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2020 Common Knowledge
In memory of Stanley Cavell, a family friend of more than a half-century’s standing writes about his years in Berkeley (1944 to 1964), when he was deciding between music and philosophy as his field and then, eventually, joined the philosophy faculty as a lecturer. This guest column is a collage of diverse original sources—Randall’s poetry and memories, Cavell’s memoir Little Did I Know, and relevant passages in Wittgenstein and Augustine—that involve the interplay of events in Cavell’s personal life with the dissertation that in time became his first book, Must We Mean What We Say?. Randall considers Cavell’s influence on her own unique, perhaps insupportable, understanding of passages in all three of her eponymous authors—passages dealing with an infant’s acquisition of language and reflecting on Randall’s own relationship as a child with Cavell.
2020 Common Knowledge
There is a strain of Freudians whose existence continues to go unrec-ognized by the intellectual public and unacknowledged by the members themselves. Of these, only Stanley Cavell was unaccredited as a psychoanalyst, but he, along with Adam Phillips, Christopher Bollas, and Jonathan Lear have reached similar conclusions, using comparable means, at roughly the same time, in a context as much literary as psychoanalytic. Freud himself described the mind in literary (which is to say, dramatic) terms, but whereas he understood the human psychic drama as Oedipal and thus tragic, these four revisionists have shown that the interaction of conscious and unconscious elements of the mind can be comical and thus benign. The sorts of ambivalence, conflictedness, or multi-mindedness that Freud described as departures from a normative singlemindedness, Cavell and company have redescribed as achievements of maturity and as a means of enlarging the self. Moreover, they all look to literature for figures that connect us to our preverbal selves and help to stimulate self-transformation. Artists—from Sophocles to Emerson, Melville, and (in the Cavellian reading of him) Freud—teach invaluable lessons not only about how our minds work but also about how to invent our own idioms and even our own worlds. And “the dialogue of the mind with itself” that Matthew Arnold assessed as the characteristic modern disease, these most sophisticated of postmodern revisionists redescribe as normative and democratic.
2020 Common Knowledge
This essay responds to Jeffrey Perl’s introduction to a long-term project of Common Knowledge titled “Xenophilia: Symposium on Xenophobia’s Contrary.” (Perl’s introduction, “Self-Identity and Ambivalence,” appears in CK 23, no. 2 [May 2017]: 225–31.) Responding to a cue from Perl, Albera undertakes an archaeology of the intellectual tools that produced the unstable antinomy of the terms xenophilia and xenophobia. Despite the appearance of antiquity conferred by the Greek roots of both terms, they are the product of a fairly recent and quintessentially modern dynamic. They integrate tacit assumptions of a modern nationalist posture that produces fixed identities and categorizations. Instead of this compromised pair of terms, Albera offers philoxenia, with its distinct genealogy, as it delimits a reciprocal commitment to hospitality, which is pragmatic and relatively unproblematic, rather than a demand for love or an expectation of loathing. The concept of xenophilia presupposes an abstract category—the xenos—that it regards as anterior to, and independent of, any concrete determinations, while philoxenia understands the xenos to be a quite specific individual. Philoxenia, moreover, does not subscribe to the identity principle: the alien, in the relationship known as philoxenia, is not conceived as differing radically from oneself or even as being self-identical or coherent. And finally, while the xenophile’s feelings tend to oscillate between supposedly coherent cultural positions, philoxenia is characterized by ambiguity, which produces none of the symptoms engendered by the ambivalence of xenophilia.
2020 Common Knowledge
This essay, by the editor of Common Knowledge, responds to a piece by Dionigi Albera that, in turn, responds to Jeffrey Perl’s introduction, published in May 2017, to CK’s multipart symposium on xenophilia. Albera argues that the ambivalence that Perl observes in many instances of xenophilia needs genealogical explanation, and Albera turns for this purpose to analysis of the relationship between Aphrodite and Ares in Greco-Roman mythology. In the present piece, Perl extends that exploration in analysis of a series of images in which the gods of love and war, along with their illegimate children Eros and Phobos (or philia and phobia), are given comical and often vulgar treatment by artists ranging from Botticelli and Mantegna, in the fifteenth century; to Titian, Veronese, and Tintoretto, in the sixteenth; to Rubens, Jan Bruegel the Elder, and Poussin, in the seventeenth; to Lagrenée, in the eighteenth; to David and Guillemot, in the nineteenth; to Jeff Koons in our own day. Perl and Albera agree with these artists that the antithetical pair, Aphrodite and Ares, have a fully logical, if furtive relationship in mythology, iconography, and psychology. The idealization to which the comic images respond—that when warriors make love, there is no warfare—is laughed, again and again, out of court. But Perl’s concern, unlike Albera’s, is that this cynicism on the part of artists and advanced intellectuals means that, despite their ostensible preference for peace over conflict, they will always find cause to undermine every effort to make way for peace.
2020 Common Knowledge
This contribution to the Common Knowledge symposium on xenophilia examines the life choices of two Jews who loved Christianity. Elijah Zvi Soloveitchik, born into an ultra-Orthodox, nineteenth-century rabbinic dynasty in Lithuania, spent much of his life writing a Hebrew commentary on the Gospels in order to document and argue for the symmetry or symbiosis that he perceived between Judaism and Christianity. Oswald Rufeisen, from a twentieth-century secular Zionist background in Poland, converted to Catholicism during World War II, became a monk, and attempted to immigrate to Israel as a Jew in 1958. Rufeisen, while permitted to move to Israel to join a Carmelite monastery in Haifa, was denied the right to immediate citizenship of Israel which the Law of Return guarantees to all bona fide Jews. And this particular Soloveitchik has largely been forgotten, given the limits of Jewish interest in the New Testament and of Christian attention to rabbinic literature. This article explores the complex and vexing questions that the careers of these two men raise about the elusive distinctions between Judaism and Christianity, on the one hand, and, on the other, between the Jewish religion and Jewish national identity.