber produced motive force? And in what way these little asterisms with their fine radicles could have been related to sensation and thought? But what would a Descartes, a Newton, ignorant as they would be of our electromagnetism, make of induction and all the other phenomena discovered since their day, if without explanation we gave them a dynamo to examine, merely describing its effects? They would proceed as we do with a brain: they would take the machine apart, unroll the spools, note the presence of copper, carbons, steel, and in the end admit defeat, acknowledging their inability to guess the workings of this machine which, we have told them, effects the transformations familiar to us all.
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These Three Bodies which I have just claimed for us are necessarily related in a number of ways that it would be highly interesting, though rather arduous, to explore. I prefer at this point to resort to a kind of fantasy. I suggest that each of us has a Fourth Body which I might call the Real Body or equally well the Imaginary Body. Let us consider this body as indivisible from the unknown and unknowable medium intimated by the physicists when they torture the perceptible world and, proceeding by the indirect means of relays within relays, disclose phenomena whose origin they situate far below or above the scope of our senses, our imagination and ultimately of our intellection itself. From this inconceivable medium my Fourth Body is neither more nor less distinct than is a whirlpool from the liquid in which it is formed. (I am entitled, it seems to me, to dispose of the inconceivable as I please.) It is not one of the Three other Bodies, for it is not the My Body, nor the Third which is that of the scientists, since it is made of what they know nothing about And moreover, the mind's knowledge is a product of what this Fourth Body is not. Necessarily and irrevocably everything that is masks for us something that might be But why bring up this utterly fruitless notion here? Simply because an idea, even if thoroughly absurd, is never entirely without value; and an expression, an empty sign, never fails to goad the mind in some way. W h e r e did I get this idea of a Fourth Body? As I was reflecting on the notion of " b o d y " in general, and on my Three Bodies that we have just been discussing, t h e famous p r o b l e m s that have been raised by these t h e m e s arose dimly in t h e half-darkness of my t h o u g h t s . I own that I ordinarily banish t h e m from the most sensitive and urgent point of my attention. I s e l d o m s p e c u l a t e on t h e origin of life and t h e species; I s e l d o m ask myself whether death is a simple change of climate, costume and habits, whether or not the mind is a by-product of the organism; whether our acts can ever be what we call free (though no one has ever managed to say exactly what we mean by that); and so on. It was against this background of timeworn difficulties that my absurd and luminous idea e m e r g e d : "I give t h e n a m e of Fourth Body," I said to myself, " t o t h e
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unknowable o b j e c t , knowledge of which would solve all these problems at one stroke, for it is what they imply." And as a protest arose within m e , t h e Voice of t h e Absurd added: " T h i n k carefully: W h e r e do you e x p e c t to find answers to these philosophical questions? Your images, your abstractions, derive only from the properties and experiences of your Three Bodies. But the first offers you n o t h i n g but m o m e n t s ; t h e second a few visions; and the third, at t h e cost of ruthless dissections and complicated preparations, a mass of figures m o r e indecipherable than Etruscan texts. Your m i n d , w i t h its language, pulverizes, mixes and rearranges all this and f r o m it, by t h e abuse, if you will, of its habitual questionnaire, evolves its notorious problems; b u t it can give t h e m a shadow of meaning only by tacitly presupposing a certain Nonexistence — of w h i c h my Fourth Body is a kind of incarnation."
From " A e s t h e t i c s , " in The Collected Works in English, vol. 13, Bollingen Series 4 5 , Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1964. Translated by Ralph Manheim.
N O T E S TO A S H O R T HISTORY OF BODILY SENSATION
1. Paul Valery, Cahiers (Paris: Pleiade, 1973), vol. 1, p. 1126. 2. Cf. Robert Brain, The Decorated Body (New York: Harper & Row, 1979); Victoria Ebin, The Body Decorated (Thames and Hudson, 1979). 3. Cicero, Academia 2.24. 4. Montaigne, Essais (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1965), p. 587. 5. Aristotle, De anima 3.2. 6. Descartes, Traite des passions de l'ame, in Descartes' Philosophical Writings, trans. Norman Kemp Smith (London: Macmillan, 1953), p. 290. 7. Cf. Georges Gusdorf, Naissance de la conscience romantique au siecle des lumieres (Paris, 1976), pp. 285-316. 8. "Coenaesthesis, dissertatio [ . . . ] quam praeside J.C. Reil, pro gradu doctoris defendit Chr. Friedr. Hubner" (Halle, 1974). 9. On the history of the concept of cenesthesia in the nineteenth century, cf. Jean Starobinski,
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"Le Concept de cénesthésie et les idées neuropsychologiques de Moritz Schiff," Genserus 34 (1977), fasc. 1/2, pp. 2-20. 10. Carl Wernicke, Grundriss der Psychiatrie, 2d ed. (Leipzig, 1906). 11. Ribot, The Diseases of the Personality (Chicago, 1891), p. 5. 12. Ibid., pp. 5-6. 13. Ibid., p. 30. 14. Hippolyte Taine, De l'intelligence, 12th ed. (Paris, 1911), vol. 2, p. 474. 15. Ribot, Diseases of the Personality, pp. 19-20. 16. Ibid., p. 157. 17. Notably in Problèmes de psychologie affective (Paris, 1906), p. 26. 18. Pierre Janet, De l'angoisse à l'extase, 2 vols. (1926; new ed. Paris, 1975), vol. 2, chs. 1 and 2. 19. Janet, De l'angoisse à l'extase, vol. 2, ch. 2, sec. 8, p. 71. 20. Ernest Dupré, Pathologie de l'imagination et de l'émotirité (Paris, 1925), pp. 289-304. 21. Charles Blondel, La conscience morbide (Paris, 1914), p. 264. The quotation refers back to ' Dürkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, trans. J.W. Swain (London, 1915), p. 271. I 22. See, among others, Ted Polhemus, ed., Social Aspects of the Human Body (London: Penguin, 1978); Jonathan Benthall and Ted Polhemus, eds., The Body as a Medium of Expression (London: Allen Lane/Penguin Books, 1975). 23. Blondel, La conscience morbide, pp. 259-60. 24. Ribot, Diseases of the Personality, p. 25. 25. Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation ofDreams, trans. J. Strachey (London, 1955), p. 39. 26. Ibid., p. 226. 27. Ibid., p. 237. 28. Ibid., p. 236. 29. Sigmund Freud, Instincts and Their Vicissitudes, in The Standard Edition of the Complété Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, trans. J. Strachey (London, 1964), vol. 15, p. 120. 30. Ibid., p. 123. 31. Ibid., p. 122. 32. Ibid., pp. 122-3. 33. Paul Schilder, L'Image du corps, trans. F. Gantheret and R Truffert (Paris: Gallimard, 1968). 34. Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness, trans. Hazel E. Barnes (London: Methuen, 1967), p. 338. 35. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, trans. Colin Smith (London: Routledge,
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Kegan & Paul, 1962), p. 101. 36. Richard Sennett, "Le narcissisme et la culture moderne," in Former I'homme, Rencontres Internationales de Geneve (Neuchatel, La Baconniere, 1979), pp. 187-203.
N O T E S T O M O N S I E U R TESTE C O N F R O N T I N G PAIN
1. Paul Valery, Les Cahiers, facsimile ed. (Paris: CNRS, 19S7), vol. 1, p. 4. 2. On the philosophers' and psychologists' interest in this problem, see Georges Poulet, "Bergson: Le theme de la vision panoramique des mourants et la juxtaposition," in L'espace proustien (Paris: Gailimard, 1963), pp. 139-77. 3. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 11. 4. Paul Valery to Albert Thibaudet, 1912, Oeuvres, ed. Jean Hytier, 2 vols. (Paris: Pleiade, 195760), vol. 2, p. 1383. 5. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 1394. 6. Valery, Cahiers, definitive ed., introduced and annotated by Judith Robinson (Paris: Pleiade, 1973-74). A selection of notes, entitled "Soma at CEM," can be found in vol. 1, pp. 1119-49. 7. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 1322. 8. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 810. 9. Paul Valery to Andre Gide, Correspondance: 1890-1942 (Paris: Gailimard, 1955), pp. 272, 275, etc. 10. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 175. 11. Translator's note: In quoting from An Evening with Monsieur Teste, I have used Jackson Mathews's English translation (New York: Knopf, 1947), adapting it as necessary. 12. Henri Balzac, Louis Lambert, eds. Marcel Bouteron and Jean Pommier (Paris: Corti, 1954), p. 82. Valery was very familiar with this work by Balzac, but found some "cheating" in it (Valery to Gide, Correspondance, p. 213). The "Cafe Lambert" mentioned in the last sentence of Teste's monologue is perhaps an allusion to the book! 13. Valery, "Monsieur Teste," in Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 17. 14. Ibid. 15. Ibid., p. 23. 16. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 176. 17. Valery, ibid., vol. 2, p. 364. 18. Ibid., p. 312. 19. Ibid., p. 1324.
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20. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 1381. 21. Ibid., p. 20. 22. Ibid., p. 22. 23. Valery to Gide, Correspondance, p. 281. 24. Ibid., p. 14. 25. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 1, p. 1233. Cf. Cahiers, vol. 2, p. 1350: " W h a t I can do is of the same weariness or strength as my body. My 'soul' begins at the very point where I can't see any more, where 1 can't do anything more 27. Ibid.,vol. 2, p. 65. 28. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 208. 29. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 64. 30. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 33. .31. Valerv. Oeuvres. vol. 2, D. 61. " 26. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 1, p. 1224.
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35. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 69. 36. Ibid., p. 65. 37. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 59. 38. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 65. Valery was to write: "Teste is a mystic and a physicist of the selfconscience — pure and applied" (Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 263). 39. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 1, pp. 354-55. 40. The complete text can be found in Paul Valery, La jeune parque et poemes en prose, ed. Jean Levaillant (Paris: Gailimard, 1974), pp. 45-53, review and note pp. 165-75. Jean Levaillant offers a suggestive reading of "Teste" in Les critiques de notre temps et Valery, intro. J. Bellemin-Noel (Paris, 1971), pp. 88-95. 41. Valery, "Agathe," in Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 45. 42. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 1, p. 1227. 43. 45. Ibid. Ibid.,vo\.2,p.l0. 44. Ibid., p. 40.
14
P a u l V a l e r y , e t c h e d e n g r a v i n g . F r o m P a u l V a l e r y , Album d e Monsieur Teste ( P a r i s , Bibliotheque nationale).
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APPENDIX
Some Simple Reflections on the Body
Paul Valery
On the B l o o d and Us
1. How we can kill the living creature by giving it gratis (and in the best quality) what is ordinarily supplied by its organism and by its own acts in its environment. 2. W h e n I look at a living thing, what I see and what first occupies my attention is this mass, all of a piece, which moves, bends, runs, jumps, flies or swims; which howls, speaks, sings, performs its many acts, takes on many appearances, assumes a Multiplicity of selves, wreaks its havoc, does its work, in an environment which accepts it and from which it is inseparable. This thing, with its discontinuous activity, its spontaneous movements springing suddenly from a state of immobility to which they always return, is curiously contrived: we note that the visible organs of propulsion, legs, feet, wings, occupy a considerable part of the creature's total bulk; and we discover later on that the rest of its volume is made up of organs of internal work, some of whose outward effects we have witnessed. It would seem as though the creature's whole life span were the effect of this work, as though its entire production, visible or not, were expended in feeding the insatiable consumer of matter that the creature itself is. 3. But I also know that what the system of implements which is almost the whole animal is continuously looking for or manufacturing might be provided by other means than his own. If his blood were supplied directly, from the outside, with the substances whose preparation now requires so many coordinated industries and so elaborate a directing apparatus, if all this equipment and its functioning, now useless, were eliminated, it seems likely that life might still be sustained, perhaps more efficiently and reliably than it is by the natural mechanisms. An artificial mode of 395
conversation would first do away with the organs of relation: the senses, the muscles, the instincts, the "psyche"; and then with the grinders, mixers, conveyors, filters, tubes, burners and radiators, in short, the whole production line that is put to work when the senses give the signal. 4. The whole organism has no other function than the renewal of its blood — except perhaps the maintenance and service of the reproductive equipment, a very special, almost lateral function, which is often suppressed without vital damage. But the blood itself has no other use than to restore to the apparatus which regenerates it what that apparatus needs in order to function. The body makes blood that makes body that makes blood Actually all the body's acts are cyclic in relation to the body itself, for they break down into comings and goings, contractions and decontractions, while the blood itself pursues its cyclic journey around its world of flesh, the continuous circumnavigation wherein life consists. 5. There is something absurd about this monotonous system of mutual conservation. It shocks the mind, which abhors repetition and even ceases to understand or to pay attention once it has grasped what it calls a "law"; for a law is what does away with "eternal r e t u r n s . " . . . 6. Yet we observe two escapes from the body's life cycle: on the one hand, the body inevitably wears out; on the other hand, it reproduces itself. 7. To go back for a m o m e n t : if we suppose that the blood is regenerated directly from the outside, that the creature is preserved as today we preserve bits of tissue in an appropriate medium and temperature, in this case the animal will be reduced to nothing, or perhaps to a single " c e l l " endowed with some sort of elementary life. O n c e what we call sensibility and action have been done away with, the mind must disappear along with what permits and compels it to emerge, for it has no other function indispensable to life than to cope with the variety, uncertainty, unexpectedness of circumstances. It devises actions which respond to the formless or the m u l t i f o r m . But w h e r e unconscious operations or reflex (that is, u n i f o r m )
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responses suffice, the mind is superfluous. At most it will disturb or prevent the proper functioning of the organism. This it does not fail to do, and there are famous examples to show that it is sometimes quite proud of the fact. 8. Accordingly, such products of life as memory, thought, feeling, invention, etc., with all the quality of the marvelous we attribute to them, are inevitably reduced to the rank of accessories. All our intellectual passions, our superfluous actions, our strivings to know or to create, a m o u n t to developments, impossible to calculate in advance, of a function that tended originally to do no more than compensate for t h e inadequacy or ambiguity of o u r i m m e d i a t e p e r c e p t i o n s and to relieve the resulting indeterminateness. The great variety of species, the amazing diversity of the forms and instruments they manifest, their resources, their many different solutions to the problem of living, suggest that sensibility and conscious thought might have been replaced by entirely different properties rendering the same services. W h a t one species obtains by trial and error, by a kind of statistical m e t h o d , another achieves with the help of a sense that the first does not possess; or e l s e . . . by some internal process akin to "reasoning." 9. I note that our senses provide us with only a bare minimum of hints, which transpose into forms of sensibility only an infinitesimal part of the probable variety and variations of a "world" we can neither conceive nor imagine. 10. To sum up what I have said above: if we divest what we call our life of everything we have considered as replaceable — if its organs, forms, functions are replaced by artificial devices and so relegated to the rank of useless accessories (we are reminded of the cases of atrophy that have occurred in the course of evolution) — life is reduced to nothing or next to nothing; then sensation, feeling, thought, are not essential to it, but mere accidents. There is an example of this: life reduced to nothing but life gives us the embryo, such a paltry thing at the beginning of its career, and sprung from next to nothing — from a germ.
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11. And now one last reflection in the form of a question: In what way is the mind's peculiar activity indispensable to the preservation of life, under circumstances that offer a man the possibility of action? I think it would be interesting to look into this. We should be led no doubt to define the mind as the "power of transforming" its own formations, a power such that, in the face of a situation that cannot be met by simple automatisms and reflexes and therefore calls for the exercise of that power, it seeks to provide the corresponding idea and impulses to action which will ultimately restore the living system to a state in which its resources are again available to it — the state one might call "freedom." Whatever internal combinations, creations, modifications have occurred — the process as a whole will always tend to restore the system to a state of free possibility.
The Problem of the Three B o d i e s
In c o m m o n usage the word " b o d y " responds to several very different needs of expression. O n e might say that each of us in his thought has Three Bodies — at least. Let me explain. The first is the privileged object of which, at each instant, we find ourselves in possession, although our knowledge of it — like everything that is inseparable from the instant — may be extremely variable and subject to illusions. Each of us calls this object My Body; but we give it no name in ourselves, that is to say, in it. We speak of it to others as of a thing that belongs to us; but for us it is not entirely a thing; and it belongs to us a little less than we belong to i t . . . . It is for each of us, in essence, the most important object in the world, standing in opposition to the world, on which, however, it knows itself to be closely dependent. We can say that the world is based on it and exists in reference to it; or just as accurately, with a simple change in the adjustment of our intellectual vision, that the selfsame body is only an infinitely negligible, unstable event in the world. But n e i t h e r the word " o b j e c t " that I have just used n o r t h e word " e v e n t " is appropriate. There is no name to designate our sense of the substance of our presence, our actions and feelings, not only in their actuality, but also in an imminent, deferred or purely potential state — something more r e m o t e and yet less intimate than our secret thoughts: we find in ourselves a capacity for modifications almost as varied as t h e circumstances surrounding us. This My Body obeys or disobeys,
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favors or obstructs our designs; it engenders surprising strengths and weaknesses connected wholly or in part with its perceptible mass, which at times takes on a sudden charge of impulsive energies that make it " a c t " in response to some interior mystery, and at other times seems to b e c o m e the most crushing and immovable weight T h e thing itself is formless: all we know of it by sight is the few mobile parts that are capable of coming within the conspicuous zone of the space which makes up this My Body, a strange, asymmetrical space in which distances are exceptional relations. I have no idea of the spatial relations between "My Forehead" and "My Foot," between "My Knee" and "My B a c k . " . . . This gives rise to strange discoveries. My right hand is generally unaware of my left. To take one hand in the other is to take hold of an object that is not-I. These oddities must play a part in sleep and, if such things as dreams exist, must provide them with infinite combinations. This thing that is so much mine and yet so mysteriously and sometimes — always, in the end — our most redoubtable antagonist, is the most urgent, the most cons t a n t and t h c m o s t variable thing imaginable: for it carries within it all constancy and all variation. Nothing moves before us unless this My Body traces a corresponding modification that follows or imitates the movement perceived; and nothing ceases to move unless some part of it is immobilized. It has no past. The word "past" has no meaning for this My Body which is the present itself, wholly made up of events and impending events. Sometimes certain of its parts or regions make themselves felt, light up, take on an importance before which everything else ceases to be; they dominate the m o m e n t with their incomparable pleasure or pain. Our Second Body is the one which others see, and an approximation of which confronts us in the mirror or in portraits. It is the body which has a form and is apprehended by the arts, the body on which materials, ornaments, armor sit, which love sees or wants to see, and yearns to touch. It knows no pain, for it reduces pain to a mere grimace. This is the body that was so dear to Narcissus, but that drives many to despair, and is a source of gloom to almost all of us once the time comes when we cannot help admitting that the aged creature in the glass, w h o m we do not accept, stands 399
in some terribly close though incomprehensible relation to ourselves. How can we admit that we are that wreck of a m a n ? . . . But our knowledge of our Second Body goes little farther than the view of a surface. O n e can live without ever having seen oneself, without knowing the color of one's skin; that is the fate of the blind. But life compels none of us to know what is under the relatively unbroken skin of our Second Body. It is worthy of note that the living, thinking, acting man is w i t h o u t knowledge of his inner organization. He is not equipped to know it. Nothing leads him to suspect that he has a liver, a brain, kidneys and the rest: in any event such information would be useless, for under normal conditions he has no means of acting on these organs. All his faculties of action are turned toward the "outside world," so much so that the "outside world" might be defined as what can be affected by our means of action. Everything I see, for example, can be transformed by my movement; I act upon my environment, but by what mechanisms I do not know. Thus there is a Third Body. But it has unity only in our thought, since we know it only for having dissected and dismembered it. To know it is to have reduced it to parts and pieces. It gives off scarlet or whitish liquids, or hyalines, some of t h e m quite viscous. We remove elements of varying sizes, fashioned so as to fit quite exactly in place: sponges, vessels, tubes, fibers, articulated rods Reduced to thin slices or tiny drops, our specimens reveal under t h e microscope corpuscular shapes that resemble nothing at all. We try to decipher these histological cryptograms. We wonder how this fiber produced motive force? And in what way these little asterisms with their fine radicles could have been related to sensation and thought? But what would a Descartes, a Newton, ignorant as they would be of our electromagnetism, make of induction and all the other phenomena discovered since their day, if without explanation we gave them a dynamo to examine, merely describing its effects? They would proceed as we do with a brain: they would take the machine apart, unroll the spools, note the presence of copper, carbons, steel, and in the end admit defeat, acknowledging their inability to guess the workings of this machine which, we have told them, effects the transformations familiar to us all.
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These Three Bodies which I have just claimed for us are necessarily related in a number of ways that it would be highly interesting, though rather arduous, to explore. I prefer at this point to resort to a kind of fantasy. I suggest that each of us has a Fourth Body which I might call the Real Body or equally well the Imaginary Body. Let us consider this body as indivisible from the unknown and unknowable medium intimated by the physicists when they torture the perceptible world and, proceeding by the indirect means of relays within relays, disclose phenomena whose origin they situate far below or above the scope of our senses, our imagination and ultimately of our intellection itself. From this inconceivable medium my Fourth Body is neither more nor less distinct than is a whirlpool from the liquid in which it is formed. (I am entitled, it seems to me, to dispose of the inconceivable as I please.) It is not one of the Three other Bodies, for it is not the My Body, nor the Third which is that of the scientists, since it is made of what they know nothing about And moreover, the mind's knowledge is a product of what this Fourth Body is not. Necessarily and irrevocably everything that is masks for us something that might be But why bring up this utterly fruitless notion here? Simply because an idea, even if thoroughly absurd, is never entirely without value; and an expression, an empty sign, never fails to goad the mind in some way. W h e r e did I get this idea of a Fourth Body? As I was reflecting on the notion of " b o d y " in general, and on my Three Bodies that we have just been discussing, t h e famous p r o b l e m s that have been raised by these t h e m e s arose dimly in t h e half-darkness of my t h o u g h t s . I own that I ordinarily banish t h e m from the most sensitive and urgent point of my attention. I s e l d o m s p e c u l a t e on t h e origin of life and t h e species; I s e l d o m ask myself whether death is a simple change of climate, costume and habits, whether or not the mind is a by-product of the organism; whether our acts can ever be what we call free (though no one has ever managed to say exactly what we mean by that); and so on. It was against this background of timeworn difficulties that my absurd and luminous idea e m e r g e d : "I give t h e n a m e of Fourth Body," I said to myself, " t o t h e
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unknowable o b j e c t , knowledge of which would solve all these problems at one stroke, for it is what they imply." And as a protest arose within m e , t h e Voice of t h e Absurd added: " T h i n k carefully: W h e r e do you e x p e c t to find answers to these philosophical questions? Your images, your abstractions, derive only from the properties and experiences of your Three Bodies. But the first offers you n o t h i n g but m o m e n t s ; t h e second a few visions; and the third, at t h e cost of ruthless dissections and complicated preparations, a mass of figures m o r e indecipherable than Etruscan texts. Your m i n d , w i t h its language, pulverizes, mixes and rearranges all this and f r o m it, by t h e abuse, if you will, of its habitual questionnaire, evolves its notorious problems; b u t it can give t h e m a shadow of meaning only by tacitly presupposing a certain Nonexistence — of w h i c h my Fourth Body is a kind of incarnation."
From " A e s t h e t i c s , " in The Collected Works in English, vol. 13, Bollingen Series 4 5 , Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1964. Translated by Ralph Manheim.
N O T E S TO A S H O R T HISTORY OF BODILY SENSATION
1. Paul Valery, Cahiers (Paris: Pleiade, 1973), vol. 1, p. 1126. 2. Cf. Robert Brain, The Decorated Body (New York: Harper & Row, 1979); Victoria Ebin, The Body Decorated (Thames and Hudson, 1979). 3. Cicero, Academia 2.24. 4. Montaigne, Essais (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1965), p. 587. 5. Aristotle, De anima 3.2. 6. Descartes, Traite des passions de l'ame, in Descartes' Philosophical Writings, trans. Norman Kemp Smith (London: Macmillan, 1953), p. 290. 7. Cf. Georges Gusdorf, Naissance de la conscience romantique au siecle des lumieres (Paris, 1976), pp. 285-316. 8. "Coenaesthesis, dissertatio [ . . . ] quam praeside J.C. Reil, pro gradu doctoris defendit Chr. Friedr. Hubner" (Halle, 1974). 9. On the history of the concept of cenesthesia in the nineteenth century, cf. Jean Starobinski,
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"Le Concept de cénesthésie et les idées neuropsychologiques de Moritz Schiff," Genserus 34 (1977), fasc. 1/2, pp. 2-20. 10. Carl Wernicke, Grundriss der Psychiatrie, 2d ed. (Leipzig, 1906). 11. Ribot, The Diseases of the Personality (Chicago, 1891), p. 5. 12. Ibid., pp. 5-6. 13. Ibid., p. 30. 14. Hippolyte Taine, De l'intelligence, 12th ed. (Paris, 1911), vol. 2, p. 474. 15. Ribot, Diseases of the Personality, pp. 19-20. 16. Ibid., p. 157. 17. Notably in Problèmes de psychologie affective (Paris, 1906), p. 26. 18. Pierre Janet, De l'angoisse à l'extase, 2 vols. (1926; new ed. Paris, 1975), vol. 2, chs. 1 and 2. 19. Janet, De l'angoisse à l'extase, vol. 2, ch. 2, sec. 8, p. 71. 20. Ernest Dupré, Pathologie de l'imagination et de l'émotirité (Paris, 1925), pp. 289-304. 21. Charles Blondel, La conscience morbide (Paris, 1914), p. 264. The quotation refers back to ' Dürkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, trans. J.W. Swain (London, 1915), p. 271. I 22. See, among others, Ted Polhemus, ed., Social Aspects of the Human Body (London: Penguin, 1978); Jonathan Benthall and Ted Polhemus, eds., The Body as a Medium of Expression (London: Allen Lane/Penguin Books, 1975). 23. Blondel, La conscience morbide, pp. 259-60. 24. Ribot, Diseases of the Personality, p. 25. 25. Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation ofDreams, trans. J. Strachey (London, 1955), p. 39. 26. Ibid., p. 226. 27. Ibid., p. 237. 28. Ibid., p. 236. 29. Sigmund Freud, Instincts and Their Vicissitudes, in The Standard Edition of the Complété Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, trans. J. Strachey (London, 1964), vol. 15, p. 120. 30. Ibid., p. 123. 31. Ibid., p. 122. 32. Ibid., pp. 122-3. 33. Paul Schilder, L'Image du corps, trans. F. Gantheret and R Truffert (Paris: Gallimard, 1968). 34. Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness, trans. Hazel E. Barnes (London: Methuen, 1967), p. 338. 35. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, trans. Colin Smith (London: Routledge,
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Kegan & Paul, 1962), p. 101. 36. Richard Sennett, "Le narcissisme et la culture moderne," in Former I'homme, Rencontres Internationales de Geneve (Neuchatel, La Baconniere, 1979), pp. 187-203.
N O T E S T O M O N S I E U R TESTE C O N F R O N T I N G PAIN
1. Paul Valery, Les Cahiers, facsimile ed. (Paris: CNRS, 19S7), vol. 1, p. 4. 2. On the philosophers' and psychologists' interest in this problem, see Georges Poulet, "Bergson: Le theme de la vision panoramique des mourants et la juxtaposition," in L'espace proustien (Paris: Gailimard, 1963), pp. 139-77. 3. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 11. 4. Paul Valery to Albert Thibaudet, 1912, Oeuvres, ed. Jean Hytier, 2 vols. (Paris: Pleiade, 195760), vol. 2, p. 1383. 5. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 1394. 6. Valery, Cahiers, definitive ed., introduced and annotated by Judith Robinson (Paris: Pleiade, 1973-74). A selection of notes, entitled "Soma at CEM," can be found in vol. 1, pp. 1119-49. 7. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 1322. 8. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 810. 9. Paul Valery to Andre Gide, Correspondance: 1890-1942 (Paris: Gailimard, 1955), pp. 272, 275, etc. 10. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 175. 11. Translator's note: In quoting from An Evening with Monsieur Teste, I have used Jackson Mathews's English translation (New York: Knopf, 1947), adapting it as necessary. 12. Henri Balzac, Louis Lambert, eds. Marcel Bouteron and Jean Pommier (Paris: Corti, 1954), p. 82. Valery was very familiar with this work by Balzac, but found some "cheating" in it (Valery to Gide, Correspondance, p. 213). The "Cafe Lambert" mentioned in the last sentence of Teste's monologue is perhaps an allusion to the book! 13. Valery, "Monsieur Teste," in Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 17. 14. Ibid. 15. Ibid., p. 23. 16. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 176. 17. Valery, ibid., vol. 2, p. 364. 18. Ibid., p. 312. 19. Ibid., p. 1324.
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20. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 1381. 21. Ibid., p. 20. 22. Ibid., p. 22. 23. Valery to Gide, Correspondance, p. 281. 24. Ibid., p. 14. 25. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 1, p. 1233. Cf. Cahiers, vol. 2, p. 1350: " W h a t I can do is of the same weariness or strength as my body. My 'soul' begins at the very point where I can't see any more, where 1 can't do anything more 27. Ibid.,vol. 2, p. 65. 28. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 208. 29. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 64. 30. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 33. .31. Valerv. Oeuvres. vol. 2, D. 61. " 26. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 1, p. 1224.
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35. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 69. 36. Ibid., p. 65. 37. Valery, Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 59. 38. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 65. Valery was to write: "Teste is a mystic and a physicist of the selfconscience — pure and applied" (Les Cahiers, vol. 1, p. 263). 39. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 1, pp. 354-55. 40. The complete text can be found in Paul Valery, La jeune parque et poemes en prose, ed. Jean Levaillant (Paris: Gailimard, 1974), pp. 45-53, review and note pp. 165-75. Jean Levaillant offers a suggestive reading of "Teste" in Les critiques de notre temps et Valery, intro. J. Bellemin-Noel (Paris, 1971), pp. 88-95. 41. Valery, "Agathe," in Oeuvres, vol. 2, p. 45. 42. Valery, Oeuvres, vol. 1, p. 1227. 43. 45. Ibid. Ibid.,vo\.2,p.l0. 44. Ibid., p. 40.
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