Roberto Calasso’s ‘The Unnamable Present’ Review: Sacrifices at
Modernity’s Altar
By Dominic Green (WSJ)
May 10, 2019 5:03 p.m. ET
Terrorism turns murder into meaning. Strikes on public spaces target the archetypal locales of secular society.
THE UNNAMABLE PRESENT
By Roberto Calasso
Farrar, Straus &
Giroux, 193 pages, $26
Roberto Calasso is our foremost
interpreter of the mythology of modern life. This is a tremendous achievement,
because modern life is not supposed to have a mythology. We are supposed to
live in what Max Weber called a disenchanted world, with rational systems all
around us, and above us, as John Lennon said, only sky. The history of the
secular West, however, proves this frame of mind to be neither tenable nor
rewarding. We remain Homo religiosus, and those who
believe in nothing keep falling for anything.
“The Unnamable Present” is the ninth in Mr. Calasso’s kaleidoscopic series of investigations into the
spiritual biography of the secular West. Like its predecessors, “The Unnamable
Present” (translated from the Italian by Richard Dixon) is aphoristic in
exposition, allusive in interpretation and uncompromising in erudition. Mr. Calasso’s previous volumes include anthropological
reflections on sacrificial motifs in myths from Greek (“The Marriage of Cadmus
and Harmony”), Vedic (“Ardor”) and Hindu (“Ka”) texts. He has explored the
religion of art in Tiepolo (“Tiepelo Pink”),
Baudelaire (“La Folie Baudelaire”) and Kafka (“K”).
He has also produced the genre-defying “Ruin of Kasch,”
which traced the rise of secular politics in the decades after the French
Revolution, as well as “Literature and the Gods,” a small 2001 volume to which
“The Unnamable Present” might be considered a companion.
In “Literature and the Gods,” Mr. Calasso
traced the fateful convergence in the late 18th century of German Romantic
philosophy, secular politics and the search for a new, eastward-looking
“mythology” that might replace Christianity. His touchstone was a document
called “The First Systematic Program of German Idealism”—dated to around 1797,
written in Hegel’s hand, and attributed either to Hegel or Schelling: “So long
as we are unable to make our ideas aesthetic,” its author asserts, “which is to
say mythological, they can be of no interest to the people. The two long essays
in “The Unnamable Present” examine the effects of novel and often dangerous
mythologies—democracy, nationalism, Darwinism, race theory—in 20th-century
Europe.
A historian being a prophet in reverse, Mr. Calasso proceeds from present to the past. His first essay,
“Tourists and Terrorists,” describes the “deadly insubstantiality” and ahistoric confusion of our globalized present. Our world of
digital interactions, he suggests, has generated an odd couple of nihilists.
Secular man is a post-Christian tourist of the floating world, perpetually
mobile and perpetually unsatisfied. His antagonist, the Islamic terrorist,
hates secular civilization and seeks to restore meaning by sacrificial
violence. These two imaginations, Mr. Calasso
suggests, are secret sharers, and not just because murder is the “projected
shadow of suicide.” The terrorist’s strikes on semi-random victims in cafes and
public spaces target archetypal locales of secular society. Terror turns murder
into meaning. The globalization of Islamist violence in the 1990s, Mr. Calasso notes cryptically, “coincides with the spread of
online pornography.”
We cannot name our present, Mr. Calasso
argues, because we are unwilling or unable to comprehend it. We dismiss the
invisible as immaterial, and incorporate all life, religion included, within
the utilitarian logic of “society.” And we seem incapable of facing the
failures of “humanist secularism.” We attempted to substitute a Darwinian “lay
morality” for Christianity, he suggests, and saw the resurgence of thwarted
religiosity in fascism and communism.
“How can people in a secular society, trained to ignore the
invisible, go back to recognizing it?” Mr. Calasso
asks. “In what form?” This incapacity, Mr. Calasso
believes, is compounded by the legacies of Europe’s catastrophic attempt to
transcend the discontents of secular life through totalitarian politics. His
second essay, “The Vienna Gas Company,” finds premonitions of our predicament
between 1933 and 1945 in the letters and diaries of European writers, many of
them heirs to the European Romantic tradition, and also
collaborators with fascism.
“The Vienna Gas Company” takes its title from a June 1939
event recorded by the German Jewish writer Walter Benjamin. The Gas Company had
ceased supplying gas to Viennese Jews because it was no longer profitable. When
Jewish customers used the gas to commit suicide, they left unpaid bills. This
seems like simple utilitarian logic, but Mr. Calasso
implies, in a characteristic way, that it somehow served an occult sacrificial
logic. For the Nazis, it was not enough to expel Jews from European society. If
Romanticism was a pagan revival, Romantic politics made it necessary to make
meaning from murder.
This may make sense as a theory of Nazi metaphysics. But it
reduces anti-Semitism from a core Nazi principle to a mere means to a ritual
end. It also unsettlingly implies that, like the tourist and the terrorist,
Jews and their killers were fated to their roles by greater forces. This logic
follows German philosopher Martin Heidegger’s own plea, after the war, for
reduced culpability. It also resembles the Darwinian and technological
determinism Mr. Calasso rejects.
As ever, Mr. Calasso’s witnesses,
including Louis-Ferdinand Céline and André Gide, are aesthetically impeccable.
The best can, like Samuel Beckett, Simone Weil and Thomas Mann, name the evil
that is massing in the 1930s. The worst are greedily enchanted by fascism’s
gloss of power. Most of the better stylists are, in any case, ethically
enfeebled before the supposed forces of science.
In September 1937, French journalist Robert Brasillach revels in the “supernatural” rituals of the Nazi
rally, admires the “almost Mycenaean architecture” of the Nuremberg stadium and
regrets that, due to “democracy,” similarly “great feelings are now
incomprehensible for France.” In April 1939, German author Ernst Jünger hacks worms with his shovel as he digs a garden
path, ponders biological morality, and concludes that some “certain types” of
beings attract “atrocities.” Gide, whom the author calls “a far less expert
gardener,” is more candid. Hitler, he writes in January 1941, wants to be “the
great gardener of Europe,” but his dream is “too superhuman to be achieved,”
and will leave nothing but “grief and devastation.” Yet in the same year,
Simone Weil sees that modern science cannot fill the spiritual gap left by
religion, and that, disastrously, only “unreserved adherence to a totalitarian
system, brown, red or other, can give . . . a solid illusion of inner unity.”
Mr. Calasso is not a lecturer or a
literalist. He does not write straightforwardly, but shuffles between ideas and
episodes, treating all thought as contemporaneous. He handles the events of the
past with the reverence of a priest, rather than the dispassion of a historian.
Material facts are the tangible aspect of hidden truths.
As an acolyte of the Romantic revival, Mr. Calasso admits its failure. The “atomized society” we
inhabit is preferable to the “organic” alternative, but only just. The villains
of this book include not just amoral aesthetes but the prophets of market
liberalism, atomizing individualists like John Stuart Mill and his successors,
as well as today’s transhumanists and TED-talking preachers of technological
reunification.
The total system of our time, Mr. Calasso
believes, is that of digitized commerce. The internet, fulfilling Weil’s
insight, compels us to unity by the “endless expansion and reiteration of
images and brands that become wedged in every category of the mind.” We will
become blind to “any perception of the unknown”and,
he suspects, to a design flaw that will threaten the next apocalypse: our
“stubborn, lethal misinterpretation” that equates information with consciousness.
In Mr. Calasso’s cosmology of ritual and repetition,
even those who remember the past are doomed to repeat it. Powered by technology
and democratic “rancor,” our pagan ideal moves catastrophically toward a
revival that destroys itself.
—Mr. Green is Life
& Arts editor of Spectator USA.