Existence, Interpretation, Freedom 9781935790839, 9781934542187

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Luigi Pareyson

Existence, Interpretation, Freedom Selected Writings

Edited with an Introduction and Notes by Paolo Diego Bubbio

Translated by Anna Mattei

Contemporary European Cultural Studies Gianni Vattimo and Santiago Zabala, Series Editors This series publishes English translations of works by contemporary European intellectuals from philosophy, religion, politics, law, ethics, aesthetics, social sciences, and history. Volumes included in this series will not be included simply for their specific subject matter, but also for their ability to interpret, describe, explain, analyze, or suggest theories that recognize its historicity. Proposals and suggestions for this series should be directed to: The Davies Group Publishers PO Box 440140 Aurora, Colorado, 80044–0140 US

Manfred Frank, The Boundaries of Agreement Antonio Livi, Reasons for Believing Jósef Niżnik, The Arbitrariness of Philosophy Paolo Crocchiolo, The Amorous Tinder José Guimón, Art and Madness Darío Antiseri, Poppers Vienna Remo Bodei, Logics of Delusion Philip Larrey, Thinking Logically Giovanni Mari, The Postmodern, Democracy, History Emanuela Fornari, Modernity Out of Joint Franca D’Agostini, The Last Fumes Luigi Pareyson, Existence, Interpretation, Freedom, Paolo Diego Bubbio, Editor

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Luigi Pareyson

Existence, Interpretation, Freedom Selected Writings

Edited with an Introduction and Notes by Paolo Diego Bubbio

A volume in the series Contemporary European Cultural Studies Gianni Vattimo and Santiago Zabala, Editors

The Davies Group, Publishers Aurora, Colorado

iii

© 2009 Paolo Diego Bubbio All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in an information retrieval system, or transcribed, in any form or by any means—electronic, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the express written permission of the publisher, and the holder of copyright. Submit all inquiries and requests to the publisher: The Davies Group Publishers, PO Box 440140, Aurora, CO 80044-0140, USA.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Pareyson, Luigi. [Selections. English. 2009] Existence, interpretation, freedom : selected writings / Luigi Pareyson ; edited with an introduction and notes by Paolo Diego Bubbio. p. cm. -- (Contemporary European cultural studies) Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-1-934542-18-7 (alk. paper) 1. Philosophy. I. Bubbio, Paolo Diego, 1974- II. Title. B3636.P362E5 2009 195--dc22 2009030596

Printed in the United States of America Published 2009. The Davies Group Publishers, Aurora, CO 1234567890 iv

Contents vi

Acknowledgments Introduction Paolo Diego Bubbio, Luigi Pareyson: The Third Way to Hermeneutics Works Bibliography

1 26 29

Part I. Existence Existence and Existentialism The unity of philosophy The existential nature of ethics

35 45 64

Part II. Knowledge Intuition as interpretation Interpretation as coincidence of thing and image Knowledge of things and persons as interpretation Knowledge of things by persons Art: performance and interpretation

79 87 95 102 114

Part III. Truth, Interpretation and the Critique of Ideology Truth and history Philosophy and ideology Originarity of interpretation Thought without truth Critique of ideology

143 150 161 191 200

Part IV. Ontology of Freedom Hermeneutics and tragic thought Revelatory nature of myth Philosophical reflection on religious experience Interpretation of myth as hermeneutics of religious consciousness Philosophy of freedom Suffering and faith Notes Index

217 221 225 230 238 255 261 271 v

Acknowledgments This book would not have been possible without the gracious assistance of a great number of mentors, colleagues and friends. First, I would like to express gratitude to the series editors, Gianni Vattimo and Santiago Zabala, who sowed the seed of this project. Many thanks are also owed to the publishers, for their efficiency, kindly support, and patience during the different stages of this project. Thanks, too, to the “Centro Studi Filosoficoreligiosi Luigi Pareyson” for its support (particularly to the former and to the current Presidents, Giuseppe Riconda and Maurizio Pagano) and to Mrs. Rosetta Schlesinger Pareyson. The enormous influence of my teacher Marco Ravera I take to be too obvious to recount. The Department of Philosophy at the University of Sydney helped by providing research assistants. Theodore Ell, Carl Godfrey and Justine Marshall patiently compared the translation to the Italian original and made countless suggestions that have been incorporated into the final version. I wish to express my appreciation to them, not only for proofreading, but also for their thoughtful examination of the manuscript. Romina Bondini helped with the preparation of bibliographical references. Many thanks are due to Paul Redding, Justine McGill, Luca Moretti and Philip Quadrio for their comments and critiques. I wish to thank them all for the benefit of their scrupulous judgments. I am especially grateful to Talia Morag, who gave the Introduction a critical reading, provided innumerable philosophical inputs, and through her editing expertise helped me greatly in giving the Introduction its current shape. I also wish to thank Adam Arola for generously making his English translation of Schelling’s Erlanger Lectures (quoted extensively by Pareyson) available to me. To my wife, Silvia, I am infinitely grateful for her unwavering encouragement and patience through my long engagement with this project. vi

I wish to gratefully acknowledge the following periodicals and publishers for their permission to translate and reprint excerpts from their publications: Bompiani (excerpts from Estetica: teoria della formatività); Cross Currents (“The Unity of Philosophy”, trans. A. Di Lascia, reprinted with some minor corrections); Einaudi (excerpts from Ontologia della Libertà); Giornale di Metafisica (excerpt from “Dal Personalismo Esistenziale all’Ontologia della Libertà”); Mursia (excerpts from Kierkegaard e Pascal, Studi sull’Esistenzialismo, Verità e Interpretazione); Studi Cattolici (excerpt from “Filosofia e Verità”, interview by M. Serra). Paolo Diego Bubbio

vii

Luigi Pareyson (1918–1991) was a seminal Italian philosopher. As a professor at the University of Turin he had many famous students, including Gianni Vattimo and Umberto Eco. The author of more than twenty ground-breaking books, Pareyson’s work first focused on Existentialism and then on the notion of interpretation. Together with Gadamer and Ricoeur, he can be considered one of the fathers of Hermeneutics. A complete list of his works can be found beginning on page 26.

Paolo Diego Bubbio holds a PhD in Philosophy and Hermeneutics from the University of Turin (Italy). He has published two books in Italian: Il sacrificio intellettuale: René Girard e la filosofia della religione [The Intellectual Sacrifice: René Girard and the Philosophy of Religion], Torino, Il Quadrante, 1999, and Il sacrificio: La ragione e il suo altrove [Sacrifice: Reason and its Other], Roma, Città Nuova, 2004. He has also published a number of articles in several journals. Recent works include “The Sacrifice of the Overman as an Expression of the Will to Power” in Nietzsche, Power and Politics, ed. H. Siemens and V. Roodt (Berlin & New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2008) and “Hegel and Solger: Privation and Negation”, in International Journal of Philosophical Studies 17 (2009).

Introduction Luigi Pareyson: the third way to Hermeneutics Paolo Diego Bubbio

“Time, the midwife rather than the mother of Truth” (John Milton, quoted by Luigi Pareyson) Three philosophers will be remembered as the greatest thinkers in the first generation of the theorists of Hermeneutics after Heidegger. The first is the German philosopher Hans Georg Gadamer. The second is the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur. The third is the Italian philosopher Luigi Pareyson. While this statement is largely accepted within Italian academic circles, Luigi Pareyson is little known in the English-speaking world. Yet the impact of his thought on Western philosophy is unquestionable. Some of his disciples are considered worldwide as outstanding scholars and philosophers. An English-speaking reader might be surprised to discover that Pareyson was the principal mentor of, for example, Umberto Eco and Gianni Vattimo.1 This discrepancy is easily explained. Pareyson’s work has never been translated into English. This book is meant to be the first step in bridging this gap, to introduce Pareyson to the English-speaking world. Together with the Series editors and publisher, I decided to edit a volume of selected writings rather than to translate one of Pareyson’s books. In this way, we believe, the importance of Pareyson’s thought is made more immediately apparent to the reader. This format also allows the presentation of Pareyson’s thought as a whole. The book includes writings from his major books, essays, articles and talks from his early works to his posthumous publications. My principal guideline was thus to present in one book Payerson’s main philosophical

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Pareyson: Existence, Interpretation, Freedom

thesis in a coherent, organic manner, that would clearly reflect the evolution of his thought. Accordingly, I chose to present complete articles and book chapters, when they seemed to me fundamental to the evolution of Pareyson’s work. But at times I selected only a section or a passage, in order to retain their contribution to the flow and clarity of the entirety of the work, while avoiding repetition. In this difficult task of selection, one book served me as reference. It is Pareyson’s anthology Filosofia dell’ interpretazione, edited by Marco Ravera in 1989. Marco Ravera discussed his selections with Pareyson himself. I took this book into serious consideration, as it suggested to me the texts that Pareyson regarded as most significant in his body of work accumulated by 1989. This volume differs from that anthology in that it includes writings from the last period of Pareyson’s work, the period in which he elaborated his Ontology of Freedom, published posthumously in 1995. The present volume also lays an emphasis on his early works on Existentialism, which I regard as absolutely central to an understanding of Pareyson’s background. On the other hand, for reasons of space and internal coherence, fewer texts on aesthetics are included here. The book is divided into four parts: Existence, Knowledge, Truth, Interpretation and the Critique of Ideology and Ontology of Freedom. In arranging the texts in those sections, I have followed two criteria. The first is chronological, beginning with Pareyson’s early work and ending with his posthumously published writings, some of which were notes in his notebooks when he passed away. The second is thematic: every section focuses on a particular philosophical topic. The two criteria intersect. If, on the one hand, all of these themes were at the centre of Pareyson’s philosophy throughout his life, then, on the other hand, a philosopher naturally concentrates on different aspects of his thought in different periods of his life. As I put the texts together, I came to realize that the chronological and thematic succession can also appear as an organic and systematic exposition of a broadly conceived philosophical perspective. In order to contextualize the texts historically, I noted at the end of every passage the place (journal, conference or essay

Introduction

3

collection) and date of the text’s first appearance, together with the most recent Italian edition that includes that same text. In the following pages I give a general presentation of Pareyson’s thought to the English-speaking reader. It is not my intention to write a comprehensive philosophical introduction to Pareyson’s thought, which would of course require a work of much larger scope.2 Here I just wish to offer some information and conceptual tools to assist the reader in contextualizing and understanding Pareyson’s work. An introduction to a discourse about an Existentialist thinker such as Pareyson (and I use the word “Existentialist” in the philosophical and not in the historical sense), should begin by telling something about his life. After that, I will briefly describe the principal phases of his philosophy. Although most of the understandings expressed here are shared by the philosophical community, some interpretations are my own. If the reader accepts the hermeneutic principle according to which the originality of interpretation is not inversely but directly proportional to the faithfulness of that interpretation,3 then this is perfectly compatible with the core of Pareyson’s thought. I belong to the first generation of Italian students of philosophy who could not have attended Pareyson’s lectures (I started my undergraduate studies at the University of Turin in 1993 while Pareyson retired in 1990 and died in 1991). Nevertheless, his thought was present in the teachings of several lecturers for whom his reflection has clearly been a point of reference. A teenager, at the beginning of his course of studies in philosophy, is usually driven by a somewhat romantic idea of the discipline, by an anxiety to find answers. At first, the philosophical rigor to which the student is rightly subjected can sometimes cause frustration. Yet, I remember that this feeling dispelled when I attended lectures that addressed Pareyson’s thought.4 I found in that thought, together with an uncompromising philosophical rigor, a determined pursuit of answers to fundamental questions of existence. The enthusiasm I experienced in those lectures was, at least partly, still ingenuous. Time and deeper inquiries into Pareyson’s thought were to change that

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Pareyson: Existence, Interpretation, Freedom

enthusiasm, not by diminishing it, but rather by making it more intense. This book is also intended to be my personal tribute to this great philosopher, in the hope that his thought shall soon receive the attention it deserves in the Anglophone world.

Introduction

5

Life Luigi Pareyson was born on February 4, 1918 in Piasco, a small village near Cuneo, in Piedmont (North-Western Italy).5 Both of his parents (his father Leone Pareyson and his mother Leontina Coccoz) were natives of Val d’Aosta. His mother gave him a strict catholic education. In 1923 his family moved to Turin. In 1935 he matriculated from the University of Turin where he attended the lectures of Gioele Solari, Augusto Guzzo and Annibale Pastore.6 In 1936, during a short stay in Germany, he met Karl Jaspers and began reading the works of Søren Kierkegaard, Karl Barth and Martin Heidegger. In 1937 he went to Germany again, and visited Heidelberg, Strasbourg, Freiburg and Munich. On September 21 he was received by Martin Heidegger. In 1938 he published his first paper, Notes on Philosophy of Existence, in the “Giornale critico della filosofia italiana”, directed by Giovanni Gentile.7 In August and September he went on a journey through France. In Paris, he met Gabriel Marcel, Louis Lavelle and René Le Senne. On June 24, 1939 Pareyson graduated in philosophy with first class honors. His supervisor was Augusto Guzzo and the title of his thesis was Karl Jaspers and the philosophy of existence.8 From November that year, he was “assistente volontario” (voluntary assistant) at the University of Turin. During his visit to the National Library in Turin, he befriended Norberto Bobbio, the future famous Italian political philosopher. From October 1940 to March 1944 Pareyson worked as a teacher of philosophy and history at the Liceo Classico “Silvio Pellico” of Cuneo. During this period, he gathered a few students to discuss antifascism. Later, he was one of the founders of the local cell of the antifascist movement Partito d’Azione. In March 1943 he qualified as a university teacher and published Studies on Existentialism.9 This book was particularly striking due to the originality of the proposed philosophical perspective, at a time when Italian academic culture was still dominated by NeoIdealism.

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Pareyson: Existence, Interpretation, Freedom

One year later, in March 1944, he was suspended from teaching at the Liceo of Cuneo because of his antifascism. Arrested by the political Office of the fascist Federation, he was detained and interrogated for several days. Subsequently, he took charge of the headquarters of the partisan formations of “Giustizia e Libertà”, and coordinated the activities of the political and military Resistance around Cuneo. Pareyson was thus in Cuneo, when it was liberated from the Nazi-fascist occupation, on April 28, 1945. From 1945 to 1951 he was professor of Aesthetics on an annual contract at the University of Turin. In 1948 he met Rosetta Schlesinger, a student of philosophy, who would become his wife. In 1949 he was one of the promoters of the “Congreso Nacional de Filosofìa” in Mendoza (Argentina) and met Hans-Georg Gadamer, with whom he established a good relationship. In 1950 he published two historiographical works, Aesthetics of German Idealism10 and Fichte,11 and a theoretical book, Existence and Person.12 In 1951 he married Rosetta Schlesinger and became “professore ordinario” (full professor) of History of philosophy at the University of Pavia. In 1952 he became “professore ordinario” of Aesthetics at the University of Turin. In 1953 he managed the division who wrote on modern and contemporary philosophy of the Philosophical Encyclopedia edited by the Center of Christian philosophical studies of Gallarate. During this period he closely collaborated with his university assistants Gianni Vattimo and Valerio Verra. In 1954 he published Aesthetics. Theory of Formativity, offering a powerful alternative to Benedetto Croce’s aesthetics, which still dominated Italian academic culture at that time. During that year he was the supervisor of Umberto Eco, who graduated with the thesis The Aesthetics of Thomas Aquinas.13 In 1957 he was made an honorary member of the American Society for Aesthetics. In 1959 he was the supervisor of Gianni Vattimo, who graduated with the thesis The Concept of Doing in Aristotle. In 1964 he succeeded his mentor Augusto Guzzo to the Chair of Theoretical Philosophy. Over the following years he was awarded several prizes, including the gold medal of the Italian Ministry of

Introduction

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Public Education. In 1971 he published Truth and Interpretation,14 where he criticizes the very possibility of ideology or relativism. In 1974 he began his last philosophical undertaking, the ontology of freedom, a meditation on the problems of evil and freedom. He spent his last seventeen years leading a quiet life, writing and teaching. On October 27, 1988 he gave his last lecture, Philosophy of Freedom,15 and became professor emeritus. On September 8, 1991 he died in Milan. His last unfinished work, Ontology of Freedom,16 would be published posthumously in 1995, edited by his students.

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Pareyson: Existence, Interpretation, Freedom

Existence The notion of existence plays a central role in Pareyson’s thought. In fact, Pareyson himself introduced Existentialism to Italy with his book on Jaspers in 1940 and with his studies on Heidegger in 1943. Pareyson interpreted Existentialism as the dissolution of Hegelian metaphysical rationalism. It is therefore not surprising that Pareyson has considered Kierkegaard a fundamental point of reference. Kierkegaard pointed out that existence is the sole possible opening not only towards personal life but also towards reality broadly conceived. The concrete human being (the singular, or person) is a paradoxical coincidence of a relation with the self and a relation with the other (be it Being, truth or God). As Pareyson stresses, existence is both “ex-sistentia, to be outside, to protrude, to emerge” and “in-sistentia, being inside, presence, intimacy”.17 It is from the starting point of Kierkegaard that Pareyson elaborates his own philosophy of existence. “Existentialism,” Pareyson writes, “was born essentially as a philosophy of crisis. Crisis means dissolution of a conclusion and the problem of a new beginning”.18 Pareyson identifies three main features that characterize the philosophy of existence: “the revaluation of the singular, ontologicity, and the concept of situation”.19 The revaluation of the concrete human being is central in Pareyson’s early works: “Existentialism fights against abstract logic”.20 Pareyson thinks that the crisis of the Hegelian concept of totality creates the demand to interpret the finite in its reality, an interpretation which in turn leads to the elaboration of the notion of person (persona): “To explain the advent of Existentialism it is not sufficient to reduce it to the filiation, derivation or deformation of a philosophical movement, to the mere revival of an author, or to the mere rebellion against a trend or a theory. The fact that the existentialists have found a common ground despite their different origins proves that it is a broad tendency in today’s thought. The most precise perspective and the most complete interpretation of Existentialism is therefore the one that places it amongst the

Introduction

9

liveliest inclinations of contemporary thought, and sees in it the most vigorous manifestation and the boldest expression of the personalistic exigency, which seems to constitute the substratum of the most contemporary philosophical speculation.” In his elaboration, Pareyson mainly refers to Jaspers21 and Marcel22. Pareyson firmly believes that the object of philosophy should be existence, and that philosophy cannot deal with existence except by focusing on the singular living person and not on any kind of abstraction whatsoever. This is why, according to Pareyson, Existentialism must be personalistic. However, existence means also being outside, an emergence, an opening. It is necessary to save not only the intimacy of the person, that is her “closure”, but also her continuable validity, that is her “opening”. Existentialism is a philosophy of crisis, but the crisis opens two possibilities. The first is the renouncement of the demand for a transcendent truth, considering humanity as self-sufficient. The second is the consideration of finiteness as relationality. According to Pareyson, Feuerbach and Kierkegaard are examples of these two options. Feuerbach deprives the finite of every relational dimension. He solves Hegel’s philosophy by anthropomorphizing its ideal aspects, by reducing the rational to the real and the real to what is sensibly perceivable. For Kierkegaard on the other hand, the renunciation of every rationalistic guarantee directly implies a relation with alterity. Accordingly, concludes Pareyson, Feuerbach’s atheist position is contained and envisaged in Kierkegaard’s philosophy, that is in the notion of existence as self-relation. Existence as self-relation can lead to despair, but if existence opens to transcendence and to religious experience it can be regarded as an answer to the questions of atheism. In this case, moral egoism is assumed and then defeated. It could be said that Kierkegaard’s philosophy includes the answers to Feuerbach’s philosophy, but not vice versa. In other words, Existentialism is a philosophy of the finite, but the finite is constantly conceived as a relation both with the self and the other. Only by opening towards the transcendent Being can I choose and be myself. Existence qua talis is an opening towards

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transcendence and thus to the possibility of religious experience. This is the reason why, according to Pareyson, Existentialism must be ontological.23 There is a circularity between personalism and ontologicity. The finite has to be interpreted in its reality and therefore considered insufficient but not negative, positive but not sufficient, that is, as a person. “The affirmation of Being must be personal, and in this sense historical, because I myself am the affirmation of Being as I am an existent perspective on Being: I cannot affirm Being except by affirming myself as I am, and neither can I affirm myself as I am except by affirming Being”.24 Pareyson thus reaches the notion of the existent as a relation with Being, as that ontological relation which the human being is. Maintaining this relation is an existential commitment, and this commitment is named fidelity to Being: “Ontological personalism holds together paradoxically (that is, in a non-dialectical manner) and historically (that is, in time), particular and universal, immanence and transcendence, self-relation and hetero-relation”.25 In other words, Existentialism must be personalistic, and personalism must be ontological. Therefore from Existentialism Pareyson develops his ontological personalism, according to which “the person is constituted by the relation with Being, which is essentially a listening to truth, yet an active and revelatory listening”.26 A third feature of Existentialism that should be emphasized is the notion of situation. A situation is conceived as the relationship of the human being with the world as it limits or conditions, grounds and determines human possibilities as such. Although he shares the use of this notion with Jaspers and Heidegger, Pareyson emphasizes the concreteness of this notion: “My situation is my concreteness, my configuration, or, to use Marcel’s word, my ‘incarnation’: without it, I, as a single person, would not exist”.27 Pareyson seems skeptical of Heidegger’s philosophical project to identify the a priori structures of existence, precisely because such a philosophy runs the risk of turning existence into an abstract notion. According to Pareyson, it is no surprise that Heidegger’s philosophy

Introduction

11

is devoid of an ethical dimension. In order to avoid such a consequence and to assure the place of ethics in philosophical discourse, Pareyson insists that the latter should focus on the concrete and existent human being rather than on the concept of existence. The notion of situation weighs heavily on this way of conceiving of philosophy. Pareyson thinks that philosophy should maintain a certain tension. On the one hand, he recognizes the uneliminable historical dimension of the different philosophical perspectives. On the other hand, he stresses that it is necessary to not consider the multiplicity of philosophical perspectives as mere expressions of a determined historical age. Thus, the renunciation of the notion of totality does not mean the renunciation of truth; multiplicity cannot and must not mean unilaterality, and personality cannot and must not mean mere subjectivity.28 The insistence on the notion of situation clearly anticipates Pareyson’s theory of interpretation. These early texts seem to already include most of the features of Pareyson’s theory of interpretation in nuce, even if sometimes they still hint at a kind of Bergsonism. The conception of philosophy as a personal interpretation of truth does not express a limit, but a condition. The refusal of an alleged knowledge of the whole truth does not mean renunciation of the unity of philosophy, but awareness of that bond, which holds all the interpretations in a dialogue tightly together. The ontological relation is an interpretative relation, and the relation with truth is a hermeneutic relation. Therefore, Pareyson’s hermeneutics is the natural development of the ontological personalism that is implicit in his Existentialism. The first signs of Pareyson’s theory of interpretation already appear in the decade between 1945 and 1955, emerging from the more general question of Existentialism. In those years, Payerson could not have been influenced by other theories of interpretation, as none were published at the time. It is thus clear, that whereas his Existentialism draws from the most prominent existentialist philosophers (especially Heidegger, Jaspers and Marcel, as mentioned above), his hermeneutic thought is an original and autonomous theorization.

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Pareyson: Existence, Interpretation, Freedom

Moreover, in Pareyson’s thought, the refusal of totality does not imply a refusal of the tradition of classical German Idealism. Beyond the schematized and simplistic reading of Italian neo-Idealism, he stresses in Fichte’s and Schelling’s philosophies the affirmation of the absolute without going beyond the finite. Although Pareyson’s Existentialism evolves in a hermeneutics conceived of as a theory of interpretation, this does not mean that Existentialism constitutes only a phase within Pareyson’s thought. In Amendments on Existentialism written in 1975,29 Pareyson firmly restates his Existentialism in opposition to the dominant trends in philosophy. In fact, the notion of existence continues to be the core of his speculation, and existentialist themes will clearly appear in the last phase of his philosophical path, that is, the ontology of freedom.

Introduction

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Knowledge and Interpretation In 1971 Pareyson published Truth and Interpretation. The book is a collection and an elaboration of essays written from 1965 to 1970, in which the ontologicity of Existentialism leads Pareyson to develop his philosophy of existence in hermeneutic philosophy. It represents the evolution of Pareyson’s Existentialism into one of the most powerful and impressive theories of interpretation in contemporary philosophy. The point of departure is, once again, not an abstract notion of existence, but the actual, existent human being. If reality is accessible only and always through personal existence, every human act or thought is an interpretation, a personal incarnation of Being which transcends the situation hic et nunc. This means that interpretation is not unique, as it is a personal incarnation of Being. But this also means that interpretation is not arbitrary, as it is an incarnation of Being. In other words, interpretation is infinitely various not only because of its subject, but also because of its object. This theory, initially introduced, as mentioned before, to explain the constitutive multiplicity of philosophies, is now extended to cover all relations between the human being and truth. The truth is not objectifiable and it is accessible only within a personal formulation. Interpretation is revelatory and historical at the same time. Thus, in Truth and Interpretation Pareyson accepts Heidegger’s assumption that Being is not an object or an entity (seiendes in German) and that the human being cannot face truth as a subject in front of an object that can be known exhaustively and completely. However, Pareyson does not want to subscribe to a “negative ontology”. For him “not objectifiable” does not mean “inexpressible”. Truth is not the object of philosophy, but its origin, and philosophy is not enunciation, but the place for truth. This is why interpretation is not only a particular kind of knowledge but, more fundamentally, the constitutive feature of all human activity, and thus it can be extended from the problem of

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Pareyson: Existence, Interpretation, Freedom

the knowledge of things to the problem of interpersonal relationships. In Truth and Interpretation Pareyson develops this perspective as he focuses on the notion of originarity of interpretation. Interpretation constitutes that relation with Being, which is the place of the originary solidarity of the human being with truth. An ontological relation is an interpretative relation, and a relation with truth is a hermeneutic relation, in which the link with truth is total and the formulation is personal, so that the interpretation necessarily contains an ontological feature. This notion considers the uniqueness of truth and the multiplicity of its formulation as coessential and inseparable. Truth is not exhausted in interpretation. Neither is it partly expressed: “the only way of grasping the whole truth is to possess it as inexhaustible”.30 In other words, the whole truth is grasped in each interpretation, and yet it is inexhaustible. In fact, truth is not the object of interpretation. To conceive the truth in this way would basically mean to deny it, losing its revelatory dimension and transforming it into the mere expression of an age, the conceptualization of a historical situation. Truth is rather the source and origin, and thus the solicitation and internal criterion, of the interpretation that remains indissolubly historical and personal, expressive and revelatory. Therefore, interpretation, considered as an originary ontological opening, is responsibility and fidelity to Being. This is why Pareyson’s hermeneutics also implies a fundamental ethical dimension. One of the earliest definitions of interpretation given by Pareyson dates back to 1950. He writes: “interpreting is a certain form of knowledge in which, in one way, receptivity and activity are indivisible, and in another, the known is a form and the knower is a person”.31 Later on, Pareyson refines this definition into a more iconic expression: interpretation is “knowledge of forms by persons”. The notion of form derives from Pareyson’s previous works on aesthetics.32 Form is invention and production together. It is a doing which also invents its way of doing. This process (formativity) is not arbitrary. What Pareyson undermines in a Kantian way through the notion of form is the idea that the object of interpretation is an

Introduction

15

objective datum detached from the interpreting subject. Interpretation cannot be the reproduction of a given model. The object of interpretation is not a given datum, but the conclusion of a process. This dynamics could seem paradoxical in a way, as the process (of interpretation) seems to be applied to an object (a form) that appears to be the outcome of the process itself. And in a certain sense this is correct, as the object of interpretation is always the outcome of a previous interpretation. An alleged “given datum”, that is, an uninterpreted object, does not exist. More precisely, the form is not just the outcome of a previous and concluded process, since insofar as it is interpretation, the form is always a continuing process. Form is always “on the move”. Here Pareyson fully accepts Gadamer’s notion of the hermeneutic circle. But he goes further. If what has been (improperly) called the object of interpretation is a form (not a static object, but a “moving being”), then it can be grasped only by another movement, by knowledge in progress. This knowledge— or, better, this knowing—is interpretation.33 This is the reason why Pareyson defines interpretation as “knowledge of forms by persons”. Form is the outcome “on the move” of the continuous process of interpretation. This means that forms are essentially a call, and only persons can answer this call. This process generates multiple interpretations of truth, but truth remains inexhaustible. Being reveals itself through forms, and forms can be grasped from many points of view. Interpretation is a process in which the more the subject expresses herself, the more the form reveals itself. This analysis is absolutely central to Pareyson’s thought also because, as Gianni Vattimo has recently pointed out, “Pareyson is the only hermeneutic thinker who supplied a formal definition of interpretation”.34 Furthermore, this definition marks the difference between Pareyson’s approach and Gadamer’s theory of interpretation, grounded in the notion of comprehension (verständnis) used to designate the hermeneutic act. Gadamer’s comprehension is still strongly linked with Dilthey’s model of the human sciences (or “sciences of spirit”), which are defined only negatively as those that

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have no rigorous methods at their disposal. Pareyson goes further, differentiating his position from that of both Heidegger and Gadamer.35 According to Heidegger, Being (Sein) and truth (which is the manifestation of Being) are ineffable. According to Pareyson, truth is inexhaustible (inesauribile) and yet it is not ineffable. Truth is not exhausted or reduced in interpretations (Being maintains its ontological difference) and yet is not inexpressible. This is the most peculiar element of Pareyson’s hermeneutics: truth cannot be renounced. Pareyson repeatedly affirms that not only does hermeneutics not jeopardize the notion of truth, but demands it more than any other philosophy. Therefore, Pareyson’s theory of interpretation culminates in the fundamental principle of the inexhaustibility of truth, thus founding the possibility of a pluralistic—but not relativistic—conception of truth. The claim that truth is inexhaustible but not ineffable means that interpretation is constitutively an opening towards Being. The hermeneutic essence of the ontological relation is thus clear, and Pareyson’s fundamental principle is defined: “there is nothing but interpretation of truth and there is no interpretation of anything but truth”.36 Some might object that this is a metaphysical statement that represents an attempt to objectify truth through a definition of one of its features. In fact, a literal reading of this sentence would mean that truth exists only in its historical interpretations. The consequence would be an ontic (to use Heidegger’s expression) definition of Being as interpretation. But this outcome is very far from Pareyson’s intentions and philosophical approach. What Pareyson underlines in this statement is the non-objectifiability of truth. If truth is inexhaustible, then it cannot be exhausted by this statement or by any other. Any metaphysical claim presupposes the possibility of reaching an alleged higher, objective standpoint on reality, from which it is possible to grasp the fundamental features of reality. It is precisely this idea that Pareyson rejects. I can only speak from my personal point of view, but this does not mean accepting relativism or renouncing the notion of truth. Rather it means that I recognize

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the interpretative nature of every claim I make. “Interpretative” precisely means that I don’t claim to speak from some higher position, from which it is possible to objectify truth (of the truth there can only be interpretations), but, at the same time, “interpretative” means that the ontologicity of my act is an opening towards Being (any interpretation can only be of the truth). “In short, the original ontological relation is necessarily hermeneutic, and every interpretation necessarily has an ontological nature.” 37 Pareyson’s approach can be regarded as an acceptance and a radicalization of Nietzsche’s perspectivism, powerfully expressed in the episode of Thus Spoke Zarathustra entitled “The Vision and the Riddle”. There, Nietzsche seems to stress that every claim made by an alleged external and objective standpoint is misleading, even the most skeptical and relativistic one.38 To use Pareyson’s words: “Both otherness and personal integrity, that is, personality itself, as the existential root and the interpretative bond that characterizes and qualifies every formulation of truth, would vanish. There would remain only a multiplicity, seen from the outside—the numerability of replaceable possibilities, communal and reciprocable, and therefore indifferent and equally valid, all on the same level, and subject to an impersonal and objective, and therefore falsifying, consideration”.39 The most relativistic claim can be an objectification of truth, if this is made “from the outside”. Thus, “the recognition of other perspectives must occur according to the assertion of one’s own, otherwise the very nature of perspective as such—as the personal possession of truth—would be lost”.40 But Pareyson goes beyond Nietzsche. Pareyson conceives the relation between time and truth dynamically. Truth is not flattened out in time (historical relativism) and neither does time generate truth (positivism): “it cannot be said that time generates truth, but only that it favors, promotes and facilitates its historical occurrence”.41 In this regard Pareyson distinguishes between expressive thought (pensiero espressivo) and revelatory thought (pensiero rivelativo). Philosophy, Pareyson claims, cannot simply be expressive thought, that

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is, mere expression of its historical collocation. Philosophy must be revelatory, that is, it must be a listening to Being and at the same time a consideration of human historicity. If and when philosophy leaves aside the truth of Being, it becomes an expressive and instrumental thought, an empty ideology. The thought that does not listen to Being is reduced to mere expression of the will to power. At this point, one may ask how it is possible to know truth. As said before, truth is impossible to possess as an object, and it is transcendent. It is the truth that offers itself to our listening, to our own interpretations. The whole truth is grasped in each interpretation, and yet it is inexhaustible. Thus nobody can claim to possess the truth entirely, or to be the only one who possesses it. An authentic interpretation of the truth, although always personal, is not an arbitrary expression of the subject. It combines the expressive aspect with the revelatory aspect. Pareyson reverses the usual relation between historicity and relativism, according to which our temporal collocation does not permit access to the truth. On the contrary, our historicity constitutes the precious means that allow us to grasp truth. Dialogue is indeed both possible, because truth is unique, and necessary, because no one can insist she is the only possessor of truth. Interpretation is always part of a dialogue. This implies the consideration of interpretation as personal testimony. Interpretation always requires that the subject chooses, wagers, brings herself into play without overconfidence or skepticism. Interpretation is a difficult and risky process, which requires effort and devotion and which implies absolute fidelity. Interpretation always runs the risk of misunderstanding, and the interpreter, who is the only possible perspective on truth, is involved in this risk. Every thought that claims to be purely rational and pretends to discuss beings without addressing Being denies its ontological calling and its interpretative nature and becomes mystification. Expressivity is not negative in itself, as it is an essential dimension of every philosophy that recognizes its limits. But when expressive thought refuses the originary bond between person and truth, it becomes irremediably negative, that is, ideology: “Each interpretation is, in

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fact, a risk and the result of a free choice—in favor of or against Being and truth.”42 Pareyson’s conception of interpretation grounds a hermeneutic theory that is personalistic and ontological. Ontologicity excludes every irenic nuance in the process of interpretation. The refusal of Being and truth is the supreme risk of thought. Interpretation has the difficult duty of understanding and fidelity, which as such implies anguish and doubt. Interpretation is constitutively a practice of freedom and, by its own essence, freedom can deny itself and become its opposite. This is the reason why “hermeneutic thought, insofar as it refers to an ontology of freedom, is strictly connected with tragic thought”,43 understood as a reflection on evil in its authentic essence as a positive denial of truth.

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Tragic Thought and Ontology of Freedom Pareyson’s hermeneutics implies a strong ethical tension. Through the reflection on the negativity of ideology, conceived as a “thought without truth”, Pareyson reaches the last phase of his philosophical thought, which focuses on the relation between freedom and evil. In this analysis, Pareyson complements the meditation of Dostoevsky.44 Tragic thought marks the passage to the ontology of freedom. As noted earlier, the core of the hermeneutic relation is freedom, as the possibility of fidelity to Being and at the same time as the possibility to break the bond with Being, to betray and disown Being and truth. The reality of evil consists precisely in this negation. Interpretation is a free act as the human being can either freely accept fidelity to Being or break that bond. Furthermore, if interpretation is a free act then Being too is free—free to reveal or not to reveal itself. In this last of Pareyson’s meditations, his personalistic Existentialism, his anti-relativistic hermeneutics and his ontology of freedom are combined and elaborated in light of his reading of Heidegger and, most of all, of the Schelling of the Philosophische Untersuchungen.45 Not only is existence freedom, but Being itself is freedom or, more radically, is the result of freedom. In other words, Being is the positivity that arises from the self-affirmation of an originary freedom, which does not presuppose anything. Reality is gratuity, it is “without foundation” and it depends on freedom qua talis. Therefore, it is necessary to omit the centrality of Being and substitute Being with freedom itself. As he parts from this originarity of freedom, Pareyson moves on to confront the notion of evil as a cosmic and ontological problem. The problem of evil is strictly connected to one of the most fundamental philosophical questions, explicitly posited by Leibniz, Schelling and Heidegger: why Being rather than nothingness?46 According to Pareyson the answer is the following: Being wanted to be, has chosen to be, that is, it has chosen itself with an absolutely

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originary act of freedom. In other words, if Being is able to want, if Being has will, then it is a person. It is God. Not the abstract god of metaphysics (“Against such a God secularization is an obligation”47), but a personal God, “the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob”. From here on, Pareyson considers hermeneutics as philosophical interpretation of religious experience. The God of religious experience is not the metaphysical god, the necessary Being, but is the abyss of freedom. The speculation on the originary positivity of God is meant to suggest in which sense positivity is a victory over negativity. Beginning from Schelling’s reflection, Pareyson argues that since the divine omnipotence is absolute, it must also be regarded as the freedom to choose evil. Positivity can be considered only as a triumph over negativity. Pareyson firmly rejects any form of theodicy that aims to belittle or, even worse, to deny the reality of evil. According to Pareyson, evil is not simply a mistake, but a result of a conscious decision and free choice. Conceiving God as originary positivity and freedom is the only answer to the problem of evil. Evil is primarily the non-chosen option, the option which God rejected by the will to come into being (an always-rejected option). The existence of God is not incompatible with, but rather inseparable from the existence of evil. Although evil is not actualized by God’s refusal, it does not disappear. Following Jacob Böhme and the late Schelling, Pareyson claims that evil, seen as this nonchosen option, is the divine “dark ground”. Pareyson explains: “it has left its trace and its mark in God, and it is this that one might call evil in God. It is not exactly a dark aspect of Divinity, or its obscure depths, but simply a shadow, a sort of darkening of its splendor. There remains in God a vestige of the alternative of evil, as a possibility buried in the past, having survived defeat, and been made inert by non-realization. Evil is a simple clue, weak and uncertain, a faded mark, a silenced and suppressed possibility but a disturbing presence all the same. It is as if this inoperative remnant could still constitute a danger, not for God, of course, who has defeated evil ab aeterno, but for someone else, who upon his

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arrival finds, in the latent and dormant evil in the divine depths, the stimulus, and perhaps the suggestion of an inauspicious revival and a ruinous realization”.48 The human being is the one who arouses evil. Negativity, represented by an obscure, opaque trace in God’s being, which in God has been overcome, is the core of the ambiguity of human nature. The human being actualizes and concretizes this temptation, and “God himself accepts this challenge by subjecting himself to it in the figure of Christ”.49 In the analysis of this process, Pareyson focuses on myth. When divine action and its relation with the human being are approached, the task of narrating events is committed to myth. Myth is not conceived as an irrational, arbitrary or superstitious exposition, but as the only way of discussing facts that escape human reason, without dispelling their revelatory quality. Myth is “a revelatory narration of things that cannot be said in any other manner”.50 From this point of view, the myth attains an epistemological superiority over any philosophical concept. The latter speaks the language of objectification, whereas the former speaks in symbols. Pareyson conceives myth in a manner very similar to that of Ricoeur, as something that “gives rise to much thinking”.51 Philosophy thus becomes the hermeneutics of myth. Interpretation plays a central role precisely because it allows the myth to be interpreted, problematized and universalized without having to exit the realm of philosophy, which remains a rational and rigorous thought. It could be said that the hermeneutics of the Christian myths becomes the “philosophical site of an ontology of freedom”.52 And an ontology of freedom necessarily passes through suffering, for only in the free acceptance of suffering can the human being and God (in the person of Christ) reconcile and overcome the negativity of evil. This dynamic can be regarded as a dialectic: not a triadic, but a dual dialectic for the contradiction remains open and the only synthesis possible is a paradoxical reconciliation through suffering. That is to say, this dynamic of evil is a dialectical thought whose center is in a dialectic of freedom, not of necessity.53

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The last of Pareyson’s reflections that were still notes when he passed away focuses on the notion of eternity. Pareyson distinguishes between protology (eternity before the fall mythically expressed by the original sin) and eschatology (eternity after the end of time). Eternity is not conceived as intemporality. It is a history constituted by ages or “eons”. Similarly, there is an eternal dialectic (God’s overcoming of the “dark ground”) and a temporal dialectic (struggle between good and evil, which are not distinct, but confused). The history of salvation has the aim of eschatologically restoring the proctologic condition by defeating evil through expiation and redemption. Apocatastasis precisely means the annihilation of evil and the reinstatement of the origin. It is a contradictory and unthinkable moment, as it represents a sort of incarnation of the whole of nature, now pantheistically conceived. It must be noted that there is no time lapse between creation and fall or between the end of time and apocatastasis. The idea of a time lapse is an “optical illusion” generated by our “reflective position”, that is, our constraint to regard eternity from the point of view of history. The dialectical thought of this dynamic of evil and freedom resolves itself in what could be regarded as the core of Pareyson’s philosophical speculation. Namely, the conjecture that to affirm the existence of God means to affirm that the world makes sense, and that evil will end.

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Conclusion Pareyson’s philosophical approach is original and remarkable in many ways. First of all, the attention he pays to the actual human being is unusual even among Existentialist thinkers. Secondly, his theory of interpretation does not represent a turn away from or the rejection of Existentialism. Rather, as explained in this introduction, Pareyson’s hermeneutics should be regarded as the evolution of his Existentialism. Gadamer focuses on language as “total mediation” of experience and world. Consequently, Gadamer’s hermeneutics tends to solve every problem in terms of language and its finiteness. Conversely, according to Pareyson, interpretation has to be regarded as a personal act that implies a personal involvement in the search for truth. Furthermore, his hermeneutics refuses any kind of relativism. His “ontology of the inexhaustible” is precisely the opposite of relativism or deconstructionism, as it affirms that the notion of truth cannot be renounced: “The interpretation which dissolves within itself that which it is to interpret, and in so doing replaces it, ceases to be an interpretation.”54 At the same time, Pareyson’s hermeneutics refuses scientism, conceived as the belief that science (and especially natural science) is the most valuable part of human learning because it is the most authoritative, serious, or beneficial.55 Truth and Being cannot be analyzed through a series of causal connections, as though human existence were a problem that has to be solved. Every philosophical approach that treats its object as a problem does not take into consideration the richness of reality and the existential nature of the knower. The core of Pareyson’s critical perspectivism can be found in this twofold refusal. The emphasis on the notion of person means that philosophy must recognize its essence of interpretation beyond every temptation to objectify truth. Every philosophy (every person) speaks from a particular situation, a particular standpoint, a particular perspective. However, this act of recognition precisely emphasizes the limits of perspectivism. The affirmation that no one

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can claim to possess the truth does not imply that truth does not exist. On the contrary, it suggests that it is necessary to commit oneself to the pursuit of sense. Finally, Pareyson’s later conception of philosophy as “hermeneutics of religious experience” is more radical than Ricoeur’s symbolic approach. This outcome could be suspiciously regarded as an improper mix of philosophy and religion. However, Pareyson does not confuse philosophy and religion. They remain distinct, even if they share a common origin, that is the human being’s pursuit of sense. Pareyson believes that conceptual thought does not quite suffice when one faces the ultimate mysteries of reality, such as existence, evil and salvation, mysteries that are normally referred to as ‘problems’ in philosophy, a term Pareyson believes to be misleading. Accordingly, philosophy can and should meet religion in a hermeneutic of myth. Pareyson’s choice to focus on Christian myths is not related to eurocentrism or christianocentrism. This choice represents the acknowledgement of one’s own situation. One can speak of religious experience, and can try to universalize it, only from one’s personal point of view. A real hermeneutics of religious experience aims “at both explaining its widely human nature and at extracting meanings which are philosophical, that is, universal or universalizable, and which are capable of arousing the interest, if not the agreement, of all human beings, believers or nonbelievers”.56 Pareyson’s “strong hermeneutics” absolutely deserves a place among contemporary philosophical approaches. In the current context, dominated on the one hand by the crisis in traditional metaphysics and on the other hand by the constant risk of an acceptance of the absence of sense (which is, in the latest analysis, always the choice of non-sense), Pareyson invites philosophy to re-appropriate its own speculative vocation, while at the same time remaining faithful to the concreteness of existence.

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Works The following list is limited to books written by Luigi Pareyson, and is presented in a chronological order. It includes details of both the original edition and the most recent edition. The Centro Studi Filosofico-religiosi “Luigi Pareyson” is currently editing the Complete Works of Luigi Pareyson. The symbol [CW] indicates that the book is now available in the Complete Works edition. A list of the twenty volumes of the Complete Works is also included. The publication date is missing for the volumes that have not yet been published. For a complete bibliography (including articles, contributions to edited volumes, conference papers, etc.) see Francesco Tomatis, Bibliografia pareysoniana (Torino: Trauben, 1998) and Id., Pareyson: vita, filosofia, bibliografia (Brescia: Morcelliana, 2003). La filosofia dell’esistenza e Carlo Jaspers. Napoli: Loffredo, 1939; Genova: Marietti, 1997. Studi sull’esistenzialismo. Firenze: Sansoni, 1943; [CW2] Milano: Mursia, 2001. L’estetica dell’ idealismo tedesco. I. Kant. Torino: Istituto di Filosofia, 1949; Torino, Edizioni di “Filosofia”, 1950; [CW7] Milano: Mursia, 2005. L’estetica dell’ idealismo tedesco. II. Schiller. Torino: Istituto di Filosofia, 1949; Torino, Edizioni di “Filosofia”, 1950; [CW7] Milano: Mursia, 2005. Esistenza e persona. Torino: Taylor, 1950; Genova, Il Melangolo, 1992. Fichte. Torino: Edizioni di “Filosofia”, 1950; Milano: Mursia, 1976. Estetica. Teoria della formatività. Torino: Edizioni di “Filosofia”, 1954; Milano: Bompiani, 1996. L’estetica e i suoi problemi. Milano: Marzorati, 1961. L’Estetica di Schelling. Torino: Giappichelli, 1964; Milano: Mursia, 2003; [CW9] Milano: Mursia, 2003.

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L’etica di Kierkegaard nella prima fase del suo pensiero. Torino: Giappichelli, 1965; [CW13] Milano: Mursia, 1998. Teoria dell’arte. Saggi di estetica. Milano: Marzorati, 1965. L’etica di Pascal. Torino: Giappichelli, 1966. Conversazioni di estetica. Milano: Mursia, 1966. I problemi dell’estetica. Milano: Marzorati, 1966. Il pensiero etico di Dostoievski. Torino: Giappichelli, 1967; Dostoevskij. Filosofia, romanzo ed esperienza religiosa. Torino: Einaudi, 1994. L’estetica di Kant. Milano: Mursia, 1968; 1984. Etica ed estetica in Schiller. Torino: Giappichelli, 1969; Milano: Mursia, 1983. Essere e libertà. Torino: Giappichelli, 1970. L’etica di Kierkegaard nella “Postilla”. Torino: Giappichelli, 1971; [CW13] Milano: Mursia, 1998. Verità e interpretazione. Milano: Mursia, 1971; [CW15] Milano: Mursia, 2005. Filosofia dell’ interpretazione. Ed. Marco Ravera. Torino: Rosenberg & Sellier, 1988. Filosofia della libertà. Genova: Il melangolo, 1989; in Ontologia della libertà. Torino: Einaudi, 1995 Heidegger: la libertà e il nulla. Napoli: ESI, 1990; in Ontologia della libertà. Torino: Einaudi, 1995 Ontologia della libertà. Il male e la sofferenza. Eds. A. Magris, G. Riconda and F. Tomatis. Torino: Einaudi, 1995 Complete Works — edited by the Centro Studi Filosofico-religiosi “Luigi Pareyson” (Milano: Mursia, 1998–) 1. Jaspers 2. Studi sull’esistenzialismo (ed. Claudio Ciancio, 2001) 3. Iniziativa e libertà (ed. Francesco Tomatis, 2005) 4. Esistenza e persona 5. Fichte 6. Estetica

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7. Estetica dell’ idealismo tedesco I. Kant e Schiller (ed. Ugo Perone, 2005) 8. Estetica dell’ idealismo tedesco II. Fichte e Novalis 9. Estetica dell’ idealismo tedesco III. Goethe e Schelling (ed. Marco Ravera, 2003) 10. Problemi dell’estetica I. Teoria (ed. Marco Ravera, 2003) 11. Problemi dell’estetica II. Storia (ed. Marco Ravera, 2002) 12. Problemi dell’estetica III. Conversazioni 13. Kierkegaard e Pascal (ed. Sergio Givone, 1998) 14. Interpretazione e storia (ed. Amalia De Maria, 2007) 15. Verità e interpretazione (2005) 16. Prospettive di filosofia contemporanea I. Fichte e Schelling 17. Prospettive di filosofia contemporanea II. Esistenzialismo e Novecento 18. Dostoevskij 19. Essere libertà ambiguità (ed. Francesco Tomatis, 1998) 20. Ontologia della libertà

English translations “The Unity of Philosophy.” Cross Currents 4 (1/1953): 57–69. Translated by A. Di Lascia. “Pointless Suffering in The Brothers Karamazov.” Cross Currents 37 (2–3/1987): 271–286. Translated by E. Hughes. Truth and Interpretation. Translated by Robert T. Valgenti (New York: SUNY Press, forthcoming)

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Bibliography The following list, presented in alphabetical order, is limited to monographic volumes entirely and explicitly devoted to Pareyson’s thought or to its development. It does not include the innumerable articles written in Italian and in other languages. Bartoli, Gianpaolo. 2006. La persona tra liberta e decisione: Linee di ontologia del diritto nell’opera di Luigi Pareyson. Milano: Giuffrè. Bartoli, Gianpaolo. 2008. Filosofia del diritto come ontologia della libertà. Formatività giuridica e personalità della relazione: A partire dall’opera di Luigi Pareyson. Roma: Nuova Cultura. Bubbio, Paolo Diego and Coda, Piero, eds. 2007. L’esistenza e il Logos. Filosofia, esperienza religiosa, rivelazione. Roma: Città Nuova. Caneva, Claudia. 2008. Bellezza e persona: l’esperienza estetica come epifania dell’umano in Luigi Pareyson. Roma: Armando. Ciancio, Claudio and Riconda, Giuseppe, eds. 2000 Il pensiero di Luigi Pareyson nella filosofia contemporanea: recenti interpretazioni. Torino: Trauben. Ciglia, Francesco Paolo. 1990. A confronto con la filosofia dell’esistenza : gli esordi filosofici di Luigi Pareyson, 1938–1946. Roma: Istituto di studi filosofici Enrico Castelli. Ciglia, Francesco Paolo. 1995. Ermeneutica e libertà. L’ ���������������� itinerario filosofico di Luigi Pareyson. Roma: Bulzoni. Coppolino, Santo. 1976. Estetica ed ermeneutica di Luigi Pareyson. Roma: Cadmo. Coppolino, Santo. 2005. Libertà, pensiero tragico ed ermeneutica: saggio su Luigi Pareyson. Reggio Calabria: Falzea. Conti, Ermenegildo. 2000. La verità nell’ interpretazione: l’ontologia ermeneutica di Luigi Pareyson. Torino: Trauben. Di Chiara, Alessandro, ed. 1996. Luigi Pareyson filosofo della libertà. Napoli: La Città del Sole.

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Di Chiara, Alessandro. 1999. L’ iniziativa: il pensiero etico di Luigi Pareyson. Roma: Città Nuova. Di Napoli, Rosalena. 2000. Il problema del male nella filosofia di Luigi Pareyson. Roma: Pontificia Università Gregoriana. Di Natale, Antonio. 1981. Luigi Pareyson e l’alternativa dell’esistenzialismo. Montesilvano: Superstampa. Di Nino, Maria Cristina. 1999. Luigi Pareyson: esigenza di verità e senso comune. Roma: Edizioni romane di cultura. Di Nino, Maria Cristina. 2007. La dialettica della libertà nell’ermeneutica di Luigi Pareyson: un dialogo con Hegel. Vercelli: Mercurio. Ferretti, Giovanni, ed. 1995. Filosofia ed esperienza religiosa. A partire da Luigi Pareyson. Pisa: Giardini. Finamore, Rosanna. 1999. Arte e formatività: l’estetica di Luigi Pareyson. Roma: Città Nuova. Gensabella Furnari, Marianna. 1994. I sentieri della libertà: saggio su Luigi Pareyson. Milano: Guerini scientifica. Gensabella Furnari, Marianna. 2006. Sofferenza innocente e domanda di senso: in margine ad Alberto Caracciolo e a Luigi Pareyson. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Ghisleri, Luca. 2003. Inizio e scelta: il problema della libertà nel pensiero di Luigi Pareyson. Torino: Trauben. Iaccarino, Antonio. 2007. Giustizia e verità: per una prospettiva a partire dal confronto fra J. Rawls e L. Pareyson. Roma: Pontificia Università Lateranense. Longo, Rosaria. 1993. Esistere e interpretare. Itinerari speculativi di Luigi Pareyson. Catania: CUECM. Longo, Rosaria. 2000. L’abisso della libertà: ermeneutica e pensiero tragico in Luigi Pareyson. Milano: Franco Angeli. Marzano, Silvia. 1994. Il sublime nell’ermeneutica di Luigi Pareyson. Torino: Rosenberg & Sellier. Modica, Giuseppe. 1980. Per una ontologia della libertà. Saggio sulla prospettiva filosofica di Luigi Pareyson. Roma: Cadmo. Musaio, Marisa. 2004. Interpretare la persona: sollecitazioni pedagogiche nel pensiero di Luigi Pareyson. Brescia: La scuola.

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Piazza, Giovanni. 2002. Sofferenza e senso: l’ermeneutica del male e del dolore in Ricoeur e Pareyson. Torino: Edizioni Camilliane. Rosso, Alberto. 1980. Ermeneutica della libertà. Studio sulla teoria dell’ interpretazione di Luigi Pareyson. Milano: Vita e Pensiero. Russo, Francesco. 1993. Esistenza e libertà. Il ������������������������ pensiero di Luigi Pareyson. Roma: Armando. Sgreccia, Palma. 2006. Il pensiero di Luigi Pareyson: una filosofia della libertà e della sofferenza. Milano: Vita e Pensiero. Stevenazzi, Antonio. 2006. Il male in Dio: rivelazione e ragione nell’ultimo Pareyson. Verona: Fede & Cultura. Tomatis, Francesco. 1995. Ontologia del male. L’ermeneutica di Pareyson. Roma: Città Nuova. Tomatis, Francesco. 2003. Pareyson: vita, filosofia, bibliografia. Brescia: Morcelliana. Articles and reviews in English Benso, Silvia. 2005. On Luigi Pareyson: A Master in Italian Hermeneutics. Philosophy Today 49: 381–390. Bredin, Hugh Terence. 1966. The Aesthetics of Luigi Pareyson. The British Journal of Aesthetics 6: 193–203. ———. 1976. Review of L’esperienza artistica. Saggi di storia dell’estetica. The British Journal of Aesthetics 16 :87–90. Brown, Merle E. 1971. Review of L’estetica di Kant. Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 29: 403–410. Harris, Henry Silton. 1980. Review of Fichte. Il sistema della libertà. Journal of the History of Philosophy 18: 97–98. Kretsch, Robert Winston. 1962. Review of L’estetica e i suoi problemi. Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 21: 104–105. Lazea, Dan. 2006. The Ontological Personalism of Luigi Pareyson: From Existentialism to the Ontology of Liberty. Appraisal: The Journal of the Society for Post–Critical and Personalist Studies. 6(1): 7–16. Lippman, Edward Arthur. 1955. Review of Estetica. Teoria della formatività. The Journal of Philosophy 52: 791–796.

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Munro, Thomas. 1956. Review of L’ interpretazione dell’opera d’arte. The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 15: 255–256. ———. 1956. Review of L’ interpretazione dell’opera d’arte. The Journal of Philosophy 53: 814–819. ———. 1966. Review of Teoria dell’arte. Saggi di estetica. Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 25 :219–220. ———. 1966. Review of Conversazioni di estetica. Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 25: 220–221. ———. 1968. Review of Conversazioni di estetica. Journal of the History of Philosophy 65: 304. ———. 1968. Review of I problemi dell’estetica. Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 26: 396–397. ———. 1972. Review of Verità e interpretazione. The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 30: 570. ———. 1973. Review of Verità e interpretazione. Journal of the History of Philosophy 70: 132–133. ———. 1975. Review of L’esperienza artistica. Saggi di storia dell’estetica. Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 33: 464–465. Romanell, Patrick. 1956. Review of Estetica. Teoria della formatività. Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 16: 572–573. Savile, Anthony. 1967. Review of I problemi dell’estetica. The British Journal of Aesthetics 7 :389–390. Schaper, Eva. 1963. Review of L’estetica e i suoi problemi. The British Journal of Aesthetics 3: 77. Schaper, Eva. 1969. Review of L’estetica di Kant. The British Journal of Aesthetics 9: 198–199. Valgenti, Robert T. 2005. The Primacy of Interpretation in Luigi Pareyson’s Hermeneutics of Common Sense. Philosophy Today 49: 333–341.

Part One

Existence

Existence and Existentialism The three fundamental dates in the history of Existentialism In order to illustrate the progressive formation of the philosophy of existence, it is necessary to refer to three dates, which could be said to represent three fundamental stages in the course of existentialist thought: 1919, 1927 and 1932. An exact interpretation of these dates, which represent the years in which the principal works of existentialist literature were published, may clarify the perspective from which the philosophy of existence should be studied today. In 1919, Karl Barth’s Römerbrief and Karl Jaspers’s Psychologie der Weltanschauungen were published. They were two very different authors. On the one hand, the theologian Barth, with his commentary on St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans, laid the basis of dialectic theology and the theology of crisis, which had great influence upon not only the German but also the French Protestant world. On the other hand Jaspers, first a psychiatrist and then a psychologist, entered a crisis of thought that would bring him to philosophy. However, a long section of Jaspers’s book is dedicated to Kierkegaard, and the thought of the astute and tormented Danish theologian from the first half of the nineteenth century also pervades the whole of Barth’s theology. It is this common interest in Kierkegaard’s thought that connects these two works more intimately than might appear at first sight. From this first stage of the history of Existentialism the importance of Kierkegaard’s philosophy for every existentialistic conception is clearly understood. His speculation is based above all on the notion of existence, which means the extreme singularity of humanity, naked before God. Thus, not only the name but also the content of Existentialism recalls Kierkegaard. Even those existentialists who do not derive from him must deal with him and take his thought into account. In fact, Kierkegaard’s thought is the symbol of the existentialist revaluation of the singular.

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The year 1927 may be considered to mark the beginning of the history of Existentialism, since it marks the publication of Martin Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit and Gabriel Marcel’s Journal Métaphysique. Once again my approach is purely retrospective: but to my mind this artifice is necessary to grasp in its genuine form the meaning of the works of existentialist literature for today. In 1927, Marcel’s anti-idealism still seemed a Bergsonism: only later would it be explained as Existentialism. Likewise, in 1927 Heidegger was a phenomenologist, but today the old scheme which places Husserl, Scheler and Heidegger in the same sequence is recognized as inadequate.1 In the same way in 1927 a connection between Heidegger and Marcel was impossible: only now can a link be grasped, on the basis of a common ontologism, according to which humanity is essentially linked to Being.2 At this moment in the history of Existentialism, as well as the revaluation of the singular, there is also the rise of the new concept of the ontologicity of the human being. In 1932 the three volumes of Jaspers’s Philosophie were published. It was the same year of the publication of the first issue of the Recherches philosophiques, in which Marcel’s critical article on Jaspers’s philosophy appeared. This third stage is the most important: among the various movements, which up to that moment had been independent of one another, a common and well-defined trend began to emerge and an essential connection arose. Jaspers’s book constitutes the apogee and the crowning moment of German Existentialism, which from then on was fixed in the Barth-Heidegger-Jaspers triad. While German Existentialism was coming to an end, the movement that has become known as French Existentialism began to develop and organize itself. In fact, the article in which Marcel indicates the many connections and differences between his philosophy and that of Jaspers is quickly succeeded by the existentialist studies of Jean Wahl. In 1934 the movement begun by the Recherches Philosophiques was joined by the movement represented by the Philosophie de l’Esprit, whose main exponents were René Le Senne and Louis Lavelle. It is only now that various names are grouped around Logos, the movement also led by Le Senne and

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Lavelle. The year 1932 was important not only for this but also because it marks a third fundamental feature of existentialist thought. If one notes that Marcel’s article stresses and accepts above all the concept of fundamental situation in the philosophy of Jaspers, it is clear how the new concept of situation is now added to the ideas already established. To conclude this brief summary, the three stages of the history of Existentialism, in addition to showing a progressive organization of the various independent but convergent trends, also reveal a progressive enrichment of the existentialist speculative inheritance. From the revaluation of the singular, directly drawn from Kierkegaard’s thought, or rediscovered and recognized within it, an ontologistic conception is reached according to which the originary link to Being is essential to humanity and to the concept of situation. I will now briefly explain these three points, which constitute the basis of Existentialism. Genesis and meaning of Existentialism Today Existentialism presents itself as a vast philosophical movement, which unites philosophers who forge their own path, come from different schools and refer to different traditions of thought. Thus, in addition to the German and French philosophies of existence, one could also speak of a Russian Existentialism, whose greatest representative is Nikolai Berdiaieff. If one then considers that German Existentialism recalls Kierkegaard, that French Existentialism recalls the tradition of the seventeenth century moralists and that Russian Existentialism is based on the teachings of Slavophilism, the distance that separates the three movements will easily be seen. To explain the advent of Existentialism it is not sufficient to reduce it to the filiation, derivation or deformation of a philosophical movement, to the mere revival of an author, or to the mere rebellion against a trend or a theory. The fact that the existentialists have found a common ground despite their different origins proves that

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it is a broad tendency in today’s thought. The most precise perspective and the most complete interpretation of Existentialism is therefore the one that places it amongst the liveliest inclinations of contemporary thought, and sees in it the most vigorous manifestation and the boldest expression of the personalistic exigency, which seems to constitute the substratum of the most contemporary philosophical speculation. Thus, the study of the genesis of Existentialism takes on a character very different from that of a mere derivation or a simple meeting of speculative themes. In fact, the philosophy of existence has its raison d’ être in fundamental exigencies of human nature, which, silenced by philosophies against which Existentialism rebels today, break out in all their urgency to recall the human being to herself and to the intimacy of her spiritual life. Now that I have outlined the progressive definition of existentialist thought, I will examine the most important concepts that characterize the philosophy of existence. The preceding analysis has already revealed some of these concepts, such as the revaluation of the singular, ontologicity and the concept of situation. It is now time to search for the central element that constitutes the most precise and truly specific characteristic of Existentialism. I have previously stated that Existentialism is a philosophy that intends to satisfy the personalistic exigency. The philosophy of existence must therefore be considered from the point of view of the personalistic exigency from which it stems. Thus, the following analysis will be developed through the following two basic points: how Existentialism defines the personalistic exigency; and with which doctrine existentialists propose to satisfy that exigency. Existence as “emergence”: the fact and the whole The assumption of Existentialism is the personalistic exigency, conceived as the confirmation of the absoluteness of the singular. The singular wishes to be considered in her sufficiency, in her autarchy, in her unrepeatable and unmistakable nature. She must be a person: axiological because she brings a value, positive because

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she is complete in her particularity, absolute in her singularity, universal in her individuality. To this singular, which is determinate hic et nunc and yet valid in her absoluteness, Existentialism gives the name of existence, borrowing the term from Kierkegaard. To be absolute, the person must first of all be autonomous, that is, she must neither become part of a system, nor immerse herself in an absolute totality of which she is part. Here Existentialism starts the dual polemic against the “fact” and the “whole,” against objectivity and the system. With respect to the polemic against the fact, it is essential to remember the existentialist distinction, made by Jaspers but also present in different terms and shades of meaning in the thought of Heidegger and Marcel, between Dasein and Existenz,3 two terms that in the common usage of the German language have the same meaning: existence. Dasein is “being-there”: fact, object, pure position, static and motionless situation, an element of empirical and fluctuating individuality: it is the relative individual. The individual, in so far as it can be subsumed into a category or organized into a system, is relativized, leveled on a common plane, made anonymous by a common denominator, a particular element of the reign of objectivity: this is “being-there.” By contrast the singular, as the only example of her kind, unrepeatable in her desperate peculiarity, is neither subsumable nor organizable, but unique: this is existence. Relativity inheres in that objective multiplicity in which every term can be indifferently replaced by any other; by contrast the absoluteness inheres in that unique singularity which cannot be repeated or confused. However, to be both single and absolute, existence does not only emerge from the relativity of systems but also cannot be part of any universal and all-inclusive totality. Here begins the polemic against the whole. For this reason the philosophy of existence places itself under the aegis of Kierkegaard’s revaluation of the singular against Hegelism. For Kierkegaard the singular, in her unrepeatable peculiarity, cannot be a moment in a process: here begins the polemic against the drowning of the individual in the dialectic process. The

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singular is not immersed and reduced within the originary totality, whatever name this is given—Being, the Beginning, the Whole, or the One. To conclude the matter of the personalistic assumption of Existentialism, the unrepeatable distinctiveness of the person can neither be part of a relativizing multiplicity nor become part of the One, which would cancel it out. The singular assumes absoluteness, that is, she is elevated to the status of “person,” when she is unique, that is, neither one among many nor drowned in the One. Therefore Existentialism fights against abstract logic, such as that which collects individuals according to categories, and Hegelian logic, such as that which drowns the singular in the dialectic process. Here the term “existence” assumes its etymological meaning. To exist means ex-sistere, to be outside, to protrude, to emerge. The fundamental features of existence are inclination, overcoming, and ulteriority. To say that single existence is absolute is akin to saying that on the one hand it “emerges” from the relative multiplicity of individuals and from the static immobility of objective fact, and, on the other, that it “protrudes” from Being in a quite individual and irrepressible specification. The absolute individuation of existence consists precisely in its ex: being outside the many and the One, breaking any logical system and shattering any metaphysical monism, proclaiming the apotheosis of the unique, that is, of the unrepeatable, irreplaceable, irreducible and irrepressible singular. Existence as “ insistence”: situation and ontologicity When the personalistic exigency is expressed in these terms, various questions arise. Firstly, in what does the extreme singularity of existence, which is neither monadic nor dialectic, reside? Secondly, in what does the value of existence, and the possibility of communication within it, reside? If existence is the unique singular who has no plural, on the one hand the question is what constitutes her distinctiveness and her concrete specification, and on the other, inquiry is directed towards the foundation of the continuity that

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must be maintained in order to not fall into a chaotic fragmentation. In order for the absolute singular to be just that, it is necessary that on the one hand she is withdrawn into herself, and on the other that she is open to that which confers upon her a value recognizable in communication. Distinctiveness and continuity, closure and openness, solitude and communication: these are the points that existentialistic personalism means to develop. If existentialist doctrine is now analyzed, comparing it to its personalistic assumption, it will be seen that this doctrine is based upon two main points which have already been encountered in studying the formation of Existentialism: situation and ontologism. The individual and relative fact, from which single existence “emerges,” and the total Being, from which single existence “protrudes,” are maintained precisely in order to found concreteness on the one hand and the participatory validity of the person on the other. It has been shown that the absoluteness of the singular consists in the impossibility of the reduction of existence to a relative and individual fact, or its nullification in total Being. On the other hand, in order for the absolute singular to be what she is, it is necessary, as has been seen, to save not only her concrete distinctiveness, that is, her “closure,” but also her continuable validity, that is, her “openness.” Thus, on the one hand, the singular is distinct precisely because, although she emerges from empirical fact, she is realized in it, she molds herself and takes her form from it: this is situation. On the other hand, the singular is valid, with a validity that is recognizable in communication, for although she protrudes from Being (of which she is a very personal specification), she involves herself in it and assumes value and meaning from it: this is ontologicity. Etymologically speaking, existence is not only ex-sistentia, being outside, protrusion, emergence, but also in-sistentia, being inside, presence, intimacy: the singular is neither reduced to fact nor annulled in Being, although she is realized by “insisting” in fact, and assumes meaning participating in Being. The absolute singularization of existence depends on the establishment of two relations: the relation

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with situation and the relation with Being. The form of this dual relation is at the same time, so to speak, an ex and an in, “existence” and “insistence,” that is, a relation whose terms are irreducible and yet strictly connected. In conclusion, in order for the singular to be concrete, it is necessary that she molds herself and brings her form from fact, though she must not reduce herself to it; in order for her to be valid, it is necessary that she take root in Being, though she must not annul herself in it. Existence as coincidence of relation with oneself and relation with Being: incarnation and participation In general, the meaning of Existentialism consists precisely in the inquiry into the very strict relations (indeed, as strict as possible) between the singular on one side and Being and situation on the other. Indeed, the concept of situation, presented in these terms, is the novel contribution of Existentialism. I am “thrown” to live in a situation, as might be said using a fitting expression of Heidegger. I have this body, these relatives, these friends, this homeland, this job, these relations with others and other things: that is, I have a very definite position in the universe, a specific place in the world. In a word: a situation, or better, my situation. I cannot regard my situation as one among many others, any of which I could have been given at random. My situation is my concreteness, my configuration, or, to use Marcel’s word, my “incarnation”: without it, I, as a single person, would not exist. The bonds that connect me to my situation are very tight, and above all, they are essential to me: they are not links of “features,” but of “essence.” This is the most specific meaning of Existentialism. Only in the essential relation between myself and the situation am I really myself: unique, incarnated, placed, singularized, concrete. Thus after all, incarnation is a relation I maintain with myself, a concrete and singularized self-identity: my own ipseity. This is the doctrine of situation, a condition for the concreteness of the singular. Besides this, there is the doctrine of ontologicity, the

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basis of the communicable validity of the singular. The singular has very close relations with Being; in fact, she is singular only because the relation with Being intimately sustains her and constitutes her. These relations, in which “participation” consists, are the guarantee through which the distinct validity of the singular can be recognized in communication. The relation with Being is the constitution of existence itself. Besides the relation the singular maintains with herself in situation, there is the relation the singular maintains with Being: relation with oneself and relation with Being. To summarize, consider how the singular is concrete in situation and recognizable as valid in Being. Distinctiveness and validity, closure and openness, singular concreteness and universal absoluteness inhere to the singular inasmuch as she is a relation with herself in situation, and a relation with Being in the ontologicity which characterizes her. The singular is singular in a physical incarnation, which links her to fact without reducing her to it, and in a metaphysical participation, which links her to Being without drowning her in it. In fact the singularity of existence consists precisely in this: in the indissoluble coincidence of physical incarnation and metaphysical sustenance, in the distinct convergence of the interiority of the singular and her relation with Being. Lavelle says that the core of Existentialism is the “intimacy of the metaphysical experience”: the metaphysical experience opens me to Being, and sustains me; the intimacy of this experience makes me withdraw into myself and singularizes me. This is the meaning of existentialist metaphysics. Existence as “tension”: choice and transcendence At this point, however, a new question arises. If the intensity of incarnation and participation is so emphasized by existentialists, or rather if such emphasis is indeed the meaning of Existentialism, it may seem that in incarnation the singular is reduced to fact and in participation the singular is annulled in Being: as has been seen, Existentialism proposes carefully to avoid these two consequences.

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But here, in order to save its personalistic assumption, existentialist thought resorts to two fundamental concepts, to be placed within the very bosom of incarnation and participation, in order to maintain the tension which, within existence, preserves its mobility: that is, the tension of the concepts of “choice” and “transcendence.” Incarnation cannot be a reduction of the singular to fact, because it is a choice: I do not reduce myself to my situation, but I choose it. Choice, through which I assume my situation, acts so that I do not identify myself with it. On the other hand, participation cannot be the annulment of the singular in Being, because Being is transcendent: the transcendence of Being prevents me from drowning in it and ensures that it is not reduced to me. But how does the philosophy of existence conceive choice and transcendence? Here the existentialists diverge into two trends: one German, the other French. While the German existentialists conceive choice as “repetition” and transcendence as “transcending,”4 the French tend to conceive choice as “option” and transcendence as “divinity.”

From “Genesi e significato dell’Esistenzialismo,” Giornale critico della filosofia italiana 5 (1940); Studi sull’Esistenzialismo (Milano: Mursia, 2001), 11–18.

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The unity of philosophy The historian of philosophy cannot avoid encountering a difficulty which, if unresolved, will endanger and compromise all her efforts. If she holds that philosophy is one, she must account for the many and diverse philosophies which have succeeded one another on the stage of philosophical speculation. Should she insist on the wide differences the many philosophies display, she must be sure to enquire into the possible existence of an underlying and profound unity irreducible to the many and capable of binding them into one common idea. Is there, then, at one and the same time a unity of philosophy and a plurality of philosophies? The alternatives Some hold that since truth is one and only one, philosophy too must be one and only one. Understood in this fashion philosophy is identified with human knowledge of truth in its entirety, and every philosopher is seen as striving for this one and only philosophy, in manifold ways, to be sure, yet forever open to false solution or dissected, fragmentary visions of truth. Once the whole truth has been reached after much trial and error, everybody is obliged to accept that one philosophy which alone is capable of expressing and defining truth in its entirety. This one philosophy contains, actually and potentially, the solution to all problems; it satisfies all exigencies, and stands firm and unshakeable, beyond the continuing stream of history. Hence those philosophers who come later have no other task to perform than to contribute variations and improvements of detail; they must accept that one philosophy in its whole substance if they do not wish to become lost in the blind useless wanderings of reason. According to this view the one philosophy is the whole of philosophy, from then on declared definitive, while the other philosophies are not really worthy of their name for they are substantially in error even thought truth is somehow mixed with them. In the face of these various philosophies the one true philosophy must simply reject and

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refuse, unless those philosophies restrict themselves to enquiry, or a statement of philosophical requirements or hopes, in which case differences will be tolerate. Thus, while the act of philosophizing will be open and many-sided, the one philosophy will remain unique, for verum unum, verisimilia multa, falsa infinita. The various philosophies, thus gravely compromised, are given a more positive evaluation by those who see in them a progressive manifestation of truth, up to the point at which truth, having become fully conscious, identifies itself as an absolute philosophy. The many philosophies are seen as stages in the same process by which truth become conscious of itself; nor could truth reach such consciousness without passing through those moments or stages. Hence it is only by means of the many philosophies that the one true philosophy is achieved. Yet this does not suffice for, understood in themselves, the many philosophies are unilateral: they are false and lacking in actuality if isolated in whole truth. This process is a substantially univocal ascent because it is ordained to end in an absolute philosophy. Hence the diversity of philosophies is only apparent. No one philosophy has any meaning in itself but only as a part of what is truly the one philosophy within which, systematically expressed, it is inscribed with a well-determined place and possessed of an immutable function. Nor is it possible to deny that the process must be concluded and affirm instead its infinite openness because, once understood as univocal and marked by necessary transitions and forced exit, every contemporary philosophy, precisely because it has been absolutized by necessity, will absorb all other philosophies, which are in themselves but partial truth, unilateral and no longer actual. One may escape the contradiction between the historical and the definitive character of philosophy by saying that philosophies are always situated in an historical context. In such a situation, what properly deserves the name of a definitive philosophy is not a theory that has been reasoned out and expressed in a system but history itself in its infinitive process, as a continuing evolution of historical situations and political action designed to transform the

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world. History is the one philosophy. It acts as the determining source of the many philosophies which derive their validity from the limited age in which they live. However, it is no longer philosophies that are expressed; we should rather speak of diverse ideologies. For a philosophy that is hostile to theory and inextricably bound up with history and political action, the many philosophies, in their theoretical expression, are seen as simple ideologies, that is, mere conceptualizations of all-determining historical conditions of existence. These ideologies may contribute to political transformations but are, in substance, super-structures, historical products of this one philosophy understood as action and history. The three cases that I have examined so far have this in common: They conceive of philosophy as knowledge of the whole truth, and as the only possibility so that the manifold philosophies vanish within the unicity of that one philosophy. Whatever the object of our discussion, whether it be the truth of the one philosophy as compared to the error of others, its actuality as compared to their partial characters or its definitiveness, which makes other philosophies seem like super-structures, philosophy (understood as the one and the only possibility) completely absorbs in itself the many and diverse. The one philosophy alone exists. The others may claim to be philosophy only in so far as they are somehow included. And this they may accomplish, either by becoming absorbed through that fragment of their philosophy that has not yet been refuted as error, by contracting into a part whose proper place and truth can be found only in the whole, or by establishing themselves as superficial and transient manifestations of that activity which alone is real: history and political action. In this way the manifold diversity of philosophies is but an appearance: for not only do these conceptions fail to explain, they indeed make it impossible to throw every philosophy open to the different interpretation that lie at the root of every knowing philosophical historiography. The several conceptions of truth presented are indeed suggestive: that of truth winding its way through

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articulating itself in the mobile progression of a varied and fluid systematization, and that of action, itself infinitely open, giving rise to infinitely many theories. But the conception of philosophy as the one and the only possibility hardens and arrests the mobility of that infinitely open enquiry, because the critical evolution imposed on each philosophy is univocal, depending as it does upon the one philosophy that alone offers the truth, and in whose light only one true interpretation can be given of every single philosophy. The historian is thus obliged both to seek out and to accept this single interpretation. A philosophical historiography inspired by these criteria fails to respect the single philosophies in their solid autonomy and continual fruitfulness; instead it offers pre-formed schemata into which they are to be forced. In this way we are not offered a study of each philosophy in itself: we are given either a history of simple philosophy inquiry with all its vicissitudes and errors, a genealogy of the one contemporary philosophy, always capable of being completely transcribed in theoretical terms and of being classified as system, or the investigation of the relation between philosophical thought and social and political history. Once this work has been accomplished, nothing more is to be said, for now every philosophy has been evaluated, systematized and definitely interpreted. And if, in respect to the one philosophy all the others are completely uncontemporary, what is the point to recall them? That philosophical historiography which studied other philosophies without learning anything from them, be it polemical or dialectical, gives evidence of a merely cultural, scholarly or philological interest. In conceiving the unit of philosophy as unicity not only are the manifold philosophies destroyed but the very unity of philosophy vanishes. For that which claims to be the one philosophy, exclusively true, contemporary and definitive, is in fact but one among the many that succeed one another in the history of philosophical thinking. As it is but one of the many that present themselves as the one philosophy, it becomes impossible to contemplate, much less to achieve, the true unity of philosophy; in the vigorous movement of the one exclusive philosophy among the many,

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to act as the representative of philosophical reason itself. Yet, by conceiving philosophy as knowledge of the whole truth, she has been led to present her own philosophy as the only one. No philosopher has ever aimed at absolutizing her own thought as one, rather than accepting philosophy itself as a unity. As a result, in the place of philosophy we are offered but one of the many, and that one is absolutized. Actually, to consider philosophy as permitting one single expression is to relate the many philosophies to that one among them which, because absolute and privileged, is able to silence the others and reduce them all to terms of its own synthesis. Accordingly, the multiplicity of philosophies, excluded on principle, is unconsciously presupposed since it is but one of the philosophies that is in fact absolutized. To conceive philosophy as knowledge of the whole truth and as its one and only expression is at once un-critical and dogmatic. The relativity of philosophical doctrines Must we, then, sacrifice the unity of philosophy to the multiplicity of philosophies? An affirmative answer is advanced by those who hold that every philosophy expresses a point of view, and not only deny the possibility of one absolute and definitive philosophy on the grounds that every outlook, unmistakable and unrepeatable as it is, cannot be a unit in any plurality, much less a totality, but go further and insist that I am one with my point of view. Hence to clarify my situation I must profess my truth, i.e. the truth that I myself am. There are many philosophies because truths are many, and truths are many because the order of existence is diversified. According to this view, every existence is at one and the same time a truth and a philosophy. My philosophy is not one among many because my truth is not, certainly from my point of view, just one among many: for me it is the only conceivable one. Hence it is that we cannot speak of either pluralism or unity in philosophy but must insist, on the contrary, on the exceptional, unique character of every philosophy. Every philosophy, then, is closed up within

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itself, unique and absolute, definitive and conclusive, for it excludes all other philosophies and is so exceptionally singular and isolated as to be absolutely incommunicable, untranslatable into a universal language and intelligible only through personal responses and invocations. Let us note that communication among philosophers does not yet constitute philosophy: involving as it does many existents rather than many philosophies it belongs to the order of life. In the act of philosophizing every person is clarifying her own self, developing the power of her most individual situation, expressing her own life by means of concepts which in themselves are empty and inexpressive, and communicating through figurative language and allusions. Ultimately, every person conducts a monologue, imprisoned in her own situation, and is faced with no other alternative than to understand her limitations with greater depth and clarify. The communicability and intelligibility of the many philosophies, gravely compromised by this attack, is safeguarded by those who see in such philosophies different conceptions of the world. Shaped by the world, these philosophies are for that very reason marked with an original and inner intelligibility and are open to anyone who is capable to re-experiencing them, by understanding and reconstructing their structural unity. It is possible to achieve a point of view according to which the diverse philosophies may be embraced without the necessity of professing any particular one. It is also possible to discern a uniform intelligibility in them and appreciate their validity, for they are all situated on the same plane and are equally relativized by the concrete point of view and particular situation from which they arise. This conception is sharply critical of all the other philosophies as it accentuates both historical relativity and the personal situation. As regards itself, however, it is not critical at all: while anxious not to adopt any particular philosophy precisely because it wishes to understand and justify all of them, one is nevertheless presupposed and tacitly assumed, namely, a metaphysic necessity. Since each person can have only that conception of philosophy which it does have, all conceptions become equally necessary and indifferent. This position might be of some

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value were it to stop considering itself a philosophy and restrict itself rather to describing the forms of human civilization. Such an interest is indeed very noble and indispensable for every kind of understanding, yet in itself neither produces a specific philosophical understanding neither is capable to initiating among the diverse philosophies a truly philosophical communion. Indeed, having gone thus far, is it still possible to speak of philosophy as an autonomous and distinct knowledge founded on pure concepts? Once the historical-personal conditional character of philosophy has been discovered how can one still philosophize? Indeed, since philosophy is always relative to the particular situation within which it arises, whoever decides to philosophize with the intention to achieving a universally valid systematic conceptual explanation of reality mistakes the temporal for the eternal. If this is done unconsciously such a person sins by ingenuousness; if consciously, she is engaging in mystification. Hence today, with criticism refined to the point of relativizing philosophy through its historical context - i.e. unconscious naïveté no longer being possible —there is no way of escaping mystification except by a renunciation of philosophy and an insistence on its impossibility, by showing how easily it becomes reduced either to critical thought or to a methodological consciousness proper to each determinate human action and knowledge. Now, apart from the fact that whoever formulates such statements presupposes, without any critical foundation, the one and only one view of philosophy at once total, absolute and definitive, and unconsciously contemplates it with nostalgia, in thus deducing a theory from the simple fact of the multiplicity of philosophies, mistakes theory for consequence of fact rather than solution to problems. In this way facts are not seen as problematic; but are, on the contrary, idolized as data to be imposed and suffered. In these last three conceptions the historical and personal relativity of each philosophy is so accentuated that the unity of philosophy becomes completely sacrificed to the multiplicity of philosophical systems. The various philosophies are wanting in

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universality. They are either incommunicable or intelligible only as statements of Weltanschauungen relative to their own time; the only unity that binds them is the unity of human life, not that of a specific philosophical reason which unites them in one common task. That such a view completely compromises the unity of philosophy may be clearly seen from the fact that it makes it impossible to present that criticism which every worthwhile philosophical historiography demands. If each person remains so utterly enclosed within her own situation that her thought is nothing more than the conceptualization of her most particular way of viewing reality, it is perfectly useless either to evaluate or criticize a philosophical system and treat as a concept what is but a manifestation of life. Criticism loses meaning if its sole aim is to bring to light the exact correlation between a “theory” and a destiny, an historical situation, a vital need: nothing more need be done than to try to “understand” and restrict analysis to description. An historiography based on this terms does point up the necessity of individuating exactly the personal problem of a philosopher so that the solution her philosophy proposes may be understood on its own merits and for its own sake. In this way historiography illuminates magnificently the historical, environmental and cultural context within which philosophers speculate. But to imprison the philosopher within the vision imposed upon her by her own situation is to misunderstand the nature of that peculiar relationship that obtains between the “personal” problem and the “philosophical” solution; it involves, too, a movement on the level of human understanding and psychological historiography which, though respectful of the autonomy of every philosophy, is nevertheless deficient in the specifically speculative phases of philosophy. It is true that a great many thoughts of everyone are historical products, and that the heart of every problem is at once human and personal. Yet the strength of a vigorous speculative thought poses its own problems freely, and demands an understanding which should rise from an ineradicably human beginning to that universal problem that makes thought specifically philosophical, and expressible in terms of speculative evalu-

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ation and criticism. Were philosophies but personal confessions and historical products, what genuine philosophical interest could there possibly be in re-calling and studying them? Philosophical historiography would either be reduced to an epicurean existence of a highly refined curiosity or restricted to pedagogical or edifying ends. To reduce the multiplicity of philosophies to their exceptional or historical character is to compromise not only the unity of philosophy, but that very diversity that has been emphasized with such force. We are no longer dealing, strictly speaking, with various philosophies but with singular existents, historical situations, temporal circumstances, in which philosophic expression is purely accidental. Nor does this philosophical expression constitute that intimate substance, which centered instead either in action, life or history. In this way the unity of philosophy re-enters surreptitiously, and under false appearances. For if everyone possesses the philosophy she does indeed own in virtue of the very necessity by which she possesses, or rather is, her own situation, a metaphysic of necessity is unconsciously presupposed as the one philosophy, and appears in the form of that historical fatalism according to which everyone thinks as she does precisely because she is what she is. Hence, to hold that philosophies are exceptional and historical in character - i.e. fatal in their multiplicity - involves a dogmatic and insufficiently critical attitude. The unity and multiplicity of philosophy Are the unity of philosophy and the multiplicity of philosophies, then, in such utter contrast that they are mutually exclusive? Does the stated singularity of each philosophy compromise its universality? And does the proclaimed speculative value involve a negation of personality? Should any one of the terms be sacrificed to any other it would lead to such unfortunate results that it would be useful to investigate the possibility of their coexistence. But how can the unity of philosophy be conceived so that at one and the

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same time it may be reconciled with the multiplicity of philosophies and yet explain and justify it? And how can this multiplicity be conceived so that, rather than exclude unity, it will, on the contrary, demand it? The best way of solving this problem, it seems to me, is by investigating the very act through which each one of us philosophizes. One will then see already present in this act, either implicitly or explicitly, unconsciously or consciously, an acknowledgment at once of the multiplicity of philosophies and of the unity of philosophy, and will then learn that the two terms, far from being incompatible, are indeed correlative, mutually essential. On the one hand, when I begin to philosophize, it is indeed I who dedicate myself personally to this undertaking which I do according to my idea of philosophy, to that idea which I have freely thought out on the basis of my speculative demands. In executing such an idea, I work out my own philosophy and seek to solve my own problems, i.e. the problems which I have freely presented to myself and which I have taken out of my singular situation. In this way I encounter and resolve the problem that I am to myself, which indeed I have been able to make of myself. The solution I give is one with my way of seeing, a way which I have been developing slowly in response to my situation in my most distinctive and determinate way. The idea of philosophy, the philosophy as constructed, the problem or problems, and the way of seeing them, are mine. The whole affair is indeed a personal matter for me as for the others, so that, by the very act of philosophizing, I not only admit but indeed demand that every one who philosophizes face her own problems and resolve them according to her way of seeing, and thus construct a philosophy on the basis of her own ideas. On the other hand, when I undertake to philosophize, I am moved by a necessity common to every thinking being, the need for truth. It is not to my philosophy that I am dedicated: it is philosophy itself that I serve, even if, in such service, I develop a philosophy of my own. Moreover, in facing my own problems I not only face the problem that I am to myself, but the problems that every person

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is to herself, i.e. the problem that human being is to herself. This problem, though one and the same for all men, is presented to me as problem that I am to myself. The solution I give is certainly in harmony with the way in which I look at things, but I attempt this way of looking at things on the basis of reason. In my thinking I am committed to respect—and to see to it that others respect— the law of universal reason to which I personally conform without claiming a monopoly, ready as I am to accept their demands no matter where they originate. The existence of truth is common to every one who philosophizes, the problem faced, even in its most singular configuration, is one and the same, and the reason whose demands are accepted and which is exercised in a personal way is universal. What is at issue hare is philosophy itself which, taken in its very unity, runs through the single philosophies in which it finds embodiment. The personality of philosophy means, at one and the same time, multiplicity of philosophies and unity of philosophy. In undertaking to philosophize I know at the outset that my philosophy will be arrayed along with other philosophies and that all of them taken together will make up philosophy. It is not philosophy in itself that is mine, but the peculiar way in which I understand philosophy and actually philosophize. A human being who philosophizes in her own way nevertheless philosophizes; indeed there is but one way of philosophizing and that is to do one’s own. This thesis is valid, however, provided we add immediately and with equal force that to philosophize in one’s own way indeed does involve the elaboration of a philosophy so that, strictly speaking, there is neither just one philosophy nor many philosophies. It is “philosophy” alone that exists, and in the concrete philosophy always means, at one and the same time, one “philosophy” and “philosophy in itself.” It is the personality of philosophy which, if rightly understood, presents a point of equilibrium between the multiplicity of philosophies and the unity of philosophy. It forbids the sacrifice of either one of the terms to the other, and demonstrates instead their obvious compatibility. And that the two terms are indeed mutually essential

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will appear from a further deepening of the personalist principle, by showing how to conceive, respectively, both the multiplicity and the unity of philosophy. The personal Character of philosophy To understand the diverse philosophies in a personal way they must be seen as expressions of the person, understood as free and conditioned rather than as imprisoned and limited. If it be said that I am one with my situation, it must be added that I am also, in an immediate way, a point of view, in virtue of which I can do nothing but see. In the very intimacy of myself I am the answer to the problems that are given and pressed upon me. I have nothing else to do than express and develop the answer in the form of philosophy which is but a translation in conceptual and systematic terms of that outlook I originally am. I am imprisoned by my situation, by my problem and answer, and cannot but have the philosophy I have. Yet I am not one with my situation. I rather appropriate it freely, condition it by my reaction and incorporate it in the answer I give. Hence I cannot be said to be one with my point of view, for this point of view I choose freely. Moreover I transform my unique spiritual situation into such a condition that I am able to look freely and see only after I have looked. It is I who am moved by free initiative and, guided by reason, convert the situation in which I live into a problem, extract from it ever new problems, propose a critical, pondered solution, and a systematize this complexus of problems and solutions into a finished philosophy. Though it is quite true that every philosopher begins afresh, she does not start completely from scratch, for she already has, from the very beginning and by necessity, a given outlook, with problems and solutions of her own. Yet she does begin to question everything anew and to give original answers in terms of her chosen point of view. In this way the character of her philosophy depends on the initiative with which she freely assumes her situation and directs that thought and reason which she represents and exercises in a personal way.

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Thus every philosophy is always, so to speak, lateral (literally, sided) because the philosopher, as the conscious center of that personal experience within which her point of view is presented in varied ways, does not have a total and definitive knowledge. She speculates, rather, within a restricted, finite point of view and sees, as it were, from a tangent. But this does not mean that every philosophy is uni-lateral (one-sided), i.e. open to integration in a systematic whole, as if it snatched only one part of truth, and then demanded fulfillment in the other partial visions in the system of total knowledge. From its one-sided perspective every philosophy is faced with the one problem common to all philosophies. And it is just this that bestows upon philosophy its irreducible, original and exemplary character. A further consequence may be noted. Every philosophy is always unrepeatable; for it is an answer to problem situated in the most individual conditions and based upon such unique responses that, strictly speaking, it is best to refer to the multiplicity rather than the singularity of philosophies. But this does not mean that philosophy is exceptional, i.e. enclosed within the incommunicability and incomprehensible substance of the person who has worked it out. The solution given to a singularly determinate problem will be singularly determinate. Yet it will be given in terms of reason, for in giving it the philosopher has followed the laws of thought to which she has committed herself the moment she has decided to think at all. It is here that we find that somewhat adventurous note that inheres in philosophical inquiry, for the philosopher, though committed to universal reason as the criterion of her personal judgments, does not yet know where she will end. And so it is that every philosophy possesses a speculative value which is universally recognizable, as soon as we take pains to understand the precise terms of the problem it proposes to solve. Every philosophy is, then, so universally conditioned by a historical context that it always constitutes an answer to historical problems; moreover, it is impossible to evaluate its truth without individuating the precise problem it seeks to solve. Whoever attempts to

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separate the truth of a philosophy from its historical context will find herself empty-handed. Every solution must be related to a precise statement of the question, otherwise it will become lost in a mere verbal exercise, for the very language of a philosophy is generated from a source that illuminates its meaning. If the language is taken by itself, without reference to the burning problems from which it has painfully arisen, we are permitting the secret of a philosophy to entrench itself behind the silence of signs which then become meaningless. But to say that every historical condition is unsurmountable, and that it is impossible to separate the truth of a philosophy from its historical context, does not mean that every philosophy is, without any further qualification, historical, in the sense of a mere historical product or as restricted, in validity, to the period within which it has arisen. Indeed, the historical problems philosophy undertakes to solve cannot be fixed in their terms a priori, as if all the philosopher has to do is to accept and submit herself to them as if they were inevitable and imposed upon her, like a pace she must fit into if she wishes to escape the risk of being out to step. It is not history that imposes the problem; it is the philosopher who either disengages it from history or forces history to propose it to her. Moreover the validity of a philosophy is not restricted to the period in which it arises because, the very moment it resolves historical problems, it escapes them, and offers its own validity to those who are able to find the solution by matching it up with the relevant problem. Finally the necessity of relativizing the solution to the problem in order to grasp the truth of a philosophy has nothing to do with relativism. Philosophies cannot be grouped and reduced to a common plane, and then viewed as equally true just because they express the one situation from which they all arise. They cannot be understood, that is, as a kind of contemplation which is restricted to recording, describing and reconstructing, without either judging or criticizing what has been recorded. On the contrary, precisely because every philosophy is the product of a free initiative in which the philosopher has posed problems and thought out solutions by

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the personal exercise of that universal reason whose answer she is committed to respect, every philosopher demands not only to be understood but judged, if need be, contradicted. By the very act of philosophizing she has agreed to submit herself to the judgment of reason, and just as in the name of reason she may criticize and contradicted herself, so in turn she demands to be contradicted and judged by whoever is competent to do so in the name of reason. Indeed, in the very act of philosophizing, far from appearing with all the others as on a stage, she has already engaged in a discussion with whoever wishes to accept her invitation. The universality of philosophy To understand the unity of philosophy in a personal way then, is to abandon the conception of a unique and definitive philosophy that may be taken for knowledge of the whole truth. A philosophy which knew the whole truth would no longer be philosophy: it would be Sophia without further qualification. No longer would it be that human sophia which is proper to the finite: it would be a higher-than-human knowledge, and would both transcend the condition of man and stop all inquiry. Actually the whole truth does not offer itself to human being in the form of a possession achieved and definitely conquered. It is rather present as exigency and norm; as exigency exiting man to search for the truth, as norm acting as judge of the truths such enquiry attains. Precisely because truth is unique so is philosophy; and precisely because unique, it is rather a search for then a total knowledge of truth. Moreover, just as there are many individual truths that can be reached trough inquiry, there are many different philosophies, none of which succeeds in knowing truth exclusively, precisely because they are all stimulated by one exigency that binds them in a common work. Since it is in philosophy itself that the single philosophies converge, it cannot be identified with any one in particular, present as it is in each and every one. It is the need for truth that motivates every thinking mind which has become conscious and reflective;

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it is this which is norm, guide, criterion and law for the philosopher who assumes the responsibility of acting in conformity with reason. Though in themselves universal, reason and thought are exercised by human being in a personal way. Yet the personal element in philosophy cannot be reduced to psychological intimacy or arbitrary subjectivity, for a personal exercise or reason does not conflict with a vivid proclamation of its universality, with an acceptance of its function as norm and criterion of every judgment personally pronounced. The same holds for philosophy. For everyone speaks in the name of philosophical thought and admits, indeed demands, that everybody else do the same. In the way I myself commit a common work to demands of reason, and insist that the others do the same. If someone should demonstrate to me, on rational grounds, that I am wrong, I will withdraw as readily as I would speak in the name of reason were I discover someone in error and demonstrate to her the precise source of her error. And let it be noted that I do not permit myself to be convinced by the other as that particular person, but as one who excites me to listen to the voice of that reason I was unable to hear, and which now we both exercise in a deeply personal way, she in convincing me of my error and I in permitting myself to be convinced. From what we have said it does not at all follow that, in philosophizing, I must oppose my truth to the errors of others or simply place it alongside other truths. On the contrary, we are all engaged in the same search for truth and committed to a common task. Each person throws open for discussion whatever reason has shown her, and in turn does not refuse to discuss whatever reason might have dictated to others. The many philosophies are not arrayed for the sake of offering a pleasant spectacle, nor are they engaged in out-shouting and silencing one another. Conscious of a work that can be performed only in the first person, they rather cooperate through discussion, and even when one is contrasted with another, they work together, one with another, for the discovery of truth. This is the true philosophy which embraces and binds all philosophies into a common and uninterrupted dialogue: this

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alone deserves the name of philosophical unity. And so it is that this common discussion, no matter how presented (either as indigenous to every philosophy whilst conducting a dialogue with others or as a new dialogue) is the one philosophy that runs through and binds every one in an unbroken yet not total scheme: a dialogue rather then a dialectic; it is free yet forever open. This philosophy is a dialogue rather than a dispersal, a communion rather than a monologue, an itinerary rather than a history of errors, a collaboration rather than a battle, a co-presence of voices freely talking, questioning and answering one another rather than a determined genealogy in which everybody is assigned an immutable place. It is a perennial meeting of voices forever alive and worthy of being heard rather than a brutal, forced choice for life. It is this rich and animated dialogue that constitutes the unity of philosophy. In this dialogue the autonomy of each philosophy is not destroyed; it is on the contrary, respected. Were the case otherwise, there would indeed be no dialogue. Every philosophy, in its individual yet open, unrepeatable character, is absolute and definitive: absolute, however, not in the sense of possessing the whole truth or in being enclosed within its own incommunicable confines; but as a free choice irreducible to any of the other philosophies. Thought connected with preceding philosophies, it begins anew, opens up new roads and need not to be necessarily submerged with other philosophies through forced conclusions. Each philosophy exhibits a development all its own, so original and autonomous that were I to interrogate it properly it would answer me with a unmistakable voice and, were I to introduce extraneous questions and problems, I would see it react as a living organism. It is not definitive in being one true philosophy or conception of the world which its author could not but have; it is rather definitive in the sense that it has erected a ktêma eis aeí. As soon as its own problems have been resolved they are transcended, and this philosophy becomes universally valid with a validity sanctioned by the very exercise of that reason which has evolved the true philosophy. It is open to everyone to acknowledge, indeed it demands such acknowledgement,

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even though this take place through disagreement and discussion. In every case it is worthy of consideration and endowed with a perennial character that excites infinite interpretations, not only in virtue of ever-new points of view, but also by virtue of the infinity of its own aspects. It is this conception of the various philosophies understood as free options, each one absolute and irreducible, recognizable by everyone, endowed with an autonomous development and constantly open to interpretations which, it seems to me, makes philosophical historiography possible and confers upon it a genuine speculative mark. With such foundations, philosophical historiography becomes truly philosophical, not by silencing all the proceeding philosophies in favor of the one true philosophy, but through its office as confilosofia by which all philosophies discourse with equal urgency. Every voice must be respected in its unique physiognomy and no consensus or false “authority” can be imposed. One must interrogate, and not just by talking, one must listen too, and not only know how to listen. One must learn how to elicit a response; by interrogating a living voice questions are presented in such a way that the answers given are at once genuine and correct. And thus it is that we are urged to use and even to attempt to engender that congeniality which alone makes it possible to ask questions in such a way that the answers are most revealing and not at all falsified by arbitrary super-structures. This kind of philosophy is straight-forward, and the more so the moment we realize that this engagement in a dialogue with other philosophies nourishes that discussion with myself that constitutes my philosophy. On the one hand, it offers interlocutors with whom I discourse and who assist me in strengthening and rectifying my own philosophy, guiding me in the ways for which I myself was searching, and revealing aspects I had not yet suspected or discerned; on the other hand, it prompts me to evaluate, judge and criticize the answers given, on the basis of that very reason to which they, in philosophizing, submit them.

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Philosophy: Infinite and free Unity of philosophy and multiplicity of philosophies are thus reconciled and imply one another for the unity of philosophy is but a philosophizing-with (confilosofia) of single philosophies. The openness of every philosophy to all the others, the communication which, through discussion, binds them all into a common sphere of reciprocal comprehension, the collaboration into whose vast circle everyone is thrown and in which everyone assumes a particular responsibility, this unity never hardens into a totality. On the contrary, it opens itself to an understanding of ever new and unforeseeable ways of philosophizing, and rests on no other foundation than the free and inexhaustible infinite, which can be neither broken up into necessary moments, nor divided into subsumable parts, nor determined with particular ways, nor revealed to a privileged knowledge. This open way of philosophizing arouses infinite voices to attempt, each in its own way, to capture and reveal that openness, and stimulates them by respecting their autonomy and freedom, recognizing their value so that each is free and autonomous within the precision of its determination, open and infinite in its own definiteness. The ambiguous expression “unity of philosophy and multiplicity of philosophies” is thus converted into the much richer and more pregnant formula: “truth is inexhaustibly infinite and she who, motivated by its exigencies, undertakes a search for it, is pre-eminently free.” “L’unità della filosofia,” Filosofia 4 (1/1952), 83-96; Filosofia e teologia 1 (1995): 65-79; English translation A. Di Lascia “The Unity of Philosophy,” Cross Currents 4 (1/1953): 57–69.

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The existential nature of ethics Ethics has an existential nature: it deals with choice of oneself and personal engagement. The core of ethics is existence, which is always single and subjective, that is, in one way based on the singularity and unrepeatability of the human being and, in another, not reducible to an objective knowledge, but to one that fully involves the person in question. On the one hand ethics does not concern the whole of humankind in all its complexity, or in its abstract universality, but rather the single individual who concretely and really exists in person. On the other hand, it is not only a form of knowledge, but also an acting, in which acting is inseparably linked to knowledge, so that it is the single person who is at stake, existentially engaged in the action itself. Kierkegaard illuminates these two aspects with particularly suitable applications and examples: the former through a comparison with universal history and the latter in addressing the problem of death and immortality. Ethics, therefore, concerns first of all the singularity of existence, that is, it concerns each person. “For the study of the ethical, every man is assigned to himself. His own self is as material for this study more than sufficient; aye, this is the only place where he can study it with any assurance of certainty.”5 In this regard, appealing to the “quantitative dialectic” of universal history is counterproductive: the result would not be a clarification of ethics but a clouding and obscuring of it. “The apprehension of the historical process readily becomes a half poetic contemplative astonishment, rather than a sober ethical perspicuity.”6 It may bring about a certain confusion between ethical consideration and historical consideration, which are substantially heterogeneous: “There is a far wider scope for confusion in connection with the contemplation of the world-process, where it often seems as if good and evil were subject to a quantitative dialectic, and that there is a certain magnitude of crime and cunning, affecting millions of individuals and entire peoples.”7 But it may also bring about something worse: one could believe that ethics is best realized in history. This is clearly absurd, since it is a

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consideration that can perhaps be made about the past, which is in a certain sense already concluded, but that cannot be made about the future, in which everyone deals with her own responsibility. “Another confusion readily arises: namely, that the ethical first finds its concrete embodiment in the world-historical… We contemplate universal history, and seem to see that every age has its own moral substance. We become objectively puffed up, and, though existing individuals, we refuse to be content with the so-called subjectiveethical. No, the now living generation, while still in the midst of its allotted span of life, desires to discover its own world-historical moral idea, and to act out of a consciousness of this… In relation to the past, the illusion which forgets to distinguish, and partly cannot know, what belongs to the individual and what belongs to the objective order of things which is the spirit of world-history, is easily accounted for. But in relation to the generation now living, and in relation to each particular member of it, to let the ethical become something which needs a prophet to discover, a man with a world-historical outlook upon world-history—that is indeed a rare and ingeniously comical conceit.”8 Kierkegaard opposes Hegel, who wished to overcome subjective ethics (which is morality) with objective ethics (which he calls ethicality): ethics concerns the singular and not the entire human race. Moreover, ethics is not about ascertaining “what the age demands”: ethics is about keeping to oneself, looking after oneself, striving to determine one’s own task and duty. One must look after one’s own personal conscience and not after one’s own world-historical importance; endeavor to give one’s personal answer to the question “what should I do?” and not be anxious to become part of a historical process; assume one’s own responsibility, at one’s own risk, and not settle into the comfortable flow of history, into the comfortable bosom of society, and into the comfortable embrace of the rest of humankind. In short, one must not “confuse ethical with the world-historical so that it becomes essentially different when it has to do with millions from when it has to do with one”:9 ethics deals with human beings, and dealing with human beings means dealing with the single human being.

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It is therefore not a question of becoming part of universal history, but of fighting before God with or against the angel, with no hope other than to realize one’s own human dignity, with no reward other than to find that the obstacle is always one step higher. “The historical personality has presumably while living helped himself with the subjective ethic, and then Providence has added the world-historical significance… From the standpoint of world history, the individual subject is indeed unimportant; but then it must be remembered that the world-historical is an extraneous addition. Ethically, the individual subject is infinitely important.”10 And if this “unimportant thing” is “infinitely important” for ethics, this is because only in ethics is there choice and decision, that is, risk, and only the singular is able to take risks. “If anything in the world can teach a man to venture, it is the ethical, which teaches to venture everything for nothing, to risk everything, and therefore also to renounce the flattery of the world-historical in order to become as nothing… Therefore, says the ethical, dare, dare to renounce everything, including this loftily pretentious and yet delusive intercourse with world-historical contemplation; dare to become nothing at all, to become a particular individual, of whom God requires everything, without your being relieved of the necessity of being enthusiastic: behold, that is the venture! But then, you will also have gained that God cannot in all eternity get rid of you, for only in the ethical is your eternal consciousness: behold, that is the reward! To be a particular individual is world-historically absolutely nothing, infinitely nothing—and yet, this is the only true and highest significance of a human being.”11 Thus ethics, which directs its attention towards the singular, realizes nothing from the standpoint of world history, which gazes upon the whole of history, and especially the past. However, this nothing, which is precisely the reality and the value of existence, and which lives in the present to build the future, is a nothing which leads to eternity. Here is one last specification on this subject: whereas history directs its attention to humankind, ethics directs its attention to the singular. This means that whereas history deals with effect and

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result, ethics deals with conscience and intention; and whereas the historical relation with God is based on the fact that God alone is a spectator, the ethical relation with God is based on the fact that the singular is only actor. First of all, “if world-history is the history of the human race, it follows, as a matter of course, that it does not show forth the ethical. What it lets us see must be something that corresponds to the abstraction which the race is, and therefore to something equally abstract. The ethical is, on the contrary, a correlative to individuality, and that to such a degree that each individual apprehends the ethical essentially only in himself, because the ethical is his complicity with God.”12 Moreover “what makes the deed ethically the property of the individual is the purpose; but this purpose is precisely something that never gets included in the world-historical, for here it is the world historical purpose that counts. World-historically I see the effect, ethically, I see the purpose; but when I apprehend the purpose ethically and understand the ethical, I see also that every effect is infinitely indifferent, that it is indifferent what the effect was; but in that case I do not see the world-historical.”13 Finally, there is an image that represents effectively the difference between “the ethical relationship which the individual has to God, and the relationship of the world-historical to God”:14 “the ethical development of the individual constitutes the little private theater where God is indeed a spectator, but where the individual is also a spectator from time to time, although essentially he is an actor, whose task is not to deceive but to reveal, just as all ethical development consists in becoming apparent before God. But world-history is the royal stage where God is a spectator, where He is not accidentally but essentially the only spectator, because He is the only one who can be. To this theater no existing spirit has access. If he imagines himself a spectator here, he merely forgets that he is himself an actor on the stage of the little theater, who must leave it to the royal spectator and actor how He will use him in this royal drama, drama dramatum.”15 Universal history might be considered a performance, and perhaps a very beautiful performance, since, as has been seen, it is an aesthetical-metaphysical determina-

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tion; but if the human being is a spectator to it, she is lost, since she loses the ability to be an actor even on her small personal stage, where it is a question of acting and where everything is decisive for her. In fact, in ethics, “if man does not acquire anything, all is lost”:16 “Only in the ethical is there immortality and an eternal life; otherwise understood, the world-historical is perhaps a spectacle, a spectacle which perhaps endures—but the spectator dies, and his contemplation of the spectacle was perhaps a highly significant way of… killing time.”17 With respect to universal history, and especially with respect to those who create confusion out of a sense of speculation and “objectivity,” “overleaping the ethical, and then by proposing a world-historical something as the ethical task for the individuals” it must be remembered that genuine seriousness, or rather the only serious thing, is ethics, which is “the life-principle of the whole,” “the highest task for every human being,” “the very breath of the eternal” which “constitutes even in solitude the reconciling fellowship with all men.”18 So “first the ethical, the task of becoming subjective, and afterwards the world-historical.”19 Second, ethics implies an existential engagement. Ethics is not a “moral science,” based on the observation of human beings, their behavior and their conduct. “But the ethical is not merely a knowing; it is also a doing that is related to a knowing, and a doing such that the repetition may in more than one way become more difficult than the first doing.”20 With respect to science and speculation, human beings are unequal because they are more or less intelligent, astute and ingenious: they do not all have the same abilities, and they do not all understand equally well. However, all human beings are equal with regard to ethics, both the “speculator” and the “simpler man”: for all, without distinction, ethics is easy to understand and difficult to realize; exactly quite unlike speculation, which is difficult to understand, but which, with its dialectic game, comes to the fore in everything in next to no time, thus rapidly getting rid of any opposition from the system of tit for tat. In this sense it can be said that the speculator is at a disadvantage with regard to ethics. Ethics is simultaneously the easiest and

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most difficult thing. At this point the speculator makes the difficulty of ethics even greater, because she wishes to approach it through her speculation. The speculator has placed herself in a position of understanding and knowing, whereas ethics requires action and engagement above all. Now the understanding and knowledge of which the speculator speaks not only have nothing to do with action, but annul and prevent action because she has already gone beyond it in the dialectic process. “Its distraction of mind is also revenged, when speculative philosophy proposes in Ethics to have a living individual act by virtue of a theory of immanence, i.e. to act by inaction.”21 In this sense, satire and epigrams against the speculator consist precisely in the possible “sincere and enthusiastic zeal of a learner who proposes to express and to realize his wisdom by appropriating it existentially.”22 As a consequence, the speculator, who understands everything easily, hardly understands ethics. “Is it not the case that what is most difficult of all for the wise man to understand is precisely the simple? The plain man understands the simple directly, but when the wise man sets himself to understand it, it becomes infinitely difficult. Is this an indignity visited upon the wise man, that his person is so emphasized that the simplest thing become the most difficult things, because it is he who is concerned with them? By no means. When a servant-girl weds a day-laborer everything passes off quietly, but when a king weds a princess it becomes an event. Is it derogatory to the king to say this about him?… It is thus that the wise man stands related to the simple. The more the wise man thinks about the simple (and the fact that a prolonged occupation with it is conceivable, shows already that it is not so easy), the more difficult it becomes for him.… The difference between the wise man and the simplest human being is merely this vanishing little distinction, that the simple man knows the essential, while the wise man little by little learns to know that he knows it, or learns to know that he does not know it. But what they both know is the same.”23 In any case, although all human beings are equal with regard to ethics, although ethics is simultaneously the easiest and the most

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difficult thing, and although facility and difficulty are not the same for the simpler person and for the wise person, what is important is that ethics must not be hurried, because it is a question of direct participation, personal engagement, real-life experience, and interior maturity. Ethical problems are not those elegant questions which speculation so brilliantly and rapidly dismisses with its efficacious dialectics: ethical problems are simultaneously indefinite and very precise: indefinite because all are epitomized in the duty to “become subjective,” to “cling to oneself,” to “be oneself as much as possible,” to “choose oneself,” but very precise because they are configured from time to time in particular and specific duties, in tasks to be carried out in precise cases, in the commissions everyone has in her everyday life. This meeting of precision and indefiniteness is explained by the fact that ethics is not a science, a knowledge, or a doctrine, but above all action and decision, in which the person herself is directly engaged at her own risk; or rather, it is a knowledge full of action, and therefore made up of real-life experience and interior maturity, of patient and persevering personal engagement, and of constant and faithful application, which does not fear delays or repetitions in time, because duties are inexhaustible and tasks are endless. The objective thinker “goes on and on, never repeating himself, distaining the repetition which immerses him more and more profoundly in the one thought, but astonishing the age first as systematician, then as philosopher of world-history, then as astronomer, as veterinarian, as water inspector, a as geographer, and so forth.”24 However the profundity of an ethical life requires such an intense maturity that “there is no reason for hastily choosing astronomy, the veterinary sciences, and the kind, as long as one has not understood the simple.” 25 Consider, for example, death. If it is merely a question of defining death, this is easily done, and even an inexperienced young person can do it. But if one must speak of the value of death as orientation in life, what the concrete meaning of death is for a single and real individual, one would need to have nursed the idea of death for a long time within oneself and to have placed it in one’s

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consciousness as a living seed of interior reflections and exterior actions, as a continuous solicitation of thoughts and actions. Death is not a “concept” of which an “objective definition” can be given; but is an idea which acquires its real meaning only if it works in the consciousness, only if it lives in single existence, or rather, only if it does not exist outside the consciousness that inspires it or outside the existence that appropriates it and, in this sense, realizes it. Death is not a subject of objective thought, but a term of existential engagement; it is not a concept which, when separated from existence, can become a subject for scientific or speculative thought, but an idea which, inseparable from existence, provokes a trend of thought and action within it. “The problem of what it means to die. I know concerning this what people in general know about it; I know that I shall die if I take a dose of suplhuric acid, and also if I drown myself, or go to sleep in an atmosphere of coal gas and so forth. I know that Napoleon always went about with poison ready to hand and that Juliet in Shakespeare poisoned herself. I know that the Stoics regarded suicide as a courageous deed, and that others consider it a cowardly act. I know that death may result from so ridiculous and trivial a circumstance that even the most serious-minded of men cannot help laughing at death; I know that it is possible to escape what appears to be certain death, and so forth. I know that the tragic hero dies in the fifth act of the drama, and that death here has an infinite significance in pathos; but that when a bartender dies, death does not have this significance. I know that the poet can interpret death in a diversity of moods, even to the limit of the comical; I pledge myself to produce the same diversity of effects in prose. I know furthermore what the clergy are accustomed to say on this subject, and I am familiar with the general run of themes treated at funerals. … Nevertheless, in spite of this almost extraordinary knowledge or facility in knowledge, I can by no means regard death as something I have understood. Before I pass over to universal history—of which I must always say: ‘God know whether it is any concern of yours’—it seems to me that I had better think about

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this, lest existence mock me, because I had become so learned and highfalutin that I had forgotten to understand what will some time happen to me as to every human being.”26 Here, then, is a complete picture of what an “objective knowledge” of death might be: a sum of known things which does not imply the comprehension of death at all. So one is sent back to a “subjective knowledge”: “understanding” death means first of all remembering that “one day” it can also fall to me, as it does to us all, to die: understanding death means realizing the uncertainty of when it will occur. However, in this case care must also be taken. Realizing the uncertainty of when death will come may become an “objective” reflection, in which the single person is not yet existentially engaged. Consider a preacher known for eloquence. “He thinks that he apprehends the uncertainty of death, while nevertheless forgetting to think it into what he says about it, so that he speaks movingly and with emotion about the uncertainty of death, and yet ends by encouraging his hearers to make a resolution for the whole of life. This is essentially to forget the uncertainty of death.”27 The fact is that this preacher is still in the bosom of objective thought, so that the listeners, although they are moved and shaken, do not imagine death in an existential and involved way. “To think about it once for all, or once a year at matins on New Year’s morning, is of course nonsense, and is the same as not thinking about it at all. If someone who thinks the thought in this manner also assumes to explain universal history, then it may well be that what he says about universal history is glorious, but what he says about death is stupid. If death is always uncertain, if I am a mortal creature, then it is impossible to understand this uncertainty in terms of a mere generality unless indeed I, too, happen to be merely a human being in general.”28 So, as an existential engagement, the thought of death cannot be objective: the uncertainty of death cannot be realized in general, forgetting personal engagement. To believe that the uncertainty of death can be imagined in general means to consider it possible “to die in general,” which is obviously impossible, since one dies only in oneself—unless one is as absent-minded as “the late Herr Soldin,”

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for whom “death is supposed to have been such a something in general: ‘when he was about to get up in the morning he was not aware that he was dead’.”29 But how far must the subjective, involved, personal, existential nature of death go? Will it be a real-life experience, a direct participation? Obviously not, if it is death itself that is in question: one cannot have a real-life experience of death, since this experience will mean dying, which would lead to a contradiction, because the subject of the real-life experience would herself disappear. “The difficulty can also be expressed as follows: Is it the case that the living individual is absolutely excluded from the possibility of approaching death in any sense whatever, since he cannot experimentally come near enough without comically sacrificing himself upon the altar of his own experiment, and since he cannot experientially restrain the experiment, and so learns nothing from it, being incapable of taking himself out of the experience so as to profit form it subsequently, but sticks fast in the experience.”30 So will it not be necessary to turn back and say that if death cannot be a real-life experience, it must remain in a state of “representation”? Does this not mean going back to objective thought, to concept as object, to the concept of which it is possible to have an abstract definition and scientific knowledge? No, that which is and must be a “real-life experience” is not death, but the “thought of death,” and it is this thought that can assume an existential character, or, rather, validly represent the existential nature of ethics. The thought of death has an existential nature since it can entirely transform life: it is not saying but acting, not merely thinking but working; it is not only a concept to define or an idea to contemplate, but a source of operation, renewal, and regeneration. “We wish to know how the conception of death will transform a man’s entire life, when in order to think its uncertainty he has to think it in every moment, so as to prepare himself for it. We wish to know what it means to prepare for death, since here again one must distinguish between its actual presence and the thought of it.”31 This is the point: the “thought of death” is a thought that transforms life,

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anticipating death: it is not only a thought, since it can transform, and it does not concern death nearly as much as it concerns life. It is now possible to grasp the existential (personal and engaged) feature of the “thought of death.” “If the task of life is to become subjective, then the thought of death is not, for the individual subject, something in general, but is verily a deed. For the development of the subject consists precisely in his active interpretation of himself by reflection concerning his own existence, so that he really thinks what he thinks through making a reality of it. He does not for example think, for the space of a passing moment: ‘Now you must attend to this thought every moment’; but he really does attend to it every moment.”32 So the climax of the interior maturation already described has now been reached: one needs to have long borne the thought of death inside oneself in order to reach “a solving word which explain its mystery, and a binding word by which the living individual defends himself against the ever recurrent conception,” that is, to find “an ethical expression for the significance of death, and a religious expression for the victory over death.”33 The same can be said of the theme of immortality. Once again, this is not a scientific question to ask a professor of theology, since immortality has no objective meaning, cannot be treated in abstract and speculative terms, and cannot be systematically demonstrated. “The fault does not lie in the proofs, but in the fact that people will not understand that viewed systematically the whole question is nonsense, so that instead of seeking outward proofs, one had better seek to become a little subjective. Immortality is the most passionate interest of subjectivity; precisely in the interest lies the proof.”34 “And the fact of asking about his immortality is at the same time for the existing subject who raises the question a deed—as it is not, to be sure, for absent-minded people who once in a while ask about the matter of being immortal quite in general. … So he asks how he is to behave in order to express in existence his immortality, whether he is really expressing it; and for the time being, he is satisfied with this task, which surely must be enough to last a man a lifetime since it is to last for an eternity.”35

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In this case, it is once again Socrates who must be followed. He does not demonstrate immortality, but leaves the question open. Immortality is a hypothesis, an “if,” and on this “if” he plays his whole life. “Let us consider Socrates. Nowadays everyone dabbles in a few proofs; some have several such proofs, other fewer. But Socrates! He puts the question objectively in a problematic manner: if there is an immortality. He must therefore be accounted a doubter in comparison with one of our modern thinkers with the three proofs? By no means. On this ‘if’ he risks his entire life, he has the courage to meet death, and he has with the passion of the infinite so determined the pattern of his life that it must be found acceptable—if there is an immortality.”36

From L’etica di Kierkegaard nella “Postilla” (Torino: Giappichelli, 1971); in Kierkegaard e Pascal (Milano: Mursia, 1998), 152–159.

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Part Two

Knowledge

Intuition as interpretation Sensation and sentiment are inseparable in sensory knowledge Intuition is not merely idealistic in nature, since it is always both sensation and sentiment. The verb “to feel”1 also denotes a continuous process, and without initial feeling this is impossible. It is impossible to know sensitively without experiencing a sentimental reaction, and on the other hand sentiment is always a mood which colors and accompanies a sensation. If it is true that nothing can be known except through the mood in which it is approached, it is also true that what is known is always something, which means that just as knowledge is always sentiment it is also always sensation. If it is true that I cannot make contact with the world except through the emotions I feel about it, it is also true that I do not feel emotions unless I make contact with the world. Feeling always has the dual meaning of having a sensation and experiencing a sentiment: sensation means that intuition is always intuition of something, and sentiment is the element through which intuition is always intuition of something. They are not two separate moments or movements, but a single attitude, in which sensation represents the stimulus and the opportunity for an emotion, and sentiment represents the passion elicited by a sensible datum. Sensation without sentiment is inconceivable, since a datum is always grasped in the sentimental reaction in which it is received. On the other hand, sentiment is not conceivable either without reference to a sensation, that is, without the opportunity offered by a stimulus which is perceived and therefore absorbed in an emotion. It is absurd to draw a causal connection between sensation and sentiment, and it is precisely the absurdity of this relation that has led to the considerations of the insubstantiality of sensation and its reducibility to sentiment. But the truly unsubstantial sensation is the one that is conceived as being separate from sentiment and capable of pre-empting and determining it; likewise unsubstantial is sentiment conceived as

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being devoid of sensation, as though sentiment were not a passion or an emotion one feels towards something, as though sentiment could be without a starting point, stimulus, or opportunity, the verification of which does not remain external, but becomes absorbed into sentiment and constitutes its internal reason, rather than its external and mechanical determining cause. Thus, the relationship between sensation and sentiment is not of the sort that might be imagined between two terms which remain external, between two independent movements, or between two stages of the same process, but there is a reciprocal conditioning, a mutual reference, a union of coessential terms: in other words, there is the inseparability of a concrete union. There is no sensation other than that included in sentiment, and there is no sentiment other than that which colors a sensation. Intuition is always the image of something and the expression of a sentiment Things being as they are (that is, there is no sensation without sentiment, and vice versa), intuition will always be simultaneously the image in which a sensation is transfigured through the mediation of sentiment, and the image in which a sentiment that necessarily accompanies a sensation is figured. The image is never only the figuration of a sentiment without being at the same time the transfiguration of a sensation, and vice versa. Intuition will always be both the image of something and the expression of an emotion: figuration will always be both representative and expressive. Intuiting means figuring, because it is from intuition that an image results. In one way, figuring is always having images, that is, representing, knowing, or portraying something, and in another way producing images, expressing, or depicting sentiments. It is also both things together, so that one has the image she produces and produces the image that she has, and the image is always both representative (since it portrays something) and expressive (since a sentiment is figured within it).

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Intuition is always an image of something. It is impossible to think of an image which is not the image of something, that is, which is not representative. An image which is only the image of itself has no cognitive value. Knowledge is not knowledge unless it is knowledge of something: knowing means immediately having the image of something, and only in this way does intuiting mean knowing. Representative image does not mean reproduction or copy, as though the datum as such remained outside its portrayal, and through the use of which it could or should compare itself with an extrinsic reference, for which there would then be no adequate point of view. If intuiting meant reproducing, the only point of view would be reproduction, and there would be no point of view from which to confirm the accuracy of the reproduction and the copy. The image is obtained through the mediation of sentiment, so the something of which intuition is an image is that “felt element” which is the starting point for sentiment, the opportunity for emotion, and, as such, the content of intuition. The image is the figuration of sensation, and sensing means determining and defining, so that the content of intuition is precisely that which is determined and defined in sensation; and figuration does not eliminate, but depicts the determinateness of that which is “felt.” Therefore intuition is knowledge only inasmuch as it figures sensation, which is continually sensing, and thereby determining, something. It is in this sense that intuition is always representative and cognitive, and therefore the image of something. However, intuition is also the expression of a sentiment. It is impossible to conceive of an image which is not the expression of an emotion, and which therefore does not figure a passion. Croce’s gnoseology and aesthetics have long dwelt on this aspect, and there is no need to stress it, if not to say that the sentiment that is figured in an image is precisely that which necessarily accompanies a sensation. Therefore, the image will never be only the expression of the sentiment, since by expressing sentiment it will also represent and thus figure the sensation accompanied by the sentiment. This is the sense in which intuition is always expressive.

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Inseparability of knowing and expressing The image in which intuition is figured is always an image which portrays something sensible and at the same time depicts a sentimental reaction. Thus, as there is no sensation without sentiment, and vice versa, there is no knowing without expressing, and vice versa. Representation as such is expression, and expression as such is representation. Between knowing and expressing there is a relation of mutual constitution. If a representation were mere representation, it would be nothing but reproduction and copying, and if an expression were mere expression, it would be nothing but a pure dream: both are impossible in the human being, since, despite every copy’s wish to be a real copy, it will always express the copier, and despite every dream’s wish to be independent and surreal, it will always prolong the sensible. So representation is representation only if it is also expression, and expression is expression only if it is also representation. There is neither knowing which is not expressing, nor expressing which is not knowing: I know only while expressing, and through expression I know. If on the one hand knowledge is always knowledge of something, because sensing means determining, and on the other hand expression is always expression of a sentiment, because the image is passionate figuration, it has to be said that knowledge does not grasp something without expressing the knower, and that expression does not express sentiments without also grasping something known. I do not know something unless I express myself, and in expressing myself I declare knowledge of something. This is the principle of the aesthetic nature of knowledge. Of course, knowing is always aesthetic, that is, expressive; but it is knowing all the same, because expressing is not creating; so that saying “aesthetic nature of knowledge” does not mean affirming the creative, and therefore artistic, nature of intuition. Intuition is aesthetic because it is expressive and figures a sentiment, but it is not artistic, because it is representative and figurative of a sensation. The reference is always dual: someone who expresses

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herself, and something which is known; but the act is singular: knowing through expressing and expressing through knowing. It is my way of seeing things, so, when I know things, I express myself in my way of seeing them; but they are nevertheless things I see in my way of seeing, so, when I express myself, I state things in whatever transfiguration, or rather figuration, I make of them. Intuition as interpretation If intuition is all this, it is not merely ideal, it is not mere image, pure dream, or indiscrimination of real and unreal. Intuition, as that which includes sensation and sentiment, which is at the same time portrayal of things and figuration of passions, which presents itself simultaneously as sensory knowledge and expression of an emotion, is always discrimination, judgment, and choice: in a word, interpretation. If I had to give a definition of interpretation, I would find none better than this: interpreting is a certain form of knowledge in which, in one way, receptivity and activity are indivisible, and in another, the known is a form and the knower is a person. If, then, interpretation is mutual implication of receptivity and activity, it will have to be said that intuition, as an inextricable connection of cognitive sensation and passionate figuration of knowledge and expression, is already, at least inchoatively, interpretation. Moreover, interpretation would not be a meeting of an interpreted form (maintained in its definiteness) with an interpreting person (who expresses herself in her own personality), if intuition were not in its turn, at least inchoatively, interpretation, since it is a connection of figuration and sentiment, knowledge and expression. Intuition, simultaneously receptive and active, as a seed of interpretation: figuration, portrayal, and transfiguration First, intuition knows, but it knows by expressing, and therefore by figuring: it is a development of impulses, since it is the transfigu-

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ration of sensation. In intuition, there is no sensation unless this is transfigured in expression: sensation is translated into image, it does not exist if it is not already figured and formed: the something which is sensed is figured just as it is sensed, and thus it is grasped, gained, reached, and attained, since it is absorbed in the active process of a figuration which initiates an image. “To feel,” that is to say “to have” images, is already figuring, that is to say “producing” images: there is no portraying which is not figuring. However, expression is always knowledge, and therefore knowledge of something. Since intuition figures and produces images, it grasps what it transfigures, so that the produced images are always, as has been said, images of something: figuring always includes feeling, because the figured sentiment always accompanies sensation: there is no figuring which is not transfiguring. In short, if intuiting always means simultaneously knowing and expressing, in intuition feeling can occur only in figuring, so that there is no portrayal but as a figuration, that is, there is no receptivity without activity, and figuring always includes feeling, so that there is no figuration unless it is as a transfiguration, that is, there is no activity without receptivity. Therefore in intuition receptivity continues in activity, and activity is the development of receptivity in a single process of knowledge and expression, which, as such, is already an interpretation in nuce. Simultaneous intuition, figuration and expression, as a seed of interpretation: the knowledge of things as vision of forms, and the expression of sentiment as a portrait of the person Second, intuition is, on one hand, always an image of something, that is, a vision of forms: this intuition, determining its content in sensation, fixes it in a form, that is to say it figures it, transfigures it, imagines it, and conjures it. Intuiting and knowing are not possible unless as a vision of forms; so the human being tends to see forms everywhere, to imagine them even where the stimulus is indistinct and barely perceptible, when concrete

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experience does not inexhaustibly provide her with useful practical ideas. In whatever way this concrete phenomenology of knowledge as a vision of forms can be depicted, it is sufficient for this discussion to underline that knowing always means aiming at forms, identifying them and their characteristics, and maintaining their unrepeatable definiteness, and that this peculiarity of knowing is to be found in intuition. On the other hand, intuition is a figuration of sentiment, and sentiment is what condenses and refracts the totality of the person within herself, concentrates her, defines her precisely, and summarizes her, enclosing her entirely within each of its various and original inflexions. The very totality of the person, trembling with a special passion, articulated in a single emotion, is gathered in sentiment, and condenses its whole experience, the changeable vicissitudes of its life, and the character it has developed, into every single instant, which it shall forever shape sentimentally. Every sentiment, shaped in detail, gathers together all the person’s ideas, convictions, aspirations, and habits, defines them in a very determinate emotion and contains them as internal motives and as an antecedent of experiences (not collected, indexed and catalogued, but interlaced, merged and amalgamated). If this were not the case, it would be impossible to understand how ideas come into our mind, or how we regain the ideas that came into our mind and that, for some reason, slipped away. Ideas emerge from the indistinct core of sentiment, which contains and refracts the whole person. It seems instead as if they come from other worlds, and from transcendent inspirations, so potent is the impetus with which they come. But they were already within us, hidden within the self, and in a certain way foreseen, and they expressed our nature: this is the reason why, now that they have come into the mind, they appear to be quite evident, in true accordance with our view, and quite personally ours. Sometimes they slip the mind, and sometimes it seems to us, desperate at this sudden disappearance, that we will never find them again, having lost that happy moment when we saw them with such evident clarity, but then we realize that they occur again, perhaps in a different form, to gener-

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ate, develop and arrange different subjects, or enliven a new context, as though they had worked by themselves, within us, and we had not noticed it, so that all that remains is to recognize them, happy, but also astonished at this unexpected rediscovery. However one might wish to develop this complex phenomenology of sentiment as a condenser of the totality of the living person, what is important to the object of this discussion is to recognize that if sentiment contains the whole totality of the person, refracted in the light of the particular passion which enlivens it, so intuition, which is figuration of sentiment, is necessarily an expression of the person. Thus sentiment becomes the transcendental past of intuition, and intuition becomes the portrait of the person who intuits. It is evident, then, that intuition is already nascent interpretation: in it, one knows while expressing oneself; it simultaneously declares the form with which it is in contact and the person who intuits. It is through sentiment that intuition becomes a personal interpretation of things, just as it is through sensation that intuition becomes the image of a reality: so intuition is both the portrait of the person and the image of reality. Indeed it is sentiment that, far from representing an obstacle or an impediment to knowledge as vision of forms, far from drawing a veil which can inhibit the grasping of reality, far from being a limitation fatally imposed upon us, is the fortunate disposition which makes human beings the possible interpreters of interpretable forms, the key to interpreting the world with a personal sense of things, and the catalyst of the congeniality which must be established between person and form so that interpretation can emerge as knowledge. In short, there is no knowledge but the vision of forms, nor is there a sentiment which does not refract a person’s entire life: for this reason, if intuition is knowledge and expression at the same time, and if interpretation is the interpretation of forms by persons, it must be concluded, as stated earlier, that intuition is already nascent interpretation. From “Arte e conoscenza. Intuizione e interpretazione,” Filosofia 2 (2/1950).

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Interpretation as coincidence of thing and image Movement and rest in interpretation: search and discovery Interpretation has two aspects. In one way it is a movement directed at grasping the true sense of things, at fixing it in an incisive and exhaustive image, and at “representing” it in a lively and satisfactory figure. This movement has many cadences and inflections; now it goes slowly and cautiously, now it advances quickly and urgently, now it seems to proceed at random and without a guiding principle, now it concentrates intently on a single direction, now it boldly and confidently follows a path and now it stops to try another; but it is always a movement, a search which tends to continue infinitely, to revive after every interruption, to renew itself by virtue of its own tension. In fact, the restlessness and mobility of this movement are not due to the changeability and inconstancy typical of inattention, but are in fact generated by attention, sometimes concentrated in a programmatic and methodical investigation and sometimes articulated in disconnected attempts, which so easily displace one another in a more vague procedure. As has been seen, this movement is a process of production, because it consists in configuring the images in which it defines the sense of things: it is a production of forms, that is, of images in which interpretation culminates and is concluded. But, although this movement is potentially endless, it is not justified in itself, because it tends towards a particular goal: it is inclined to find the true sense of things, to shape the image in which it can be secured, and to produce a form which can live its own life, determinate in a precise and singular definiteness. That is to say, this movement tends towards rest, in which it can settle and stop; and this is precisely the second aspect of interpretation. In fact, in another way, interpretation is rest and stasis: it is the rest of discovery and success, it is the stasis of possession and satisfaction. This is the peak of interpretation, the moment in which it

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can say: “here is the sense, the true sense of this thing”; the moment in which the thing is no longer only a proposal, appeal, or call, and the interpreter is no longer a question, query, or search, but the movement is assuaged in discovery, the search comes to an end, and the question has an answer. The eye, which once sharpened its gaze, now observes and admires, intent and satisfied, and rests with pleasure upon the whole and its parts, happy at having found the rule of coherence which connects everything in a definite totality, glad to have grasped the centre, from which the lymph circulates, and the breath which enlivens and gives life to the form it questions. Now the interpreter serenely rests her gaze, which once turned to search and investigate restless and unsatisfied, converts previously watchful and lively attention into a calm and motionless contemplation, and no longer wonders about anything, once the incessant urgency of questions has calmed down. The movement rests, satisfied with the agreement between the image, which now contains the interpretation, and the object it sought to interpret: there is no more need for questions, and the restless interpreter becomes a quiet contemplator. Yet this rest is only a pause, this stasis is only temporary, the movement suddenly starts again: new aspects are offered, new points of view are required, new questions are asked, and there arises the desire to improve, to integrate, and to analyze better. So, from halt to halt, the journey goes on, relieved by pauses and longing for rest, but still active, attentive, watchful, open to accepting any new impulse and ready to exploit the congeniality established by any new emotion. Therefore, there are two aspects to interpretation: in one way a movement, experienced in all the risks of a search which is exposed to failure, and in restlessness moved and directed by attention; in another, a rest, constant in the success of discovery and in the satisfaction of expectation; in one way an incessant process of production, which is endless and yet justified by its goal, and in another calm contemplation, which is rest and stasis, and yet is only a halt and a pause, since it includes and generates movement.

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Difference and inseparability of the two aspects of interpretation In concrete experience these two aspects of interpretation alternate in a continuous succession: the interpreter sometimes searches, attempts, moves, and sometimes finds, pauses, rests. However, this concrete succession attests to the true relationship between these two aspects, which would not alternate if they were not deeply different from one another in one way, and inseparable in another. Where one is, the other is not, but each prepares and requires the other, so that it is impossible to speak of two moments or stages, but rather two very distinct and yet inseparable aspects, synhmm™nv dy|œnte.2 They are quite different: movement and rest, tension and stasis, process and pause, search and discovery, attempt and success, scrutiny and admiration, attention and contemplation, restlessness and appeasement. And they are simultaneously inseparable: the movement aims at grasping, at including itself in forms, and so it tends to calm itself; and rest is a halt which, having included and appeased a movement, encourages new beginnings. More precisely, it can be said that interpretation is in movement when, in searching for the image which can “represent” something and attempting to configure it, it has not yet made the distinction between “thing” and “image.” It is known that the image must be the image of something, but it is not known what that thing is, nor if that is its own image, because the thing is not yet that thing, but a proposal, a hint, or a call, and the image is not yet its own image, but a hypothesis, an outlined figure, or a scheme. It is duality and distinction, then: not between thing and image, but between impulse and scheme, between accepted stimulus and outlined figure; and as long as this duality and distinction persist, interpretation is in movement, and there is neither thing nor image yet, but they search for one another in order to conform, so that the impulse is depicted as a thing and the scheme as its image. It is indeed the movement of interpretation which prepares and

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maintains this distinction, so that the impulse is not yet fixed and depicted in a thing, but is open to new interpretative possibilities, and the scheme does not yet become an image that represents a thing, but is a simple, mobile and temporary figure in need of further comparison. Thus, it is not a question of a primal duality and distinction, which generates the movement of interpretation by predicting and motivating it. In fact, on the contrary, such duality is generated and founded by interpretation, for the tension between the two terms consists precisely in the movement of interpretation, and vice versa. On the other hand, interpretation is in a state of rest when, having found the image which “represents” the thing, it resolves the distinction between the impulse and the development and the tension between the call and the scheme, and the image is the image of the thing, and the thing is the thing of which there is the image. Thus, there is a complete concordance and coincidence between thing and image, for only then are the thing and the image truly present, but not separately, since the thing has emerged as such because it is figured and fixed in an image, and the image has arisen as such because it figures a thing. To say that the image is always of something is not to say that the image is a reproduction, copy or facsimile of a thing, but means that the thing exists as such only as something of which there is the image, and the image exists as such only as the image of something. Furthermore, to have the image of something means seeing it as a form, just as to see a thing as a form means having an image of it, depicting it and figuring it for oneself, since only as a form is a thing interpretable and “visible,” and only in a form does interpretation culminate as a figuration. Therefore, image and thing adapt to each other in that they truly coincide, since there is no longer any distinction or duality between the interpreted thing and the interpretation made of it: the thing is what is seen in it and said of it, that is, the image of it that is possessed, because what is said of it is the thing, and the image of the thing represents it, declares it, reveals it—is it.

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Duality between impulse and scheme and coincidence of thing and image Therefore, when there is tension between the impulse and the scheme (that is, between the thing whose image should be possessed and the image of it that is possessed), then the thing is still an impulse, an opportunity, and a stimulus, open to any development, and the image is only just outlined, still a poor figure and a simple scheme, a mere sign which requires investigation, enrichment and proof. The movement of interpretation (the searching, the attempting, the developing, the proving, the checking and so on) now comes into play. When there is coincidence between image and thing, not in the sense that one is reduced to the other (as if the image were left worthless in the thing as its mere copy or reproduction, or the thing in the image as its creation, as if the image were the superfluous addition to an already existent thing, established as such, or the thing were nothing but its own image), but rather in the sense that the image is truly the image of the thing, and represents it, declares it, and reveals it; and the thing, depicted and fixed in this way, is truly the thing whose image is possessed; then thing and image, established as such, coincide in a forming and formed form, and interpretation takes over in a state of rest, stasis, possession, pause, satisfaction, and so on. We have tension on the one hand, then, and conformation on the other: tension aims towards conformation, and conformation appears as coincidence. Precisely because tension aims at conformation it opens into a duality, which, however, is never exteriority: the accepted impulse and the outlined figure are not external with respect to each other, because they are within the actual process of interpretation in movement which divides them and which keeps them distinct, and the more it holds one in front of the other, the more it tends towards the final conformation so that this may be as perfect, complete and rich as possible, once it is conquered through the mobile and lively succession of attempts, comparisons, tests and checks. It is precisely because conformation is the result of

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this process that it presents itself as a coincidence which is never a proper identity: it cannot be said that image and thing are reduced to one another, so that the image is cheapened as a simple copy or is elevated as real creation, because it is a question of a coincidence attained through a process which, although it brings about tension in a duality, attempts to resolve this tension, and in doing so sees its own success and its own result. Contemplation and enjoyment of the beautiful as a conclusion of interpretation It has been seen that the movement of interpretation is a process of formation, and that the rest in which interpretation culminates is contemplation. In fact, since the movement of interpretation configures the accepted impulse, it gradually proposes the images in which this figuration will culminate, and so it gradually invents new figures, seeking and testing the final conformation in which image and thing coincide, and thus organizing its task in a process of production destined to complete the form in which the figuration of the thing can be included and concluded. This process of formation, then, is a process of invention and production. Conversely, the rest in which the very vigorous process of interpretation culminates is its conclusion, that is, discovery, finding, realized formation, successful invention, and adequate production, and it is therefore the easing of a tense and restless attention into a mute and quiet contemplation. It is the perfect conformation between an act of contemplation and the possibility of contemplating a concluded and defined form. As a conclusion of the process of interpretation, contemplation consists in seeing the form as a form. What was once the internal hint of a barely outlined figure in the process of interpretation has now become a sharp and precise image in which the sense of what was attentively observed is recognized: the vigilant effort of attention, very robust and always ready to discover, define and scrutinize new aspects, has relaxed into a serene and mute contemplation: it is

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no longer a question of inventing new figures with which to experiment, to make sure that they contain the sense of the interpreted thing, for the figure has now been produced and found, and has become an image, and is a defined and precise form: the form is seen as a form. Seeing the form as a form means having fulfilled its interpretation, having found its sense, having extracted its secret: it is, truly, “seeing it,” with no need to sharpen the gaze further, because the gaze has acquired vision and thus become contemplating. Contemplation, regarded as the conclusion of the process of interpretation, necessarily carries with it a certain pleasure. In fact, interpretation, as a movement, is an effort of attention, and therefore a tense and restless gaze, a watchful and inquisitive consideration, a difficult investigation that is not easily satisfied, and a search abandoned to the uncertainty of the attempt: so that, when this process is concluded, a sense of enjoyment and satisfaction arises: tension is resolved in a serene and quiet peace, the search is satisfied in a calm awareness of possession, and the vicissitudes of the attempts are concluded in the certainty of success. Contemplation is a satisfied form of sight, an eye at rest, a serene admiration, immediacy achieved, absorbed and meditative vision, tranquil possession and undisturbed fruition: in a word, enjoyment. This is the reason why the gaze of the contemplator enjoys the sight of the form, and the sight of the form, with its harmony and internal perfection, satisfies her gaze, which moves across all parts of it, ideally circulating through the coherence which holds it in a definite and perfect totality. If contemplation as a conclusion of the process of interpretation consists in seeing the form as a form, and if to see the form as a form is to enjoy it, it must be said that contemplability and enjoyableness are essential features of the form: the form as such is contemplable and enjoyable. Conversely, as its essential contemplability completely coincides with its essential enjoyableness and availability, in the same way that contemplation, inasmuch as it is a state of motionless rest and a much-desired halt, is enjoyment, fruition, possession.

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The form offers itself to contemplation by showing itself as such, and in its presence it is possible only to rest, admiring its harmony, since its elements live the life of the whole and the economy established by the rule of coherence that governs it has expunged and removed its superfluous, overabundant and abnormal elements and has integrated its defective, unsure and imperfect elements. Thus the form is enjoyable in its harmony, in its adherence to its being an end in itself, in its internal perfection, heedless of extrinsic references, in its unrepeatable and unmistakable definiteness and determinateness, and in its life and balance and reciprocal regulation of the parts and the whole. And this, indeed, is beauty: beauty is the contemplability and enjoyableness of the form as a form, which offers itself to the gaze which can assume vision and become contemplating. Saying that the two aspects of interpretation are inseparable is like saying that the contemplation of the beautiful always presupposes a movement of interpretation, or that every movement of interpretation always culminates in an act of aesthetic contemplation. Concluding the interpretation, contemplating an object and appreciating its beauty are three expressions which signify the same action: contemplating (that is, seeing the form as a form and resting in the serene awareness of a resolved tension), is nothing other than perceiving its beauty, or rather grasping the contemplability and enjoyableness of the form as a form, all of which means concluding a process of interpretation, for it is impossible to conclude a process of interpretation without feeling, at least for a fleeting moment, the joy of contemplation and beauty.

From “Contemplazione e bellezza,” Filosofia 2 (3/1950): 399–430; in Estetica: teoria della formatività, (Milano: Bompiani, 1996), 190–196.

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Knowledge of things and persons as interpretation The knowledge of things, as with the knowledge of persons, requires interrogation and dialogue How should the interpretation of things be conceived as explicitly destined to make one understand their beauty? At this point it is convenient to follow the example of and draw inspiration from relationships among persons, in which, due to the mobility of the object, the necessity of an effort of interpretation is more evident. In fact persons appear to be mobile and open, whereas things seem closed and definite, so that while the knowledge of a person seems difficult, requiring as it does continuous revision and repeated comparison, the knowledge of things seems infinitely easier, since in their definiteness they do not require continuous review: knowledge of persons must surely be interpretation, whereas it seems that knowledge of things can be more immediate. Persons speak, whereas things are mute; but this appears to confirm the previous argument, in the sense that things are silent because they have little to say, so that knowing them is less complex than interpreting a person, a process in which even dialogue itself barely becomes truly revelatory communication. And yet all this can easily be inverted, because persons also have a quality of totality and definiteness at every moment in which the capricious process of their life proceeds, and things also contain a singular openness and unpredictability in their definiteness due to their plastic nature, so that the interpretation required to know things is as difficult as that required to know persons. The person keeps her own secret: to know her it is not only necessary but also a duty to question her. The knowledge of a person is always a “meeting,” which implies exchange and reciprocity. It is dialogue and conversation: I cannot claim to have interpreted a person unless between her and me there has been that correspondence of asking and answering, speaking and listening, in which communication consists. Knowledge of a person is not immediate

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and univocal, as though the person were a “thing”: it emerges from the ambiguous vicissitudes of communication, that is, from that subtle and difficult balance which arises between the reciprocal independence and the mutual influence of persons in conversation. When I am aware that to know a person I have to question her, I recognize her as a person, I respect her independence and freedom, I deny that she is a simple means; so that even when I only want to use her, I cannot forget that she is a person, and therefore I must learn to know her in her original reactions to be able to take advantage of her according to my intentions. The knowledge of things also implies the communication that is necessary for the interpretation of persons. To know things, I have to question them, and in order to maintain their independence and originality, as though they were “persons,” I must cast upon them a gaze that is a mute communication with them, which establishes with them the dialogue that emerges from a real meeting, which makes me able to perceive and understand their mute answers, and which refines the gaze until it attains that sharpness which is necessary to know a person only through the mute and yet expressive features of her face. Things, too, are not immediately knowable, as though they were simple and usable, means or instruments: I cannot use them if I do not succeed in mastering and controlling them; that is, knowing them in their own nature and becoming familiar with them to the point where I can take advantage of them. Seeing things as “persons” means repeating the impossibility of reducing persons to “things”: just as it is impossible to know a persons if they are reduced to mere objects or necessary integrations of one’s individuality, it is impossible to know things without personifying them, that is, seeing them in their dynamic and original independence. Those who usually reduce persons to “things,” that is, to objects, instruments or tools, make themselves incapable of seeing things as “persons,” that is, as independent entities able to be known only through the dialogue of interpretation, and, conversely, those who cannot interpret things as “persons” assume an attitude which unconsciously also leads them to consider persons as “things.”

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Distraction and presumption as obstacles to the interpretation of things The inability to communicate and converse with things, to question them until they speak and listen to them until their mute messages can be received, compromises their interpretation, and therefore irreparably undermines their contemplation. Interpretation thus becomes impossible, because the inability to converse with things takes hold when attention, which is an indispensable condition for any interpretation, declines until it ceases completely, or degenerates and deviates because it is badly guided and directed. Failures of attention consist of either restricting things such that they are made silent and incomprehensible or overlapping them to the point where we are made deaf and uncomprehending: in such cases one cannot listen, either because one has lost the ability to question or because one wishes to be the only one to speak. Being unable to question things means leaving them fixed in enigmatic or insignificant presences, only to complain if they rebel against any attempts to use them, doomed to fail precisely because they have not been initiated by a suitable interpretation: thus it is no wonder that from the human point of view they are closed in a senseless silence, almost immured in an inaccessible fortress of incomprehensibility. On the other hand, when one wishes to be the only person to speak, when one places oneself at the centre of things and thinks oneself capable of concluding and exhausting them in their constituent and essential functionality, one makes oneself incapable of communicating and becoming familiar with them. This is exactly what can happen with people with the same attitude: in this case one falls into the deafness of incomprehension, but is displeased if other people or things keep silent or do not respond in kind. After all, a lack of attention is a lack of interest and badly guided attention is a lack of respect, and these are the major obstacles that interfere with an interpretation that desires to learn and contemplate. Interpretation fails in its purpose when one continues to judge while also assuming an attitude of distraction and

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presumptuousness, for attention is annulled through lack of interest or invalidated through lack of respect, and there is a range of attitudes which, by impeding the interpretation of things, make the contemplation of their beauty impossible. Consider an absent-minded, inattentive and distracted gaze, which is glad to have grasped only the most fleeting aspect, which stops at its first judgment without taking the trouble to confirm it, which stops at the letter without wishing to penetrate its spirit; a gaze incapable of constant consideration and fixed and stable aim, which cannot scrutinize all the aspects of a thing by searching and pursuing them, but passes from one thing to another, thus forming only an approximate and barely outlined figure of each, and is so changeable and variable that it falls into fickleness and inconstancy, to the point that it rejoices and is proud as though it were a wise and guided variety of interests. Consider a hasty gaze, which exchanges readiness for fickleness, promptness for hurriedness, rapidity for approximation, and forgets that the hurry to conclude irreparably compromises the outcome of any search precisely because there is no search without the intention of concluding. Consider an easily satisfied gaze that lacks a sense of difficulty, which is especially necessary for inquiry because the outcome of any attempt is always conditioned by a healthy mistrust of solutions that are too easy to be true, and which, precisely because of this over-willingness to be satisfied, reduces the fundamental quality of astuteness to roughness and coarseness that by this time have become second nature. Consider a gaze which, stimulated to pay attention, is so impatient as to become irritable and even intolerant, or so indolent as to fall into indifference and even into insensibility. Consider a biased gaze, which sees only through its prejudice, and turns any effort of accuracy and insight into a pretence of infallibility, which is all the more dishonest because it is apparently justified by a natural perspicacity; a gaze guided by the arrogance and haughtiness of someone who has made a myth of herself, and proclaims herself the measure for everything, as though everything were centered on her and had no object but her. Consider a gaze which manipulates and feigns these

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attitudes, and tends towards both distraction and presumption. Such a gaze will never acquire vision nor become contemplative, because it is left incapable of that interest and that respect which alone can make possible the attention and the conversation necessary to interpret things. Interest and respect as conditions for the interpretation of things To understand things, that is, to interpret them to the point where they can be contemplated, it is necessary to be able to look at them with interest and respect, since interest makes the interpreter concentrate on the thing, preventing it from imposing itself, uncompromising and therefore incomprehensible, upon a gaze that has become absent-minded and hasty, and respect maintains the thing in its definiteness and independence, preventing the subject from imposing herself to the point that her presumption leaves her deaf and uncomprehending. Only interest can direct the gaze so that it becomes inquiring, and only respect can direct the gaze so that it becomes penetrating: interest enables the interpreter to question things, and respect enables her to listen to them. In fact, the form appears as such only in a judgment directed by interest and guided by respect, not in the sense that interest and respect constitute the form, but in the sense that without them there can be no vision of forms. In this way the form is original, that is, so unrepeatable in its successful definiteness that it proves exemplary, and valid. It is therefore so definite in its unrepeatable success that it proves universally recognizable: the recognition of the originality of the form is precisely interest, just as respect is the recognition of its validity. There is no possibility of dialogue and communication with things, and therefore no possibility of an enquiring and penetrating gaze, without this recognition of the essential characteristics of the form, which is necessary in order that things may appear as forms, and that they may therefore be contemplable in their beauty. To be able to interpret and contemplate things, it is necessary to become interested in them and respect them, to be able to speak

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with them in order to make them speak, and to listen to them, to be curious about them without betraying them, to find in them a familiarity free from any aspect of unfaithfulness, and capture their secret messages without violating their independence. The interest in things gives rise to that tireless and inexhaustible curiosity which surveys and investigates the most secret recesses of nature with effective and masterly devices, but which does not reach its goal unless it carefully prohibits itself from being tiresome and intrusive, that is, unless it draws from respect the suggestion of a cautious and almost shy discretion. And as the interpretation of things proceeds, interest and respect become deeper, fed by the same movement they have initiated. Interest becomes a clear and open sympathy, which feeds on familiarity and congeniality with things, and respect almost becomes an admiring and devoted reverence, which itself is jealous of the free independence that things gradually reveal - to the point that, having attained contemplation, the interest in things turns into love for nature, which is at the same time an effect and a condition of the contemplation of its beauty, and the respect for things, with the aid of the very contemplation that it has made possible, turns into that pietas which accompanies the sense of the sacred and the divine. Attentive curiosity and shy discretion, living sympathy and pious reverence, love and pietas: this is the rousing and vibrant crescendo with which interest and respect guide the interpretation of things so that they may resolve it in the serene and calm contemplation of natural beauty. The contemplation of natural beauty: things not as tools, but as forms The beauty of nature therefore does not assert itself in order to bring about contemplation or to establish itself as the criterion for it, as though it were able to be represented in an image which reproduces it, but rather offers itself in a process of interpretation which emphasizes it, and which consists in seeing nature populated with forms, and not as a simple tool for practical needs or a means

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for technical aims. The beauty of nature is a beauty of forms, and so it is evident for a gaze that is capable of seeing the form as a form, after having searched for it, inquired into it, surveyed it, interpreted it, to finally admire it and enjoy it. Therefore the vision and the appreciation of the beauty of nature presuppose an effort of interpretation, an exercise of faithfulness, discipline of attention, a concentrated gaze, and the cultivation of a way of seeing, to reach that deep and all-seeing view, which is, in one way, vision of forms, and in another, production of forms, since interpreted form and formed image must coincide in that conformation which is peculiar to contemplation.

From Estetica: teoria della formatività, (Milano: Bompiani, 1996), 207–212.

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Knowledge of things by persons Inseparability of receptivity and activity in human action The concept of interpretation results from the application of two principles fundamental to a philosophy of human being: firstly, the principle according to which every form of human action is always both receptivity and activity; and secondly, the principle according to which every form of human action is always personal. If knowledge is considered in the light of these principles, the result is (in the most precise sense) interpretation. I will attempt to examine these two aspects of interpretation separately after briefly illustrating the principles on which this concept is based. Human action is characterized by the fact that it is not creative. In fact, human initiative does not come about by itself, but initiates its own movement only because it is initiated. In fact it is true that I must act and decide, but also that I cannot avoid deciding: in my freedom (in the freedom I represent to myself), there is an initial necessity, which is the sign of my having a beginning, of my limit, of my finiteness, of an initial and constituent receptivity through which I am given to myself and my initiative is given to itself. If this is the structure of my initiative, that is, that it is activity only because it is not creativity, a receptivity that constitutes and qualifies both my activity and the development of the initiative itself is innate and essential to my activity. This means precisely that human action is at the same time always receptive and creative, and not only exclusively one thing or the other, because if a receptivity were not accepted in an active process it would be nothing but passivity, and if an activity were not the development of an initial receptivity it would be creativity. Therefore, it is neither absolute receptivity nor absolute activity, neither passivity nor creativity: in human action receptivity and activity are inseparable because they are mutually constituent. First, in human action there is no receptivity without activity. There is no human action that does not presuppose an opportunity,

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a hint, a stimulus, or a proposal: any initiative is always directed, suggested, or set in motion. But, in turn, this presupposition must not be regarded as an extrinsic determination, an external conditioning, or a causal relation, because seizing an opportunity already means making use of it, taking a starting position already means developing it, accepting a proposal already means answering it, hearing a suggestion already means listening to it, receiving a stimulus already means reacting to it: the real form of receptivity is activity. Only into an active process can the reception of a stimulus and the acceptance of an impulse be inserted, otherwise the stimulus and the impulse would not exist as such, nor would there be reception: the stimulus exists only because it is received within a reaction; the impulse exists only if it is accepted as an opportunity for a development; the suggestion exists only for the ear that listens to it and considers it. What constitutes receptivity and prevents it from being deterministic passivity is the same activity which accepts and develops it. Receptivity is only that which continues into activity. However, this is not sufficient to come to the conclusion that there is nothing but activity in human action. The fact that receptivity exists as such only within an activity excludes the notion that receptivity can be regarded as mere passivity, but does not imply that it vanishes and denies itself in an exclusive activity, which would be as inconceivable as the exclusive passivity. In fact, in human beings, activity is always the continuation and development of a receptivity: an active process begins and develops in the furrow cut by a stimulus that has been received, a hint that has been offered, an opportunity that has arisen, a suggestion that has been heard, or a proposal that has been accepted. In human beings, just as receptivity is never passivity, activity is never creativity: passivity is reception without development, without reaction, without execution, and thus creativity would be action without impulse, without opportunity, without suggestion, which is impossible in a living human being, because even when the human being suffers, she suffers because she wants to suffer, or because while suffering she rebels, so that in the end she always reacts, and even when she creates, she

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does nothing but produce, because she executes, develops, unravels, and directs movements which have been proposed and suggested to her. Therefore there is no active process which does not start from a cue, and which does not gradually accept new cues, seize new opportunities, listen to new suggestions, and feed on them, adopt them and adapt itself to them, modulating itself and them during its active production. Activity, then, comes about as such only as the development and extension of a reception: there is no activity without receptivity. .

Interpretation as both receptive and active knowledge: it is always both of something and of someone Not only, then, can receptivity have no other form than activity, but neither can activity be anything but the directed and desired outcome of receptivity: this is the indissoluble connection between receptivity and activity that characterizes all human action. And as this connection is present in any human action, it is also present in knowledge. Knowledge, regarded as the inseparable synthesis of receptivity and activity, is in fact, as stressed above, interpretation. Generally, when speaking of interpretation, one immediately thinks of a possessive adjective: my, your, our or her interpretation, which emphasizes the fact that interpretation always belongs to someone, and is therefore the movement of a subject, the personal activity of the interpreter, an action aimed at penetrating an object with its own new and original conquest. But in the same way it is also necessary to underline and emphasize the object of interpretation because interpretation is always an interpretation of something as much as it is of someone. Interpretation is an activity that calls attention to a definite object and maintains it in its determinateness: it is not interpretation if it is not respect for the object which has to be interpreted, if it is not a grasping of something which is accepted and looked upon, a surveying of something which allows itself to be seen and known.

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In fact, interpretation does not exist if the object is imposed only on the subject, and if the subject overlaps with the object. If something imposes itself on me to the point where I submit to it, or better, if I fix the thing in front of me, in an imposition which is no longer a proposal, in an exteriority which is no longer an appeal, in an opposition which makes it impenetrable to me, then there is no interpretation; nor is there interpretation when I overlap myself with what I must interpret, preventing myself from attaining the situation which leads the way towards it, and refusing the effort of faithfulness which represents the possibility to grasp the inner nature of the object. The crystallization of the object in an imposition that excludes the proposal eliminates that openness to phenomena in which receptivity consists. There would be only a mere passivity, if it were not for the fact that the crystallization is effected by the same knower who kills the very seed of interpretation she carries inside her, that it is the result of an attitude voluntarily assumed by the subject and of a direction given by her own experience, that it is an active attitude of repudiation, denial, and refusal. An overlap of the subject which is so great that it is no longer a development or an execution ends up being a construction disconnected from any possible reference: pure will, if it were not for the fact that this too, after all, drags with it impressions and memories linked to the datum from which it germinated. In interpretation, therefore, there is always a balance between the object, respected and loved by the faithful interpreter, and the activity she performs, so that what is interpreted never presents itself as frozen or fixed in an icy impenetrable coldness, but is always a proposal, an appeal, or a call that offers and gives itself to the openness of the interpreter; and the interpreting subject never overlaps herself to the point that she covers and obliterates the datum, but always builds freely, developing and unfolding; essentially questioning, revealing, opening and disclosing the interpreted object. Interpretation is precisely this: mutual involvement of receptivity and activity. In fact the activity performed for the purpose of interpretation is the adoption of the rhythm of the object. In

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one way interpretation is the object’s resonance in me: receptivity which extends into activity - a datum, which I receive and develop simultaneously; and in another way it is syntonization with the object - action which prepares to receive, making something speak in order to listen, activity in view of receptivity. Interpretation is a way of seeing which becomes looking, and a way of looking which aims towards seeing. On the one hand, I am stimulated to develop the intimate cadences of what I am in contact with, prolonging it in the developments I make of it, which are mine alone, due exclusively to my activity; and on the other I endeavor to improve my sight and my hearing, make my receptivity intentional and open, turning it into a dedication and a task. I devote myself to an exercise in faithfulness. In interpretation, hearing becomes listening and listening wishes to become hearing: receptivity refines itself through activity and activity aims towards receptivity. They interlace, feed each other, support each other, call to each other, and involve each other. Personal, and thus expressive and formative, nature of human action Human action is characterized by the fact that it is always personal. On the basis of this principle, any activity of the person, whether it is exhausted in a particular act that is not destined for further development, or it is organized into a continued action whose single acts tend towards the realization of a precise aim, is always the activity of a person, determinate in its definiteness, unrepeatable in its singularity, yet infinitely open to the possibilities she discloses. It is possible to find two aspects in the person: totality and development. In one way, in fact, the person is, in each of her instants, an infinite and definite totality, fixed in a very singular and unmistakable form, endowed with a conclusive and recognizable validity. In another way she is continuous variation, open to the possibility of controversy and reworking, revision and enrichment, repetition of old motives and new acts. On the one hand the person is the

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work I make of myself, concluded and definite in every instant, and on the other it is work in progress, open to require and demand new acts and new developments. If these two aspects of the person are analyzed in greater depth, it will be apparent that the conclusive totality of the person is the typical definiteness of the form, and that the activity which is always open to new developments of the person is destined to bring forms to realization. In fact, as a totality the person is a work, and as a development the person is working, an activity which results in works; and the work is a form, that is, a definiteness, which is at the same time total and concluded in itself, singular and unrepeatable, universally valid and wholly recognizable, endowed with coherence and internal legality, life in itself and law in itself, autonomous and independent, exemplary and paradigmatic. The person is a form. In fact the person, fixed in one of her instants, halted in her ceaseless process of development, identified in one of her acts which assemble and condense her, is the concluded outcome of an action. The person is a concluded and definite work, with its own singular and unmistakable character: neither one of many and therefore individual, but rather unique, nor part of a whole and therefore particular, but rather entire, and thus single, which, indeed, means unique and entire. The person as such has all the features of a form, living in herself, total in the law of coherence that keeps her united in a concluded definiteness, endowed with an exemplarity which causes her to provoke actions modeled on her worth, and works inspired by her character. The action of the person molds forms. In fact, if the person is an infinite but definite totality, any of her actions tends in its turn to conclude in works that are definite and concluded, which live their own life and can by themselves develop and generate new renderings and provoke new developments. There is a transcendence of the person with regard to her own works, which live by themselves, single and qualified, as historical values; but each of these works draws its own single and exemplary independence precisely from its nature of personality, that is, from the fact that it is the result of a

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personal engagement in work, of an activity practiced by the person as a form. Precisely because the person is the work of herself, and therefore a form, the works which are the result of her activity are in their own turn concluded, single, exemplary forms. Therefore, everything is form, living and definite form, with a centre which holds the parts together according to a law of coherence, with its own autonomous life, provided with an unrepeatable internal rhythm, universally recognizable due to its unmistakable singularity. Forms are persons if they are fixed in an instant of their development, and forms are the successful works of single persons: If a philosophy of human being—an expression in which the genitive is both subjective and objective, because there is no philosophy except as the human being’s inquiry into herself, the treatment of a human being from the point of view of a human being—is always a philosophy of the person, and there cannot be a philosophy but as personal inquiry into the person, it must be concluded that there is no philosophy of the person which is not also a philosophy of forms. The indefinite mobility and historical propensity for development of human beings are nothing but plasticity, that tends to mold itself into forms and to mold forms: mobility which is an effort of formation, an urge to mold, a surge of figuration. Therefore, if the person is form, and if any form of human action is always personal, human action always has a dual nature: in one way it tends to realize shapes, and in another it expresses the totality of the person. In fact, that effort of formation and urge to mold that define human action are always directed by a subject who in her turn lives as developing form, always already set in a conclusive and determinate definiteness, and who, in the direction in which she turns her moldings, includes the unmistakable character of her own form, condensing and refracting it in that direction. Every act of the person tends to determine itself in a form endowed with the nature of living totality which qualifies the person; and every act of the person has the unmistakable stamp of the person’s totality, since it contains, portrays and expresses it entirely. In one way the person is a form that reveals and expresses

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itself in full in every one of its states and acts, and in another every act of the person necessarily molds and figures, and tends to realize forms. Every act of the person is formative and expressive at the same time. Neither uniqueness nor definitiveness, but quantitative and qualitative infinity of interpretation Being personal, human action forms and expresses, that is, it tends to conclude in forms and expresses the person who acts. And since these features are found in all human action, they are also found in knowledge. Knowledge, regarded as expressing the person and tending towards forms, as has been stated earlier, is indeed interpretation. In fact, interpretation does not exist if it does not have a form as an object and a person as a subject, in the sense that both the subject and the object of the interpretation must be quite singular existences, concluded in themselves, endowed with their own life, independent, unrepeatable, and unmistakable. If this were not the case, there would be no form of knowledge other than a knowledge on which all must immediately agree and that is directly communicable. In this case the knowing subject would be impersonal, universal, and transcendental, and the object would be fixed in its own given or constituted objectivity: knowledge would not reflect the unmistakable character of the person who attains it, and its achievement would be immediate, and would not imply that effort to understand and realize, to grasp and penetrate that characterizes interpretation. Moreover, it would be a knowledge whose communication would be direct and immediate, far from the typical communication of interpretation, which is always indirect, because an interpretation can be communicated only because it is made an object of interpretation in its own turn. By contrast, as the human being is a person and her action always tends towards forms, the only knowledge she can have is precisely interpretation, regarded as a form of knowledge which is necessarily and constitutively not

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unique, but many-sided and infinite, not immediate, but attainable through effort and ever deeper investigation. Neither the uniqueness nor the definitiveness of interpretation makes sense. Given interpretability, one is also given as a consequence the possibility of infinite interpretations and of an infinite process of interpretation: interpretation is infinite in its number and in its process, and is characterized by a quantitative and qualitative infiniteness. The peculiarity of interpretation is that it tends towards comprehension only through a process that continually risks incomprehension: it seizes its object not by proceeding along a fixed course, but by following a process of approximation, encouraged by an effort to grasp, diluted and divided in a series of attempts, exposed to setbacks and failure. True comprehension, which is not the result of a knowledge that defines and constitutes its object, but of an interpretation trying to grasp, seize and penetrate it, is attainable at the limits of incomprehension and incomprehensibility. This derives precisely from the fact that only the form can be, or rather expects to be, interpreted, and only the person can, or rather expects to, interpret. The object of interpretation necessarily has its own life, an unmistakable character, a quite determinate definiteness. A thing is susceptible to interpretation only because it is unrepeatable and singular; the subject of interpretation is necessarily an unrepeatable and singular person. Only of a subject capable of turning her own very definite perspective into a condition, rather than an obstacle, can it be said that she interprets. Whoever interprets tends to give her very personal interpretation of a thing in its very specific singularity. There would be neither the possibility nor the necessity of interpretation if there were neither forms to know nor people who desire to know. The condition for interpretation is its quantitative and qualitative infinity deriving from the features of form and person as the “object” and the “subject” of knowledge. In fact, form and person are unrepeatable definitenesses, but it is exactly because they are bound and defined in a circumscribed and precise determinateness, which holds the parts together organically in an indissoluble bond

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according to a law of coherence, that they are inexhaustible in their aspects and in the possible developments of these aspects, each one of which in its turn does not exhaust the totality of the form and the person, although these are wholly reflected in them. It is exactly the infinite inexhaustibility of the form and the person that establishes the quantitative infinity of interpretation, and it is precisely the fact that none of the aspects of the person and the form is exhaustive that establishes the qualitative infinity of interpretation. In interpretation it is always a person who sees and observes; and she observes and sees from the very particular point of view she holds or desires to hold, and with the very singular opinion she has gradually formed or wishes to adopt on different occasions, so that it is the entire person who contributes to these points of view, generates them, modulates, directs and determines them, as much in the particular way of seeing as in the singular point of view. On the other hand, in interpretation it is always a form that is seen and observed; and it is seen in a very definite perspective, which presents it in a certain way, in which it is condensed and revealed as a whole, and is observed in one of its endless aspects, in each one of which it shows itself as a whole, but in accordance with a strictly fixed direction, so that the whole form offers itself in the particular aspect and the singular perspective that show or impose themselves. In the unrepeatable definiteness of the person, points of view and ways of seeing are infinite, and in the unmistakable indeterminateness of the form, aspects and perspectives are infinite. As a result, possible interpretations are also infinite, and knowledge is necessarily bestowed with that nature of inexhaustible multiplicity that constitutes interpretation. Moreover, the point of view and the way of seeing that are chosen or assumed, found or adopted by the interpreter, do not exhaust her (although they contain her entirely in a determinate form), nor do the perspective and the appearance imposed or offered by what is interpreted exhaust the form given to the interpretation (although they express it as a whole in a definite sense). This is the reason why the process of interpretation is endless, and always requires

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integration, correction, investigation, and expansion to establish an ever more inclusive and revelatory congeniality. The interpreter is not content with grasping an aspect in the form, or the form in one of its aspects, and seeks other aspects which can confirm, or correct, or replace the interpretation she believes to have given, and to do this she assumes a new point of view, choosing it with industrious and inventive care, drawing inspiration from the character she has already seen in the form, and adopts new ways of seeing, which seem to her to be more suitable to reveal the form as it “is,” and not only as it appears to be, and thus she possesses new elements, grasps new secrets, seizes new aspects, and integrates, investigates, expands and improves her initially primitive interpretation. The interpreter, who is never satisfied with her results, continuously revises them to attain greater conformation, tests them, compares them, integrates them; she wishes to sharpen her gaze, so she changes, alternates and combines points of view, and tries to see all aspects, each in a special and new light, and examines any detail in the light of the whole, and the whole in the light of any detail. She imagines new hypotheses and unexpected perspectives, with all the ingenious ability that a loving and faithful gaze can suggest, which wishes to see everything as it really is, and in the view that suits the considered object, in the perspective desired by the inner nature of the object, in the relation required by the true essence of the interpreted object. The interpreter always seeks to check, investigate, and refine her interpretation, whether by developing on her own the possibilities she believed she might discover in the interpreted form, or by obliging herself to assume new points of view which seem to her to be more suitable to “see” the form, to syntonize it better, to establish a congeniality with it, and she does so asserting herself in an effort of faithfulness so that she becomes not a gaze that is lost in the object, but a look that surveys, investigates and scrutinizes even itself: “gazes,” to truly “see.” Therefore the process of interpretation is endless, because as long as there is knowledge, there is no interpretation that is definitive, and that is not subject to a perpetual process of revision that aims at an ever greater adjustment.

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But what is interesting to note is that, if only the form can be, or rather, requires to be, interpreted, and only the person can, or rather, needs to, interpret it, then interpretation is always simultaneously a declaration of the interpreted object and of the interpreter, because the object is always maintained in its definite and precise independence and the subject is always shaped in her particular points of view and in her very personal way of seeing. Interpretation is a knowledge in which the object reveals itself insofar as the subject expresses herself. The independence of the interpreted thing and the personality of the interpreter are not obstacles to interpretation, but its only possible condition: they do not impede it, but constitute it. The interpreter does not grasp the object without expressing herself, and only by expressing herself can she fix the object in its definiteness; which ensures that interpretation can be conformation only as congeniality, discovery only as affinity, vision only as syntonization, in a concrete process in which interpreted form and interpreting person grow together while maintaining the independence of their development. In fact, interpretation is a “meeting,” in which the interpreting person does not abandon herself, not even in the most impersonal effort of faithfulness, which, by contrast, consists in making a competent effort of inventive originality, and the interpreted form continues living its own life, not allowing itself to be exhausted by any interpretation, but rather provoking, feeding and favoring them all.

From “Arte e conoscenza. Intuizione e interpretazione,” Filosofia 2 (2/1950); Estetica. Teoria della formatività (Milano: Bompiani, 1996), 180–189.

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Art: Performance and Interpretation Personality of interpretation and infinity of the work as the foundations of the variety of performances. Only the concept of “interpretation” can explain how there can be many different performances without compromising the unity and identity of the work, so that performing means, first of all, interpreting. Since the nature of interpretation consists in declaring and revealing what is interpreted and at the same time expressing the person of the interpreter, acknowledging that performance is interpretation means recognizing that it contains both the immutable identity of the work and the consistently different personality of the interpreter who performs it. The two aspects are inseparable: in one way it is always a question of rendering the work and making it live as it desires, and in another the manner of rendering it and making it live is always different. When one speaks of personality of interpretation one intends to allude precisely to the indivisibility of those two aspects, which alone guarantees that the unity of the work is not undermined by the multiplicity of its performances. Personality does not mean “subjectivity.” The “subject,” as it is conceived by a certain philosophical tradition, is self-contained, and transforms everything with which she comes into contact into her own activity; the person, by contrast, is open, and always disclosed to something else or to others. The best guarantee against the danger of subjectivism is offered by the concept of person, according to which, while affirming that everything with which the person comes into contact must become interior to her, at the same time asserts her irreducible independence. Interpretation is not “subjective,” but “personal.” It does not deplete the worth of a work in the process of performance, but rather it maintains its independence precisely in order to execute it, so that performance always contains both the diversity of the interpreters and the independence of the work, and it always has a

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dual and yet single direction—towards the work, which the single interpreter must render and bring alive as it desires, and towards the person of the performer, who in every case expresses herself in the new way in which the work is made to live. But neither the person of the performer nor the independence of the work should be conceived as motionless realities enclosed within themselves, because otherwise the act in which the work reveals itself to the interpreter at the very moment when she performs it would never be possible. The person of the performer is not a prison in which she is irremediably enclosed: she is not a fixed and impassable point of view, from which opens only a precise and immutable perspective. Firstly, although the person is in every instant gathered in a definite totality, she is in continuous movement, because her historical substance is suspended by a free and innovative initiative, so that new perspectives always open themselves to her as her life experience is enriched and changes direction. Moreover, the inventiveness of her thought and the power of her fantasy allow her to configure and adopt a wide variety of points of view. The work of art is a form, that is, a concluded movement, which is like saying an infinite gathered in a definiteness: its totality results from a conclusion, so it requires to be considered not as the closure of a static and motionless reality, but as the opening of an infinite which has become whole by gathering itself in a form. Therefore the work has innumerable aspects, which are not only “parts” or fragments of it, because each of them contains the whole work, and reveals it in a particular perspective. The variety of performances, then, is founded on the complex nature of both the person of the interpreter and the work to be performed; and it is not true that one thing is different or separated from the other, because by virtue of the personality of interpretation the mobility of the person and the infinity of the work converge in the act of performance. The infinite points of view of the interpreters and the infinite aspects of the work meet and interact with one another, so that a determinate point of view can reveal the whole work only if it grasps its quite definite aspect; and a particular aspect

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of the work, which discloses itself as a whole in a new light, must await the point of view capable of grasping and examining it. That is why the infinity and variety of performances do not compromise the identity and immutability of the work at all. Performance is always carried out by a single interpreter who wishes to render the work as the work itself desires; and it is realized after the meeting of one of the points of view assumed by the interpreter and one of the revelatory aspects of the work; so that in one way it is one personal performance, and in another it is the work itself, simultaneously. The dual awareness of the interpreter Thus far we have spoken of the general nature of interpretation. But now it is time to see its dual nature in action, in the real consciousness of the interpreter, so as to perceive clearly its meaning and receive confirmation of it from true experience. The interpreter must regard her own interpretation as the one she has to give, as the one required by the work itself. The harder she has endeavored to reach the essence of the work, penetrate its secrets and make it live a life which is not unconnected with it or imposed upon it, the more she can say that her interpretation is the correct one, that the work must be meant in this way, that in this performance it appears in its full reality and in its genuine life. But at the same time the interpreter knows perfectly well that her interpretation is precisely hers, and hers in that moment, and that someone else, or she herself, has given or will give other interpretations that are different. In fact the idea to give her interpretation may have emerged from other interpretations, which have appeared to her to be well-founded, but not sufficiently penetrating, and if one appears that seems to be better than her own, she will use it to improve or even to replace her own. In short, her experience as an interpreter imposes on her the awareness of an always new and different multiplicity of interpretations. This dual awareness is essential to the interpreter: if one of the two aspects is sacrificed for the sake of the other, it suddenly

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becomes spiritless and acquires a meaning it did not have in the performer’s primal consciousness. If the interpreter forgets that performances are numerous, she is immediately tempted to regard her own as the only possible one, and she will not wish to think the others worthy of the name of interpretation, but will regard them as errors, failures and degenerations. If she does not insist on the awareness of the goodness of her own performance, the numerous interpretations will immediately appear to her to be equally legitimate, and in this indifferent flow of possibilities she will think of nothing but giving her interpretation, and the principles of her performances will be only novelty and originality. Thus there are two kinds of alleged interpreters: the one who thinks she is in possession of the only possible interpretation, and the one who cares about nothing but giving a new interpretation; the one who states there is only one way to perform Beethoven, and it is a question of looking for it and finding it, managing in the process to silence her own personality, and the one who wishes to build her own Beethoven, a fresh and new Beethoven of whom she is the only author; the one who says there is only one way to read Dante, and that those who do not read him in this way are on the wrong track, and the one who states that there are as many Dantes as the people who read him. To conclude, on the one hand there is the doctrine of the absolute uniqueness of interpretation, and on the other that of its arbitrary multiplicity. In both cases it is forgotten that there is interpretation only if the interpreter herself intends to perform the work in itself, so that her performance may be at the same time the work, which she has made clear and alive, and her interpretation of the work. What is expected from an interpreter is not that in her performance she should allow herself to be guided only by the principle of originality, as though her new interpretation were more important than the work itself, or at least had an interest independent in itself. From her it is expected that she simply interprets, and at the most those who know her taste, perspicacity and ability are the ones who desire that she be the one who should interpret that work, that she should

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concentrate on executing the work, and nothing more. Only in this way will hers be simultaneously a performance of the work and a new personal performance. On the other hand, in no way is it expected that the interpreter should give the only correct interpretation, but simply that she truly expresses that work; because what is expected from the multiplicity of performances of the same work is not to initiate a kind of judgment through which many different interpretations are repudiated in order to save the only correct one, but to see the work itself alive, unique and identical, in many of the performances that wish to render it and make it live. “Faithfulness” and “ freedom” of interpretation The whole matter can be traced back to the question of what is currently called “faithfulness” and “freedom” of interpretation. When these two terms are used with regard to interpretation, faithfulness is usually regarded as a “duty” and freedom a “fate.” In other words, on the one hand it is said that interpretation must propose to render the work as it is, with an effort of respectful, careful and devoted evocation, so as not to impose upon it anything which does not belong to it, or allow one’s own personality to invade its reality; and on the other hand it is said that the personality of the interpreter is an inevitable and fatal situation, so that, no matter how she behaves, she will only ever be able to express herself. And as it is not easy to understand how such conflicting statements can be reconciled, the search for the connection which allows them to be reconciled and established in their true meaning is abandoned, and it is preferred to develop them separately until they become two opposing and incompatible theses. On the one hand it is stated that what is dutiful and normative in interpretation, that is, the effort to render and make the work live in such a way that the performance made of it is really a performance of that work and not of something else, cannot assert itself except through an effort of impersonality: faithfulness and impersonality are one and the same, because faithfulness is not possible

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except as a desired and achieved impersonality. On the other hand it is stated that what is new and different in interpretations is due to the fact that the original personality of the interpreter is an insuperable condition, and interpretation, as expression of a new person, is always free. Its freedom consists in pouring the work into one’s own personality every time, so that the merit of a performance does consist only in its autonomous novelty. Regarded as such, faithfulness and freedom end by excluding one another: on the one hand there faithfulness can only be there without freedom, and on the other if there is freedom there cannot, or rather, there must not be faithfulness. If faithfulness and freedom exclude one another, it follows on the one hand that, due to a mistaken respect for the work, it is believed that there is only one correct interpretation which, being impersonal, can only be conceived as a copy or a reproduction of the work, as though performance were ruled by an absurd ideal of conformation and similarity; and on the other hand that, due to an alleged fatality of that which is different, the work multiplies and dissolves in the innumerable interpretations it is given, which concentrate only on expressing the always new person of the interpreter. In both cases, there is no longer any relation between interpretation and work, because the former remains separate from the latter. The interpretation is either a copy, and different from the work, or, as an expression of a new personality, is an original and autonomous creation. Nor is it worth trying to reconcile the two terms by placing them in successive positions in time, as though the interpreter first made an effort of faithfulness and then expressed herself, because in that case faithfulness, which is made a mere antecedent, remains inactive, and interpretation, detached from the work, once again becomes arbitrary. But interpretation only comes about if faithfulness and freedom are affirmed together. Faithfulness is certainly a duty for the interpreter, who, in order to be able to render the work and make it live as it is, and not as she wants it to be, must make sure to remove all obstacles, let herself be inspired by respect and make an effort of

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careful and devoted penetration. And the interpreter’s personality is certainly an insuperable situation that she cannot leave, because nobody can leave herself, even those who can become and think themselves to be something different from what they are. But faithfulness cannot be the result of impersonality, because it is not the conformation of a copy, but the free and active exercise of the person who exploits and invents a wide variety of means to penetrate the very depths of the work; and the personality of the interpreter, far from being an obstacle to true execution as it is too engaged in attempts at its own self-expression, is instead the only possible condition for it. In interpretation as a whole the person of the interpreter becomes not only an initiative but also a condition and even a vessel of penetration of the work, so that it is faithful to the extent that its essential aim is to render, or rather to be, the work itself, and it is free to the extent that its way of performing is defined by the person, who is its initiative and condition. Faithfulness, then, is a personal “exercise” in faithfulness aimed at rendering the work as it desires, and freedom is the personal character, and thus the unrepeatable singularity, of the way in which one seeks to make the work live in its own reality. The recommendations of faithfulness directed to the interpreter cannot mean anything but this: make of yourself, of your entire personality and spirituality, of your way of thinking, living and feeling, a vessel of penetration, a condition for access, a means of revealing a work of art; remember that your maxim is neither to have to renounce yourself nor to desire to express yourself; do not propose an explicit intention to give your new interpretation, because in any case the performance you will give will always be yours and will always be new, due to the simple fact that it is you who has given it; do not think that your duty is to annul your personality, because in any case it is impossible for you to leave your person, and even your eventual “impersonality” will only ever be your very personal “exercise”; remember, though, that you must interpret the work yourself, that is, the work you have to interpret is indeed that one, and at the same time the one who has to interpret it is indeed you.

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The meaning of the interpreter’s dual awareness: neither singularity nor arbitrariness of interpretation It has been demonstrated, therefore, that there can be no interpretation if it is stated that there is only one correct interpretation of any work, nor if the arbitrariness of interpretations is asserted, so that their only merit is their autonomous novelty: that is, neither if faithfulness is pursued outside freedom, nor if freedom is practised outside faithfulness. It is understood, then, how the concept of interpretation can save both the identity of the work and the diversity of its performances, because it is indeed a personal effort that aims at rendering the work and making it live, and it is precisely the work that shows itself in the different performances that are made of it. The work is always the same: unique and identical to itself; and the effort of faithfulness is always intended to maintain its identity and independence, so that the performance does not impose upon it a reality to which it does not belong. But the identity of the work to be performed must not be confused with the uniqueness of the performance: uniqueness pertains to the work, not to the execution. Performances are always numerous; the freedom from which they emerge ensures that each one of them expresses the person of the interpreter precisely through the exercise of faithfulness with which she has penetrated the work; but the variety and the novelty of interpretations must not be mistaken for their arbitrariness in which the work itself would dissolve: multiplicity pertains to performances, not to the work. In the light of these clarifications, it is now possible to define the meaning of the dual awareness that is required by the interpreter. The necessary awareness of the good quality of one’s own interpretation need not stagnate in the presumption that it is the only correct one, but rather transform into the engagement to make the work live its own life; and the necessary awareness of the multiplicity of interpretations need not justify the explicit plan to present a new one, but rather transform into the duty to improve the work and make it progressively better.

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On the one hand, the interpretation of the work is, for the interpreter, the work itself: the performer aims at this, at grasping and rendering the work so that its performance is the work itself, in its complete reality. When, after a long and laborious effort of penetration, the performer reaches what others will call her interpretation, to her this is no different from the work itself. It is not the case that, for the interpreter, the work and the interpretation she has made of it are separate, because even if this were the case, how could she know the work, different as it is from her own interpretation, if not through that interpretation itself? What the interpreter wishes to give is not a copy or an equivalent of the work, but the work itself, and she concentrates on this with the only decision to devote herself to interpretation: Her confidence of being on the right track is nothing but the effect of this engagement to dig into and penetrate the work in order to make it live the life it wishes to live in its own right; none of which has anything to do with the presumption of possessing the only correct interpretation, as though she could leave her own interpretation to compare it with others, with a kind of judgment impersonally delivered from an abstract and impossible point of view. On the other hand, since the interpreter knows it is she who interprets, she recognizes that others cannot approach the work without proceeding with the method she has adopted, that is, attempting to grasp and render the work with a personal effort of penetration; she recognizes that interpretations are numerous and different because they are all as personal as her own. But this recognition cannot transform into an objective and impersonal knowledge, as though the interpreter could leave herself behind to consider her own interpretation in the act of giving it to be just as arbitrary as the others, so that while performing the work her aim is not to make it live as it is but rather to show it as different from what the others have seen. To the interpreter, that recognition only means the awareness of the personality of interpretation, that is, the obligation to penetrate the work and make it live; this is her personal obligation, which she must not break, so that her effort must be constant and not easily

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satisfied: while giving her own interpretation, she implicitly recognizes that others can interpret better than she can, so that she has the duty to improve her own performance, even if for this purpose she must give it up and replace it with performances made by others that are judged as better and more penetrating. “Definiteness” and “temporariness” of interpretation Therefore it is possible to speak of finality and temporariness of interpretation, provided these terms are assigned the only meaning they draw from the principle of personality, according to which each interpretation is, for everyone, the work itself. All interpretations are definitive in the sense that, to the interpreter, every one of them is the work itself, and temporary because each interpreter knows she always has to improve her own interpretation. Being definitive, interpretations are parallel, so that one excludes the others without, however, denying them: each is a personal and irreducible way of penetrating and bringing to life a particular work. Being temporary, interpretations enter into dialogue with one another, and improve, correct and replace one another: each is included in the process through which the single interpreter endeavors to strengthen her own interpretation. If interpretations are definitive insofar as they are parallel, and temporary insofar as each is improvable in itself, though this comes about with the help of others, each is definitive only if compared with others, and temporary only if compared with itself. The result of this is a concept of definiteness, which has nothing to do with the concept of absolute and exclusive singularity, and a concept of temporariness, which has nothing in common with the concept of relativistic equivalence. It is nothing but the interpreter’s dual and yet single awareness, since to her interpretation is the work itself, and is also always improvable. And only after insisting on the inseparability of these two aspects is it now possible to analyze them separately in their consequences.

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The work lives only in its performances If interpretation intends to be the work and if to the interpreter her own interpretation is the work itself, it can be said that the work lives only in its own performances. The performance does not add to the work anything that does not belong to it. Indeed, what it realizes is so essential to the work that it can in no way appear to be accessory and secondary. If performing means making the work live as it desires, the performance lives the same life as that of the work, which in its turn has its own natural way of living. Performance and work identify with one another every time, because if the life of the performance can be nothing but that of the work, the life of the work can be nothing but the life of its performance. In fact the performance intends neither to replace, nor translate, nor copy, nor represent the work of art; neither does it intend simply to allude to it, as though it were a question of giving an equivalent of it, nor to revise it in its original form, as though it were nothing but an impulse to develop. Rather, it intends to make it live its own life; and to do this it must neither expect to add something unconnected to it, giving it a new and fresh life, which replaces that of the work and allows one to forget its reality, nor resign itself to being a mere reflection of it, as a copy gives up the idea of living a real life, and has the sole function of reminding one of the work and making one yearn for it. The work of art is not an inanimate body into which life must be infused or to which a life must be lent: it is rather a living existence, which asks to live again and forever; and in this, the exigency of the work and the aim of the performance meet: the work wishes to live its own life, and the performance wishes to make it live this life, which is its own; so that its existence as a performance is not something derived or secondary or momentary. If it is true that the performance makes the work live, but not to the point that it endows it with a new life that is unconnected with it, because the work has its own life and the performance is required and wishes to make it live this life, it is also true that the performance draws life from the work, but not

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to the point that it is an ephemeral and passing reflection of it, because only in performance does the work find its own irreplaceable way of living. Therefore the work lives only in the performances that are made of it; but this does not mean that it is reduced to its performance: the work has no other way of living but the life of the performance, only because the life of the performance is required and wishes to be nothing but the life of the work itself. Manifold interpretability of the work of art In order to understand the nature of performance and of its relations with the work to be performed, due consideration needs to be given to the following set of inseparable statements. The statement that the work lives only in its performances makes sense only if connected with the statement that the performance lives only the life of the work, and vice versa. The statement that the performance is essential and necessary to the work makes sense only if coupled with the statement that the performance adds nothing to the work that does not belong to it, and vice versa. There have been those who, having forgotten the inseparability of these statements, have gone as far as to twist the nature of the particular identification that occurs, in the consciousness of the interpreter, between the performance and the work itself: this identity does not compromise either independence and unity of the work or the originality and variety of the performances. So there are those who emphasize the fact that the work lives only in its performances, and conceive it as a creative act that is renewed every time, because the reader identifies with the author. The work does not exist in its determinateness and independence, but dissolves in an always-new creative act, in which it is no longer possible to distinguish it from the performance itself. And there are those who, emphasizing the fact that the performance is essential and necessary to the work, state that the work is in itself defective and imperfect, and requires the reader’s renewed complement and contribution: the work of art is congenitally incomplete, and its incompleteness pro-

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vokes and attracts the complement of the numerous interpretations in which it can find renewed and different completion. Now these conceptions make the fact of performance, which is widely advocated by the experience of art, evidently impossible and inexplicable to such a degree that perhaps it would not be worth stopping to refute them, if it were not for the fact that they are more widespread than expected, and lurk in many current ways of conceiving performance, and they also have the merit of directly confronting the thorny question of the manifold interpretability of the work of art. In fact, in order to state that the work lives in its various performances while always remaining unchanged, and that the different performances are the work itself even though they are different from one another, one may be tempted to “reduce” the essence of the work to something that can certainly be found in each of its performances, however different and distant from one another they are, such as a sort of “spirit” or an “act” of the work, which always remains the same although everyone relives it in isolation, or a “part” to which everyone adds a complement ad libitum, so that despite the always-new acts of reliving and continuation, it may be said that the work remains one and the same. Consequently, the manifold interpretability of the work would depend on its supposed lack of determinateness or of completeness. If performance is considered in this way, it can evidently no longer be said that it intends to be the work, because, rather, it recreates it or finishes it. To perform no longer means to render the work and make it live its own life, but to change it or to extend it: in any case, to leave the work behind, to translate, transform, remake it, or to complete, continue, develop it. Apart from this, it is now a question of seeing if it is necessary to remove its determinateness and completeness in order to admit an infinite interpretability of the work. Determinateness and independence of the work of art First of all, provided that the intention of the performance is to render and to be the work, to claim that this has no other way to

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live except in its performances is in no way an invitation to solve it in the arbitrariness of always-new creative acts or to abandon it in a changing flux of perpetual reinventions and revisions, but is rather a warning to maintain it in its determinateness, or rather in its independence, precisely in order to render it as it requires. The manifold interpretability of the work cannot consist in a lack of single and precise determinateness. If the work were not endowed with irreducible determinateness, it would neither be able to encourage the innumerable readers to interpret and perform it, nor expect that the performance would make it live its own life. Only by virtue of its determinateness does the work become the fixed goal of the infinite attempts to penetrate it and render it in its own reality. Spurred on by this determinateness, the performer finds in it the only condition to maintain the independence of the work, which is all the more essential to her since her effort of faithfulness tends to grasp the work as it is, and her performance wishes to be the same reality of the work. One must not think that the determinateness, the independence, and even the “exteriority” of the work make it impenetrable, as though there may be comprehension and interpretation only in a mystic annulment of the irreducible singularity of the work and the irreducible personality of the interpreter: there is performance where a very singular person tries to penetrate and render a work precisely in its very singular determinateness, and in order to do so, she endeavors to maintain its independence, so that her performance does not transform or change it, but truly “performs” it. Completeness and inexhaustibility of the work of art Furthermore, basing the necessity to perform the work on its supposed incompleteness means applying the category of totality in a rigid and material way, which is worthy of a mass of stone but not a spiritual work. An alternative results from this: the work and its performances are either two distinct totalities or two parts of the same totality, that is, they are either completely different works

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or the two elements of a collaboration; the play either needs to be performed, and is therefore incomplete in itself, and is only truly complete if its authors are both the playwright and the actor, or it is complete in itself, so that a performance is unnecessary, and, when there is a performance, what it becomes is a new and autonomous play. The first answer to this must be that the work of the performer is certainly different from that of the author, because the former “performs” what the latter “makes”; but this does not exclude the fact that, within every single performance, interpretation and work are one and the same, and they are separate only from the point of view of a new and different performance. Moreover, no author merely “proposes” her work as a hint to be developed or a fragment to be completed, because, rather, she intends to “present” it, and “release” it, only when she has “finished” it. It cannot be said that the work is faulty simply because it “requires” a performance, nor can its necessity of performance be a symptom of imperfection. How could something incomplete call for performance, and therefore expect to be rendered in its full reality? In fact the opposite is true, that the work can require, urge and provoke its own performances only because it is perfect and complete. The manifold interpretability of the work cannot result from its supposed incompleteness, which could, if anything, justify the “need” for a “complement,” and for a very “precise” complement, but not “incite” an “infinity” of “performances.” In fact, only by virtue of its definiteness and completeness can the work offer the possibility of infinite and different interpretations, because its definiteness and completeness are the definition and the conclusion of an infinite, so that, as has been seen, the work has innumerable aspects, each one of which reveals it as a whole, even though it does so from a certain perspective. If every aspect, however small it is, reveals the work as a whole, this is because the work is complete: it is completeness that ensures that every aspect is included in the work and simultaneously contains it. If the work is incomplete, its aspects are nothing but disconnected parts, and there is no unity of form, and the parts, thus disconnected from one another, cannot

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instigate a manifold interpretation, because none of them contains the indivisible whole which alone is interpretable, and which is the perfect form that is complete in itself, and consequently infinitely open. In the work of art, completeness means infinity, and infinity means inexhaustibility. If the aspects of the work are innumerable, and if each interpretation shows one aspect, even though it grasps the whole work, it can be said that none of the innumerable interpretations of a work can exhaust or monopolize it, because it promotes, provokes and requires them all. The accentuation of an aspect may imply that other aspects are eclipsed, or are made less evident, or are simply not discovered, such as when in the playing of a piece of music or the recitation of a poem or the acting of a play some passages are performed in one way, rather than in another, which is adopted in different interpretations. That difference in accentuation is sufficient to present the whole work in a new light. Thus there is a reciprocal exclusion of interpretations, due to the different value the interpreters assign to certain aspects; and this fact appears quite evidently in music. To this regard, one can speak of the extreme mobility and fluidity of the sound, and even of the “intrinsic ambiguity of musical matter,” but in reality this fact is inherent to the execution of all arts, even the figurative arts, in which fixing one’s eyes on certain relations of colors, tones and figures prevents one from simultaneously paying attention to other different relations which are nevertheless evident from another point of view; in this way the result is a different revelation of the whole work. All this has a real basis in the infinity of the work, and there need be no fear that in any of these interpretations something of the work shall go astray or become lost, because it is a whole in each of the aspects that the executions gradually emphasize. By virtue of its completeness, therefore, the work provokes, arouses, stimulates innumerable interpretations of itself, and at the same time is not exhausted in any of them, and remains above them all, even though it identifies with each one every time.

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The life of the work of art The series of infinite readings, interpretations and performances, therefore, is the life of the work itself: its natural way of living and existing. Every interpretation is the work itself for the one who executes it, but the interpretation is always given by someone in a moment of her life, and it makes the work live by revealing it in one of its infinite aspects, so that the work, although it coincides every time with each one of its performances, is not fixed in any of them. And the various performances neither blend with one another, as if each of them were partial, nor fall into a line, as if they were all equivalent, nor replace or integrate one another except in the consciousness of the single interpreter. The history of the interpretations is the life of the work, but the work is not enriched by them, because it always remains the same, unchangeable and perpetual, as a stimulus to all of its performances, always identical with each one of them, and yet always above them all. The subsequent interpretations benefit from the previous ones, and can take advantage of them thanks to always-new revelations. It is true that a long and glorious series of interpretations can be linked to the work with ties so strict that it is only through them that subsequent interpreters can see the work; but this confirms again that the work provokes its own life, giving rise to endless interpretations. It provokes them and lives within them, promotes them and finds its own existence within them, requires them and identifies with them. The work stimulates and requires a process of interpretation I will now analyze the other aspect of performance, the one according to which one’s own interpretation can always be deepened in the reader’s consciousness. Interpretation is an uninterrupted process and a constant effort of penetration, in which the degrees of comprehension are infinite, and it cannot be said when the process can be stopped. In order to better explain this point it is useful to draw on two common experiences.

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The first experience is that everybody understands at least something of a work of art. However different the civilization, spirituality or taste of the interpreter are from those of the work, or however low the cultural level of the reader may be, it cannot happen, as some believe, that there is no comprehension at all, and that, for instance, a Greek statue, transported to a very remote civilization in time and space, is regarded only as a mass of stone. Of course, in this extreme case it will not be a question of genuine penetration, and perhaps there will be only a gesture of astonishment; but however inexperienced and vacant the gaze is, an aspect of the work is grasped, and the potential interpreter is given a jolt; perhaps the process of interpretation does not continue, but there has been comprehension, however rough and coarse it may have been, or perhaps it would be better defined as germinal and inchoate. The second experience is that, on the level of a conscious and intentional will to penetrate, not everybody can understand everything with the same ease, and some works remain inaccessible and impenetrable to some people. It may happen that a reader, despite the efforts that she has made or thinks she has made, remains indifferent to certain works or classes of works, and even goes so far as to deny their beauty, unless she herself realizes and frankly confesses her deafness. This could even be a person who has shown a notable astuteness with regard to other works. In such cases, one is dealing with a failed interpretation: the path leading to the work has not been found, and it remains enigmatic and dumb, or even repellant. These two experiences illuminate the process of interpretation, which is always begun but not always successful. This suits the nature of the work of art as a form. In itself, the form can be interpreted and requires to be interpreted: its intrinsic character is that it requires and at the same time stimulates interpretation; it escapes the comprehension of those who do not deliberately try to penetrate it, but manages to initiate a process of interpretation in those who at least consider it. This happens with all forms - especially in art, which is pure formativity. In the work of art these two aspects show themselves with maximum evidence: in one way, it is naturally very

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interpretable, very open, communicative, and encourages and invites one to interpret and understand it; in another, it requires to be interpreted, and opens itself only to those who devote themselves to penetrating it, try hard to comprehend it, and deserve to understand its secret. Congenital comprehensibility of the work of art The work of art is above all endowed with a congenital comprehensibility, and all are called to understand and interpret it, and, indeed, all manage to achieve at least some understanding of it. Art is communicative because form, since it is the result of a process of formation, is a stimulus to a process of interpretation; the two things cannot be distinguished. What is formed is interpretable in itself, and its capacity to provoke a process of interpretation consists in being the conclusion of a formative process. This is why the difference of the spiritual, historical and cultural situation of the reader from that of the work is never so great as to prevent interpretation of the stimulus, even though it cannot guarantee its success. Neither must it be forgotten that even the most vacant gaze and the most rudimentary access to a work of art always refer to what is peculiar to art, that is, to formativity, because even the primitive and uneducated reader realizes she is in the presence of a work that someone has made and been able to make. This is enough to dispel the suspicion that since very few people deal with art, only those who practice it can understand it. If art is the specification of the formativity that inheres to the whole of spiritual life, the comprehension of the work of art is open to all. This is sufficiently guaranteed by the universal exercise of formativity, which all human beings include in any human activity, not only in thinking or acting or working, but also in devoting themselves to operations which contain an embryonic artistic intentionality, such as telling a story or writing a letter or drawing up a “composition” or manufacturing an object - even if very few of them manage to develop in themselves the ability to conduct and direct an intentional process of interpretation.

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The comforting consequence of the observation of the congenital comprehensibility of the work of art is the fact that everything can lead towards it. There are those who assume an attitude of abandon in front of the work of art and let themselves go in the pleasant cinematography of images, sensations and daydreams. There are those who gain such an intense emotion from this that it overwhelms the presence of the work itself. There are those who only pay attention to the subject or the argument, and draw inspiration from it through personal memories or autobiographical digressions. There are those who, led by historical rather than artistic preoccupations, only seek in the work the document of an age. None of these attitudes gives a real performance of the work in itself - but they do at least represent an initial reaction and an initial encounter, even if they are indicative of a lack of spiritual sophistication or different interests of the reader, and they are possible beginnings for interpretation, and even possible initial vessels of penetration into the work, so that it would be more useful to manage to direct and guide them than to attempt to repress them, in order that they may lead to the sphere of aesthetical evaluation and artistic execution in which they will be suitably purified or even abandoned. Difficulties of interpretation The work of art, although it is open and communicative in itself, and everybody can understand it, requires interpretation, and does not offer itself except to those who can do so, so that not everybody is able to understand it truly. Interpretation is always exposed to the risk of failure, and verges on incomprehension at every moment of its laborious process. In fact, in order that the interpretation should be successful, it is necessary for the reader to “syntonize” the work, and to examine it from the angle from which it wishes to be seen. Between the interpreter and the work there must be that affinity and congeniality which alone permit the gaze to become penetrating and revealing. Of course, the success of the interpretation may be prejudiced by weakness of attention,

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which can occur for many reasons during a reading that is not truly driven by the will to understand, and which might be easily avoided with stricter control over penetration and a more devoted attitude of respect. But sometimes the failure is due to deeper reasons: sometimes the spirituality of the reader, her way of thinking, living, and feeling, her cultural background, the civilization of her time, and her personal artistic taste are so distant and different from those from which the work emerged, that a sort of incompatibility and even “antipathy” arises, so that the reader sees her own sensibility particularly diminished, and does not succeed in making the work speak, and her process of interpretation founders and fails. Thus many works have had to wait for years, decades or even centuries to find a gaze that can truly see them, and some readers have finally found a path leading to a work only after years of experience have changed and enriched their spirituality and broadened their tastes. All this is a direct consequence of the always personal character of interpretation. This character has the inestimable advantage that every interpretation is always new, and always reveals new aspects of the work. In the “meeting” that has occurred between the singularity of the reader and that of the work there has been true communication, as though the work has spoken to someone who is better able to question it and understand its voice, having waited to be questioned in a certain way in order to answer and reveal an aspect that until that moment has remained unseen, and using a language which might allow the interlocutor to better listen to it. But the personality of interpretation also carries with it the unpleasant situation that the work does not reveal itself to all, and hides itself from those who are not able to question it. This is exactly what happens among people: they reveal themselves in particularly fortunate meetings, favored or enlivened by reciprocal appreciation, whereas they do not succeed in understanding each other in less fortunate meetings, compromised from the outset by an instinctive aversion, so that perhaps they present themselves and appear different from how they really are. The two things are connected to one another, and indeed where there is the possibility that the work may

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open to infinite interpretations, always new and different from one another, there is also the danger that interpretation may fail and that a work may encounter a most radical incomprehension across an entire company of readers. That one thing is connected to the other it is confirmed precisely by the case of readers who are singularly astute and sensitive towards certain works, but who show themselves to be unable to understand other works due to their different tastes, cultures and spiritualities. This does not mean that one has to doubt their penetration and critical ability, just as one does not doubt the merit of a pianist who gives wonderful performances of certain composers while being less successful in the interpretation of others. One cannot be an equally good interpreter, performer and critic of all works: everybody has faults in her own virtues, and every form of intelligence has corresponding gaps in its penetration. All this is part of the variety, diversity and originality of human beings, and there is no reason to be sorry for it, insofar as new insights always arise from it, or to make it the object of the envy or contempt of others and of one’s own pride or regret. The incomprehension to which interpreters of excellent taste, intelligence and astuteness fall prey is the price they necessarily pay for the ingenious penetration they demonstrate in other cases. One should rather distrust the pianist who professes to perform all composers equally well, or the critic who claims to be an equally penetrating judge of all works. In these cases it is sure that they are deluding themselves, and that the performances they provide will be at the most correct and proper, but not penetrating and astute; perhaps intelligent, but not deep and revealing. Exercise in congeniality and infinity in the process of interpretation From the observation of these difficulties one should not come to the conclusion that the success of interpretation requires the renunciation of personality. Of course, it is true that the effort of interpretation can require the reader to suppress some of her personal

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attitudes that interfere in the comprehension of the work; but this by no means implies that the personality of the interpreter must be regarded wholly as an obstacle to understanding. The recommendation to get rid of those personal attitudes that prevent comprehension is nothing but an exhortation to replace them with other, still personal, attitudes, which are instead a condition for penetration. Therefore, comprehension presupposes congeniality, penetration is the reward for appreciation, discovery occurs as syntonization, and revelation responds to spiritual affinity. This explains the difficulties and the failures of interpretation, when different spirituality produces uncongenial and incompatible situations and provokes antipathy and insensibility. But it is not a question of insurmountable obstacles, even though they may be difficult to overcome: the human being is plastic and flexible, and can gradually adopt different points of view, whether she transforms and renews the historical substance of her person through the power of her free initiative, thus enriching or modifying her concrete spirituality, or whether in a burst of imagination she imagines them and “lives” them in her fantasy and thought. In any case, whether the interpreter is a reader or a performer or a critic, she must always face the task to exploit the congeniality already at her disposal and attempt to establish it when she unfortunately lacks it. On the one hand one must be able to choose one’s authors, those with whom an elective affinity and a natural congeniality promise a more accurate penetration. In these cases the gaze is already revealing in itself, because the person of the interpreter is a suitable vessel of penetration: there is already predestination and expectation, which are a sufficient guarantee of success. Not being mistaken in the choice of one’s own authors is a precept that the public performer knows perfectly well, and that the critic does well to observe. But any reader is already naturally directed by the secret game of instinctive appreciation that rules every encounter and all communication. In order to make an innate congeniality ever more sensitive and revealing, a skillful care is needed. It can be obtained chiefly with the untiring familiarity with one’s own authors,

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because if it is true that these instinctive choices are enough to ensure the success of the interpretation, it is also true that comprehension increases the more one frequents one’s favorite authors, and the wider comprehension one attains complements a deeper knowledge of oneself. A communication is established, in which the more I manage to see and bring to life the work that I find congenial, the more I learn from it to explain and clarify to myself the taste that has led me to prefer and understand it. On the other hand, in order to make up for an initial lack of congeniality, the reader can draw broadly on the infinite resources of human plasticity. The same “exercise in otherness” the human being carries out with herself and with others confirms that imagination can configure possibilities that are different from those she has lived or is living. Many of the relations that I have with myself are true relations of internal otherness, because every one of my past and future possibilities tends to take the form of a person, with whom I imagine identifying myself by configuring her actions and character. Moreover I cannot understand others except by thoroughly entering into their personality, putting myself in their place, and playing their role. A similar exercise is required in the comprehension of works, in which a masterly use of imagination can come to the aid of defective and even, in a certain way, ingrained congeniality. Of course it is an uncertain and difficult effort, which must configure not abstract and impersonal points of view, but the gazes of real and living people. It is a question of engaging in an “exercise of congeniality,” which, supported by imagination, seeks and invents and produces the most revealing points of view, or rather transforms the whole person of the interpreter into a suitable vessel of penetration. Thus the reader not only learns from the congenial work how to confirm her taste, but also actually forms a new taste, and receives from the work the suggestion to transform, enrich and refine her spirituality. In both cases the process of interpretation never ends. The same revelations that have rewarded a long effort of attention promise that renewed efforts will be rewarded by new discoveries; nor can

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an initial congeniality rest on its achievements, because even then comprehension was not truly immediate: that same congeniality was the result of a whole experience, the result of a whole series of free and inventive choices, and the exigency of a taste which was honed in expectation. With every work one establishes a dialogue which could be infinite, and sometimes it is, as happens with the authors one has chosen as fellow travelers in life: one reads them more than once, and each time one is rewarded by new discoveries. From them one learns that reading is meant to be an exhortation to read again, because a reading that does not care to renew itself was either not a true reading, or dealt with works that did not deserve to be read. Degrees of comprehension and value of interpretations Art presents the comforting prospect that one always understands at least something of a work, but at the same time the troubling awareness that the work reveals itself only to those who can interpret it. On the one hand, then, it can be said that the two degrees of comprehension are infinite, and every human being achieves understanding in the way her spirituality, her level of cultural sophistication, aesthetical education, and historical situation allow, and naturally she understands what she is capable of understanding, in accordance with the conditions of comprehension in which she finds herself. On the other hand, it can be said that there is a gulf between the elementary and rudimentary forms of comprehension and the interpretation that succeeds in penetrating and revealing the work of art and bringing it to life. These two apparently opposing statements can be reconciled if it is noted first of all that the infinity of the degrees of comprehension corresponds to the infinity of the process of interpretation, in the sense that between the lowest and the highest degrees there is the continuous tissue of a progressive penetration; and then that the lowest degrees represent a comprehension not so much in reference to the work (because they do not truly manage to reveal it as it wishes to show

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itself), as much as in reference to the personality of the interpreter (because they are suitable to the situation, however rudimentary they may be, and represent all that can be understood in those conditions). One can speculate: is there a criterion by which to distinguish the comprehension that refers to the work from the one that refers to the situation? That is to say: is there a criterion by which to judge the value of different interpretations and performances? If by objective criterion it is meant that everyone can leave behind her own degree of comprehension and her own interpretation to see the other degrees and interpretations from the outside, and thus compare them with one another and judge their value, it must be said that there is no such criterion. And yet the criterion exists, and is very solid: there is comprehension only when the work has revealed itself in its own reality, and interpretation is valid if it expresses the work as it wants. But this criterion can only be valid inside each single interpretation, and no one can hope to use it by leaving behind the comprehension she has attained at present. Everyone always establishes the comparison with other interpretations within her own, and the possibility that she recognizes that they are better than her own is identical to the possibility that she always has to improve her own. A better interpretation imposes itself only insofar it appears to be so penetrating, revealing and executive that anyone who can appreciate and understand it wishes that she had achieved it herself, so that the inadequacy of an interpretation can be verified only by recognizing another as better. Of course, those who can give only very rough interpretations and who are still in a rudimentary state of comprehension, will, for these reasons, not always be able to “understand” and recognize the interpretations which are more penetrating than their own, and, from their point of view, will necessarily remain in their positions. The fact that there is no objective criterion, in that material sense whereby everyone ought to take leave of themselves in order to use it, cannot be an exhortation to relativism and skepticism, because the value of comprehension, when it exists, is by no means suppressed, nor are all the various interpretations leveled on the

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same plane. The consequence is, rather, that evaluations do not fall into line with an abstract and impersonal evaluation, but are infinite and always very personal, and they blend with one another in a interweaving of continuous objections and discussions, which, far from dispelling the criterion of judgment, guarantees it because it commits it to the personal exercise of the singular, and, far from suppressing the validity of judgments, it continuously tests it, because no one can judge without allowing, or rather requiring, to be judged. This prospect is as far as one could imagine from relativism and skepticism, which do not have enough trust in reason to avoid the conclusion that such incessant and reciprocal discussions and objections are useless and vain.

From “Lettura, interpretazione e critica dell’opera d’arte,” Filosofia 5 (4/1953); Estetica. Teoria della formatività (Milano: Bompiani, 1996), 226–247

Part Three

Truth, Interpretation and the Critique of Ideology

Truth and history Cryptic discourse and semantic discourse Let us now look more closely at the features of the two kinds of thought that I have briefly outlined, deliberately putting aside science, which is a separate problem. On the one hand there is thought experienced in truth, both ontological and personal, and thus inseparably revelatory and expressive, and on the other, purely historical thought, in which the absence of a revelatory nature ends up actually compromising expression too, and reducing it to an indirect rationalization of the temporal situation, with an unavoidable instrumental and technical vocation. The first thing that is striking about these two kinds of thought is a sort of gap between what is said and what is not. In both, the word evokes something that is not explicit and that contains the true meaning of the discourse. But what is very different in the two cases is the importance and the function of this non-explicit element. First of all, in historical thought the word says one thing but means another; in revelatory thought the word reveals much more than it says. In the case of historical thought what the word says is a conceptual construction, and what it really means must be sought from the point of view of the unconscious and hidden expression of the historical situation. The word neither reveals nor shows nor enlightens, but covers, conceals and hides: its l™gein is a kr¥ptein. In the case of revelatory thought the word is revealing, and eloquent not only in what it says, but also in what it does not say. In fact what it says is the very inexhaustible truth that lies within it, and which is therefore more unsaid than said. Being inexhaustible, truth resides in the word without identifying it, but always reserving itself, katÅ paroysºan ®pist¸mhq kreºttona: it is a presence that does not coincide with explicitness, and so it opens the possibility of a further, and always new, question. The presence of truth in the word is originary in nature: it is the source from which thought unceasingly flows, so that each new insight is the promise of new

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insights, rather than the progressive approach to an impossible total manifestation; thus its character is more persuasive than approaching. It is a l™gein that is a shmaºnein: the word is meaningful because of its fertile pregnancy, which goes beyond the sphere of the explicit, but does not diminish it: rather, the explicit irradiates it. In thought without truth, the explicit has so little meaning that it refers to the expression hidden in the discourse, since it must search for its own meaning in something else. In this case, to understand means to unmask: that is, to replace the explicit with the implied. Conversely, in revelatory thought the explicit is so meaningful that within it the presence of an inexhaustible source of meanings can be easily perceived. To understand, then, means to interpret; that is, to analyze the explicit in order to grasp the infinity of the implicit that it announces and contains. Moreover, historical thought does not say what it does; revelatory thought does not say everything. In the first case, there is a real discrepancy between saying and doing, due to ingenuity or bad faith, so that rational enunciation hides its true motivation: the explicit aspect, which is an alleged revelation of truth, contrasts openly with the implied reality, which is the situation expressed within it. Conversely, in the second case the discourse has its own meaning, but in a generative fashion, always emerging, so that consequently there is a continuous gap between what is said and what remains to be said. The terms “part” and “whole” in the strictest sense are not the most suitable to describe the revelation of truth. Revealing truth means neither knowing it completely (through the removal of a veil that obstructs complete vision), nor grasping simple parts of it, while desiring their progressive integration or lamenting their fatal inadequacy. Revelatory thought achieves its aim even though it does not reach the point of “all said,” oËtv bauÂn løgon ‘xei. Its ideal is not the complete enunciation of a more or less adjustable reality, but the unceasing manifestation of an inexhaustible origin. Truth does not allow itself to be grasped except as inexhaustible, and this, indeed, is the only way to grasp it as a “whole.” There can be no revelation but of the inexhaustible, and

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of the inexhaustible there can be nothing but revelation, since it is not a question of grasping truth once and for all, or deploring the impossibility of giving it a definitive formulation, but of finding an opening towards it, and perceiving a gleam or a flash, which, however dim or fleeting, is extremely diffusive, since the truth within it is inexhaustible. Furthermore, in historical thought the unsaid is outside the word, whereas in revelatory thought the unsaid is present in the word itself. In historical thought understanding means annulling the unsaid, and bringing it to complete explicit representation, healing the discrepancy between saying and doing. Conversely, in revelatory thought understanding means realizing that truth cannot be possessed except in the form of needing to seek it again. In historical thought it is a question of annulling the implied in the act of discovering it, of unmasking the gap between the said and the unsaid, of recovering the totality of the discourse and its meaning—in short: of engaging in demystification, a process where at the end the task is accomplished. Conversely, in revelatory thought the task is infinite, because truth offers itself to the word inasmuch as it is not completely expressible, and makes discourse possible only so long as, while present, it is not exhausted, and does not allow itself to be captured in a complete enunciation precisely because it feeds a continuous revelation. Revelatory thought adduces the gap between the explicit and the implied as a sign of its presence, and thus entrusts itself to the only form of knowledge capable of grasping and possessing an infinite: interpretation. Demystification recovers the inferior irrationality of historical thought towards the rationalistic cult of the explicit, whereas interpretation guarantees the presence of truth in an unceasing process of revelation and in an infinity of penetrating perspectives. Demystification re-establishes a totality, whereas interpretation attests to the inexhaustible. From “Pensiero espressivo e pensiero rivelativo,” Giornale critico della filosofia italiana (2/1965), 177–190; Verità e interpretazione (Milano: Mursia, 2005), 21–24.

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Inexhaustibility of Being as the reason for its presence, and ulteriorness in historical forms In history, it is not a question of distinguishing what would be permanent as a super-historical value from what would only be temporal as a historical fact: in history, everything is both historical and temporal. Rather, it is a question of recognizing the presence of Being in history, and thus of distinguishing—in what is both equally historical and expressive of its own time—between that which is only historical and expressive from that which is also ontological and revelatory; between those things whose nature and value are exhausted in historicity, and those whose historicity is an opening towards Being as well as its intermediary, and therefore its basis and apparition. Being is not present in history with a determinateness of its own, in a form recognizable as unique and definitive, useful as a term of comparison of all historical forms, to make historical evaluation easy, quick and infallible. Being cannot be present unless historically depicted, and Being has no other way of appearing or other place in which to reside but historical forms. Being resides in historical forms in its inexhaustibility, that is, in one way with a presence that makes them its only way of appearing, and in another with an ulteriorness which does not allow any of them to contain it exclusively. In short, it resides in them so that on the one hand it entrusts itself to the forms that may reveal it to the point of inseparability, and on the other never resolves itself into a historical form even though it entrusts itself to it. This does not mean that in a revelatory historical form it is possible to distinguish a temporal and fleeting aspect from a timeless and unchanging substance, because everything within it is both temporal and revelatory; nor does it mean that Being can distinguish itself to the point that a comparison of that form with others is possible in order to evaluate them: it means only that Being resides in historical forms as a presence that is always ulterior, in all the uncontainable strength of its inexhaustibility.

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But it must not be thought that this inexhaustibility of Being consists in a sort of metacultural permanence, as is said today, that is, in a state of continuous informulation and in a kind of inaccessibility that hovers over historical events, as though it were afraid of being contaminated by contact with time and as though it would retain its stimulating and innovating power only if it were immune from any historical trouble. Apart from the fact that the metahistoricity of something appears less through its power to transcend its own historical forms than through its power to continuously become embodied in new forms, it is nevertheless true that it is so difficult for the Being to assume a specific form, that it appears only in the historical determinations with which it truly identifies itself. Of course Being is present in them in the only way in which it can entirely reside in them, that is, in all its inexhaustibility, which does not allow it to become any one of them; but in its turn, this inexhaustibility does not dominate historical forms, but appears only inside each one of them. And if Being does not appear unless in a historical form, from which it is inseparable without being exhausted, it must be said that this form is a revelation of Being, that is, not an alteration or disguise or surrogate, but Being itself as historically determined. Historical forms as interpretations of Being: elimination of relativism This presence of Being in history refers to the concept of interpretation, in which the human being’s originary solidarity with truth is realized. Interpretation is also at the same time revelatory and historical, because on the one hand truth is accessible only within any single perspective, and on the other this construes the historical situation as a path leading towards truth; so that truth cannot be revealed without determining and formulating it, which only happens personally and historically. The interpretation of truth, too, is the possession of an infinite: truth offers itself only inside the formulation it is given, and is inseparable from this formulation, so

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that it does not present itself in a determinateness and objectivity with which the formulation may compare itself for the purpose of passing judgment. And though that formulation does not monopolize truth, which, being inexhaustible, can provoke countless other formulations, it is truth itself as personally possessed, and it is not different from the truth—not its image, or its deformation, or its replacement. Therefore, interpretation emerges as both revelatory and plural, and this is why it evades any accusation of relativism: its plurality derives from the superabundant nature of the truth that resides in it, that is, it flows from the same source from which springs the manifestation of truth, and far from dispersing truth in a series of indifferent formulations, it discloses it in its inexhaustible richness. In its infinity, truth can offer itself to a great range of perspectives, however different they may be from one another, and interpretation sustains its uniqueness while multiplying its formulations— just as a work of art, far from dissolving in a plurality of arbitrary performances, remains unchanged while opening itself up to new interpretations that are able to grasp and explain it, and identifying with them. The definitive elimination of relativism is possible as soon as the revelatory and at the same time plural nature of interpretation is understood: that is, as soon as it is understood how in interpretation the revelatory aspect is inseparable from the historical aspect. Between truth and its formulation there is an interpretative relation of both identity and ulteriorness, in a perfect balance. In one way, truth identifies itself with its formulation so that it may be possessed in a revelatory way, but not so far as to allow that formulation to be presented as exclusive and complete, or rather unique and definitive, because in this case it would no longer be interpretation, but substitution of truth—that is, one of the large number of historical formulations that claims to be absolute and to take the place of truth. In another way, truth is always ulterior with respect to its formulation, but only so as to demand a plurality of formulations, and not in the sense of its absolute ineffability, before which all

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formulations would be fatally inadequate and irremediably insignificant, in a common and resigned equivalence and indifference, as relativism would indeed desire, thus leaving no way out but an arbitrary and conventional choice. In the same way a historical form—an era, a civilization, an idea—can be an interpretation of Being, that is, Being itself as historically determined, but this does not imply an affirmation of relativism. The relation between Being and historical form that reveals it is also interpretative, which shows furthermore how the presence of Being in history is far more radical and deep than any historical durability. But, in the very act that explains how a historical form can be an epiphany of Being, interpretation founds a reality which, from the outside, can display a certain resemblance to historical durability, but which has a far more substantial and originary character: tradition.

From “Valori permanenti e storia,” in I valori permanenti nel divenire storico (Roma: Istituto Accademico di Roma, 1969), 13–27; Verità e interpretazione (Milano: Mursia, 2005), 43–46.

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Philosophy and ideology Inseparability of the historical and revelatory aspects in ontological thought The historicization of thought and the technicalization of reason are the two features of expressive and ideological thought, where the absence of truth has prevented the problems of the relation between thought and situation and between theory and praxis from having any solution other than the amplification of one term to the detriment of the other, in the sense that situation has prevailed over thought, and praxis over theory. Against them, revelatory thought sets two completely different features and relations; and philosophical thought is revelatory thought. The first difference concerns the different functions of historicity in the two forms of discourse. In ideological discourse, historicity exhausts the very essence of thought, which consequently is only expressive. Conversely, in philosophical discourse the historical situation intervenes because the person freely proposes it as a path that leads to truth, which ensures that thought is both revelatory and expressive, because it reveals truth in the act of expressing the person. This thought arises from an originary solidarity of person and truth, and is therefore ontological and personal at the same time: such originary complicity explains, within this thought, the inseparability of the expressive and revelatory aspects, and qualifies them in their reciprocal relation. The historical aspect of philosophical thought is inseparable from the revelatory aspect, because what is expressed in it is the person per se, as she proposes her own situation as a historical opening to timeless truth. Furthermore, the revelatory aspect of philosophical thought is inseparable from the expressive aspect because there is no objective manifestation of truth as a conclusive and patent trait, since it is accessible only through an irreplaceable personal relation, and can be formulated only through the personal path that leads to it.

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Two consequences derive from this observation. The first consequence is that the expressivity of thought no longer consists in the simple ability to express one’s own time, and its historicity no longer consists in the complete identification with the historical situation, because what is expressed here is the person, who in one way interprets the living present, and in the other becomes the vessel that reveals truth. First of all, time is not expressed directly, but only through the free mediation of the person, who does not suffer its problems as though they were already configured when imposed by the times, but actually induces the times to propose them; it is the person who gives rise to them and shapes them, so that there is not only a gap between question and answer, but, most fundamentally, between situation and question. Moreover, the manner of presenting a situation also depends on the person, turning it into either a fatal and menacing limitation or a shining opening to truth, either isolating it in a presumed self-sufficiency, which would reduce thought to a mere reflection or awareness of time, or recovering its originary ontological opening, which restores to thought its revelatory function. Furthermore, it is within the person’s power to transform her own singularity into the path leading to truth, multiplying its formulation even while leaving it unique in its indescribable but stimulating presence. The second consequence is that truth is not objectifiable, that is, it only offers itself within a personal perspective that interprets and determines it. Firstly, this means that one cannot grasp and reveal truth without already formulating it, and it is therefore inseparable from the personal interpretation placed upon it. Secondly, this means that it is impossible to grasp truth in an imaginary independence and determinateness that would allow one to compare one’s formulation with it from the outside and so judge its value—therefore, it cannot be compared with the enunciation made of it. Thirdly, this means that the interpretations placed upon truth, insofar they are always personal, are numerous; therefore, its uniqueness, atemporality and universality can only come about within the numerous, historical and valuable philosophies

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that formulate it. Finally, this means that the existence of the truth as formulated and defined thought presupposes that it can reside within thought only as undefined and unformulated. This implies, of course, the end of ontic and objective metaphysics, and its replacement with an ontological and indirect metaphysics, which today is the only way to preserve the universal and speculative nature of philosophy and thereby ensure the survival of metaphysics. The fact that ideological thought is only historical and expressive and the historicization of thought implies the technicalization of reason indicates the ultimate and coherent result of historicism in the ideology that claims to replace philosophy: that is, the end of metaphysics tout court. If today the end of metaphysics is linked to the replacement of philosophy with ideology, and to the necessity of the connection between expressive and historical thought and pragmatic and exploitable destination, the survival of metaphysics is linked to the assertion of the speculative nature of philosophy, which can be supported only by abandoning ontic and objective metaphysics, affirming the unobjectifiability of truth and recognizing the indivisibility of revelation and expression. The declared unobjectifiability of truth in no way compromises its transcendence, because personalism, far from being a subjectivism or intimism of more or less idealistic or spiritualistic origin and inevitably narcissistic nature, reveals its nature completely only if understood as “ontological personalism,” according to which the person is constituted by the relation with Being. This is essentially a listening to truth, yet an active and revelatory listening: the person’s destination is the recognition of truth insofar as this can be formulated only personally. Subjectivism and intimism, by contrast, are the complete opposite of ontological personalism, which, rather than concentrating on the invariably subjective character of any affirmation, or on truth within the human mind, aims to grant a quality of personality, not to truth, of course (which is superpersonal in itself), but to the consistently single interpretation made of it, which it incites and provokes,

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and from which it is inseparable in every instance. Ontological personalism concerns itself with the multiplicity of the paths that lead to truth, among which dialogue is nevertheless guaranteed by the uniting strength of truth itself, which establishes a consensus as far from subjectivism as from impersonalism, since it offers itself to all by addressing each in her own way. This is the most difficult concept of sociality and community to realize, but also the most true and authentic. Ontological personalism focuses especially on the fact that truth, although it cannot be reduced to any interpretation, does not offer itself except within the personal formulation it is given. All this affirms that truth is, in fact, originary, and, as such, unobjectifiable, more present in thought as source and origin than present for thought as subject of discovery. Truth is so ulterior that it does not identify itself with any perspective that reveals and formulates it, but it escapes any consideration that claims to discuss it as a concluded and patent object, and to possess it in a unique and exclusive way; and it is so inexhaustible that it encourages a wide array of revelations and gives itself up to an infinite variety of formulations, without running the risk of losing its uniqueness. Here, then, is the first feature of revelatory thought, in which the relation between thought and situation concedes the historical element its place without widening it more than its due: it is interpretation, and interpretation is always characterized by the inseparability of expression and revelation, that is, in one way by the personality of its subject, who expresses herself by becoming the vessel of revelation, and in the other by the inexhaustibility of its object, which reveals itself by asserting its own unobjectifiability, as inseparable from the interpretation it is given, and yet always ulterior with respect to the interpretations it provokes.

From “Filosofia e ideologia,” Filosofia 18 (2/1967), 219–240; Verità e interpretazione (Milano: Mursia, 2005), 99–103.

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The problem of the concrete distinction between ideology and philosophy If someone asks me—as often happens—how one can truly tell if a certain thought is philosophical or ideological, that is, either revelatory and ontological or expressive and technical, I reply that this question is not philosophical. First of all, it must not be expected that a definition, for example a definition of art, automatically gives rise to a division between beautiful and ugly works, or successful and unsuccessful works. This distinction, which must be made differently in each case and at each time, is a single judgment, the responsibility for which is not attributable to a definition assumed as a criterion, but to the person who delivers it, and which is continuously revised and discussed and frequently contested and denied. In this sense it is absurd to claim that from the philosophical distinction between philosophy and ideology an infallible principle may be derived to distinguish concretely the former from the latter in determined cases, and that it is the source of the historical assignation of some determined thought to philosophy or to ideology. It is not, indeed, the definition that must serve as a principle, but truth itself, which entrusts itself to revelatory thought and escapes merely expressive thought, and which in this sense is index sui. It is not—of course—an external principle, which can exactly measure and compare different theories from the outside, and unquestionably assign some to the field of ontological and philosophical thought, and others to the field of ontological and pragmatic thought; for truth only ever occurs within an interpretation, and only there can it be index sui. Truth shows itself only to those who know how to see it, and seeing it means already giving one’s own interpretation of it; so that it cannot act except as an internal principle, or even doubly internal, that is, if it is implied in the thing which is to be judged, and present only in the interpretation of the person who is to pass judgment—in short, inseparable both from the “object” and from the “subject” of the judgment. This is obviously not only the most inconvenient position to reach and ensure

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the incontrovertibility of an evaluation (which requires, in fact, a clear distinction and separation between judged object, judging subject and principle of judgment); but is also an opportunity, or perhaps an invitation, or even a request for an open discussion and an avowed contention. As one can see, a principle which is as rigorous as it is rigid, or as infallible as it is external, is far from available; nor is there that “Lesbian rule” Vico talks so much about: that is, a ductile and flexible principle, which can attain precision only by avoiding strictness and accepting malleability. The matter is now at a much deeper level, where truth itself meets human freedom, provokes it and offers itself to it, and where the human being’s freedom appears impossible if it is not the seat of truth: this is the root of interpretation itself, which is, in a manner of speaking, the root of both “revelation” and of “contention.” Of course, the human being has the great benefit of being always, in a certain sense, within truth, linked to it by a originary bond, which is always historically realized, either through situation, provided this is ontologically oriented, or through a tradition, provided this is continuously renewed and refreshed; but the possibility she has to break this relation, through the freedom which confirms her in it, exposes her to a problematicity that has nothing to do with doubt, and to an uncertainty which has nothing to do with ambiguity, but which derives in fact from the bond, that, as has been seen, indissolubly links revelation and contention within interpretation. But those who ask how a philosophical thought can be concretely distinguished from an ideological thought can perhaps be induced to ask this question for a more subtle and precise reason. That is, it could be that in the definitions and distinctions devised by philosophy they do not search for an element of truth, but rather effectiveness, and thus they declare themselves ready to accept the aforementioned distinction between revelatory thought and expressive thought only in so far as it is effective: that is, it facilitates the formulation of adequate historical judgments. But it is evident that this reservation is already a clear and flagrant violation of the

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proposed distinction, since it accepts the characteristics of effectiveness and pragmatism as the only ones essential to thought. Submitting the distinction between philosophy and ideology to the principle of effectiveness already means annulling and repudiating it, since it means denying philosophy a revelatory and truth-seeking character and admitting only its technical and pragmatic character. The distinction between philosophy and ideology is only possible from the point of view of philosophy, and not from the point of view of ideology; and thus the revelatory character of thought does not appear except to those who can distinguish it from the expressive character. This means that, from the point of view of ideology and technical conception of thought, the question of the effectiveness of that distinction does not even arise, and those who give rise to it, once the distinction is proposed, cannot make it except in order to give or receive a negative answer.

From Filosofia e ideologia (Torino: Edizioni di “Filosofia,” 1967); Verità e interpretazione (Milano: Mursia, 2005), 130–133.

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The Author has been asked: “You say it is absurd to ask for a principle to distinguish revelatory thought from expressive thought. If truth shows itself only to those who can know it, since everybody claims to be able to know it, do we not relapse, without a principle, into much deprecated subjectivism?” Before giving an answer, I would like to make an observation. Despite all appearances to the contrary, the concept of interpretation is rather difficult, so difficult that, in a certain sense, misunderstandings like the one at the root of this question are comprehensible. It must be understood that with the concept of interpretation subjectivism is definitively overcome. In fact, it can be said that the concept of interpretation arises precisely to eliminate subjectivism, and to rid the path of the opposition between subjectivism and objectivism forever. The basic terms are no longer “subject” and “object,” and so it is no longer possible to require an “objective” principle, otherwise one would relapse into “subjectivism,” and it is no longer possible to call the personal appropriation of truth “subjective.” The problem of truth is not so much a “gnoseological” problem, soluble in terms of knowing subject and known object, but rather a problem which is, so to speak, “metaphysical,” concerning the roots of human beings in Being, that is, the ontological character of the originary union of person and truth. That said, I would like to make it clear that, to be precise, I am not saying “it is absurd to ask for a principle to distinguish revelatory thought from expressive thought.” What I say is that it is absurd to claim that an infallible principle to concretely distinguish philosophy from ideology in a specific case can be derived from the philosophical distinction between solely expressive thought and thought which is also revelatory. The claimed impossibility of such a principle has nothing to do with subjectivism, which consists in turning the subject into the general principle of distinction. In any case, there is a principle, and a very firm one, and it is truth itself, which, of course, is not an external principle, which can measure from the outside the greater or lesser philosophical quality of a

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thought—such qualities are evaluated by truth itself, which always resides within the interpretation made of it. Of course, the fact that truth is always within the interpretation made of it ensures that the use of this principle is very inconvenient; but such inconvenience and difficulty do not make the principle any less secure or definitive. Every philosophy begins already positively marked by the truth of which it is interpretation and to which it entrusts itself, and every ideology begins already negatively marked by the truth which it betrays and which eludes it. Truth itself confers validity upon the philosophy that can interpret it and that contains it, and invalidity upon an ideology that disregards it and from which it withdraws: in a similar way, a piece of music is itself the judge of the performance that is given of it, surrendering and entrusting itself to the performance that gives it sense and makes it live, thus constituting its validity, and avoiding a false interpretation that distorts and disfigures it and expresses the performer rather than the work itself, thus declaring its worthlessness. This is an “objective” principle, if this can be said with regard to something that is “unobjectifiable” by nature, because it is truth itself that abides in the formulation that is made of it, or that avoids the false formulation imposed on it, thus obscuring rather than revealing it, and driving it away rather than grasping it. Of course, however strong the analogy, the comparison with the piece of music is little more than an image. There is a decisive difference, which is the fact that while there is the score of the piece of music, there is no such score of truth. But this situation, which is the distinctive condition of human beings, does not compromise or diminish or annul the certainty of the principle of distinction, but rather reveals the risk the human being runs while giving her formulation of truth, and makes the interpretation seem like a bet, in which what is at stake is the interpreter’s whole being. In both interpretations there is a leap of faith and a risk, inseparably linked, but whereas in the musical performance the leap of faith prevails over the risk (but does not annul it, since it is a question of making the work live its own life, which the score does not objectively

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reveal), in the interpretation of truth it is the risk that prevails over the leap of faith (again without annulling it, but rather turning it into a decisive question, the decisive question, in fact, thus burdening it with a huge responsibility, on the same scale as the risk). For the human being, it is a question of hazarding her personal formulation of truth, which makes interpretation seem like a bet, upon which the interpreter’s whole life depends. I repeat: the inseparability of truth from the interpretation made of it (an inseparability cemented by the risky and decisive nature of interpretation) makes the use of this principle extremely inconvenient and difficult, but not impossible. Of course, endless discussions and contentions can arise from it, and this is the present condition, since truth does not show itself except through a bet and a risk, and it cannot be kept except in an environment of perpetual contention. But what brings about these discussions and contentions? Partly truth itself, which, in its inexhaustibility, always provokes new attempts not only to analyze it better, but even to hold it within the interpretation that is made of it, in conflict with new demands and new doubts. Even within an existing perspective it is always possible to dig deeper into truth, identifying new features within it, wringing new answers from it, and finding new, still unexplored, facets of it,. This is due in part to the fact that “everyone thinks they can know it,” or that many claim to it, or that some claim a monopoly on it, or whatever else it may be. But this is not a reason to evoke or justify subjectivism. Subjectivism is what identifies the principle of truth in the subject, and which then proposes as such a principle, for example, sincerity, conviction, representation (that is, speaking in the name of truth). But this is exactly what I exclude, since the principle of truth is truth itself, and, if anything, it is truth that is the measure and confirmation of sincerity, of conviction, of representation, and not vice versa: there is nothing more monstrous than subordinating truth to individual conviction, which without truth is per se extremely doubtful, uncertain and falsifying. In one way truth is not abandoned to subjects who claim to know or possess it, but relies upon

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the interpretations made of it, residing in each of them without reducing itself to any one of them and thus favoring it above the others, inhabiting them all without resolving or annulling itself in any of them, and transcending them all while dwelling in them as a judge in continuous operation and without possibility of delegation. In another way sincerity, conviction, representation and all the subjective movements of the appropriation of truth can never replace truth itself as a principle, because on their own, independent of the truth that nourishes and feeds them, they are uncertain and doubtful, for a false conviction, a false sincerity, a false conscience are always possible. Now there are many techniques with which to detect false conscience, all suggested by that “school of suspicion” (Schule des Verdachtes) which Nietzsche was the first to discuss. After Marx, Nietzsche and Freud it is no longer possible to appeal to sincerity, conscience, conviction, to the belief everybody has to be able to know truth, or to speak in the name of truth. These things are so thoroughly discredited that, even in opening the way, as I do, to the widest possible contestability, nobody can conceive of assuming them or proposing them as a principle, in a renewed form of subjectivism. The contestability of all human statements, which is an essential and constituent element of any formulation of truth (and even more so of falsifications of truth), is, rather, a call and an appeal to truth as a supreme principle of itself and of the interpretations made of it, and at the same time a renewed confirmation of the inexhaustibility of truth itself.

From “Filosofia e verità,” interview by M. Serra, Studi cattolici 193 (1977), 171–179.

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Originarity of interpretation Relation with Being and interpretation of truth: ontology and hermeneutics Any human relation—knowing or acting, access to art or relations among persons, historical knowledge and philosophical mediation—is always interpretative in nature. This would not happen if interpretation were not originary in itself: interpretation qualifies the relationship with Being in which the very essence of the human being resides; the primogenial union of the human being and truth is fulfilled within it. And this originarity of interpretation explains not only the interpretative nature of every human relationship, but also the ontological nature of every interpretation, however determinate and particular it may be. Interpreting means transcending, and one cannot authentically talk about entities without also referring to Being. In short: the originary ontological relation is necessarily hermeneutic, and every interpretation necessarily has an ontological nature. This means that there is nothing but interpretation of truth and that there is no interpretation of anything but truth. In interpretation, the originality that derives from the novelty of the person and time and the originarity that stems from the primitive ontological relation are indivisible and coessential. Interpretation is the form of knowledge that is simultaneously and inseparably truthful and historical, ontological and personal, revelatory and expressive. In interpretation, the historical and revelatory aspects are coessential As a consequence, first of all, the only adequate knowledge of truth is interpretation, conceived as a historical and personal form of knowledge, in which the single personality and the historical situation, far from being an impediment or even simply a limit to knowledge, are its only possible condition and suitable vessel.

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Interpretation can be defined as the form of knowledge in which the “object” reveals itself in so far as the “subject” expresses itself, and vice versa. For this reason it is not worth applying the name of interpretation to a form of knowledge in which person and time, rather than becoming intermediaries and openings to truth, are the only real object of thought, which consequently becomes merely historical—as ideological or technical though it may be—and destined to pass with time, since in this case it is nothing but its portrait and its result. The nature of interpretation therefore is to be revelatory and historical simultaneously, and its nature will not be completely understood if the coessentiality of these two aspects is not understood; that is, how in interpretation the revelatory aspect comes to be inseparable from the historical. Firstly it can be said that interpretation is a form of knowledge that is just as revelatory and ontological as it is historical and personal. The personality and historicity of interpretation are not a superficial coloration, useless addition or an indiscreet accompaniment, or, worse, an arbitrary superimposition, substantial limitation or an irreparable deformation, to the point that one desires its removal, plans its suppression or belittles its demise; since with regard to truth, the person and the situation are not a fatal impediment or an importunate obstacle, but rather the only path towards it and the only means of knowledge, and moreover a vessel of penetration which, properly used, is more sensible than any other, and entirely suitable for this purpose. By virtue of interpretation, the anti-historicism that is inevitably inherent in the search for and discovery of truth has not, and must not have, an ascetic nature, since the only way to approach truth is not by moving outside history, which is impossible because it would be like going outside oneself and one’s own situation, but by making use of history, as is quite possible, even if doing so is somewhat inconvenient and arduous, and is the origin of all the difficulties which move against not only knowledge of truth, but also any kind of interpretation, however particular and determinate it may be.

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Furthermore, revelation of truth and expression of time are so inseparable from each other in interpretation that it could be said that their relation is not inverse but direct, precisely because the historical aspect of interpretation, far from suppressing the revelatory aspect, is its only possible condition. It is not true that interpretation would be less revelatory if it were more personal, because it is, rather, just as revelatory as it is personal and historical. In fact, in interpretation it is impossible to want to distinguish or claim to separate a temporal and perishable aspect from an immutable and permanent nucleus, because everything in it is equally and simultaneously historical and revelatory, personal and ontological; and if the human being grasps truth, she cannot do it by moving outside history, but by making use of it as an entrance and a means of access, and not by renouncing herself, but by becoming an intermediary and an opening. In interpretation, revelation of truth and expression of time do not have a relation of contiguity or continuity or graduality, but of synthesis, in the sense that one is the form of the other. If it is true that the revelation of truth can be nothing but personal and historical, it is additionally true that it alone also contains the truth of time and of the person; so that interpretation is all revelatory and all expressive, wholly personal and wholly ontological. The neither subjectivist nor approximate nature of interpretation It is useful to dwell on the fact that the historicity and personality of interpretation are far from imbuing it with an arbitrary or approximate nature, as though there might be a subjectivism filled with relativistic or skeptical consequences. If interpretation is always historical and personal, it is necessarily manifold; and of this plurality of interpretation, which is the first of its features that strikes one immediately (tot capita tot sententiae; my, your, her interpretation), explanations are often provided which, since they seem at first to be very natural and almost obvious, are universally accepted and repeated, thus giving rise to a series

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of dangerous ambiguities and inauspicious misunderstandings. One thinks that, because of its plurality, interpretation ends up dispersing and dispelling truth or staying irremediably outside it. In one way it is said that if interpretation is always new and different, this is because it does not give the truth, but only the image created of it through one’s various personae and changeable reactions. In another way, it is said that if interpretation never seems unique and definitive, this is because it does not get to the heart of truth, but only moves around it, thus letting its inner nature slip. Thus considered, interpretation would be confined to the field of the arbitrary and the approximate: on the one hand the indifferent relativity of the realm of the debatable, and on the other the faults of a superficial and deforming knowledge. And it is absolutely true that interpretation can fall into these extremes of relativism and skepticism, if it spreads out its movement in the subjectivist dissipation of arbitrary images or in the vain approximation of an object that is never reached; but in this case what is missing is interpretation itself, because personality, which has become an object of expression rather than a vessel of penetration, imposes itself upon truth, aiding in hiding and concealing it rather than capturing and revealing it. The fact is that the plurality of interpretation, far from being a fault or a disadvantage, is the surest sign of the richness of human thought, for indeed nothing is more absurd than the desire to conceive of interpretation as unique and definitive, according to the wishes of those who think that knowledge is full and complete only if it is unique, and that the personality of knowledge is a deplorable and fatal limitation. The fault of these prejudices is to conceive of precision and evidence in such a pedestrian and showy way that they cannot find any precision or evidence where the variety and novelty of human life is at work. The impossible alternative of the supposed oneness of interpretation is not a cure for the subjectivist and approximate nature of knowledge, since between these two extremes there is no dilemma, but—as the only genuine possibility—interpretation itself, which is not hindered in grasping and revealing truth by its plurality, historicity and personality,

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and which does not give up its nature of personality, historicity and plurality for the sake of reaching and possessing truth. The realm of the interpretable is based on the impossibility of a univocal and direct knowledge in which all agree without contention or dialogue; it presupposes that there is no form of genuine knowledge other than interpretation, which is historical and personal in itself, and thus constitutively manifold and not definitive; it implies that it is inconvenient to deprecate these features of interpretation and that it is necessary to consider them not only essential and irrepressible, but also provident and favorable. The fundamental principle of hermeneutics is precisely that the only adequate knowledge of truth is interpretation; which means that truth is accessible and obtainable in many ways, and, though they are worthy of the name of interpretation, none of these ways is privileged with respect to the others, that is, no one claims to possess truth in an exclusive or more complete or better way. In order to reach its purpose, interpretation does not need to give up its nature of historicity and personality, which in any case it could not do, since such features cannot be eliminated. The intervention of the person does not consist in the effort to suppress oneself, in order to be replaced by an impersonal and depersonalized knowledge and to “let the truth be.” Of course, in interpretation, the person’s task is just that: to “let the truth be”; but in no way does this mean reaching an impersonal or depersonalized knowledge. The little “depersonalization” that does seem necessarily to inhere in “faithfulness” of interpretation consists only in preventing historicity and personality from prevailing, and so becoming ends in themselves rather than intermediaries for truth, and concealing truth rather than opening the path towards it. But in order to achieve this aim the historical situation needs to be studied in greater depth and the person’s substance guided to the point that it is made a tool of syntonization and a vessel of penetration of truth. Truth, then, is “left to be” inasmuch as it is “syntonized and captured,” and concedes itself to interpretation insofar as this has ensured its acceptance and consent through its openness and amenability.

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Impossibility of dividing interpretation into a perishable aspect and a permanent nucleus It is also useful to insist on the other aforementioned fact, that in interpretation it is impossible to divide or claim to separate a temporal and perishable aspect from an immutable and permanent nucleus. This distinction would be possible only if in interpretation the historical aspect were separable from the revelatory aspect; but since interpretation comes about precisely because it approaches truth through the historicity of the situation and the personality of the thinker, it is not possible that, within it, the revelation of truth occurs independently from the expression of time, and vice versa. Thus it is not possible to divide interpretation into a timeless and super-historical, and therefore perpetual and everlasting, “core,” and a fleeting and transient, and consequently historical and timeless, “exterior.” In human thought, everything is equally historical and temporal. If one wants to make a distinction within it, then the historicity that exhausts itself in the expression of time can be distinguished from the historicity with an ontological importance; that which is only historical, and consequently expresses its own time without revealing truth, from that which is historical but also revelatory, in the sense that, according to the personality and historicity of interpretation, the revelation of truth cannot help but assume a historical form and have an expressive aspect. But in fact this distinction consists in recognizing what is interpretation and what is not. What is only historical only expresses its own time, and is therefore perishable and fleeting, for it is gradually swept away by time, of which it is but the result and the image. Conversely, in interpretation, the historical and the revelatory aspects are so completely indissoluble, linked inseparably by the initiative of the person who turns herself and her own situation into the vessel with which to approach truth, that the historical element, which is indispensable to the manifestation and formulation of truth, is in a certain way spared from the

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flow of time. Truth is undoubtedly super-historical and timeless, but it asserts its super-historicity and timelessness only within the historical and temporal formulation it gradually assumes. Any formulation of truth is always historical and temporal, but although they are not direct manifestations or realizations of truth, its historicity and temporality do not pass with time—they are an opening upon and a path towards truth, and are therefore marked by the originary and profound presence of Being. Hermeneutics definitively excludes both the idea that what is historical is eo ipso ephemeral and perishable, and the idea that the knowledge and formulation of truth have no historical and temporal aspects. In interpretation, the historical element, though it does not cease to express time, is in one way so lightly linked to its flow that it never loses topicality, as it is inseparable from the formulation of truth, and in another the revelation of truth is so barely separate from time that, indeed, it is founded upon it, and adopts it as an indispensable method and means of reaching its own purpose. In human thought, then, the permanent and durable aspects must not cease to be distinguished from the transient and perishable ones, and those which are only temporal and historical must not cease to be considered ephemeral; but it must be remembered that this selection, far from dividing the interpretation of truth into a historical and perishable “side” and a perpetual and everlasting “side,” does nothing but distil the pure and genuine interpretation of truth from the scum of merely historical and technical thought, without compromising its necessity to grasp, in interpretation, the connection which inseparably links the historical and temporal aspect with the ontological and revelatory, which are both essential to the concept of interpretation itself. The uniqueness of truth and the multiplicity of its formulations are inseparable The inseparability of the revelatory and the historical aspects of interpretation explains how the uniqueness of truth and the

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multiplicity of its formulations can join not only without contradictions, but, indeed, indivisibly. In fact, saying that interpretation is both inseparably revelatory and historical is akin to saying that truth is accessible only within every single perspective, which in its turn is the same situation conceived as a path leading to truth: one cannot reveal truth without already determining and formulating it, which occurs only historically and personally. Truth, then, unique though it is, never appears with a determinateness of its own, in a formulation recognizable as unique and definitive, but offers itself only within the formulation it is given at any one time, and is inseparable from it, so that its only way to appear is the singularity of its personal and historical formulations. Since interpretation is simultaneously and indivisibly ontological and personal, it begins as both revelatory and plural, so that, far from compromising the uniqueness of truth, its multiplicity rather confirms and reaffirms it. Truth is unique, but its formulation is always manifold, and between the uniqueness of truth and the multiplicity of its formulations there is no contradiction, because by virtue of interpretation, which is always both historical and revelatory, the uniqueness of truth asserts itself only within the historical and single formulations made of it, and it is, indeed, interpretation that keeps truth unique even as it endlessly multiplies its formulations. Interpretation is not, cannot, and must not be unique: it is manifold by definition. But its multiplicity consists in the always new and different formulations of truth; in other words, its multiplicity, far from compromising and dissipating the uniqueness of truth, rather maintains it and at the same time draws sustenance from it, safeguards it and at the same time draws encouragement and inspiration from it. What is hard but essential to understand is that it is by virtue of interpretation that the uniqueness of truth and the multiplicity of its formulations are not only compatible, but coessential, and one finds its true form and real meaning only in the other. The formulations of truth are manifold, but their multiplicity, rather than compromising the uniqueness of truth, implies it and

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lives on it, just as the uniqueness of truth does not annul the multiplicity of its formulations, but rather abides in it and requires it. In fact, in one way historical truths would not exist without the single truth of which they are interpretations. Without it, they would only be expressions of time, devoid of revelatory value, and even devoid of a speculative nature, for they would be deprived of their hermeneutic function; they would be nothing but merely historical thought: that is, only ideological, technical and instrumental. And in another way, a truth of which there was a single recognition would not be truth: one single formulation is the abolition of truth itself, since it claims to blend with it, but it is nothing but an interpretation, that is, one single formulation, which can exist with countless others. The formulation of truth is its interpretation, not its substitution: neither a monopoly, nor a disguise In order to understand fully this central concept of hermeneutics, it is necessary to take two fundamental circumstances into account. First of all, it must not be forgotten that truth and its formulation cannot manage without one another, for they are so strictly linked that they end by identifying with one another; and it is for this reason that one cannot be mistaken for the other, as would happen if a formulation, seen as different from truth, claimed to replace it, or if it were considered to be a simple disguise. Not that there is single truth on the one hand and its manifold formulations on the other, behaving as two completely different matters, which happen to meet and join at a certain point in history. If that were the case, there would not be any real connection between truth and its formulation: not only would truth be, so to speak, almost dispersed in its separateness (which would amply justify the increasingly widespread modern tendency not to recognize its uniqueness, and even to suppress it completely), but what would also be missed would be that indissoluble tie which binds them, or, rather, identifies one with the other—in the sense that truth can

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only appear as formulated, and that no formulation of truth can consist of anything other than an interpretation of truth. It is not the case that there is a unique truth with a single true formulation, and this is refracted in numerous historical formulations that reflect it more or less faithfully. The only way in which unique truth appears and can appear is indeed in its manifold and historical formulations, which are not simple copies or tired repetitions of it, but a real incarnation and an effective possession. By virtue of interpretation, truth and its formulation are such that identity is possible, and even necessary, between them, while confusion is impossible, or rather, unjustifiable. In their constitutive inseparability they are neither so “different” that they cannot identify with one another, nor so “similar” that they can be confused. Rather, since they are inseparable, they are neither similar nor different from each other, and since they are identical they are unmistakable. It is not the case that truth reveals itself only in something other than itself, or that it refuses to be possessed except as something other than itself, but such is its trust of the historical formulations able to grasp it that it manages to identify itself with each of them every time. Every formulation of truth worthy of that name is truth itself, as personally interpreted and possessed, so that the always new and different historical formulations of truth are at the same time its only way of appearing and existing, and our only way of professing and possessing it. A formulation of truth is such to the extent that it is interpretation of truth. This means in one way that it is nothing but interpretation, that is, it is one of its unique, historical and personal formulations, which as such can exist with countless other formulations, and which therefore does not have the right to substitute itself for the substance of truth, that is, uniqueness and timelessness, for truth can assert its uniqueness and timelessness only within each of the single formulations it obtains and accepts, or, rather, provokes and requires. In the other way, this means that a formulation of truth is, indeed, interpretation, that is, authentic and real possession, which does not cease to be genuine and effective possession even if,

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as shall be seen, it appears as an interminable and infinite task—so that truth, already possessed in interpretation, has no need to appear to be different from itself and to blend with its own formulations, hiding beneath them as though in a sort of changeable and multicolored disguise, which conceals and deforms it rather than revealing and declaring it. The interpretation of truth is one thing, its substitution another. As interpretation, the formulation of truth is truth itself, and nothing else. Of course, it is truth as personally possessed and historically formulated, and not truth in its abstract and impossible separateness; but truth does not alter and change for the simple reason that it is personally attained and historically present, since personality and historicity concern the path leading to and the way of possessing truth rather than its source and content, so that the formulation of truth is pure revelation and genuine possession of it, to the extent that the formulation is able to grasp the truth so intimately that it identifies itself with it. As a surrogate, the formulation of truth is an alteration of it, that is, nothing but a copy, a reflection, or an image. From this comes the possibility of confusing one for another, attributing to one of the numerous formulations that character of uniqueness which is due only to truth, or dispersing truth into the multiplicity of its formulations, thus achieving on the one hand the replacement of truth with one of its inappropriately absolutized formulations, and on the other the concealment of truth beneath the changing and protean variety of its formulations, caught in the vortex of an incessant and illusory metamorphosis. What is important to highlight is that both the monopoly and the disguise, far from being in some way a revelation of truth, are its most radical and total falsification, for rather than showing the hermeneutic connection which inseparably links truth and its formulation, they set them against each other in an equivocal duplicity which can only degenerate into open duality. It has been shown how a certain formulation claims to replace truth, that is, to possess it exclusively, and how truth hides behind its formulations as though beneath the unstable mutability of continuous camouflage.

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These are two examples of how duplicity causes deceit, for at this level monopoly and disguise are the most complete oblivion and the most resolute denial of truth. False dilemma between the uniqueness of truth and the multiplicity of its formulations Only those who do not understand the interpretative nature of the relationship between truth and its formulation—and this is the second circumstance it is necessary to consider—are shocked by the fact that formulations of truth can in their historical multiplicity be an effective possession of unique and timeless truth. Due to an illusory desire for coherence, they forget that uniqueness belongs to truth and not to formulation, and multiplicity to formulation and not to truth; and mistaking one for the other, they establish a false dilemma between the two terms, which is a source of perpetual misunderstanding about the nature of interpretation, especially when truth is involved. So on the one hand there are those who, since truth is unique, consider it not only timeless, but even outside time, and on the other hand those who, since truth has no other way of appearing than in its historical formulations, consider it to be manifold and changeable, without even reducing it to a mere product of time. The result is the illegitimate and useless sacrifice of the numerous formulations to unique truth, or of timeless truth to its historical formulations. More precisely, this is the alternative between those who state that truth is unique and timeless and assert that there is a single true, timeless and unique philosophy, and those who realize that philosophies are multiple and historical, and claim that truth itself can only be plural, and that therefore all truths are historical. The result is that they either raise an inappropriately absolute historical philosophy into a timeless empyrean, or reduce history to a mere temporal succession that sweeps its own products away: they would either deprive philosophy of its historical character, and thus truth of its temporal apparition, or rob

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philosophy of its revelatory importance, and thus history of its ontological openness. In short, there is a dilemma between those who consciously run the risk of falling into dogmatism just to safeguard the absoluteness of unique and timeless truth, and those who deliberately risk falling into relativism just to maintain the historicity of these always new and different formulations; to the point that—and here is the fallacy in this reasoning—in the first case, dogmatism is preferred not to relativism, as would seem logical, but to any recognition of historicity and multiplicity, even in the formulation of truth, and in the second case, relativism is preferred not to dogmatism, as would seem natural, but to “any” recognition of uniqueness and timelessness, even in the truth which is present and operating in its historical forms. These two positions are of course opposed, and in fact they do nothing but disagree; but they actually stand and fall together, and disregard the possibility of other positions, forgetting that it is not at all necessary to deny the uniqueness of truth in order to preserve the historical multiplicity of truths, just as it is by no means indispensable to disclaim the multiplicity of historical truths in order to safeguard the uniqueness of truth, and that it is not necessary to risk relativism in order to avoid dogmatism, nor vice versa. In fact, in one way unique truth has no other means of presenting itself other than within its single formulations, and in another way it is exactly the uniqueness of truth that sustains historical truths in their singularity and establishes communication and dialogue among them. In fact, those two positions share a central concept, that is, in separating truth from its formulation and vice versa, and in mistaking one for the other; they forget that truth and its formulation are unmistakable and incomparable precisely because they are inseparable, and that it is impossible to attribute to philosophy that uniqueness which is peculiar to truth, or to truth that multiplicity which is peculiar to philosophy. In fact, if uniqueness and timelessness are removed from truth, of which they are the essence, to its

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formulation, they become nothing but an absurd pretension; and if multiplicity and historicity are removed from the formulation of truth, of which they are the very nature, to truth itself, they debase it utterly. It is precisely this inappropriate confusion that causes the false dilemma between the uniqueness of truth and the multiplicity of formulations, as though, since truth is unique, there could only be one legitimate formulation of it, and, since there are many historical formulations of truth, there could only be many truths: in other words, as though there were no choice but fanaticism or relativism, and as though every affirmation of truth took no other form but sectarianism, and tolerance had no other base but skepticism. Interpretation is not a relationship between subject and object First of all, interpretation is not a relationship between subject and object—as it appears, once again, from the analogy with art. From an interpreter, be she an actor or a musician, it is expected neither that she allow herself to be guided only by the principle of originality, as though her new performance were more interesting than the work itself, nor that she aim at impersonality, as though the performance of that work were of no interest. Neither is it demanded that she renounce herself, nor is she allowed to wish to express herself: it is desired that she interpret that work, so that her performance is both the work and her interpretation of it. Moreover, for the interpreter, the work is not an object she has in front of her, to which she can compare her own performance and so evaluate it: to her, her performance is the work itself, which she wishes to render in its full reality, in an effort of faithfulness and penetration. In fact the work completely offers itself to the performance that is best able to make it live its own life, to the point that the performance identifies with the work; but the work resides in the performance with an ulteriorness which prevents it from exhausting itself, for the work neither allows any of its own performances to monopolize it, nor lends itself to one of them in an exclusive and privileged way, but provokes all of them and demands all of them.

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It is plain that a relationship of this kind cannot be depicted in terms of subject and object: the interpreter is not a “subject” who dissolves the work in her own act or who must lose her personality to render the work so that it is faithful to itself, but is rather a “person” able to use her own historical substance and her own irreplaceable activity and initiative to penetrate the work’s reality and make it live its own life. Likewise, the work is not an “object” for which the interpreter must externally adjust her own representation, for the work is characterized by an “unobjectifiability,” which derives from the fact that it is inseparable from the performance which makes it live, and at the same time incapable of being reduced to any of its performances. With regard to truth, the uselessness of the relationship between subject and object is even more radical and profound. Firstly, it is evident that a person’s relationship with truth is not a subject’s relationship with an object, in which the subject cannot reach the object without absorbing it in its own activity, or in which the object cannot be known by the subject if the subject does not surrender its determinateness. The subject is enclosed in a precise actuality that turns each object into subjective activity, or into an impersonal universality that would be the only guarantee of valid and communicable knowledge. The person, however, is open and always receptive to things, and even as she requires that everything that comes into contact with her should be interiorized, she maintains it in its irreducible independence and for this purpose she uses her own unrepeatable and very singular historical substance. The person’s relationship with truth, then, is much more originary, since the person is formed by her relationship with Being, that is, by her fundamental presence in truth, and her destination is, indeed, the recognition of truth in so far as this can be formulated only in a personal way. In this way the question of truth is metaphysical rather than cognitive, and enforces a resort not to the gnoseological enclosure that is typical of this subject, but to the ontological openness that is typical of the person. All this overcomes the inconvenience caused by this enclosure of the subject in itself, that is, subjectivism (with all its arbitrariness), and impersonalism (with all its abstraction); for the

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person’s ontological openness—which guarantees personal activity a grasping rather than dissolving nature, and personality itself a penetrating rather than deforming ability—shows that revelation occurs neither through a narcissistic ideal of originality nor through an absurd requirement of impersonality, as though it were a question of bending interpretation more towards the expression of oneself and the search for novelty than towards the attainment of truth, or of expecting discovery more from a generic effort of depersonalization than from the intensification of one’s own very personal gaze. Nor can truth be considered an object, since it is by nature unobjectifiable, there being between it and the person no space to allow the person to draw back until she has truth before her in a definitive and complete form, and there being no possibility of truth enclosing itself in a formulation which makes it fully explicit and consequently valid as definitive. Firstly, truth does not exist in objective form, with its own determinateness, to which our formulations must be similar or upon which they must model themselves. Every historical and personal formulation of truth is at the same time, inseparably, truth itself and the interpretation made of it, so that it is impossible to distinguish in some way truth from interpretation and interpretation from truth, and to set truth (as an objective term of comparison according to which the formulation may be evaluated) and formulation (as an image or reproduction of an objective model) one against the other. In one way it is impossible to grasp truth in an alleged determinateness that would allow us to judge our formulation against it from the outside, and in another truth does not offer itself except within a personal perspective that already interprets and determines it. On the one hand every historical formulation is a revelation of truth, that is, it is truth itself as personally possessed, and on the other hand truth is so barely distinguishable, as interpreted, from its formulation that the two even begin to identify with one another; so that truth is unobjectifiable firstly in the sense that it is inseparable from the interpretation made of it, and secondly because it is incomparable with the formulation of it that is broadcast.

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Furthermore, in every formulation truth remains in a sort of irreducible transcendence, in the sense that it concedes to entrust itself to the formulation and even to identify itself with it, but not to reduce itself to it, let alone exhaust itself in it. Truth resides in its formulations in all its inexhaustibility, that is, in one way with a presence that makes them its only way of appearing and existing and their only way of possessing and expressing it, and in another with an ulteriorness which does not allow any one of them to contain and own it exclusively, and so it continually demands and provokes new and different formulations. These are both present and ulterior, that is, simultaneously formulated and unformulated, said and unsaid, existing as formulated and defined thought, and residing in thought as undefined and unformulated; more present in thought as source and origin than present before thought as an object of discovery. They are therefore unobjectifiable, due also to this inexhaustibility that denies its most revelatory formulations any privilege or monopoly, and turns interpretation into the forever indefinite possession of an infinite. Interpretation does not imply a relationship between the whole and its parts: insufficiency of integration and clarification One might think that between truth and its formulations there is a relationship of totality, in the sense that, because the different formulations never grasp the whole truth but only ever one aspect of it, they are necessarily incomplete or defective, so that only through their reciprocal integration or full completion can they hope to achieve a revelatory value. Some assert that the different formulations of truth, as they grasp only one part of it at any one time, are necessarily incomplete and fragmentary, to the point that their value of truthfulness would be compromised if they were not integrated in the totality of perspectives, which is the only legitimate holder of truth in its entirety. Others affirm that any discourse is inadequate when compared with truth, implying as it does such a chasm and interval between what is said and what is not that it

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necessarily proves to be defective and incomplete, so that the only remedy would be a completion that annulled the gap between the implicit and the explicit, for only in this way could the totality of discourse be recovered and the entirety of meaning restored. This conception is still far more widespread than might be expected, and insinuates itself in the most surprising ways into conceptions that are apparently unexceptionable; but there is nothing more strongly opposed to the interpretative nature of the knowledge of truth and to the basic principles of a correct hermeneutics. Firstly, it is not truth if it is not fully present in each of its aspects, however humble or slender they may be, nor is it truth if it requires the elimination of the unsaid in order to reveal itself. Secondly, interpretation is not worth its name if it does not grasp the whole truth in the lateral perspective from which it starts, or if it places its own ideal in its complete explication. First of all, truth is such that a simple flash or a glimpse one catches of it are not simply a “part,” for the extreme diffusivity and infinite investigability of these glimmers already demonstrate that in fact one possesses the whole of it. Indeed, the only way of grasping the whole truth is to possess it as inexhaustible, in its originary nature, at the source of perpetual renewal, and not in its impossible total portrait, but in a particular perspective, which is “lateral” but not “unilateral,” and therefore it does not demand integration, as it is already a totality in itself. The manifold and different formulations of truth have no need of a reciprocal integration to increase or obtain their truthfulness, since each of them is already a totality, and, as such, does not join the others in an all-embracing system, but engages with the others as it recognizes them as totalities in their turn. Interpretation is not a part of truth or a partial truth, but truth itself as personally possessed, which, as such, not only does not need integration, but does not even tolerate it, but rather rejects it, as it already has all it can and must have. The very concept of interpretation refuses totality as external and as unique: either totality operates within the unique, or it is unique and plural in itself. Truth

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is not the only totality as a system of all its formulations: each of these is a totality since it contains the totality of truth, that is, it is a whole since it contains the whole truth, since this is inexhaustible, as has been stated many times. Truth neither divides nor breaks into a multiplicity of formulations, of which one must recover the totality, which could only be external, but resides in each of them as a whole. This is why truth can offer itself only to interpretation, which maintains its integrity even as it is realized as unique, so that each formulation of truth is one totality precisely and only because it possesses all of truth. Moreover truth is not a totality such that the thought revealing it could be seen as diminished by the fact that it does not express the whole truth, and neither is our formulation of truth made to be seen as inadequate or defective if it does not reach a complete clarification. Truth resides in its formulation not as an object of complete enunciation, however ideal that may be, but as a spur for endless revelation; and if it is true that there is no interpretation where there is nothing unsaid, it is equally true that the ‘unsaid’ that is typical of interpretation is not a residual implication that can be easily explained, but an implicit infinite which sustains a continuous and endless discourse. The ideal of the formulation of truth is not a complete clarification or a definitive enunciation, but the incessant manifestation of an inexhaustible origin, so that one cannot ascribe to its imperfection or defectiveness the absence of that complete enunciation, which it does not intend to provide. Believing that one might bring a formulation to perfection by reaching an alleged completeness or definitiveness of exposition, far from remedying a defect or fallacy, means adding something unconnected with it, which destroys it rather than completing it. Lamenting or deprecating its perceived inadequacy or fallacy means not understanding its nature, and mistaking for deficiency or deprivation what is in fact its perfection and essence. Truth is possessed as inexhaustible and does not allow itself to be completely clarified in a definitive enunciation. Interpretation does not believe it must eliminate any unsaid thing in order to possess

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truth, and nor does it conclude the discourse in a sort of complete and perfect totality. Truth shows as a sign of its presence the interminable and always ulterior nature of discourse: being able to enunciate truth in a complete exposition would in fact be the sign that it has not been grasped at all. Truth can offer itself to its formulation only as inexhaustible, that is, as that which cannot be completely clarified and which renders any attempt to do so absurd, although an unceasing revelation is indeed as desirable as it is achievable. This interminability, typical of interpretation, is neither its fault nor its lacuna and does not display its incompleteness or inadequacy, but is rather its perfection and its completeness, and even its richness; as a consequence, the idea of achieving a totality by rectifying the faults of the explicit with the complete clarification of the unsaid is fallacious and vain. And yet this idea secretly lurks in the theory of many (avowed or unconscious) relativists, who draw from the evident non-definitive and interminable nature of the enunciation of truth not the confirmation of the unbreakable bond between the inexhaustibility of truth and the freedom of the person, but rather the conclusion that the only existing truths are historical truths, regarded in a relativistic and indifferent multiplicity of their own. In this way they show themselves to still be prisoners of the rationalistic myth of the definitive enunciation and complete clarification of truth, and display their unconscious nostalgia for it. The category of totality is therefore unfit to explain the relationship between truth and its formulations, either in the sense that its many and therefore partial formulations find a truth in their reciprocal integration, or in the sense that the single formulation finds truth in a completion of the semantic inadequacy of the explicit through the exhaustive declaration of the implied, as though the ideal of the interpretation of truth were a total system or a complete clarification. An integration or completion of interpretation in the strictest sense of the word is neither possible nor desirable: it is already total and accomplished in itself, in such a way that any integration would appear from outside it and any completion would be an extraneous addition, and both would be not only superfluous and

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useless, but also indiscreet and inopportune, and at heart prejudicial and lethal, such that they would compromise the very nature of the formulation of truth. Not that, being total and complete, interpretation withdraws from every relationship with the other and refuses every clarification of the unsaid. Its nature only precludes the possibility of that relationship and that clarification becoming respectively a total integration and a complete clarification; but that relationship with the other, which is dialogue, and that clarification of itself, which is the analysis of the implied, do not run that risk. Truth will be dealt with again later as an exigency of dialogue, as will the analysis of the implicit as separate from the implied. In the meantime, it pays to consider the following remarks. First, the interpretative and personal nature of the knowledge of truth indissolubly links every single perspective with the necessity to recognize infinite other possible formulations and the exigency of a continuous exchange with them. But the realization of this multiplicity of perspectives can and must be done only within each single perspective, as a real experience of dialogue and a concrete exercise in otherness: only in this way can all perspectives truly be formulations of truth, and maintain their interpretative, and thus revelatory nature. The recognition of other perspectives must occur according to the assertion of one’s own perspective, otherwise the very nature of perspective as such—as the personal possession of truth—would be lost, both with regard to the perspectives of others, and one’s own perspective, which would be reduced to a simple and hypothetical point of view from which one could meditate on the others. Both otherness and personal integrity, that is, personality itself, as the existential root and the interpretative bond that characterizes and qualifies every formulation of truth, would vanish. There would remain only a multiplicity seen from the outside, that is, the numerability of replaceable possibilities, communal and reciprocable, and therefore indifferent and equally valid, all on the same level, and subject to an impersonal and objective, and therefore falsifying, consideration.

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There is therefore a reciprocal relationship between the different formulations of truth that has nothing to do with their total integration, and which is certainly unbecoming of the dignity of interpretation; and that relationship is dialogue, in the sense mentioned above, that is, as an exercise of communication which binds all perspectives tightly together without enumerating them from the outside or integrating them in a total system, but ensures that each one of them is known to the others, as interlocutors and collaborators in a common pursuit, and thus respecting each one of them in its unrepeatable totality as a very personal possession of truth. Only this free openness of dialogue can be considered a relationship fit for the level and the nature of interpretation. Moreover interpretation is an endless process, requiring a continuous and incessant deep investigation; and this is the case precisely because it is a possession of truth; for, as truth is inexhaustible, it offers itself only to a possession that does not falter if interpretation appears to be an endless task. Even better, it is an endless task precisely because it is not a simple approximation or image of truth, but its real and effective possession. Of course, this nature of interpretation may seem contradictory and paradoxical, since it is effective possession and endless process at the same time, and consequently unites stability and mobility, steadiness and continuation, achievement and pursuit. Once again the analogy with art is helpful. In art, reading is undoubtedly a real possession of the work, and yet its meaning is that it is an invitation to reread; in which the awareness of having penetrated the work is followed by the recognition that one must go on to further deep investigation; in which every revelation is a prize and an achievement only in that it is a stimulus and a promise of new revelations. And if, in art, what permits a combination of possession and inquiry without contradictions is the work’s inexhaustibility itself, it can be well understood how this can occur in the interpretation of truth, given the much more intense, deep and originary nature of its inexhaustibility; so that it must appear evident that one of the cardinal concepts of hermeneutics is, indeed, the compatibility, or rather the co-

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essentiality, of possession and process, of achievement and inquiry, of mastery and deepening. Law of interpretation It is time to summarize the results of the inquiry carried out up to this point, in order to try to outline the fundamental principles of hermeneutics and clarify the structure of interpretation. The relationship between truth and its formulation is interpretative: the formulation of truth is in one way a personal possession of the truth, and in another way a possession of an infinite. On the one hand, what is possessed is truth, and it is possessed in the only way in which it can be possessed, that is, personally, to the point that the formulation that is made of it is truth itself, that is, truth as personally possessed and formulated. On the other hand, the formulation of truth is truly a possession, not a simple approximation, but truth resides in it in the only way in which it can reside in it, that is, as inexhaustible, to the point that what is owned may even be an infinite. In fact, interpretation is the only form of knowledge that may give a personal, and thus plural formulation of something unique and indivisible, without compromising and dissipating its unity, and may also grasp and reveal an infinite, without merely hinting at it or skirting it, but truly possessing it. A truth which would allow a single adequate knowledge of itself or evade any possible knowledge of itself, is not a truth at all; and there is interpretation only when truth actually identifies itself with its formulation without blending with it, so as to maintain its plurality, and only when truth is irreducibly ulterior compared with its formulation without leaving it, so as to safeguard its presence. Truth offers itself only within its formulation, with which it identifies itself at every moment and in which it resides as inexhaustible; but if between truth and its formulation identification is replaced by confusion, or the relationship of ulteriorness becomes real exteriority, then the interpretative relationship vanishes, since in these cases the inseparability of the two terms is interrupted, in the

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sense that either one takes the other’s place, and claims to substitute it, or both separate, and remain with no relationship because of the inaccessibility of one of them. In the first case, there is the loss of the coincidence of truth and its formulation which identifies in every formulation truth itself as personally possessed and historically formulated, and guarantees both the uniqueness of truth and the plurality of its formulations: a formulation appears to be unique and exclusive having supplanted all others, that is, it declares itself absolute by arrogating for itself that uniqueness within it which in fact belongs only to truth. As a consequence, a confusion arises between the two terms, because a formulation intends to substitute truth and take its place, rather than interpret and reveal it, so that they both betrayed truth and its fictitious formulation disappear. Since such a formulation is not interpretation but substitution of truth, it loses any revelatory character and expresses nothing but itself, and then dissolves not only the plurality of formulations but also truth in its uniqueness. In the second case, the ulteriorness of truth is so heavily stressed in comparison with its formulations that any presence of truth is missing from the interpretation made of it: the two terms are kept apart, and stiffened in a reciprocal exteriority that pulls them apart and deprives them of any mutual relationship, and truth is pushed into a meta-historical inaccessibility where it remains ineffable and undepictable, and compared with this ineffability, the other formulations all remain irreparably inadequate and all equally insufficient, to the point that one cannot distinguish them from the erroneous, defective and unfaithful formulations, so that any distinction between true and false is suppressed. As a consequence, since interpretation has been deprived of its revelatory nature, it disappears, and dissolves the very ulteriorness of truth, long since lost in the mists of ineffability. Conversely, as has been seen, in interpretation the relationship between truth and its formulation is one of identity and ulteriorness at the same time, in perfect balance. In one way, truth identifies itself with its formulation so as to allow itself to be possessed in a revelatory

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way, but not to the point that the formulation is allowed to appear as exclusive and complete, or unique and definitive, because in that case it would no longer be interpretation, but substitution of truth, that is, one of the numerous historical formulations claiming to make themselves absolute and take the place of truth. In another way, truth is always ulterior in comparison with its formulation, but only in order to demand and allow a plurality of formulations, and not because of its absolute ineffability, in comparison with which all formulations would remain fatally inadequate and irremediably meaningless, in a common and resigned equivalence and indifference. It would be useful to analyze further the personality of interpretation and the ulteriorness of truth, which give rise to an important question, concerning which the following very brief remarks will suffice. Consequences of the personality of interpretation Saying that any perspective is always a personal possession of truth, that is, the truth as personally formulated, means stating that in interpretation the person intervenes above all as a path leading to truth and a vessel of knowledge, as an instrument of organization and a receiving antenna, as a revelatory beacon and a means of penetration; and in this sense interpretation does not add anything to truth that is unconnected with it nor anything which does not belong to it, since its task is in fact to reveal it, to possess it, or to be it. This does not mean that interpretation is not a very active and strenuous process. Within interpretation personality is an initiative as well as a vessel (for it depends upon its freedom to transform its own historical individuality either into a prison for and an obstacle to the knowledge of truth, or into a very valid instrument to propose and reveal it), and the formulation of truth demands a zealous and very intense exercise in productivity, which aims at inventing and imagining plans, verifying their adequacy, and giving them coherence and structure, until it condenses the personal possession of truth into an organic and living form, capable of carrying out its

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own reactions, provided with an autonomous life and fertile for further proliferations. But the meaning of this free and zealous activity consists in listening, for truth is not something the human being invents or produces, or that one can generally produce or invent. It is necessary to let truth be, not claim to invent it; and if the person makes herself a vessel of its revelation, she does so above all to succeed in being the heart of its occurrence. Of course, personality can be an obstacle to the penetration of truth, in so far as it withdraws into mere temporality or concerns itself more with expressing itself than grasping truth; in which case truth, neglected and clouded, escapes us, but also disperses the person, who is degraded to a product of time and rendered incomprehensible to herself. Interpretation therefore is a kind of knowledge deeply formed by the constant risk of failure, in which revelation is obtained only as a victory over the ever-present threat of concealment. This precariousness of interpretation is not due to its personality and plurality, which is more a richness than an imperfection, but to the alternative given by the freedom of the person, who can turn herself either into a contemptible prison, insensitive to the advent of truth, or into a graceful opening, well disposed to its revelation. In fact, when a person chooses to act as an intermediary for truth, no vessel of knowledge is as astute, penetrating and confident as she is. This originary and profound divarication is inherent to the nature of interpretation, so that its condition can also be its limit, and it is blessed with success and offered truth as much as it is encumbered with the possibility of falsification and the risk of error, to the point that the danger of error is never as threatening as when one is very close to truth, and even the most successful conquest of truth is inexorably linked to the possibility of errors that are truly abysmal and misleading. It may be seen therefore that Heidegger’s saying, “Wer gross denkt, muss gross irren,”1 is quite well-grounded. In this sense, the concept of interpretation is the only one which can unite truth and history without reducing one to the other or sacrificing one for the sake of the other, which would be like losing them both, as happens when, out of excessive concern for the

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uniqueness of truth, the changeableness and variety of historical situations are not taken into account, or when, because of a preoccupation with understanding numerous historical formulations, the existence of error is denied and truth in history is dissipated. In particular, because the concept of interpretation inseparably asserts both the originary uniqueness of truth and the essential and constituent plurality of its formulations, it allows an escape from historicist indifferentism, since it maintains the distinction between true and false while recognizing the rights of history, admitting it as a path leading to truth. Historicist indifferentism begins from the saying veritas filia temporis, which, while it eliminates error (since in history everything is equally expressive of time), also suppresses truth. But in the end, it cannot be said that time generates truth, but only that it favors, promotes and facilitates its historical occurrence, for, as Milton says, time is “the midwife rather than the mother of Truth.”2 This is precisely what is contained in the concept of interpretation, which presents itself as the only way of reconciling the plurality of historical truths with the distinction between true and false. Consequences of the ulteriorness of truth Regarding the ulteriorness of truth present in the single formulation, it is necessary to note that there would be no interpretation if truth were either totally hidden or totally obvious, because both total concealment and complete clarification would dissimulate truth, either by trapping it in a definition more suited to distorting it than declaring it, or by dissipating it in an ineffability as camouflaging as any exclusive definition. Revelation presupposes an inseparability between disclosure and latency, because a darkness so deep that it does not contain even the suggestion of a glimmer cannot give rise to the process of illumination, and a clarity so evident that it does not admit even the slightest secret would disperse the fundamental nature of truth as an inexhaustible origin. A complete secrecy, which recognizes only silence as speaking and recognizes only the trait of ineffability in truth, would sink into the deepest mystery,

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and open the way to the unbridled whim of symbols. A complete manifestation, which ends with the “all said” and wishes that truth were definitive evidence, would renounce that ‘implicit’, which is the source of the new, and ends up relying on the objective univocity of the enunciation. On the one hand, we have a cult of mystery that comes even to the Schwärmerei,3 that is, to entailing deliberate indulgence in a fantastic mythology, for measureless silence and night without end are a false richness, which (quite differently from the Augustinian canorum et facundum silentium veritatis4) lends itself only to the vagueness of arbitrary and evanescent allusions. On the other hand, we have a cult of evidence verging on superstition, that is, going as far as exalting the explicit in itself, which is pure idolatry, for the word that is merely spoken, devoid of depth and ignorant of the implicit, is very poor, and exalting it as revelatory (that is to say as the heart of truth) would be to overvalue it. On the one hand, depth without evidence, and on the other, evidence without depth: both are degenerations, because they are ignorant of the nature of interpretation, and trust the irrationalism of absolute ineffability and arbitrary allusiveness of figures, or the rationalism of complete enunciation and the objective communicability of the explicit. However, the inseparability of disclosure and latency finds its full hermeneutical meaning only if it presupposes as its basis the inexhaustibility of Being, and if it implies a radical distinction between implicit and implied. In one way, the darkness from which stems the process of illumination is not the absence of light, but light in abundance. It is the darkness of light itself, which, being a source of vision, is hidden from our sight, and indeed, the more it eludes sight, and even blinds us, the more intensely it illuminates. In another way, the evidence presented by illumination is not the suppression of the implicit, but its heart, and even its custody, not as a simple allusion that can be easily revealed and declared, but as the unsaid in which the meaning of what is said actually resides. If truth escapes, it does so only to offer itself. Rather than escaping, in fact, it saves itself; far from hiding in order to vanish, it

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gathers itself to better reveal itself; it does not harbor an avaricious jealousy of its own secrecy, but the generosity of a promise and an appeal, which is a sign of fullness rather than absence. The basis of the ulteriorness of truth is inexhaustibility, and not ineffability—richness, and not indigence. What is originary is positivity, and any negativity is unfaithfulness, degradation, and oblivion. To say that truth resides in its formulation as an origin is to say that it stimulates by escaping and escapes by stimulating: its ulteriorness is not so much the ironic and negative possibility of gradually getting rid of its own formulations, abandoning and overcoming them all to take refuge in a remote and nocturnal informulation, but rather the very free and productive possibility of becoming embodied in always new forms, with an inexhaustible plenitude, which ensures that it never ceases to identify itself with them one by one, although it provokes and transcends them all. This is the opposite of the ineffable in negative ontology, which, as a logical consequence, carries with it the praise of silence, the glorification of night, the exaltation of the nothing; that is, more concretely, historical indifference, the primacy of praxis, and the practice of denial: in short, skeptical relativism, revolutionary praxis, and radical nihilism, tightly bound to one another by their common ineffable origin. What forms interpretation, then, is the difference between the implicit and the implied. The implied is a margin which is temporarily missing from the perfection of knowledge, and which itself demands to be suppressed, since it is destined to disappear in complete clarification and total intelligibility. Conversely, there is no explicitness or evidence that can exhaust the implicit, which resides within them precisely to renew their meaning incessantly, for it presupposes that interpretation is destined to contain truth inexhaustibly, not to exhaust it in an objective enunciation. Both “demystification” and “interpretation” consist in making the “unsaid” speak; but whereas demystification makes it speak so as to suppress the implied in total evidence, interpretation makes it speak so as to deepen the implicit and maintain its inexhaustibility. A philosophy of interpretation can be nothing other than a philosophy of the implicit,

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aware that it is not possible to possess truth except in the form of having to seek it again; for interpretation is not the complete enunciation of the implied, but the endless revelation of the implicit— where everyone sees the poorness, meagerness, and limitedness of the implied compared with the richness, plenitude and infinity of the implicit.

From “Originarietà dell’interpretazione,” in Hermeneutik und Dialektik. Festschrift Hans-Georg Gadamer (Tübingen: Mohr, 1970), 353–366; Verità e interpretazione (Milano: Mursia, 2005), 53–90.

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Thought without truth To wonder whether ideologies are true or false, or to claim that they are neither true nor false, makes sense only if they are all considered false, that is, corrupted by the fundamental error of renouncing truth, and therefore accepting to be exhaustively qualified by historicity and pragmatism: products of history and instruments of action. The historicization of thought corresponds to the technicalization of reason: thought without truth, which is, in essence, ideology, corresponds to action without truth, which is properly technique; so that it is only by the elimination of truth that the technicalization of reason is attained, either in the instrumental sense (as the subjection of ideas to action, of ideology to politics, and of philosophy to political power), or in the practical sense (as identification of thought and action, theory and praxis, and philosophy and politics). It is evident that mystification is the unavoidable result of the historicity of expressive thought because the loss of its originary connection with truth inevitably condemns thought to a sort of degradation. Having deprived thought of truth, which is its natural element, historicity then proceeds to drain reason, abandoning it to its merely conversational nature and depriving it of its ontological importance, that is, reducing it to a shell of discourse and depriving it of the source of its contents. After being separated from truth, thought retains only the appearance of its revelatory nature—an empty rationality—the concepts of which, to acquire meaning, must refer to the other aspect of thought, which is its expressive character. This means that discourse becomes apt to express things that are very different from what it says, in the sense that expression, hidden by the explicit aspect of discourse, becomes unconscious and concealed, whereas the rational apparatus does nothing but conceptualize the historical conditions from whence it comes; so that reason without truth, far from clarifying the historical situation, does nothing but obfuscate and disguise it, and, even though it depends on truth and acquires all its substance from it, it cannot

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express truth except in the form of disguise and mystification. In short, distracting thought from truth and reducing it to an empty rationality is to direct its search for meaning towards something quite different from its explicit discourse, and to assign its conceptual universality, reduced to mere appearance, to rationalizing a secret history, expressing and hiding it simultaneously. Historicity, in its radical and intensive sense, is therefore necessarily mystification and false conscience. Falsification of time in ideological thought Since ideological thought devises and operates a conceptual apparatus founded on an empty rationality and a purely formal discursiveness, it is a counterfeit of truth, and as such, it is also a falsification of time. Although it identifies itself with the historical situation, it does not contain the truth of the times, because the explicit discourse disguises, and thus falsifies what ideological thought expresses, which happens precisely because it is nothing but expression of time. And it must not be believed that to search for the true meaning of the explicit in the implied will result in finding truth: ideology is so radically falsifying that its demystification is not a revelation of truth, but a denunciation. The distinction between apparent and real, explicit and implied, declared and secret, evident and concealed can in no way be traced back to the distinction between false and true. Of course, there is no way of comprehending ideology except through demystification, as this reduces it to time, of which it is simultaneously the result, the expression and the disguise. But this means finding not truth, but weak and insipid substitutes for truth: the “truth” of mere historicity, as an adjustment of the idea to the situation; the “truth” of false conscience, as an unmasking that reveals deeper motivations; the pragmatic and technical “truth,” as efficiency of action and experimental effectiveness. Therefore, ideology cannot attain an authentic knowledge or provide a genuine comprehension of time, because there can be no interpretation of time if not in the sphere of interpretation of truth.

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That is, in thought which, in order to be ontological and revelatory, is philosophical in the strict sense of the term. Only with the distinction between expressive thought and revelatory thought, then, can the origin of mystification be understood, which, in the end, so-called demystifying conceptions cannot explain. The fact that unconsciousness is not enough to explain the simultaneity of expression and disguise, because of its need for a further foundation, was, aptly enough, shown by Marx, who elucidated such a premise in alienation. Marx was right to denounce ideological mystification and to trace it back to alienation, and to conceive of alienation as the separation of thought from reality. However, real alienation is the oblivion of Being and the loss of truth, that is, it is what distinguishes expressive or ideological thought from revelatory and philosophical thought. True “alienation” is the separation of the human being from Being and the rupture of the originary connection between person and truth, ontological enclosure and the abandonment of interpretation. In her freedom, the human being refuses Being and renounces truth: in this way, on the one hand she identifies with her own situation and reduces herself to a mere historical product, so that she replaces her own freedom with her “reification,” and on the other she makes herself incapable of turning her own situation into an openness to Being and a path leading to truth, so that she replaces interpretation, which is the deep essence of thought, with the abstraction, or, rather, the “exteriorization” of her own thought. So it is only the opposition of revelatory thought to expressive thought that can explain ideological mystification, and it is only revelatory thought that conveys the truth about time, as attested by Vico, whose thought might be considered today as an invitation to replace mystification with myth, the disguise of historical reality by thought with the presence of the vis veri of fables, the temporary and transient historicity of ideology with the constancy of common sense and tradition, and the disguise and concealment of interest with its transfiguration and sublimation. Philosophy, as ontological thought and revelation of truth, is far from ideology, as

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expressive thought and mystification of truth. This is made clear by the distance that separates Vico from Marx, for, according to Vico, in historical reality an idea is not a result but a stimulus, not a reflection but an exemplar, not disguise but elevation. Indeed Marx and Vico move in opposite directions, because while Marx endeavors to perceive the “irrational” beneath (apparent) rationality, Vico intends to demonstrate the presence of reason within the “irrational,” the truth that operates even within the most elementary manifestations of human activity; so that while Marx remains tied to that philosophy of the implied which in the end remains undeveloped, Vico opens the way to that philosophy of the implicit which is so rich in virtualities, explanations and directions for the life of the human being. The presence of vis veri in myth, in common sense and in tradition is the very opposite of mystification, because it does not consist in the fact that a conceptual apparatus disguises historical reality and its material basis, but in the fact that truth already operates, inchoately but no less effectively, within even the lowest manifestations of humankind. Poetry is the first working manifestation of vis veri; “vulgar traditions” contain “public grounds of truth”;5 common sense offers such a “criterion of truth”6 that is “the most dependable rule that vulgar wisdom has for civil prudence”;7 the obfuscation of truth comes not from thought, but from ignorance, which brings us “truth enveloped in falsehood”; 8 and it is not a disguise, but a sublimation of interest, for an idea does not act to conceal interests, but to make a virtue of vice. Clarification and interpretation Since mystification covers the implied with the explicit and conceives the unsaid as a simple hidden allusion, it not only welcomes complete clarification, but even demands it and imposes it, whereas revelation, since it renders the explicit more meaningful than its clarity can imply and conceives the unsaid as the infinite richness of the implicit, avoids any attempt at total clarification. In the first case, the relationship between the explicit and the implied consists

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in the fact that the implied must progressively and definitively replace the explicit; in the second case, the relationship between the explicit and the implicit consists in the fact that the significance of the explicit is formed by the inexhaustibility of the implicit. The comprehension of an ideology is reduced to demystification, that is, it consists only in unmasking the expression that is hidden by the discourse and definitively replacing the explicit with the implied; whereas the comprehension of a philosophy is a real interpretation, since it consists in the endless deepening of a discourse which is made inexhaustible by an infinite presence. This distinction should serve to eliminate, or at least circumscribe, what has become one of the cravings of today’s philosophical historiography, which is based almost entirely upon on the “technique of distrust” and on the “school of suspicion,” that is, upon Nietzsche’s Kunst des Misstrauens and Schule des Verdachtes,9 which prevent the interpreter from taking explicit discourse into account, and induce her to subject philosophical theories to a sort of psychoanalytical treatment, so that no theory is examined for what it says, but for what it is presumed to express unconsciously and covertly. This treatment, which is generally very appropriate for ideological or expressive thought, is not at all fit for genuine philosophical thought, in which the presence of the unsaid, far from allowing the clarification of the implied, which is the very demonstration of the falsity of expressive thought, imposes the interpretation of the implicit, which is a sure sign of the depth of revelatory thought. With an adequate philological and historical preparation, but without historicist complexes, sociological preoccupations or cultural prejudices, philosophers should be read as the Bible is read, that is, for what they explicitly and openly say, with the only concern to be equal to the infinite depth of their word; that is, one should be simultaneously mindful of the letter and the spirit, of the surface and the depth of the word, of what it explicitly says and the infinite message it contains and pronounces; and one must not be dissociated from the other by relativizing the word to its age and limiting its meaning to this relativization.

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At this point some clarification is necessary, which I think would be important for those who are aware of Heidegger’s discourse and believe that they must take it beyond the impasse of negative ontology into which he has inconveniently and uselessly driven it. Truth should not be considered ineffable simply because it evades complete clarification, as though silence were its natural abode, and its only way of entrusting itself to the word were to elude it, and it could not reveal itself without hiding itself, either because it would have no other form of presence but absence, or because its every apparition would be a betrayal. The word is an inadequate abode for truth only if it is rationalistically interpreted as a total clarification; but if its infinite capacity were measured, it would appear, indeed, as the most suitable vessel to receive truth and conserve it as inexhaustible. It must be realized that the only way of possessing and retaining truth is to receive it as infinite: a truth that is not received as inexhaustible cannot be a truth. The revelation of truth resists both the rationalistic ideal of total clarification, because otherwise it would no longer be truth, which is inexhaustible; and the irrationalist result of ineffability, because otherwise it would no longer be a revelation, that is, a possession. Revelatory thought does not presuppose the mysticism of the ineffable, but the ontology of the inexhaustible. Only philosophy as upholder of the truth makes dialogue possible There are no good ideologies with which to fight bad ideologies: all ideologies are bad, and all are false, because they have betrayed the essence of thought. The fight against ideologies does not occur on the level of ideology, but on the level of philosophy, which has no need to ideologize itself to defeat them, because in that case it would inevitably lose. What must be fought is not a particular ideology, but the basis of the concept of ideology itself, that is, the replacement of revelatory and ontological thought with thought that is historical and pragmatic, expressive and mystifying,

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instrumental and technical. Philosophy does not need ideology because it is radically incompatible with ideologies. In this sense, there is no passing from ideology to philosophy: just as ideology cannot become and does not succeed in becoming philosophy, even though it strives to substitute it, so philosophy cannot and must not become ideology, even though it devotes itself to fighting it. Nevertheless, the fact that philosophy refuses to be ideologized does not mean that it renounces an active role in the world. The philosopher as such is not a theorist of disengagement, as those who accuse her of evasion would like to think. Deciding upon truth requires much more courage than choosing success. Revelatory thought calls for an originary engagement, with which one devotes oneself to Being rather than refusing it, and agrees to bear witness to it rather than sacrifice it to history. It requires the clear awareness that it is time that must make itself worthy of listening to eternity, not eternity that must make itself heard by time. It calls for a radical decision, with which one makes one’s own person the vessel to declare truth in a way that is acceptable for one’s own time (rather than the master of the idea-force that drives the time of which she is the product), and the herald of a renewal that is first and foremost personal, rather than the prophet of a merely earthly palingenesis. Of course, if philosophy must be ideologized in order to fight ideology, that is, to renounce the philosopher as such and consider her a real philosopher only if she is a militant like a politician, then the battle is lost, because truth has been compromised, thus running the risk of preferring thought that is convenient at the moment and action that is directed at success. The struggle can be won only on the level of philosophy, but the fact is that the greatest allies of pan-political “praxism” are actually the so-called theorists of “engagement,” who, by accusing those who proclaim the revelatory and ontological function of thought of disengagement, end by preparing that technicalization of reason, which is precisely the aim of praxists. Moreover it is in fact philosophy, as revelatory and ontological thought, that makes such dialogue possible, whereas the mystifying and instrumental thought of ideologies not only inhibits it but

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actually excludes it; thus it is philosophy that gives rise to the exclusive and polemic strength of historical and technical reason, as well as the uniting and collaborative strength of ontological and revelatory thought. Truth, being inexhaustible, offers itself to infinite interpretations, encouraging them and opening them equally to dialogue. The particular, however aware it is of its own historicity and partiality, will never offer itself to the compatibility of an agreement or to the openness of a communication. There is an apparent paradox here: it seems that philosophies, insofar as they are total, must be exclusive and in competition—but they can coexist precisely because they attain truth, which in its infinity makes all interpretations interactive; it seems that ideologies, insofar as they are partial and thus able to be integrated, can coexist—but it is precisely their partiality, masked with totality, that causes their continuous reciprocal conflict. The action that philosophy can exercize in the world is the realization of dialogue, which is not possible on the level of ideology, where in one way the recognition of the multiplicity of perspectives prevents the adoption of one, and in another the adoption of a point of view excludes the recognition of all others. To criticize the “totalizing” claims of philosophy and to oppose an “openness” to them is to remain tied to an ideal (however vehemently this is denied) of ontic metaphysics and rationalistic clarification: the concept of revelatory thought as a personal interpretation of inexhaustible truth corrects an extrinsic concept of multiplicity as a deeper concept of singularity, in which totality and plurality are reconciled. Thus on the level of philosophy it is possible to philosophize upon philosophy, whereas on the level of ideologies it is impossible to create an Ideologienlehre.10 In fact, philosophy is conceived as awareness of the ontological relationship, in which the connection with truth is total and the formulation made of it is personal; ontological thought is the only one that allows philosophical thought to be both philosophy of philosophy— a critical, conscious and justified point of view on the multiplicity of philosophies and thus a recognition of the personality, otherness and intersubjectivity of perspectives— and also

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philosophy—a position, a repudiation of a pseudo-scientific neutrality and a personal and responsible formulation of truth. Thus only in philosophy is it possible to adopt one perspective while accepting others, and thereby truly opening them to dialogue.

From Filosofia e ideologia (Torino: Edizioni di “Filosofia,” 1967); Verità e interpretazione (Milano: Mursia, 2005), 124–126.

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Critique of ideology Uniqueness of truth and plurality, but not partiality, of philosophies It is truth, not philosophy or metaphysics, that is unique, inexhaustible and super-temporal. As human knowledge, and thus interpretation of truth, philosophy in itself is constitutionally and essentially manifold and temporal, plural and historical, or, better, always singular and personal; and this is the case not through a fault, but by its nature. Philosophies worthy of that name are not historical, particular, manifold configurations of the single and unreachable philosophy, which indeed does not and cannot exist, neither historically nor super-temporally, just as by definition a single interpretation does not exist, since interpretation implies the always new and different personality of its subject and the unfathomable infinity of its object. Rather, philosophies are always new and different formulations of inexhaustible truth, and are therefore both revelatory and expressive, truthful and historical, and not ideological due to the mere fact that they are historical. Although it continually transcends them in its inexhaustibility, what is entrusted to single philosophies worthy of that name is not the conjectural single philosophy, as though it wished to make up for its unattainability by realizing itself in particular incarnations, but Being, truth itself, which provokes and encourages them all, gives itself up to them all and relies upon them all, but does not prefer or privilege any one of them, nor fix itself or exhaust itself in any of them. Furthermore, I do not think it can be said that historicity, situation, and expressiveness necessarily lead to ideology insofar as they imply that streak of particularity and incompleteness that seems to inhere essentially to ideological knowledge. There are those who maintain that social and historical conditioning, and thus the ideological nature of any human discourse, implies the necessarily inadequate and incomplete nature of every truth that is held, and who, recalling transcendence, coherently depicted in terms of

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negative ontology, seek not only a guarantee against the absolutism of ideologies, but also a remedy for the skeptical relativism that seems to result from such a recognition. Now I do not believe it is possible to speak of a necessarily inadequate and incomplete element in any one truth, either formally or substantially. It cannot be spoken of formally because it is impossible to make a comparison between two things as different as truth and one’s formulation of truth. It is possible to make a comparison between one formulation of truth and another, and such a comparison is made at the beginning of every philosophical and speculative discussion; but a comparison between truth and the formulation of truth would be a real metabasiq eʺq “llo g™noq,11 and, as such, absurd. It cannot be spoken of substantially, because revelatory truth means neither knowing it in its entirety, as in a complete apparition resulting from the lifting of a sort of Maia’s veil,12 nor grasping simple elements of it, so that one may either desire their progressive integration or deplore their fatal inadequacy. Truth is not such a totality that the thought that reveals it can be considered compromised or diminished because it does not utter it entirely, and one’s formulation of truth should not be considered inadequate and incomplete due to the fact that it does not attain a complete clarification. In one way, the ideal of philosophical thought is not the complete enunciation of a more or less adaptable reality. It is not a question of defining truth once and for all, but of grasping it as a truth, and thus as inexhaustible; so that the absence of that complete clarification, which an assertion of truth is not meant to give, cannot be ascribed to incompleteness or inadequacy. In another way, the nature of truth is to be inexhaustible, and thus more encouraging than gratifying, more origin than object, more direction than discovery: grasping it in this inexhaustibility precisely means grasping the whole of it, and this is the reason why even the slightest glimmer of truth is already extremely diffusive. In short, any assertion of truth can be neither inadequate nor incomplete, because truth can either be grasped or not grasped, and if it is grasped then it is grasped as a whole; and grasping the whole

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of it does not mean being able to enunciate it in a complete and definitive exposition, which would show that it has not been grasped at all, but rather that it has initiated a discourse which continuously re-germinates from its own source, which uninterruptedly reproblematizes its own questions, which always hints at something else and something more than is said explicitly. In short, grasping the whole of it means grasping it in its inexhaustibility, and this gives rise to the essentially interminable, diffusive, and ulterior nature of philosophical discourse, which is far from being ideological, incomplete, and inadequate, because its ontological dimension and truthful background familiarize it with the inexhaustible richness of its source and enable it to recognize the avaricious and restrictive nature of any limitation. There is no need, then, of a guarantee against the skeptical relativism which would result from the always incomplete and inadequate nature of the human formulation of truth since this nature does not exist: the nature of the human formulation of truth, far from requiring a “negative ontology” (which is obliged to insist on the ineffability of truth in order to justify the alleged incompleteness of any human truth), imposes an “ontology of the inexhaustible” to explain the incessant, diffusive, and ulterior nature of truthful and philosophical discourse. The problem of negative ontology: ineffability or inexhaustibility For a modern formulation of the ontology of the inexhaustible, I could not imagine a more fruitful and authoritative confirmation than the one represented by Schelling’s late speculation, as it appears in many texts, but particularly strikingly in the 1821 Erlangen Conferences, where, among many doubts and much perplexity, among many flashes of genius left behind without any development, among many apparently fruitful but actually substantially sterile proposals, there comes forward the exigency to transform the concept of indefinable and ineffable into the concept of originary and inexhaustible. In one way the transcendence of every definition

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reaches an essentiality and a purity perhaps never before reached by any negative theologian, and in another the infinity of origin is brought out precisely by the pure absence of any definition, that is, by the very impossibility that the indefinable is defined through its indefinableness. In one way Heidegger’s ontological difference is anticipated in a quite startling way, and in another the discourse is continued beyond Heidegger—indeed I would say it is almost reopened after the dead-end into which he involuntarily but harmfully led us. Schelling, after all, wishes to avoid both mystical negative ontology and Hegelian explicated ontology: both the definition of Being through its inaccessibility, that is, the total suspension of speech and thought (the Ωlogºa pantelh^ kaÁ Ωnohsºa mentioned by Dionysius13), and the complete dispersal of Being (and the consequent identity of Being and thought). For this purpose, he proposes a dialectic which neither contents itself with not-knowing nor leads to absolute knowledge, and for which knowing as notknowing shows Being as its reverse, and thus it shows Being but without resolving it in itself; that is, it pushes thought down such a radical path that it can do nothing but collide with its opposite and remember its originary content, without being able to stop at the object, or at God as an entity, or at the unknowable, or at the indefinable, but at least indicating and carrying out the inexhaustibility of its own nature. From this brief outline, it is evident what richness of suggestions and confirmations could be obtained from Schelling, considered not only as a post-Hegelian thinker, as he really was (though this is very often forgotten), but also as a post-Heideggerian thinker, as he could become today, even though some with their own agendas have tried to defame him as a typical “destroyer of reason.”14 And allow me to avail myself of this opportunity to underline the amazing modernity and topicality of this thinker who demonstrates an admirable genius and a prodigious vigor even in the last years of his production, so unjustly calumniated first by the Hegelian, then by the Marxist tradition. If the originality of Marx and Kierkegaard in respect to Hegel lay in the revaluation of Being against thought,

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Schelling is no less original, because, in fact, he carried out such a revaluation in the idealistic sphere long beforehand, and in particularly effective terms. If Kierkegaard and Nietzsche have the merit of considering the tragedy of the human condition, then they have an ally in Schelling, who, against Hegel’s optimism, had already underlined the complexity and the drama of existence, and had proposed a philosophy of freedom. If one of the exigencies of modern thought is the rejection of totality, it should not be forgotten that Schelling had already seen this, realizing that what Hegel put at the end should have been at the beginning, and that the unity following duality can only take the form of totality, which is, after all, abstract and very poor compared with the inexhaustible richness of originary unity. And if another preoccupation of today’s philosophy is the analysis of human activities, which is proposed not only by the phenomenological school but also by cultural anthropology, it can barely be imagined how many suggestions and how many adjustments could be usefully applied to this subject from Schelling’s “positive philosophy.” The list could easily go on. Revelatory thought as only mediator between truth and time: necessity of philosophy between religion and politics In one way, that which is truly metacultural is what gradually becomes embodied in different cultural and historical forms, without ever identifying itself with them, but provoking and promoting them all, expressing them autonomously and producing them from its own infinite virtuality, and finding not only its sole abode in them, but also its only way of manifesting itself, or rather, its only way of living, for it has no life other than the forms in which it resides and is embodied at any one moment. It could also be said that the metacultural nature of such a reality certainly does not result from a purely negative transcendence, nor from a sort of inaccessibility that hovers over historical events, nor from a state of permanent unconfigurability and continuous informulation, but precisely from the possibility of becoming embodied in forms

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always new and diverse, from entering the world of history with a presence always renewed and relevant, from drawing, from within itself, the voice and the tone that are most suitable to the particular historical moment and that are best able to make themselves heard in that historical hour. The possibility of release is simply the other face of this possibility of embodiment, the flip side of the coin, for the strength used to break away from a historical form, which has become a mere external guise and more of an obstacle and a hindrance than a present and vivid reality, has the same character as the strength used in embodiment: indeed, it is absolutely the same. Such strength shines far more in embodiment than in release, far more while appearing in a new form than while making the old one disappear, far more while inventing the guise in which it chooses to show itself (the form in which it will present itself, the voice with which it will speak), than while leaving behind its old guise, form and voice. As a consequence, in short, it follows that the metahistoricity of a reality appears less from its power to transcend its own historical forms than from its power to become embodied in always new historical forms. Once again let me quote Schelling, when he says that, in a reality such as this, the positive comes not from remaining detached from forms (of course, in order to enclose oneself in a form, it must be detached from any form, for as Plotinus said, only the shaped has a form, whereas the shaper is formless: tØ eμdoq ®n tˆ morfvu™nti, tØ d‚ morf©san “morfon15), but, indeed, from enclosing oneself in a form, that is, from the freedom to enclose or not to enclose oneself in a form: “Um sich in eine Gestalt einschliessen zu können, muss es freilich ausser aller Gestalt sein, aber nicht dieses, das ausser aller Gestalt, das unfasslich-Sein ist das Positive an ihm, sondern, dass es sich in eine Gestalt einschliessen, dass es sich fasslich machen kann, also dass es frei ist, sich in eine Gestalt einszuschliessen und nicht einzuschliessen.” This quotation, taken once again from the Erlangen Lectures,16 means: “In order to be able to enclose it [the positive concept] in a form, it must freely be outside of all form, but the positive in it is not that it is outside of all form or that its being is ungraspable.

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Rather, the positive in it is that it can enclose itself in a form, that it can make itself graspable, thus that it is free to enclose itself or to not enclose itself in a form.”17 The fact is that the indefinableness of the principle cannot be considered its definition, as long as this has simply a negative nature, as a “mere independence from any external definition” (“blosse Unabhängigkeit von äusserer Bestimmung”): indefinableness can be its definition only when it assumes a positive meaning, such as “freedom to enclose oneself in a form” (“die Freiheit sich in eine Gestalt einzuschliessen”). Non-philosophical nature of ideology One may object that wherever there is thought there is also, at least potentially, philosophy, so that there is philosophy also in ideology, which is always thought, however historical and expressive it may be. My answer is: I can concede that ideology is an attempt at philosophy, but it is an unsuccessful attempt, which resolves itself into a real betrayal of the essence of philosophical thought, because ideological thought is inauthentic and distorting thought. It is reduced to nothing but a counterfeit and a parody of philosophy: philosophy as a caricature, and therefore philosophy in a negative form. And precisely because of its mimetic and parodying nature, it is no more than a substitute for philosophy: feigned and falsified philosophy, abusive and trick philosophy, and thus again, philosophy in negative form. If it is philosophy, it is not philosophy in nascent and inchoate form, but only in conative, or rather, ruinous form: apocryphal and inauthentic philosophy, pseudo-philosophy, and therefore, once again, philosophy in negative form. “Weltanschauung,” philosophy, ideology Philosophy in inchoate form is not ideology in the strict sense, but a Weltanschauung, which already contains the nascent and potential fullness and richness that philosophical thought could exercise in a mature and accomplished awareness. A Weltanschauung

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precedes the conscious and intentional exercise of thought, whereas ideology is its result. This means that a Weltanschauung is situated at the point at which the ontological relationship and the historical situation meet and join indissolubly, in the sense that the bond with truth is realized and identified in a unique and personal interpretation, and the historical situation proves its own unrepeatability by opening itself to an ontological dimension, as happens in “common sense”—not when it is diluted into a harmless sort of creed, but placed à la Vico within that meeting of singularity and resemblance, individuality and communication, which demonstrates the fruitful presence of the personal and ontological dimensions. Considered as such, a Weltanschauung possesses not only the richness of that which is inchoate, nascent, and virtual, but also the authenticity and purity of that which is original, primogenial and originary; and a philosophy is nothing but a Weltanschauung intentionally and consciously translated into verbal and speculative terms. On the contrary, ideology is coeval with philosophy, and represents its negative and degenerate alternative, whereas philosophy translates that personal interpretation of truth which is a Weltanschauung into speculative terms—that is, it reaffirms the bond which personally links human beings to truth and confirms the ontological dimension of the entire human being, while ideology instead begins as oblivion of Being, obfuscation of truth, repudiation of ontological relations and betrayal of that originary bond. Ideology is not only dimidiate, watered-down, degraded philosophy, but also the denial of philosophy itself: by nature it begins as a surrogate for philosophy, so that where there is ideology there cannot be philosophy, and where there is philosophy there is no place for ideology. Philosophy and ideology are two terms of a choice, two possibilities of an alternative. From the outset, thought immediately finds itself confronted by the dilemma of being either a personal revelation of truth, a confirmation of the ontological dimension of human beings and an assertion of the truthful nature of philosophy, or a simple expression of time, a complete exploitation of reason and its reduction to technique, methodology and ideology.

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In the face of a Weltanschauung, then, a thinker has the chance to elevate it into philosophy or pervert it into ideology, so that either the originary ontological relationship it contains emerges confirmed by the speculative nature of philosophical thought, or denied by the complete technicalization typical of ideological thought. The philosopher, then, is the learned one who discovers what the unlearned one originally knows, and the ideologue is the semi-learned one who denies, betrays and degenerates. In short, ideology is unfaithfulness and oblivion: there is no truth left in it, not even a need for it. To claim that where there is thought there is philosophy, even in ideology, is optimism at any cost, because it means to not realize that, in ideology, thought is employed precisely to deny philosophy, since ideology moves from the assumption of denying Being and disowning truth. At this point the philosopher must abandon any irenic attitude and any conciliatory attitude, because here one is truly in the presence of error. Positive reality of evil and error Optimism and irenicism often lead to the emphasis of only the positive aspects of human beings, or to the claim that there is always positivity in human beings. Throughout history this has given rise to well-known theories that aim to make error and evil disappear, as in a game of dice, either because they would be dialectic moments necessary to truth and to good, or because they do not sustain themselves, and must in some way be supported by truth and by good, if only by taking on their appearance and assuming their aim, for it does not seem seriously likely that human beings could consciously and intentionally desire evil or error. At this point one could open a discussion about error and evil, which in order to be sufficient, let alone exhaustive, would require an endless analysis. I will restrict myself to the following remarks. With regard to the possibility of eliminating error and evil by turning them into dialectic moments necessary to truth and good,

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it must be observed first of all that any positive result they could have is completely outside their nature of insincerity and wickedness, since it would not be the result of their internal process or of the coherence of a logic immanent within them, to the point that in transcendentalist conceptions the possibility of drawing good from evil is not only beyond the reach of human beings but is, indeed, an eloquent demonstration of the omnipotence of God. Secondly, it must be observed that the fact that the human formulation of truth contains the possibility of error and that the human practice of good always presupposes the possibility of evil cannot be confused with a dialectic integration. In fact, this forms part of the situation of insecuritas, precariousness and risk which forms the essentially tragic nature of the human condition, incapable of realizing the positive except through an act containing the constant and effective possibility of the negative, to the point that the suppression of the possibility of evil would be possible only as suppression of freedom itself, that is, suppression of the only source human beings can rely upon to do good and to make themselves worthy. With regard to the possibility of eliminating error and evil according to their need for support from truth and good, assuming their appearance or extorting an agreement from the mind or conscience, the two following comments will suffice. Firstly, this is part of the necessarily parodying and deceptive nature of error and evil, which are constitutionally counterfeits and caricatures of truth and good, and for this reason they are even more destructive and degenerate. Such disguises once again demonstrate their negativity, for there is nothing more devilish than to deny the existence of the devil, and therefore nothing more negative than to exploit good and truth as a mask and an alibi for evil and error, which employ such dissimulation to better introduce themselves and to appear acceptable, just as the Antichrist must assume the face of Christ, and the power of darkness appears as the angel of light. Secondly, this parodying character of error and evil depends on the tragedy of the human condition, which is expressed in the

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two-faced and contradictory nature of the human being, caught between opposites and suspended by extremes, forever prey to the laceration that they impose upon her and yet forever tempted to confuse and conceal one with the other. Human nature is ambiguous in itself, capable of hiding good beneath the guise of evil and of disguising evil with the appearance of good, even combining good and evil in the motivation behind a single act, which is neither less good than evil, nor less evil than good, depending on the point of view; and capable even of transforming not only good into evil, thus degrading primarily authentic and generous impulses, but also evil into good, as when the overwhelming power of conversion reveals and proclaims itself in the soul of the most obstinate sinner, or as when, in the words of Barth, it happens to meet ecstasy in a vulgar environment. Irremediable negativity of ideology So, with ideology one is indeed in the presence of error and evil, in all the effective reality of their negative power. Even in isolation, the presence of ideology today would be enough to convince us of the inescapable reality of error and evil, and of their terrible effectiveness in the human world. Let us leave aside the aspect of evil for the moment to concentrate our attention on ideology as error. The temptation to deny error arises first of all from the need to take history into consideration, to the point that, from a historicist and sociological point of view, error does not exist, since any form of culture is regarded with the only criterion of being adjusted to the historical period and the environment which it inhabits and from which it arises. Secondly, the temptation to deny error arises from the need to stress the human being’s positivity, to the point that, from an optimistic point of view, error ends up losing even its material and objective existence (assuming that this can be said), because it can only be subjectively asserted as a truth, and, rationally, the basic human need for truth would be sufficient to redeem it, through a process of corrections and

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integrations. In this way, error disappears altogether, and at most appears as inadequate, anachronistic, incomplete, temporary, or whatever else it may be. Of course, nothing is more convenient and comforting than asserting the non-existence of error; to the point that, if there really is a “consolatory and edifying philosophy,” a subject worthy of the ironical barbs of the modern spirit, which is so critical and disenchanted, it consists precisely in rationalistic optimism, and above all in that (tendentially or openly) sociological historicism which is the more or less conscious basis of a large part of contemporary culture. But error exists, and it is inauthentic thought, thought which acts as thought only to deny itself as such: purely expressive, historical, technical, instrumental thought, which I defined above, which presents itself, among other things, in ideology. Allow me, then, to consider my way of conceiving the ontological dimension of human beings—as a originary bond of person and truth, and thus as a revelatory, expressive, ontological and historical thought—as the only way of accounting for history without neglecting the need to acknowledge the existence of error, or as the only way of acknowledging the reality of error without forgetting the changeableness and variety of historical situations, or as the only way of reconciling the plurality of interpretation with the distinction between true and false. In fact, purely expressive, historical, technical, instrumental thought is really error in a radical and profound sense. It is not error because it is simply an incomplete and temporary approximation of truth, a pure attempt, more or less successful, to grasp it or formulate it, a mere failure on the road of a precarious and uncertain search. Nor is it error as the attenuation and weakening, fragmentation or dissipation of truth, once possessed but now weakened, faded or in the process of decomposition. Rather, that kind of thought is openly and resolutely obfuscation and oblivion, forgetfulness and neglect of truth, estrangement from it and aversion to it: it is thought which exerts itself as thought in order to betray, deny, and abolish truth, in order to replace it with itself, to

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affirm the end and uselessness of truth. Nor should it be said that it is error merely because it has ceased to be thought, since a purely historical, technical and instrumental discourse does not seem worthy of the name of thought: with such ideas nothing would happen but a reduction of error once again to a simple weakening of truth. Of course, the name of thought in the strict and complete sense can be given only to ontological and revelatory thought; but expressive and historical, technical and instrumental thought is also thought, and, what is more, it is thought employed to deny ontological and revelatory thought, to deny the truth to which the person is fundamentally bound, to deny philosophy as the verbal and speculative recovery of that revelatory thought and of that fundamental bond. In short, error and evil are not mere attempts at approximating truth and good, or their simple degeneration and weakening, but are both thought, however degenerate, deliberately exerted to deny good: positive establishment of a negative reality and negative use of positive faculties; effectiveness of negative forces and perversion of positive possibilities. In short, this interlacement of positivity and negativity, in which they strengthen rather than repel one another, so that negativity, far from being incomplete and dimidiate positivity, obtains a further charge of effectiveness from positivity, and positivity reverses its own sign, serves only to transform negativity, when it is weak and reticent, into open and avowed destructiveness. In contrast with the irenicism (and the eclecticism which logically follows from it) of rationalistic optimism, and in contrast with the technicality to which sociological historicism necessarily leads us, the position I have suggested is dramatic, and is therefore more consonant with the tragedy of the human condition. Human beings can deal with the reality of evil and error and with its consequent demoniac destructiveness, and the uncertain and precarious situation in which they live is not remedied by an impersonal event in which technical thought tests and adjusts itself, but requires personal engagement, deliberate struggle and

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conscious decision, which can lead to conquest and victory only through the constant risk of loss and defeat. From “Filosofia e ideologia: Introduzione, Comunicazione, Conclusione della Discussione,” in Ideologia e filosofia (Brescia: Marcelliana, 1967), 21–22, 40–63, 363–407; Verità e interpretazione (Milano: Mursia, 2005), 159–161, 163–167, 136–145.

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Part Four

Ontology of Freedom

Hermeneutics and Tragic Thought It is true that the human sciences, such as sociology, psychology, linguistics, cultural anthropology and so on, have grown enormously, but this does not mean that philosophy should consider itself superseded as some would believe. No human science intends to take the place of philosophy. On the contrary, together they have broadened the sphere of philosophy to an extraordinary degree, offering it extremely rich data for new and more complex questions and even encouraging it to pursue its task more closely. And philosophy has not allowed itself to be troubled by the awareness of its own conditionality, however historical, cultural, ideological, psychological or physiological this may be; rather, philosophy makes this conditionality an internal question, thus emerging more critical and astute. It is possible to philosophize on everything: no sphere of experience can escape philosophical reflection, and it is even better if the field has already been ploughed by one of the human sciences. With the opening of these new fields of experience, a boundless field stretches before philosophical research, suitable for that “superior empiricism” which is hermeneutical thought. The first feature of hermeneutical thought is that it both envelops and penetrates: problematizing and universalizing at the same time. On the one hand, it subjects its field of investigation to such intense interrogation that it causes increasingly urgent and inescapable questions to emerge from it incessantly. On the other hand, it can grasp its truth and discover its meaning, bringing it to a level of clarification that can interest and involve everyone. The difference between the discourse of the human sciences and that of philosophy consists in the fact that philosophical thought is more originary, because—and this is its most profound characteristic—it presupposes an existential choice, that is, it implies a personal perspective of truth. Philosophical thought is absolutely hermeneutical, because it is simultaneously interpretation

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of experience and interpretation of truth, and it cannot be one without being the other: it is ontological and revelatory and at the same time historical and personal—indissolubly so. Hermeneutical thought, then, is simultaneously thought of Being and discourse upon beings, suspended between a deep ontological radication and an endless experiential openness. First of all it is true that it is impossible to speak of Being without speaking of beings, but it is equally true that it is not possible to speak of beings without speaking of Being, and it is in this simultaneously single and double frame of reference that hermeneutical thought resides. Moreover it is certain that truth only offers itself within the personal interpretation and the historical formulation it is given, but it is not reduced to them. Rather, when truth coincides with them from time to time, in that same moment it is beyond them, so that it is not dispersed in the flux of history and experience. Philosophy, then, is always realized in an indefinable multiplicity, and likewise the unity of philosophical knowledge is not realized in an all-embracing and definitive way, but transversally and askew. Every philosophy is both a specific and irradiating perspective, a glimpse of truth that is simultaneously neither exclusive nor total. In my opinion, the future is promising for hermeneutical thought thus conceived, but does not seem to favor those forms of hermeneutics that intend to get rid of truth. Interpretation, it is said, is not interpretation of something: there are no things or facts or truths to be interpreted, but only interpretations, and interpretations of interpretations. I do not think this corresponds to the concept of interpretation, which is either interpretation of something, or it is not interpretation at all: the interpretation which dissolves within itself what it is to interpret, and in so doing replaces it, ceases to be interpretation. So there is nothing left but the diffusion of experience, which in itself is indifferent and devoid of possible distinctions, with no conflicts and no tragedies, but rather comforting and consoling, far from the tragic thought that lurks in the very heart of hermeneutical thought.

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The mood of interpretation, constrained to the difficult task of comprehension and as such to the faithful extraction of meaning, is risk, and therefore anguish and doubt. In fact, if it is considered that the only possible path to truth is freedom, which is exercised in a mood of consent and acceptance, but also of denial and refusal, it will emerge that the field of interpretation is a dramatic environment of conflict and contradiction. Insofar as hermeneutical thought refers to an ontology of freedom it is strictly connected to tragic thought. The nature of freedom is unfathomable and ambiguous: in one way, it supposes nothing but itself, and in another, it is always simultaneously positive and negative. Placing it in the centre of the real means introducing duplicity and contrast into the heart of reality, presuming a basis that always denies itself as a basis and focusing on the inseparability of positivity and negation. This induces a recognition of the unfathomable and deep tragedy which is implied in reality itself. Today the question of evil and sorrow can be faced to good effect only by a hermeneutics of ancient and modern tragedy and of Christian religious experience. This hermeneutics comes down to two principles, which are fundamental to tragic thought. Firstly, evil is not absence of Being, deprivation of good and lack of reality, but reality, positive in its negativity. It results from a positive act of denial: from a conscious act of transgression and revolt, of refusal and abjuration of a former positivity; from an operating negative force, such as negative freedom, since freedom is also free to decide not to be free, and it is indeed in an act of freedom that it ceases to be freedom, and thus becomes the power of destruction. Secondly, there is an indissoluble link between evil and sorrow, represented by expiation, in the sense that sorrow is simultaneously the punishment of sin and its only possible redemption. Nobody is truly innocent, and upon all human beings, united in sin and sorrow by a fundamental originary solidarity, weighs a destiny of expiation, so that even the “innocents,” if there are any, are required to suffer for others in order to cleanse the common sin, and so vast is evil that it sets the greatest suffering upon them,

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at which point the scandal of evil reaches its climax. Evil and sorrow are at the centre of the universe, and the heart of reality is tragic and painful.

From “Pensiero ermeneutico e pensiero tragico,” in Dove va la filosofia italiana, ed. J. Jacobelli (Bari: Laterza, 1986), 135-137, 139140; Essere libertà ambiguità (Milano: Mursia, 1998), 13-17.

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Revelatory nature of myth Failure of demythologization: irrationalism of reason without truth If one wished to persist in demythologizing revelatory thought, one would face the vain dilemma of choosing between a precarious rationalism and an equivocal irrationalism. In one way, it is possible to believe myth can be eliminated with logos, without thinking that this is the greatest rationalistic prejudice […] In another, it would be absurd to draw from the so-called “mythical” nature of revelatory thought the consequence, which only seems plainer and more critical, of a deliberate and programmatic mythology. This means shifting attention from truth to the various ways of approaching it, and mistaking a mere effect for a specific aim, with the result that the word, which would no longer be revelatory, but instead arbitrary and irrational, is lost in the uncertain allusiveness of the cipher. In either case, the originary connection between person and truth would be broken, either because, out of a mistrust of thought, the personal aspect is heightened, enclosing it in the incommunicability of an allegory or an experience, or because, out of a superstition of reason, one wishes to suppress the inexhaustibility of thought, thus reducing it in the name of perfect adjustment and complete clarification. In both cases the result is essentially the same—irrationalism—because it entails the loss of precisely that which preserves thought from an irrational outcome, that is, its ontological nature, its grounding in truth.

From “Pensiero espressivo e pensiero rivelativo,” Giornale critico della filosofia italiana (2/1965), 177–190; Verità e interpretazione (Milano: Mursia, 2005), 28–29.

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The fruitful presence of both the personal and ontological dimensions is also found in “myth,” if this is conceived as not only primitive and primordial, but above all as primogenial and originary, that is, as an initial and fundamental understanding of truth, which is indistinct and confused not so much because it is elementary and inchoate, but because it is fruitful and pregnant, and, as such, a common root for the highest human activities, such as art, philosophy, ethics and religion, which draw inspiration from truth without ever exhausting it, and which develop from it without ever suppressing it, and which, far from meaning to replacing it, in fact invoke its continuous presence, which is their only guarantee of constant sustenance and secure inspiration.

From “Filosofia e ideologia,” in Ideologia e filosofia (Brescia: Marcelliana, 1967); Verità e interpretazione (Milano: Mursia, 2005), 138.

The profound and originary discourse concerns Being, and not value. Ontology is primary over axiology. The level of philosophy and the level of religious experience must not be confused, as happens when in philosophy God is mentioned and qualified as Value and Person. To consider God philosophically as Value and Person means nothing more than making a mythological representation of his generosity and freedom. And one cannot object to this claim by saying that generosity and freedom, considered as attributes of divinity, are just as mythological, if not more mythological. Mythology is one thing, myth another; philosophy is one thing, religious experience another. When God, who is the object of religious experience and not a philosophical concept, is spoken of, any philosophical notion attached to him is mythological—as mythological as it is rational and conceptual—and among these are the concepts of Value and Person. In religious experience, the terms “generosity” and “freedom,” in reference to God, are not mythological but mythical.

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Firstly, religious experience can only be expressed in myth— in the strict sense of the word, which is not mythology—since a language is needed if transcendence, which is beyond discourse, is to be spoken of. The situation is difficult, even painful, because—as Plotinus says (V, 5, 6, 23–25)—“we speak of the ineffable,” l™gomen perÁ oª Whto†, and difficulty can only be avoided by “naming, only to indicate for our own use as best we may”: πnomåzomen shmaºnein „ayto¡q u™lonteq ˜q dynåmeua. As a matter of fact, while there remains a sense of inadequacy in Plotinus, it must be admitted that mythical language is quite adequate, and does not bring discrepancies or regrets. In fact, if mythology is essentially allegorical, that is, based on the distinction between and separation of symbol and meaning (and signification is always endowed with an arbitrary element which leads the way towards mystification), myth is instead tautegoric, in that it supposes that the symbol is the signified reality, and vice versa, in a complete identification, or rather, in a concrete originary identity. […] In philosophy, when there is mismatch between rational expression and the experience that is meant to be clarified, or a partition between the speculative height that has been reached and the philosophical language which tries in vain to keep pace with it but does not succeed due to the inadequacy of its own means, philosophy can do nothing but rely on myth. Thus philosophy either forms its own myths, or resorts to religious experience, in which case it must adapt itself in some way to mythical language, respecting the tautegoric nature of symbols and exercising caution with regard to the particular eloquence of coded writing. The exactitude of a cipher is very different from that of a rational discourse, but no less inflexible or strict. As Plotinus says, reflection must therefore in some way relax its philosophical rigor, giving preference to substantial meaning and even to the exigencies of communication, and agree to speak in a rationally imprecise way (paranoht™on ®n to¡q løgoiq). In short, it must concede that there is a risk of imprecision that has to be taken into consideration, and it must forgive the (eloquent and meaningful) inexactness of

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words—as Plotinus writes, de¡ d‚ sygxvre¡n to¡q πnømasin Ÿ ΩkribeºQ oªk ®©men l™gesuai (VI 8, 13, 4–5 and 47–50).1 Naturally, if philosophy intervenes, it does so not to translate mythical discourse into rational discourse, which is impossible by definition […]; but to illuminate universally human themes in mythical and religious discourse, which are of interest to all human beings, even unbelievers—that is, to include religious discourse, which is so intimately linked to personal experience, in a universal and broadly human interlacement, capable of ensuring the widest communication and to guarantee, or at least promise, the possibility for participation by everybody.

From “Dal personalismo esistenziale all’ontologia della libertà,” Giornale di Metafisica 6 (1984), pp. 299–300 and 310–311.

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Philosophical reflection on religious experience If symbolism is not only expressive or inventive, but also revelatory, this is because it has its roots in a deep and originary area of thought, or, rather, it is immersed in the heart of existence, conceived as the coincidence of relationship with oneself and relationship with Being. At this level, the relationship between name and thing, between image and reality (whether in signification or reference) must no longer be examined in itself, but should be considered in its indissoluble link to the relationship between human beings and Being, as a relationship, no less revelatory than existential and ontological, between human beings and truth. The process of signification becomes the process of revelation; it is no longer a question of language, but of Being. Just as what is important is not having but being, so an utterance carries no weight without Being. Therefore the deep level pertains to the ontological relationship that human being is within herself, and to the originary interpretation of truth. It cannot be considered irrational, because thought is present in it, in its primary function of interpretation of truth, even though this interpretation is not expressed in clearly conceptual terms; but neither can it be considered explicitly rational, because, within it, thought is inseparably connected with poetry and religion, which have not yet reached a specification of their own, but which are already present in their genuine nature, poetry as invention and expression, and religion as invocation and listening. It is an originary and profound structure, beyond any antithesis of rational and irrational, in which thought, poetry and religion are indivisibly united and interlocked, no less operational and active even though they await their distinction and specification, brought together by the use of the same symbolic language, by an equally revelatory result and by a primogenial contact with the unobjectifiable; an inextricable, dense and fruitful structure, in which thought has a simultaneously poetical and religious nature, and in which poetry and religion simultaneously have the task and the function of thought, and for this reason thought, poetry and

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religion equally conspire to reach and express the unobjectifiable heart of reality and the meaning of things; an originary structure which could not have a more appropriate name than myth, in the most intense and pregnant meaning of the word. Here, myth must be understood in its originary meaning, in which it can be opposed neither to reality, nor history, nor truth, nor reason, nor revelation, from all of which it is certainly different, but not in the sense of “opposite,” as is usually claimed. It is not opposed to reality, because it is an experience of reality in itself, or rather reality itself, as existentially experienced. It is not opposed to history, because it is re-telling and the narration of facts, whether they be historical events or actions of originary freedom or of eras of eternity. It is not opposed to truth, because it is truth itself, as interpreted, possessed as a sensible figure, existentially formulated and symbolically grasped. It is not opposed to reason, because it contains its thought, although it is neither conceptual, nor rationally explicable, but real and substantial. It is not opposed to revelation, because that which distinguishes it is precisely a nature that is not exclusively creative, inventive and expressive, but also, and especially, revelatory: it is simultaneously and indivisibly a fabulating operation and a manifestation of truth, mythopoeisis and interpretation of Being. In short, myth is experience of reality and truth; it is experienced truth and reality, which implies total involvement: humanity and transcendence, human beings and God. Its sense is deep, beyond meanings. Myth is that primogenial interpretation of truth which every human being is to herself; it is truth in that it primarily speaks to everyone; it is memory of origin and the remembrance of the immemorial; it is attentiveness to unobjectifiable transcendence; it is the very revelation of Being, of truth, and of divinity: it is God insofar as he speaks to human beings; it is God who speaks to human beings. This is why religious experience must be grasped at a deep level, where it is inseparable from thought and poetry, poetical in its symbolism and truthful in its revelatory power. And so it is clear what constitutes that philosophical reflection on religious experience which is the purpose of this study, and

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which is far from the rather abstract idea of analyzing the relations between philosophy and religion considered in their separation and exteriority and lying outside any existential context. Thought, which in its originarity accompanies poetical inspirations and religious inflexions in the originary and living structure of myth, emerges from it as open and conscious philosophy, though it reserves the possibility of returning to it to cast its reflection upon it. If it is considered that faith is to be seen as a specification of the originary religiosity implied in myth, and that it fully maintains the symbolic nature of myth, it will be understood not only how philosophical reflection on religious experience can concern both myth and faith indifferently, but also that, being mindful of the symbolic force originary thought wields in myth, is not inadequate, but rather particularly disposed to penetrate both the originary and the specified religious experience. Philosophical reflection on religious experience, then, is nothing but interpretation of myth, which itself is already interpretation of truth. It is therefore important to define under which conditions this hermeneutics can unfold with the express hope of understanding the philosophical meaning of myth and of obtaining results from it that are valid in philosophy. To begin with, it will not, of course, be a question of demythologization, since what must be demythologized are in fact the simplistic demythologizations, whereas myth itself has no need of demystification, as it is revelatory in itself. Interpreting myth does not mean purging it of symbolic language, which is precisely what makes it eloquent, but analyzing and untangling its infinite signification, which is a hard task and a tireless enterprise. Philosophical reflection must respect myth: allowing myth to say what can only be said with myth, and adding nothing else, since to interpret means to make others speak and to be able to listen, not to hush nor mitsingen.2 Safeguarding myth and the symbol that, with its importance, makes it meaningful is the first task of philosophical reflection; and this task is consonant with the critical nature of philosophy, which must maintain everything in its own complexity. It is a victory for philosophy itself if the acknowledgement of

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the revelatory nature of myth prevents transcendence from isolating itself in (mystic) silence, just as it prevents the (objectifying) word from constraining the transcendent. In this way, philosophical reflection may discover that respecting and safeguarding myth as such is a way to say things to which the rational language of philosophy is unsuited, but which must necessarily be said for the sake of philosophy itself. Of course, neither will it be a simple transposition of religious experience into philosophical terms, as if it were merely a question of translation, or transcription, of contents ready to change their appearance while remaining unchanged in their nature. In their hypothetical philosophical transposition, religious themes run the risk of changing their meaning so radically that the result can only be a series of deplorable misunderstandings, because of the impossibility of establishing which meaning these themes (which had only one meaning in the religious context from which they were removed) shall acquire. The failure of the numerous modern philosophies, which claim to be a laicization of Christianity, or the rationalization of religious faith, or the panlogistic translation of mystic experience, attests to the meager reliability of this agenda. In reality it must be a far more demanding task, that is, an intense problematization, capable of turning such a powerfully and insatiably investigative glance upon religious experience that it transforms it into a tangle of questions that await and demand a philosophical answer, while at the same time encouraging and hinting at one. Neither will it be an objective and mirror-like reflection, applied to religious experience by placing it in front of itself and examining it from the outside, but a kind of reflection which places itself entirely within such experience without dissolving in it, and there, within it, subjects it to a demanding interrogation and succeeds in obtaining frank and genuine answers, to which it makes no further additions, and which are still valid in the philosophical and speculative fields. In short, philosophical reflection must occur in terms of a superior “empiricism,” capable of giving a philosophical account of reality without distorting, transforming or reform-

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ing it, but rather letting it be with respectful discretion while also seizing it with inexorable resoluteness - more than what happens, for example, in the more cunning forms of phenomenology and existential analysis. A sort of evocative obedience and revelatory docility would then come into play in the ductility of philosophical reflection, in which the at once penetrating and enveloping nature of thought—of a decidedly hermeneutical kind—would maintain reality in its irreducible consistency while seizing its rhythm and extracting its secret, so as to be able to grasp its meaning and reveal its structure. Neither, finally, will it be philosophy of religion or religious philosophy, let alone theology or theosophy or apologetics, but pure and genuine philosophy, which could take the form of a philosophical reflection on religious experience, working within it and emerging from it, in which the fact that such experience is personally borne is not sufficient to quell the truly philosophical nature of reflection. Once again, it will be a question of meaning: it will be a question of grasping the philosophical meaning of religious themes, without allowing these aspects to be confused or exchanged. The religious theme remains religious, but is not taken as such in philosophy, which, for its own part, grasps its philosophical meaning without perverting its religious consistence. It is not a rough and superficial adoption of the content, but the tension of a dialogue that maintains the (religious) nature of the interlocutor in order to obtain (philosophically) meaningful answers through an imperious and yet benign interrogation, and which is able to grasp its eloquent (philosophical) message while allowing it to speak in its genuine (religious) terms.

From “Filosofia ed esperienza religiosa,” Annuario Filosofico 1 (1985), 47–50; in Ontologia della libertà (Torino: Einaudi, 1995), 142–146.

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Interpretation of myth as hermeneutics of religious consciousness This recourse to myth in no way implies a renouncing of philosophy, because it is precisely philosophical reflection that must intervene in myth and concerning myth. Of course, such reflection must give up the objectifying nature of rationalistic conceptualization as well as the alleged ability to increase knowledge through pure demonstration, and assume instead a hermeneutical nature, with the aim of interpreting pre-existing knowledge in order to explain and universalize its inner meanings, opening them to broad human participation. More than a denial of philosophy, it is the proposal of a new kind of philosophy, based not on demonstrative reason, but on hermeneutical thought. If demonstrative reason intends to have a productive nature, so to speak, because it wishes to expand knowledge even in regions which are beyond purely rational knowledge, hermeneutical thought is a reflection upon and within experience—in a very broad sense, of course, not limited to sensible experience—and is an interpreting thought applied to pre-existing knowledge, a remembering thought which knows only what it knows already. Metaphysical thought is objectifying, in that it is ontic by nature, places itself in a mirror-like point of view, and expresses itself in direct discourse, whereas hermeneutical thought is existential by nature. Its object is not Being, but human being’s relationship with Being, the ontological intentionality which is essential to human beings and in which human beings consist; its discourse on truth is indirect, because it discovers truth in its originary solidarity with the human person; and it does not address the absolute but human being’s awareness of the absolute, an awareness human beings do not have but, rather, are; and it is precisely this existentiality, in its historical as much as ontological character, both experiential and revelatory, that forms the pre-existing knowledge within and concerning which hermeneutical thought is practiced. Rational and conceptual philosophy operates on the basis of reasoned arguments, which systematically

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connect with one another in a logical universe, whereas hermeneutical thought, although it does not give up its rational character, always maintains its reference to experience, which it intends to interpret through clarification and universalization. In greater detail: hermeneutical thought is intended to envelop and penetrate, with an intense problematization, a knowledge which already exists (although this has only a real, unconscious, mute and not reflected form), and sets out to expose by appropriate discursive and speculative means its originary revelatory nature and intrinsically participatory qualities. Although it has a solid and real consistency, this knowledge possesses truth, by means of an originary and profound thought and through an act of radical freedom, and naturally it does so from a particular point of view and in the form of being possessed by it. Truth is only offered to freedom, and it is on this risky and dangerous path, marked by anguish and doubt, that it entrusts itself to an interpretation, and after adventurous vicissitudes, emerges as present in any interpretation worthy of that name, to which it submits to the point of mutual identification, while always maintaining an irreducible reserve. And every single concrete interpretation comes about by virtue of originary thought, which, as well as being the possession of truth, operates from the very beginning in inchoate forms of reflection and in hints of clarifying transparency, gradually acquiring greater precision through increasingly strict interrogations and clearer manifestations. In one way, then, the originary and profound thought that is present in a myth, in a Weltanshauung, or in an existential experience, indivisibly coexists with poetical, practical and religious elements, each one of which tends towards a specification, the simultaneous success of which is not guaranteed, but which can assert itself with significant predominance. In another way, truth can be everywhere, in poetry, in art, or in religious experience, in a single Weltanshauung, in the elemental idea of a people or of an era, or in collective institutions such as traditions and customs, all of which may be brought together under the unifying name of “myth.” At this point however, with regard to the idea of freedom as the only

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path to truth—a freedom which can be positive or negative, loyalty or betrayal—an essential clarification must be made: there can be truth in everything but error. It is of course a widespread and powerful prejudice, traceable to a certain type of dialectics, that even in error there is a certain amount of truth. Such prejudice expresses an extremely optimistic evaluation of humankind and means to promote itself through the tolerance it seems to guarantee to any idea. But the true and real error is the lie, which is absolutely incompatible with truth, which it betrays and denies, even though, due to human ambiguity, it occasionally and dangerously assumes its deceptive appearance. With reference to the fact that freedom is the only path that leads to truth, it will be useful to note that philosophical reflection does not speak of truth directly, in which case it would be an objectifying discourse; but always approaches truth as already interpreted, in historical and personal points of view, in mythical terms both poetical and religious, in beliefs, customs and traditions, and in more or less manifested Weltanshauungen. And this, indeed, is the principle of hermeneutical thought, introduced just as much in the mature works of Hegel as in those of Schelling, who both express their philosophies by revisiting the history of the perspectives that have arisen in the fields of art, myth, religion, philosophy and, indeed, history itself - although they do so in quite different and, in a certain sense, diametrically opposite ways. Philosophical reflection within and upon myth must refrain from a demythologization that would replace myth with logos or translate its content into a philosophical form. It has a duty to respect myth, safeguarding and confirming its revelatory nature, aware that myth says things that cannot be said in any other way, and that must be said for the sake of philosophy itself. It must both grasp and explain the meaning of these things, in order to develop both their potential for universality and their ability to interest and involve all people, whatever their convictions or beliefs may be. Hermeneutical thought neither destroys myth nor means to go beyond it, as though the interpretation of myth were also its

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elimination, and as though to penetrate and comprehend it might completely rationalize or perfectly clarify it. Hermeneutical thought does not destroy myth, but equally it does not cease to explore it. In fact, if encouraged and suitably questioned by hermeneutical thought, it is myth itself that reveals its own meaning, thus initiating and encouraging an inexhaustible reflection within itself, which will not culminate in any definitive clarity but will feed an infinite interpretation. In this sense, it is neither possible to replace myth with logos, nor to provide a philosophical translation of it, for such things would destroy it, while at the same time “myth” is the source, heart, starting point, stimulus, and guide of “logos.” The kind of philosophy suggested in these pages is that which is based on hermeneutical thought. The study carried out here is a hermeneutics of myth, and more precisely of religious myth. As hermeneutics, it is not ontic and objective metaphysics, but existential ontology. As an approach to religious myth, it is neither theology, nor philosophy of religion, nor religious philosophy, but philosophical interpretation of religious experience or religious consciousness. In essence, it presents itself as a philosophical reconsideration of Christianity. A more precise comment on the clarifying and universalizing nature of hermeneutical thought is necessary. In a hermeneutics of religious consciousness there is religious content, and perhaps even theological content, but these are seen as part of the real concreteness of religious experience; these ideas remain purely religious, and cannot be treated as philosophical in themselves. Philosophy is involved with them in that, having clarified those ideas and demonstrated their meaning, it emphasizes—as only it can—their broader application to humanity, that is, it explains what they mean or could mean both to believers and nonbelievers. Even the nonbeliever has an interest—as a human being, she cannot deny it—in what such religious ideas mean to the believer: believing, for example, in the existence of God, or in the religious ideas of sin and expiation, the expiatory and redeeming function of suffering, redemption and salvation, and so on.

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Even those who do not believe in God cannot ignore what God means to a believer, and only philosophy can show it. It cannot be shown by religion itself, in which there is a community of believers who not only do not question these ideas, but who also immediately understand them amongst themselves. But only philosophical mediation can explain to the nonbeliever (and thus, so to speak, in a way that is valid for all) what these ideas mean to the believer and can mean to human beings in general. What God represents to a believer and what the believer’s faith in God can mean to every human being is a philosophical—and only philosophical—question. And the discourse conducted by philosophy on this subject aims neither to define the essence of God (even for philosophy God is the God of religion), nor to prove God’s existence or non-existence (the believer affirms it and the nonbeliever denies it: two acts of faith, a choice), but to explain what it means to believe or not to believe in God. In these terms, and only in these terms, can philosophy discuss God, sin, expiation, suffering and redemption. Philosophy, conceived as hermeneutics of myth, is not at all irrational or fideistic. I think it is useless to observe that myth is not story or legend, arbitrary narration or irrational fable: in the strict sense—that of Plotinus and Vico—myth is possession of truth in the only way in which it can be grasped, that is, through a concealment which is in fact irradiating and revelatory. Rather, with regard to that originary thought which is primogenial possession of truth in myth, and which gives rise to philosophical reflection in the form of a continuous discourse, made up of considerations and questions, driven by a primordial need for clarity and aiming towards a progressive awareness, I will ask if such thought can be considered as prior to any possible fideism and beyond any opposition of irrationalism and rationalism. In the first place, denying philosophical thought the demonstrative and extensive capacity for knowledge is not sufficient for an accusation of irrationalism. What causes the so-called “crisis of rationality” is not this attenuation of the powers of reason, but the suppression of its ontological and revelatory character. What is

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important is not reason in itself, but truth: the value of reason depends upon its bond with truth and its foundation in ontology. […] Without truth and without any criterion, reason becomes empty and formal, universally pusillanimous and therefore merely exploitable, easy prey to the irrational, and therefore mystifying. However, in the originary thought present in myth, truth and reason are inseparable and they must and can remain thus in philosophical thought, which is an extension, a development and a specification of originary thought, in the sphere of intentional examination, speculative reflection and clarification of a universal sense. Moreover, recognizing the optional nature of any assertion of truth is not a sufficient argument for an accusation of fideism. The ontological relationship in which the human being consists is an act of freedom, because with regard to Being and truth, there can be no attitude but one of consent or refusal, assertion or denial, loyalty or betrayal. It follows that human action, whether theoretical or practical, being unable to consist in anything but the selection of an alternative, always assumes the form of a choice. Of course every choice has a certain motivation, but it does not matter whether this motivation is declared before or after the choice. It is completely irrelevant whether such motivation takes the form of an explicit “demonstration” that claims to determine the choice beforehand, or of a reasoning that confirms and follows the choice after the fact, and none of this affects the free nature of the option, so that motivation has no decisive value in the question of the more or less fideistic nature of the assertion of truth that depends on it. Furthermore, rationalism, too, is a choice—the choice of mere reason—but it does not say so, and cannot say so, because pure reason cannot recognize any conception outside itself. Rationalism is therefore necessarily uncritical and contradictory: it does not and cannot accept awareness of its initial choice, which results in a discrepancy between saying and the doing that will compromise the speculative value of its every assertion, and transform its pure rationality into merely exploitable and mystifying reason. Thus it is, in fact, rationalism that results in irrationalism and fideism: an

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uncritical and exploitable rationality is useful only in hiding an obscure irrationality; and an unconscious, unrecognized choice is secretly fideistic. Philosophical reflection on myth does not occur from the outside, as pure form molds content, but is the extension of the originary and profound thought that resides and works in myth. It is in this capacity that, after an intense exercise in interrogation and clarification, it succeeds, through existential thoughts and tautegoric symbols, in transposing in speculative terms that interpretation of truth in which myth consists in its concrete reality. Thus hermeneutical thought grasps and manifests the interlacement of freedom and truth that operates within myth. In one way it exposes the existential choice through which the originary possession of truth is fulfilled in myth, and in another it makes explicit the potential for universality that the truth of myth already carries within itself, even if only implicitly. Justification of choice and universalization of sense are the two aspects, blended into one, of hermeneutical thought, inasmuch as it clarifies and universalizes myth, and in doing so discloses its meaning and demonstrates its universal application. By virtue of the truth and originary thought that reside in it, myth therefore has its own “rationality,” which philosophical thought in one way grasps and penetrates, and in another clarifies and highlights, with its assiduous eye for analysis and its universal vocation. In this way, in hermeneutical thought, there are concepts, but they do not objectify; ideas and thoughts, which are purely existential; discourses and reasoning, which are not demonstrative but interpretative; items of knowledge obtained not through an extension of demonstrations, but by direct experience. Although this series of ideas, concepts, thoughts and reasonings are devoid of an objectifying character and, rather, are filled with existential meanings and loaded with symbolic senses, they can still be called “rational,” because their originary source is truth; but truth is always possessed existentially, attained freely and expressed symbolically, that is, it is comprehensible only by a thought that remembers, which,

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through a continuous and peremptory interrogation and a constant and uninterrupted clarification, achieves the unveiling of universal meanings, capable of involving every last human being, however distant and dissenting she may be.

From “La filosofia e il problema del male,” Annuario Filosofico 2 (1986), 13–18; in Ontologia della libertà (Torino: Einaudi, 1995), 151–233.

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Philosophy of freedom The abyss of freedom and the fundamental question. Heidegger and Schelling. It would be untrue to say that when, sixty years ago, Heidegger’s opening lecture Was ist Metaphysik? was published, the times were such that it could be easily understood. It raised the question of nothingness, but to the dominant philosophies of the day—idealism in Italy, Bergsonism in France, phenomenology in Germany—nothingness was not a problem, but rather little more than the term of a logical opposition. I have to say that when I studied this text in the Thirties, although it made an impression on me that was, to say the least, fascinating, my understanding of it was far from thorough. Perhaps Heidegger himself was not entirely aware of the innovative potential of his work; in fact he felt the need to come back to that subject more than once. After many years, I think that today, at last, it can be regarded as a decisive step towards the realization of that philosophy of freedom which was the real program of modern philosophy, from Descartes to Fichte. Hampered by a progressive restriction of the sphere of freedom to the moral field, and by an incomplete purification of the concept of freedom by that of necessity, this program did not come to fruition, and indeed, it could be said to have failed; but then, at the very end of modern philosophy, one philosopher recast it in promising terms, and that was Schelling. It is a genuine hope that today the unapparent but very close connection between Heidegger and Schelling may give rise to some important discoveries in this subject, for freedom can be considered an authentic problem only if it is related not to necessity, as modern philosophy has unsuccessfully done, but to nothingness, which was so propitiously evoked by Heidegger. Heidegger restored prominence to the basic question, first formulated by Leibniz: “Why Being rather than nothingness?” However, Leibniz, caught between the greater simplicity of nothingness

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and the greater perfection of existence, remained on a strict metaphysical level, with the invention of the principle of sufficient reason. But Heidegger’s approach is more congenial to today’s mentality, immersed in the experience of nihilism, sensitive to the fascination of nothingness, pervaded with the anguish of existence. In this respect Heidegger derives more from Schelling, who regarded “the question of despair” as the fundamental question. Schelling had reached this result by following two Kantian ideas: the sublime, which is experienced especially in the contemplation of the starry sky, which, as imagination of infinite spaces, had already filled Pascal with dismay; and what Kant called the “abyss of reason,” which is dizziness in the presence of the infinite, bewilderment on the threshold of eternity, giddiness at the edge of the gulf which opens when, dramatically, God is imagined asking himself a troubling question: “Everything derives from me, but where do I come from?” None of this affected Hegel: his identification of the rational and the real left no room for the abyss. Absolute idealism, founded on the concept of Being as necessary (a fundamental mainstay of modern metaphysical rationalism), makes not the slightest opening either for nothingness or for freedom. It is no wonder that Hegel was completely indifferent to the contemplation of the starry sky: to him the stars seemed “a leprosy in the sky,”3 and Kant’s passages on the sublime were in his opinion unbearable “tirades.”4 What is more, his attention was never drawn to Kant’s extraordinary page about the “abyss of reason,” which was completely unusual for such a rational and controlled, and, it could be said, dry and colorless writer. Compared with this stiff and compact rationalism, the perspective of Schelling and Heidegger seems closer to the spirit of today, which places so much emphasis on the obscure and disturbing aspects of existence. But it is necessary to free Schelling from any residual concern for the idea of necessity, and Heidegger from the thorny question of the relationship between nothingness, Being and beings; so that from Schelling comes the clear echo of freedom in all its purity, and from Heidegger the neat and genuine image of nothingness.

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In order to recover the idea of freedom in all its purity, it is appropriate to return to the three categories of modality: possibility, reality and necessity. The most important of these is undoubtedly reality. Possibility is nothing but the shadow of reality, detached from it and forced behind it; necessity is a reality so heavy and stubborn that it clings to nothing but itself. Reality however is loose and light, devoid of both prior foreboding and interior weight, neither announced by the possible nor founded by the necessary. On the one hand it appears suddenly, pre-empting expectations and arriving early; on the other it has neither a reason for existence nor a dragging weight that defines it. It is not enough to say that reality is contingent, which would again imply a reference to necessity and especially to possibility. Of reality, pure reality, one can say neither that it is because it could be, nor that it is because it could not not be; but only that it is because it is. It is completely gratuitous and groundless: entirely attached to freedom, which is not a foundation but an abyss, that is, a foundation which always denies itself as a foundation. Since it is attached to freedom, reality can be seen in its gratuitousness or its groundlessness. Seen in its gratuitousness, it appears as something extra: an authentic gift owed to an act of generosity, a pure surplus that becomes an object of admiration. Those who see it as such become sympathetic to creation and share the wonder that God himself5 felt towards his newly completed work, and that the psalmist feels endlessly: Tu es Deus qui facis mirabilia.6 Seen in its groundlessness, however, reality shows its dark aspect: life appears as a punishment, which provokes both sorrow for existing and regret for not existing: better not to be than to be. It is the m¸ f†nai of the Greek tragedians and lyricists, the “Better not to have been born at all” of Sophocles and Theognis;7 it is the non nasci of Silenus; it is Job’s regret at not having passed directly from the womb ad tumulum, to the tomb; all of which bitterly reverberate through modern and contemporary poetry: Pues el delito mayor / del hombre es haber nacido; 8 Quel crime avons-nous fait pour mériter de naître?; 9 ’T’were better Charity / To leave me in the Atom’s Tomb; 10

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Not to be born is the best for man; 11 el horror de ser y de seguir siendo;12 not to mention the dreadful and terrible cry that runs from Shakespeare to Conrad: The horror! the horror!;13 or our Leopardi,14 who returned this subject to a total and lucid nihilism and made it the centre of his inspiration. In itself, then, reality simultaneously elicits astonishment and horror, anguish and wonder: its basic characteristic is ambiguity. The other side of Being is nothingness; ontology is always accompanied by meontology that is its inseparable reverse. What is to be found in the abyss of freedom, which philosophy is called to explore? Not only the ambiguity of reality, object both of ecstasy and dismay; but also the duality of freedom, simultaneously positive and negative, anxious to affirm and strengthen itself and capable of denying and losing itself; negation in all its aspects, from the simple non-existence of an initial limit to the absolute negativity of evil, from industrious and active nothingness to the torment of suffering; and the ambiguous face of divinity, which is the God of anger and grace, the God of rage and the cross. In short, what is encountered is the dramatic situation of humanity, lost in ambiguity, which fully manifests itself only in tragic thought, beyond any sterile opposition of optimism and pessimism. In fact, optimism and pessimism are on the same level, and intimately linked to each other, so that from one it is possible only to career into the other; they are more psychological than ontological categories, and are therefore completely insufficient to interpret the human condition. Dostoevsky. The originary bond between freedom and nothingness Thus the way is open to the search for the originary bond between freedom and nothingness. This seems to be the fundamental problem of today, but it is displeasing to observe that the history of philosophy can offer very few suggestions on this subject. Over the centuries, philosophy has shown a firm resistance to facing the questions of evil and freedom, which cannot be constrained in a conception that seeks the explanation of everything. Philosophical

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reason hardly tolerates what escapes its desire for total comprehension, and tends to disregard and belittle, or even forget and suppress, anything that disturbs it in this enterprise. It is in this way that philosophy has wished to understand evil, but due both to its radical inexplicability and to the kind of rationality employed, it has done nothing but suppress it. When confronted with evil, philosophy has either entirely denied it, as in the great rationalistic systems; or weakened, if not eliminated, its distinction from good, as in the diffuse empiricism of today; or minimized it, by interpreting it as simple privation and absence; or inserted it into a total and harmonic order with a precise function, according to a dialectic which regards even Satan as a necessary collaborator with God. Theodicy has made God and evil the terms of an exclusive dilemma, without understanding that they can only be asserted together. Thus the incandescence and virulence of evil have been lost, and a veil of forgetful and torpid carelessness has been drawn over the whole question. Philosophy has always shown a certain apprehension, if not an open mistrust, towards freedom considered in all its purity. It must be acknowledged that true and deep freedom provokes a sense of unease and fear in humanity, as Dostoevsky showed with incomparable perspicacity in the Legend of the Grand Inquisitor, where he represented human beings as being unable to bear the terrible weight of the freedom given to them by Christ. The point is that the freedom of Christ is like that of the demons:15 unlimited. As well as an unbearable burden, this circumstance seems extremely dangerous. And yet, either freedom is unlimited, or it is not freedom. It ignores every limit and rule but the ones it has voluntarily accepted. Contention is its first form of exercise, as the possibility of consent or refusal. It does not even stop itself before God, but instead demands the right to debate with him; and a God who opposed such a right or who discouraged its use would not be God at all. God himself wants to be in danger, aware of the risk he runs by insisting that humanity’s response to his question should be absolutely free. He puts himself in a position from which he is able to

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condemn rebellion only insofar he does not impede it, since it is the only background against which obedience may acquire prominence and value. Nobody would seriously deny that free evil is better than enforced good: enforced good bears its own negation within itself, because true good is only that which is done freely, being able to do evil; whereas free evil bears its own correction in itself, which is freedom, from which free good will one day result. Nevertheless, a languid spiritualism has managed to think that by definition freedom must have its own internal laws, because otherwise it would not be freedom but rather license. This convenient but unwise optimism may reassure the unprepared, but proves itself to be completely ignorant of the tragic nature of freedom, which, aware of being the potential cause of both perdition and assertion, assumes the serious responsibility of debating every law and adopting one only if it freely accepts it. The conception of God as endowed with an absolutely arbitrary freedom is also subject to the apprehension and suspicion of philosophy. This is proved by the fact that in the history of philosophy the forms of divine arbitrariness are very rare, and often coupled with the hypothesis of the evil genius. It seems necessary to defend oneself against an arbitrary God, out of the fear that not only a disturbing uncertainty in his attitude towards humanity, but also a worrying confusion between good and evil could come from him. And in order to be reassured on this subject, philosophy resorts to the well-known intellectualism which distinguishes reason and will in God, and subordinates the latter to the former; without considering either that divine reason really is connected to God and therefore coincides with his will, or that it is really separate from him, and therefore can be nothing more than absolutized human reason. The fact that the divine will is absolutely arbitrary does not mean that it is capricious or accidental, as though it proceeded at random or “happened” to desire this or that: this would be typical of a weak and uncertain will, but not one as sovereign and dominating as one would imagine the will of God. To religion, by contrast, God’s will is subordinated neither to reason nor to chance, and his freedom

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is completely arbitrary: the Bible never tires of repeating that God can do anything he wants. However, and despite this, God arouses more anxiety and worry than he inspires trustful abandon. In this way, philosophy seeks to free itself from the elements regarded as troublesome to a rational conception, thus erasing the violence of evil and the vehemence of freedom, both of which religion maintains intact in their tormenting and provoking urgency. In order to analyze these questions properly one must attempt a philosophical interpretation of myth, which is presented in art and religion, conceived not as fable or legend to demythologize or translate into a rational language, but as manifestation of unobjectifiable truths, which reveal themselves only by concealing themselves and can be said only in that way, and which it is philosophically important to say, even if only in this way. In short, in this case it is a question of resorting to a hermeneutics of religious experience, aiming both to clarify its widely human meaning and to extract meanings which are philosophical, that is, universal or at least universalizable, and which are capable of arousing the interest, if not the agreement, of all human beings, believers or nonbelievers. There is nothing more suitable to this purpose than the biblical story of Genesis. From this, it can be seen that God’s first act was the creation of the world: a free act par excellence, absolutely gratuitous and arbitrary, an act of freedom and liberality at the same time, concentrated in its own assertion and simultaneously prodigiously expansive. But this act was certainly preceded by an even more originary act of freedom, indeed by absolutely the very first act, in which God originated himself. It is true that a rabbinical text prohibits any investigation into this subject: “You do not have the right to investigate except from the day when the world was created onwards.”16 The first word of the Torah is berešit, in the beginning, and its first letter is beth, which is closed on the right, that is, on the side from which one starts reading in Hebrew, whereas it is open on the left, which is the direction towards which one continues reading. Investigation must proceed in this way, not before but after the creation. Nevertheless, the same text tells of the protestations of the

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letter aleph for not having been chosen to begin the story of the creation, despite the fact that it was the first letter of the alphabet, and God’s answer: “When I go and give the law on mount Sinai, I shall indeed begin with you.”17 In fact, it is written, “I am your Lord,” where the word “I,” anochí, starts with the letter aleph. Perhaps, then, it may be concluded that even rabbinic theology refers to an event more originary than the creation, that is, to the appearance of God, who says “I” of himself; and this is, indeed, the absolute beginning, the first act with which God originates himself. Therefore, the first display of divine freedom is not the creation, but the advent of freedom itself, the act with which the originary freedom asserts itself, the total identification of God and freedom, the origin of the positive freedom upon which creation is based. Freedom is the first inception, the pure beginning. It originates from itself: the beginning of freedom is freedom itself. Freedom is only preceded by itself: it is its own position. What characterizes it is the instantaneousness of its inception: it does not continue anything preceding it, and nothing that precedes it can explain its advent. It appears as a steep and smooth wall with no indentations. No amount of waiting can attract it, nor preparation anticipate it. It is pure irruption, as unforeseen and sudden as an explosion. It is to this unexpectedness that it is alluded when it is spoken of the “nothingness of freedom,” as often happens. Saying that freedom begins by itself is no different from saying that it starts from nothingness. It is impossible to imagine the instantaneousness of the beginning unless as an emergence from non-being, and it is impossible to conceive of freedom as anything other than a boundary of non-being. But the expression “the nothingness of freedom” is meaningful, because it relates freedom to a negativity in the very moment in which it asserts itself. This is the most impassable and difficult point of the question of freedom, which consists in understanding how it can be beginning and choice at the same time. As a pure initiation, freedom is such a beginning that it does not stop beginning; but the beginning conceived in this way is already a choice, because freedom might not

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begin, that is, it might not emerge from non-being, and might cease, that is, it might re-enter the non-being from which it emerged. In the instantaneousness of the beginning there is already an alternative: freedom can either emerge from non-being or remain there, either assert itself or fall once again into its nothingness. The fact that freedom starts and asserts itself is valid only in the presence of the possibility that it might not start or that it might cease. The worth of freedom’s affirmation of itself lies in the contrast with the possibility of its negation. In the midst of its inception, freedom divides and splits, showing itself to be freedom only as a choice, as a decision in an alternative. So freedom in itself is dual, twofaced and ambiguous, and its intrinsic dissociation is realized as a contraposition of two terms: positivity and negativity, positive freedom and negative freedom, freedom that asserts and confirms itself, and freedom that denies and destroys itself. The only origin of the dyad, of opposition, of contradiction, is freedom—because there is no contradiction, no opposition and no dyad but the alternative that freedom is in itself, as simultaneously a beginning and a choice. Therefore freedom without negation is not freedom. But negation as a term of choice is very different from negation as the initial non-being of freedom. This is a simple delimitation, a frontier of non-being, an inert non-being which must be left behind; that is, a nothingness into which one might fall, a working nothingness that has to be fought, an active negation which might be victorious. There has been a change of quality, where the initial non-being has increased its own quotient of negativity and become an opposing force and a destructive power—evil. This is the arithmetic of freedom: non-being plus freedom equals evil. Such is the energy of freedom that it turns static and quiescent nothingness into a dynamic and active nothingness, the vacuity of non-being into the power of evil, a simple limit into an annihilating force, a mere starting point into a devastating negation. It is not, as one might think, a question of returning nothingness and evil to simple negation, which would be extremely weak and reductive, but, inversely, of seeing how active negativity, that is, evil and nothingness, could result from

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simple negation. The strengthening element is freedom, which is simultaneously a beneficial and creative energy and a lethal and destructive force, an ontological increment that enriches reality and an annihilating storm that crosses and devastates the universe, a fresh and bright outburst of life and a dark deadly impulse of death. It is here that the long-awaited originary relationship between freedom and nothingness is found. The negative boundary of freedom does not hesitate to change into a true contact with nothingness, which only a philosophy of freedom—and not a philosophy of Being—is able to illustrate. It is not Being which is in contact with nothingness: the truly originary contact is the one between nothingness and freedom. Where there is the question of nothingness, there is freedom, and vice versa. Contact with nothingness does not qualify only negative freedom, but also freedom in itself, as a choice. Freedom can be positive only if it has known negation and has defeated it, thus presenting itself as a victory over nothingness and evil. In a philosophy of Being, due to the absence of the alternative that is implied in freedom as choice, there is nothing but positivity, unitary and compact, which leaves no room for nothingness, thus reducing evil to non-being, absence and privation, so that nothingness and evil are deceitfully wiped out. In a philosophy of freedom, by contrast, nothingness is not peripheral and superficial, but central and profound: only that which could have been negative deserves to be described as positive, and only that which has risked being evil deserves the name of good. Neither of these terms subsists without reference to the other, and this is not due to a logic-dialectic necessity, but to the powerful and lively energy of freedom, which can alternately enliven them both. It is thanks to freedom that good rises and asserts itself, but it is also thanks to freedom that evil begins and spreads. Therefore the origin of positive freedom is strictly linked to the originary contact between freedom and nothingness, and consists in the absolutely first act—beginning and choice together— with which God originates himself and posits himself as originary positivity. Suddenly there is a flash of lightning in the immemorial

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darkness: it is a will that wishes to assert itself and succeeds in doing so. This is God, that is, freedom, which asserts itself with an extremely originary act, when it could just as well deny itself, and thus proves itself to be positive and victorious over negation. Nothing is as dramatic as the act with which God originates himself, because it is a struggle between God’s will and desire to assert himself and exist, and the danger that nothingness and evil may prevail. It is in this struggle that evil plays its trump card, so that the origination of God is in danger and at risk of failing. Divine positivity begins when the originary choice has defeated evil and rejected it completely. It has been a huge and terrible operation, during which an alternative is chosen: either positive freedom or the triumph of negation, either victory over evil or the victory of evil, either the existence of God or “eternal nothingness.” To say “God exists” means nothing other than “Good has been chosen.” Possibility and reality of evil What else is God, if not the victory over nothingness and evil, the originary positivity which crushes the power of negation? But it is here that a disturbing and perturbing element arises: evil in God. The splendid and radiant divine victory is shrouded by a gloomy and obscure curtain. In order to be positivity, God has to have known negation and experienced the negative. In order to reject the negative possibility, he has to have considered it. Precisely because he wants to be, he must defeat negativity, evil and nothingness, which are the dangers of his non-existence. It is undoubtedly disconcerting to have to say that evil is contemporaneous with God and that it is God who established and introduced it; but in truth, these statements cannot be avoided. Evil is contemporaneous with God because it is an event within his origination, an episode of his advent, because it begins in the atemporal act in which originary freedom can assert itself only by defeating the alternative possibility of nothingness. Furthermore, it is God who established evil, in the sense that, in the act of originating himself,

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he transformed inert and empty initial non-being into the active nothingness which is evil. Thus it is he who, in a certain sense, introduced evil into the universe, where there was none before. It is true that in the divine origination evil commences already defeated, and is established not as real, but only as possible. Evil has been stopped on the threshold of reality without being allowed to enter it and, as soon as it has shown itself, it has sunk immediately into inactuality. It is like a past that was never present and an image that was never real. But the fact remains that it has left its trace and its mark in God, and this is what we call evil in God. It is not properly a dark aspect of divinity, or its obscure depths, but simply a shadow, a sort of darkening of its splendor. There remains in God a vestige of the alternative that is evil, as a possibility buried in the past by the subsequent defeat, and made inert by missed realization. Evil is a simple clue, weak and uncertain, a faded mark, a silenced and suppressed possibility but a disturbing presence all the same. It is as if this inoperative remnant could still constitute a danger, not for God, of course, who has defeated evil ab aeterno, but for someone else, who afterwards finds the stimulus and perhaps the suggestion of an inauspicious revival and a ruinous realization in the evil which is latent and dormant in the divine depths. As the biblical tale teaches us, the one who stirs up evil is the human being. The origin of evil is God, but its true author is the human being, who alone is responsible for this realization. The human being is not the author of negation, but revives it, pursues it in reality, offers herself to it as a collaborator and instrument. And the unsuspected energy she shows in this enterprise is derived from freedom, from the same freedom that in God realized good and defeated evil. Negation, which was born already defeated by (divine) freedom, can draw new life and vigor only from (human) freedom. This use or abuse of freedom reveals in humanity an impressive store of negativity and an extraordinary vocation for annihilation. The third chapter of Genesis is an unpleasant and frightening description of the tangling of ambiguity and equivocation, of falsehood and falsification, of insincere subterfuges and underhand

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deceit that contribute to humanity’s fall. The fact that humanity has reawakened the dormant evil in God is upsetting in itself, but it is breathtaking and terrifying to think how it was able to do this, since the abyss of evil is very deep, dark, gloomy, and, one could say, bottomless. Three elements contribute to humanity’s fall: the possibility of evil hidden in God, the energy of freedom which is as powerful in God as in human being, and a store of negativity which assumes a blasphemous attitude towards Divinity. The result of this is the well-known revolt of humanity. But what actually is this rebellion? It is the claim that the divine origination can be repeated. It is the presumptuousness of humans to put herself into the heart of this origination, thus taking God’s place and relying on the promise of the “ancient serpent”: wehiitem kelohim, eritis sicut dii.18 During this foolish and huge endeavor, humanity does not succeed in mastering the negation which presented itself as an alternative to the divine choice, and which God was able to dismiss with the act of positive freedom that gave origin to his own existence. Negation slips out of human being’s hands and revolts against the one who dared to revive it; and not only does she fail in being God, but sinks beneath her own humanity, resigning herself to a destiny of perdition and death, of self-destruction and the destruction of all things. Not only does humanity translate the simple possibility of evil within God into an incandescent and ruinous reality, but also transforms divine positivity itself into a provocation, as though it were intent on challenging her freedom, on inciting her to rebellion, on suggesting to her the paths of transgression. And thus Dostoevsky, referring to the blasphemous titanism of the early nineteenth century, attributes to his “sinner-saint” the dream of overthrowing God and taking his place, and Nietzsche declares Hybris ist unsere Stellung zu Gott: before God, the attitude of humanity is one of presumptuousness and arrogance.19 In any case, by virtue of the bond that primarily connects it with nothingness, freedom is an immense and frightening power. In God, the power to exist against nothingness and evil after hav-

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ing defeated them, and to become originary positivity, that is to sit on a throne of glory while keeping the earth as a footstool; in the human being, the power to lose herself (if she wants to), and to choose the destruction of herself and of everything else, thus sinking into the lake of fire and sulfur and into the exterior darkness, where there is grief and gnashing of teeth.20 The first act of freedom was an act of positive freedom in God, and an act of negative freedom in humanity. This represents an immeasurable difference and a dreadful and irreversible decline. Is it possible to stop this sinister decay and reverse course? Is there a way to find a remedy for this cosmically cosmotheandric tragedy which epitomizes the history of freedom? The Bible comes to mind once again: in both the Old and New Testaments, it finds the only effective and decisive remedy in suffering. Only religion succeeds in giving suffering a meaning in relation to guilt, because it regards it not only as punishment or penalty, but above all as expiation and redemption, and, indeed, as revelation of the ultimate meaning of things. Redemptive and revelatory value of suffering The dialectic conceptions of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries have exalted the power of the negative, regarding it as the driving force of history, but they have not sufficiently distinguished real evil, fault and sin from suffering. Evil cannot be constructive: even if it is taken to extremes, it does not lead by dialectic necessity to positivity by means of a reversal. It is devastating and ruinous in itself: its power is great, but only destructive. It is not the wellspring of progress, but the march of perdition. Conversely, the positive result is suffering, which is the only force superior to evil. The power of evil is great, but the power of suffering is greater. Only suffering is stronger than evil: the only hope of defeating evil is entrusted to suffering, which, however laborious and lacerating its work may be, is the hidden energy of the world, the only one capable of facing any destructive trend and defeating the lethal effects of evil.

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Suffering appears first of all as punishment: it is the punishment inflicted upon humanity for its fall. But if suffering is reduced only to this, it risks becoming an increase of negativity: an evil added to evil. Now, in the magnificent economy of the universe, it is more important that she redeem herself than the wicked one is punished. Punishment neither balances nor settles anything; only strict justice can be satisfied with punishment—a justice that without redemption would establish its reign in the desert of desolation: fiat iustitia, pereat mundus.21 Punishment does not leave the confines of evil; rather, it can make the wicked worse, shut her up in the grim obstinacy of impenitence, become a spur for resentment, give rise to revolt and provoke abjectness. As a pain that is only suffered, punishment only increases evil. But the pain that is stronger than evil and victorious over it is the pain of expiation, the pain that is accepted, wanted and even wished for and searched for. The sinner, who perhaps already anticipated suffering in the dark torments of remorse and in the distressing uncertainty of repentance, desires expiation so as to redeem her fault and pay her debt, expects it as a scourge which may give relief, as a torture which becomes a comfort. Without ceasing to be torment and torture, then, suffering becomes balm and alleviation; even though the sinner is confined in the prison of punishment, she feels saved by virtue of redemptive expiation. In expiation, the most agonizing suffering can become a source of limpid happiness. When Kolya comes to know that the innocent Dmitri Karamazov is about to be deported, he cries, “What a happy man!”22 This will to suffer has nothing to do with the turbid and dubious alchemies of the voluptas dolendi,23 or with the sinister and questionable pleasure of masochism, but is the recovery of originary purity and fresh genuineness. Here the algebra of suffering intervenes in all its efficacy: minus multiplied by minus equals plus. Evil plus suffering is not an increase in the negativity quotient of the universe. It is neither a doubling nor a multiplication of evil, but rather its elimination. Freedom introduced evil into the world, and suffering with it.

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These two extremes neither add to nor neutralize one another, but the suffering is a victory over the evil. A positivity has resulted from two negativities. With its fall, humanity wished to repeat the divine origination, but it was miserably wrecked. Now it sees that the true human repetition of the divine origination is suffering as expiation, and thus as victory over evil. But the power of suffering does not stop here. Conscious of its redeeming value, suffering becomes revelatory: it opens the aching heart of reality and unveils the secret of Being. It teaches that the destiny of humanity is expiation, and that suffering, since it is stronger than evil, is the meaning of life and the soul of the universe. Suffering manifests itself as the overturning of negation into positivity, the foundation of the history of freedom, the key to understanding the destiny of humanity and the reality of the world. Where does the power of suffering come from? From the fact that even God suffers. In fact, suffering is peculiar to God: divinum est pati. God wants to suffer. He is prepared for this by the kenotic side of creation, in which he has retired into himself, has voluntarily confined and restricted himself in order to make room for humanity and its freedom. Human freedom started with a conscious and voluntary sacrifice on God’s part. But from the moment that humanity made creation fail, there has been a vast amount of suffering: from God’s grief at seeing humanity violating his work, realizing that his desire for consensus and collaboration from humanity remained unsatisfied and disappointed and witnessing the ruin of humanity even though it was blessed with the inestimable privilege of freedom, to the pains intentionally suffered in becoming incarnate in order to redeem humanity, to the point of taking sin upon himself, submitting to death, exposing himself to the desertion of the Father, and descending into the abyss of despair. The only root of evil and pain, which is the mystery of suffering, and which only religion can unveil, resides in this divine will to suffer for humanity. Suffering is the setting for the solidarity between God and humanity: only in suffering can God and humanity join their efforts. It is extremely tragic that only in suffering does God succeed in

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helping humanity, and that only in suffering does humanity manage to redeem itself and raise itself to God. But it is precisely in the mutual suffering of divinity and humanity that it is revealed to be the only force that can get the better of evil. This principle is one of the founding premises of tragic thought: between humanity and God there can be no collaboration in grace if there has not already been collaboration in suffering; without suffering, the world seems enigmatic, and life absurd; without suffering, evil remains unredeemed and joy inaccessible. By virtue of that mutual pain, suffering is manifested as the living connection between divinity and humanity, as a new copula mundi; and it is for this reason that suffering must be considered the pivot of the rotation from negative to positive, the rhythm of freedom, the heart of history, the pulsation of the real, and the link between time and eternity; in short, a bridge thrown between Genesis and Apocalypse, between the divine origination and the apokatastasis. It is suffering that jeopardizes any objectifying and demonstrative metaphysics, any system solicitous only for a harmonious and complete totality, and any philosophy of Being that concentrates solely on foundation. It is suffering alone that contains the meaning of freedom and reveals the secret of the universal situation that involves God, humanity, and the world in a tragic story of evil and suffering, sin and expiation, perdition and salvation.

Filosofia della libertà (Genova: Il Melangolo, 1989); in Ontologia della libertà (Torino: Einaudi, 1995), 463-478.

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Suffering and faith24 It seems to me that there is one other imperfection in Hegel’s thought, which is the fact that he does not clearly distinguish between the negativity of evil and that of suffering: he has seen the power of the negative in negativity in general without drawing a distinction from suffering. In this respect, he conforms to today’s trend of willingly joining suffering to evil, reluctant to consider its aspect of expiation. This affords me the opportunity of dwelling for a few seconds upon suffering, understood as punishment for sin, and in both a punitive and in a medicinal sense (as theologians say), as expiation, and thus redemption of evil. Humanity is fundamentally sinful and a destiny of expiation weighs heavily upon all humans beings: human beings are united by a basic solidarity in fault and in suffering, and it is this solidarity of universal culpability and suffering that creates amongst them those indestructible bonds of responsibility which are destined to be strengthened by a common destiny of salvation, the divinity having assumed suffering with the sole aim of collaborating with their need for expiation and bringing it to fruition. In this picture, what is the function of suffering? theodicy: negation of evil evil has a mostly necessary function One more imperfection in Hegel’s thought is the fact that he believes that in the final conclusion (which I would call apokatastasis) all contradictions are eliminated: rather, it is the place of antinomy. The only thing that can give life a meaning is suffering; it should come as no surprise today that in wishing to exorcise suffering one finds life absurd. Suffering: minus multiplied by minus equals plus – x – = +. Neither masochism, voluptas dolendi, morbid pleasure in pain. ambiguous mixture of – agony torment torture – pleasure voluptuousness delight

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painful enjoyments or sweet cruelties Authentic suffering is pure and genuine (depth of Being as true joy – superabundance of Being) – Nor stoical resignation: stern and severe face, but grim and inhuman, since it results from pride and presumptuousness It is extremely tragic that it is only in suffering that a collaboration can begin between God and humanity, that God can help humanity and that humanity can raise itself towards God Suffering The revelatory character of suffering lies in its mystery. It is a mystery, and therefore it is revelatory: it radiates meanings, stimulates thorough analysis Of a young suicide, F. O’Connor said, “His tragedy is that he did not know what to do with his suffering.”25 Suffering is the source of knowledge. Without suffering one knows nothing, and with suffering one can know everything ™n påuei måuoq 26 It is the hinge of the human world, the pivot upon which negative turns into positive. It is the central concept of tragic thought, because it is distressing to think that evil can be defeated only by something with such a negative appearance, that only something so negative can reach the heights of positivity, that one cannot reach joy but through a Schmerzensweg.27 Abyss of faith It is possible to talk of the abyss of faith (see the conclusion of my essay about Maddalena 28 ) but desperation and rebellion also have an abyss of their own. Rebellion might like to annul divinity, but it destroys its own advocates—desperation wants to annul the meaning of life, but creates the need and the desire for it. None of them succeeds in severing the relationship of the creature to the creator. However compromised and deformed it is, it subsists, in

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a negative form. The Jewish God is said to be cruel and jealous, angry and punitive (Abraham and Job). But he is also, and above all, merciful. The Christian God is said to be milder, but he, too, is very cruel, more cruel, even, because he turns his own cruelty upon himself (sublime masochism and superior suicide): eli eli, the cry on the cross. Humanity’s suffering can only be explained by divine suffering. In order to give a meaning to humanity’s suffering, one finds sorrow in God, and (due to the mysterious connection between fault and sorrow) also in fault (which deserves sorrow). In the abyss of desperation (rebellion) there is what one revolts against (which one is tempted to deny): refusal, blasphemy. Indeed, there is the root, the source, the origin: hence, the possibility of reversal. In the abyss of faith there is doubt, revolt, desperation, anguish in the abyss of desperation there is faith as an uncertain and faint light in the violence of revolt there is the recognition of a force which might also be friendly (which, regrettably, is not friendly) in the uncertainties of doubt, the rigorousness of a question can emerge (criticism—examination) if the abyss of faith contains desperation, even total desperation, the abyss of desperation does not ignore at least a glimmer of faith doubt and revolt do not exclude faith; indeed, if it does not know them and does not contain them, it is not faith faith and anguish are often synonyms (or go side by side) saying yes is the same act that can also say no Everything depends on le pari,29 on the bet, on a choice: does God exist or does she not? Does life make sense or is it absurd? Choice conceived as such is not arbitrary. Everyone’s choices are always founded on something. In no case is it arbitrary, because it is an act of freedom. Freedom is not whim: a choice made on a whim would be arbitrary, because a whim has no foundation. But

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although freedom is radical, that is, either consent or deep refusal, it is not arbitrary in the sense of capricious, because it carries its own motivation within itself. Every conception is a result of a choice. It is essential to know this. Rationalism will never admit to being a choice, because it consists in believing that reason is fundamental, that it founds itself. But it, too, is a choice. There are two kinds of points of view: there is a thought which is a choice, and knows it, that is, it is critical, and there is a thought which is a choice, but does not know it, therefore it is not critical. objection: the bet can be regarded as an arbitrary choice ([for] example Kierkegaard, between aesthetic [stage] and marriage). Not a good example. Moreover saying bet and choice does not mean saying whim (arbitrary choice); because it is an act of freedom, which is arbitrary but not capricious. And it is not enough to distinguish rationality from reasonableness: of course, rationality is excluded (it is not a rational choice, which is after all necessary, therefore it is not even choice any more); but I would say that reasonableness is excluded too (rationabile obsequium30), because it is always an indirect homage to reason (which is human reason after all). Only in freedom is there a true bet, that is, an arbitrary, but not capricious, choice. Choice wager What is it to be Christian today, in the time of nihilism and atheism? Wanting to be contemporaneous with Christ while being children of the century, that is, of anguish and doubt. It seems absurd. But the absurd is the essence of faith choice, option, wager. We are so used to doubt and uncertainty that it is almost impossible to regard them any longer as a cause of anguish. Faith is more distressing, which seems to be certainty but is not, due to the depth of its abyss.

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Christianity not consolatory, not habitual, not reconciled, not sweet, not mild or easy (Kierkegaard), not secure (Luther), not frustrated (at God’s impotence) Is there a preponderance in choice? One who chooses refusal does so dogmatically, without admitting it is a choice and a hypothesis. There are those who make the choice unknowingly, or without wishing to know, or even denying that they make it (dogmatic, uncritical). Then there are those who make the choice knowingly, admitting that they do so, and thus seeking to justify it in every possible way. Doubt and question Doubt corrodes sterile negative defeatist

Question interrogates fertile problematic aporetic

– once doubt is raised, one never emerges from it; doubt is already negation – inquiry, not doubt, is compatible with (even required by) faith (wager) – faith is victory over doubt, and, as such, doubt is the penultimate step The possibility of doubt (as penultimate step) is part of the possibility of faith the reality of doubt (impeded ascent) is the impossibility of faith The originary choice is between the existence and non-existence of God (not an evil God) where God is the choice the existence of God is positive possibility realized God not as an objectifying metaphysical reality, but as a difficult and tormenting presence, an urgency which does not let

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humanity rest, and waits for it round the corner, as Dostoevsky says it is terrible to fall into the hands of the living God You most surely are terrible he alarms you, invades you, ravishes you seizes you and stands over you Protology and eschatology eternity and history history of salvation Dialectic of eternity of historical time Dialectic of the victory over evil – of necessity – of freedom God object of faith and hope but always ambiguity The two forces of the world, the yes and the no, are both in God (which is like saying that God is freedom, and the whole is a movement, a vicissitude)

From Ontologia della libertà (Torino: Einaudi, 1995), 339–345.

Notes All notes are the Editor’s own, except when specified. Notes to the Introduction 1. The list of Italian philosophers (and not only philosophers) who found in Luigi Pareyson their principal mentor would be very long, and the risk of omitting some names would be very great. For a presentation of several perspectives of contemporary Italian philosophers whose work derives from Pareyson’s thought, see the essays collected in Piero Coda – Paolo Diego Bubbio, L’Esistenza e il Logos. Filosofia, Esperienza Religiosa, Rivelazione (Roma: Città Nuova, 2007). 2. For a detailed introduction to Pareyson’s thought, see Francesco Tomatis, Pareyson: vita, filosofia, bibliografia (Brescia: Morcelliana, 2003): 37–68. Other monographs are included in the Bibliography at the end of this Introduction. 3. Cf. Claudio Ciancio, Il paradosso della verità (Torino: Rosenberg&Seller, 1999), 9. 4. These were the lectures of the course in Theoretical Philosophy taught in the academic year 1994/95 by Professor Giuseppe Riconda and they focused on the problem of evil in Pareyson and Solov’ev. 5. Most of the details of Pareyson’s life presented here are taken from Francesco Tomatis, Bibliografia pareysoniana (Torino: Trauben, 1998): 9–33. 6. Gioele Solari (1872–1952) was a promoter of social idealism. Augusto Guzzo (1894–1986) was an important exponent of Italian idealism, which was close to Giovanni Gentile’s “actualism”, which he tried to conciliate with Catholic thought. Annibale Pastore (1868–1956) addressed the theme of relativity in epistemological terms and contributed to the introduction of Phenomenology and Existentialism to Italy. 7. “Note sulla filosofia dell’esistenza,” Giornale critico della filosofia italiana 6 (1938): 407–438. “Guzzo presented a paper, written by Pareyson for a University seminar, to Giovanni Gentile who, amazed by the depth of the text, asked which Torinese philosopher had written it, not thinking that it could be the work of a student” (testimony of Giuseppe Riconda, quoted in Tomatis, Bibliografia pareysoniana, 11).

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8. Luigi Pareyson, Carlo Jaspers e la filosofia dell’esistenza (Napoli: Loffredo, 1939). 9. Luigi Pareyson, Studi sull’Esistenzialismo (Firenze: Sansoni, 1943). 10. Luigi Pareyson, L’estetica dell’idealismo tedesco (Torino: Edizioni di “Filosofia”, 1950). 11. Luigi Pareyson, Fichte (Torino: Edizioni di “Filosofia”, 1950). 12. Luigi Pareyson, Esistenza e persona (Torino: Taylor, 1950). 13. Umberto Eco, Il problema estetico in San Tommaso (Torino: Edizioni di “Filosofia”, 1956); The aesthetics of Thomas Aquinas, trans. Hugh Bredin (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988). 14. Luigi Pareyson, Verità e interpretazione (Milano: Mursia, 1971). 15. Luigi Pareyson, Filosofia della libertà (Genova: Il Melangolo, 1989). 16. Luigi Pareyson, Ontologia della libertà (Torino: Einaudi, 1995). 17. Luigi Pareyson, Studi sull’Esistenzialismo (Milano: Mursia, 2001), 16. 18. Ivi, 43. 19. Ivi, 14 20. Ibid. 21. See Karl Jaspers, Philosophy, trans. E.B. Ashton (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970), originally published in 1932. 22. See for instance Gabriel Marcel, Being and Having (Westminster: Dacre Press, 1949), originally published in 1935. 23. Payreson uses “ontology” and “ontological” in a sense similar to Heidegger’s use of the terms. In Being and Time, ontology is synonymous with the phenomenological method, which in turn is the way we can give the study of Being appropriate precision. Cfr. Martin Heidegger, Being and Time (London: Blackwell, 2000), § 7, 60. 24. Luigi Pareyson, Il compito della filosofia oggi, in Esistenza e persona (Genova: Il Melangolo, 1985), 276. 25. Silvia Benso, “On Luigi Pareyson: A master in Italian hermeneutics”, Philosophy Today, 4 (2005), 383–384. 26. Luigi Pareyson, Verità e Interpretazione, 101–102. 27. Pareyson, Studi sull’Esistenzialismo, 16–17. 28. See Marco Ravera, introduction to Filosofia dell’interpretazione, by Luigi Pareyson (Torino: Rosemberg & Sellier,1988), 10 ff. 29. Luigi Pareyson, “Rettifiche sull’esistenzialismo,” in Studi di filosofia in onore di Gustavo Bontadini (Milano: Vita e Pensiero, 1975), vol. 1, 227–247; later included in the 1985 edition of Existence and Person.

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30. Pareyson, Verità e interpretazione, 76. 31. Luigi Pareyson, “Arte e conoscenza. Intuizione e interpretazione,” in Filosofia 2 (2/1950); later published in Teoria dell’Arte. Saggi di estetica (Milano: Marzorati, 1965), 31–55, p. 83 in this volume. 32. See Pareyson, Estetica. Teoria della formatività (Torino: Edizioni di “Filosofia”, 1954; Milano: Bompiani, 1988). 33. See Daniele Silvestri, “Il dialogo come strumento conoscitivo”, Dialegesthai 7 (2005). 34. Gianni Vattimo, “Gadamer? Lei comprende io interpreto,” La Stampa. April 7, 2007, Idee section. 35. Gadamer cites Pareyson in Wahrheit und Methode (Tubingen: Mohr, 1960), 113n. For a comparison of Pareyson and Gadamer, see also Marco Ravera, “Elementi per un confronto di due teorie ermeneutiche. Il concetto di ‘tradizione’ in Pareyson e Gadamer,” in R. Dottori and H. Kunkler (Eds.), Estetica ed Ermeneutica (Napoli: Pironti, 1981), 136–161. 36. Pareyson, Verità e Interpretazione, 53, p. 161 in this volume. 37. Pareyson, Verità e interpretazione, 53, p. 161 in this volume. 38. See Paul Redding, Continental Idealism: Leibniz to Nietzsche (London & New York: Routledge, 2009), ch 11. 39. Pareyson, Verità e interpretazione, 79–80. 40. Ibid. 41. Ivi, 85. 42. Benso, “On Luigi Pareyson”, 384. 43. Luigi Pareyson, “Pensiero ermeneutico e pensiero tragico,” in Essere libertà ambiguità (Milano: Mursia, 1998), 136. 44. Luigi Pareyson, Dostoevskij : filosofia, romanzo ed esperienza religiosa (Torino: Einaudi, 1993). 45. See Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling, Philosophische Untersuchungen über das Wesen der menschlichen Freiheit und die damit zusammenhängenden Gegenstände (1809); trans. J. Gutmann, Of Human Freedom (Chicago: Open Court, 1936). 46. Pareyson, Filosofia della libertà, 10; also in Ontologia della libertà, 464. 47. Benso, “On Luigi Pareyson”, 387. For commentary on Pareyson and the notion of secularization, see Gianni Vattimo, “Ermeneutica e secolarizzazione. A proposito di L. Pareyson,” in Aut Aut 213 (1986): 17–27; also in Gianni Vattimo, Etica dell’interpretazione (Torino: Rosenberg & Sellier, 1989), 49–62.

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48. Pareyson, Filosofia della libertà, 26; also in Ontologia della libertà, 473–474. 49. Benso, “On Luigi Pareyson”, 383–384. 50. Pareyson, Ontologia della libertà, 52. 51. Ibid. According to Ricoeur, “Le symbole donne à penser” (“The symbol gives rise to thought”): “That sentence, which enchants me, says two things: the symbol gives; but what it gives is occasion for thought, something to think about” (Paul Ricoeur, Finitude et culpabilité, vol. 1: La symbolique du mal (Paris: Aubier, 1960), 324; trans. E. Buchanan, The Symbolism of Evil (Boston: Beacon Press, 1967), 348. 52. Benso, “On Luigi Pareyson”, 385. 53. Ivi, 386. 54. Luigi Pareyson, “Pensiero ermeneutico e pensiero tragico,” in Dove va la filosofia italiana, ed. J. Jacobelli (Roma–Bari: Laterza, 1986), 139. 55. Cfr. Tom Sorrell, Scientism: Philosophy and the Infatuation with Science (London & New York: Routledge, 1991), 1. 56. Pareyson, Filosofia della libertà, 18; also in Ontologia della libertà, 469. For commentary on the conception of philosophy of religion as hermeneutic of religious experience see Marco Ravera, Introduzione alla filosofia della religione (Torino: Utet, 1995): 185–188. Part One, Existence 1. Cf. my book on La filosofia dell’esistenza e Carlo Jaspers, IX. Also see 21. Cf. Bobbio’s considerations at the Turin Division of the Institute of Philosophical Studies, quoted in the report of discussions: La ricerca filosofica, Roma, Tipografia Agostiniana, 1941, VIII. See also the interesting remarks of A. Pellegrini, Novecento Tedesco, Milano, Principato, 1942, 276 ff., and a complete overview of the Italian discussions on the topic in V. A. Bellezza, Studi italiani sull’esistenzialismo, in the edition focused on Existentialism in “Archivio di filosofia,” 1946, 165. There are also interesting remarks on the topic in A. De Waelhens, La philosophie de M. Heidegger, Lovanio, 1942. Apparently, Heidegger declared in an interview that Sartre “has not clearly seen the difference between his philosophy and that of Husserl” (H. Lefebvre, L’existentialisme, Paris, Editions socials, 1946, 221, n.I). [Pareyson’s note] 2. Being–‘L’essere’. In Italian, ‘essere’ is the infinitive of the verb ‘to be’. The use of the infinitive in Italian philosophical language tradition-

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ally corresponds to the French ‘être’ and to the German ‘Sein’, and causes similar problems in translation. In particular, Pareyson’s use of the word ‘essere’ is similar to Heidegger’s use of ‘Sein’ (although there are some philosophical differences stressed in the Introduction to the present volume). As in German, the most important distinction is that between the substantive ‘l’essere’, which is always singular and which has been translated here as ‘Being’ (capitalized), and the substantive ‘l’ente’ (plural: ‘gli enti’), which is the equivalent of the French ‘étant’ and the German ‘Seiendes’ and which has been translated here as ‘being’ (more frequently in the plural: ‘beings’), which is preferable to the more abstract English expression “entity.” Capitalizing the first letter of ‘Being’ is more appropriate for Pareyson than for Heidegger because, besides the merit of treating ‘Being’ as something unique, it emphasizes the ontological difference between Being and beings (including human beings), which marks a fundamental distinction between the philosophical approaches of Pareyson and Heidegger. 3. About the three Existentialist notions of “Being-there” [Dasein], “Existence” and “Transcendence,” see my book [La filosofia dell’esistenza e Carlo Jaspers], 45–50 [Pareyson’s note]. 4. In Italian “trascendimento,” which means “the act of transcending.” As Pareyson explains later on, “According to Heidegger, transcendence is, after all, a formal ‘transcending’ [trascendimento], in which human being remains in herself.” 5. Pareyson quoted from different Italian translations of Kierkegaard’s works. Translations and references here are from the following English translation: Søren Kierkegaard, Concluding Unscientific Postscript, trans. David F. Swenson (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), 127. 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid. 8. Ivi 129. 9. Ibid. 10. Ivi 131–132. 11. Ivi 133–134. 12. Ivi 138. 13. Ivi 139. 14. Ivi 141. 15. Ibid.

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16. Ivi 137. 17. Ibid. 18. Ivi 135–136. 19. Ivi 142. 20. Ivi 143. 21. Ivi 133. 22. Ivi 171. 23. Ivi 143. 24. Ivi 146. 25. Ivi 147. 26. Ivi 148. 27. Ivi 148–149. 28. Ivi 149. 29. Ibid. 30. Ivi 150. 31. Ivi 150–151. 32. Ivi 151. 33. Ibid. 34. Ivi 155. 35. Ivi 158. 36. Ivi 180. Part 2, Knowledge 1. “Sentire” in Italian, which has the same root as the noun “sentimento” (sentiment). 2. This is a quotation from Plato’s Phaedo, 60 B: “They are two, and yet they grow together out of one head or stem.” Part 3, Truth, Interpretation and the Critique of Ideology 1. “He who will think greatly, must err greatly.” Martin Heidegger, Aus der Erfahrung des Denkens (Pfullingen: Neske, 1954), 17. 2. John Milton, The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce, in Complete Poems and Major Prose, ed. Merritt Yerkes Hughes (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2003), 698. 3. In German, an excessive or unwholesome enthusiasm 4. Augustine of Hippo, De Libero Arbitrio, Book II, 13.35.

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5. Gianbattista Vico, The New Science, trans. Thonas Goddard Begin and Max Harold Fisch, (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1948), Book One, Section II, XVI, 58. 6. Gianbattista Vico, On the Most Ancient Wisdom of the Italians, trans. L.M. Palmer (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1988), 45. 7. Gianbattista Vico, Letter of 12 January 1729, to Francesco Saverio Estevan, trans. Giorgio A. Pinton in “Four Letters of Gianbattista Vico on the First New Science,” New Vico Studies 16 (1998): 31–58 (here 50). 8. Gianbattista Vico, The New Science, Book One, Section II, XVI, 58. 9.�������������������������������������������������������������������� In German, “masters of suspicion” and “school of suspicion” respectively. Cf. Friedrich Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human, Preface, I. 10. In German, “a theory of ideology.” 11. Transition into another genus. 12. Maia: the Hindu goddess of illusion, whose powers create the illusion that the phenomenal world is real. 13. “Absolute silence of thoughts and of words.” It is a quotation from Mystical Theology by Dionysius the Pseudo-Areopagite, in Patrologia Graeca (ed. J.-P. Migne), 1033 C. 14.��������������������������������������������������������������� Here Pareyson is clearly referring to György Lukács who criticized Schelling in his Die Zerstörung der Vernunft; English trans. Peter R. Palmer, The Destruction of Reason (London: Merlin Press, 1980). 15. “This form is in the shaped, the shaper had none.” Plotinus, Enneads, VI, VII 17. 16. Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling, Sämmtliche Werke, Ed. K. F. A. Schelling, Stuttgart-Augsburg 1856–61, V, 13. Trans. Adam C. Arola, Initia Philosophie Universee: Erlanger Lectures 1820/21, in progress. Part 4, Ontology of Freedom 1. Plotinus, Enneads. The complete quotation is: “Once more, we must be patient with language; we are forced to apply to the Supreme terms which strictly are ruled out; everywhere we must read ‘So to speak’” (trans. Stephen Mackenna, London & New York: Penguin, 1991).

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2. In German, “to sing along.” 3. Pareyson is referring here to an episode included in Heine’s Confessions: “One beautiful starry-skied evening, we two [Hegel and Heine] stood next to each other at a window, and I, a young man of about twenty-two who had just eaten well and had good coffee, enthused about the stars and called them the abode of the blessed. But the master grumbled to himself: «the stars, hum! hum! the stars are only a gleaming leprosy in the sky.» For God’s sake, I shouted, then there is no happy locality up there to reward virtue after death? But he, staring at me with his pale eyes, said cuttingly: «So you want to get a tip for having nursed your sick mother and for not having poisoned your dear brother?»–Saying that, he looked around anxiously, but he immediately seemed reassured when he saw that it was only Heinrich Beer, who had approached him to invite him to play whist.” Heinrich Heine, ‘Confessions’ and Leo Tolstoy, trans Peter Heinegg (Malibu, CA: Pangloss, 1981), 367. 4. Cf. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Science of Logic, trans. Arnold V. Miller (London & New York: Routledge, 2004), 229. 5. Male pronouns will be used to refer to God, substantially because, in the final part of text, there is an identification with God the Father with God the Son, that is, Christ. 6. “You are the God who does wonders.” Psalm 77:14. 7. Cf. Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus, vv. 1211–1237; Theognis, Fragments, 0425–0428. 8. ¨For man’s greatest crime is to have been born.¨ Pedro Calderón de la Barca, Segismundo, Act I, Scene II. 9.¨What crime did we commit to merit being born?¨. Alphonse de Lamartine, Méditations poétiques, VII, Le désespoir. 10. Emily Dickinson, J376 (1862) / F581 (1863). 11. Wystan Hugh Auden, Death’s Echo. 12. “The horror of being and going on being.” Jorge Luis Borges, Dos formas de insomnio. 13. Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness. 14. The Italian Poet Giacomo Leopardi (1798–1837). 15. Here Pareyson is probably referring to Dostoevsky’s novel Besy (The Possessed), whose title is usually translated in Italian as I dèmoni (The Demons) or I demonî (The Devils). 16. Cf. Bereshit Rabba, I, 20. The complete quotation is: “Just as the bet [the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet] is closed at the top and

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at the sides, so you are not to investigate what is below, what is above, and what is before; only what is in front.” 17. Ibidem. 18. “You shall be like God.” Genesis 3, 4–5. 19. Friedrich Nietzsche, Geneaology of Morals, III, 9. 20. There are seven passages in the New Testament which speak of “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Six are found in the gospel of Matthew, one in Luke. 21. “Let there be justice, though the world perish.” 22. In The Brothers Karamazov. 23. “Pleasure to suffer.” 24. This text is a draft that was found in Pareyson’s notebooks when he passed away. 25. “His tragedy was I suppose that he didn’t know what to do with his suffering.” Flannery O’Connor, The Habit of Being: Letters of Flannery O’Connor (New York: Farrar ,Straus & Giroux, 1969), 287. 26. “Learn through suffering.” Aeschylus, Agamemnon, verse 177. 27. In German, “way of pain” or “path of pain.” Cf. F. W. J. Schelling, Sämmtliche Werke, Ed. K. F. A. Schelling, Stuttgart-Augsburg 1856– 61, X, 266. 28. Cf. L. Pareyson, “Le «letture dei Vangeli» di Antonio Maddalena,” in Filosofia, January 1989, 137; now in Prospettive di filosofia contemporanea (Milano: Mursia 1993), 359. 29. “Wager” in French. Pareyson is probably referring to Blaise Pascal’s argument of the wager. 30. In Latin: Reasonable service, intellectual allegiance. Cf. Rom. 12, 1.

Index Barth, Karl 5, 35, 36, 210 Berdiaieff, Nikolai 37 Bobbio, Norberto 5 Böhme, Jacob 21 Croce, Benedetto 6, 81 Dilthey, Wilhelm 15 Dostoevsky, Fyodor 20, 27, 28, 241-242, 250, 260, 263, 268 Eco, Umberto 1, 6, 262 Feuerbach, Ludwig 9 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb 6, 12, 26, 27, 28, 31, 238 Freud, Sigmund 160 Gadamer, Hans-Georg 1, 6, 15, 16, 24, 190, 263 Gentile, Giovanni 5, 261 Guzzo, Augusto 5, 6, 261 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 8, 9, 30, 39, 40, 65, 203, 204, 232, 239, 255, 268 Heidegger, Martin 1, 5, 8, 10, 11, 13, 16, 20, 27, 36, 39, 42, 186, 196, 203, 238, 239, 262, 264, 265, 266 Husserl, Edmund 36, 264

Jaspers, Karl 5, 8, 10, 11, 26, 27, 35- 37, 39, 261, 262, 264, 265 Kant, Immanuel 14, 26, 27, 28, 31, 32, 239 Kierkegaard, Søren 5, 8, 9, 27, 28, 35, 37, 39, 64-75, 203, 204, 258, 259, 265-266 La Senne, René 5, 36 Lavelle, Louis 5, 36, 37 43 Leibniz, Gottfried 20, 238, 263 Luther, Martin 259 Marcel, Gabriel 5, 9, 10, 11, 36, 37, 39, 42, 262 Marx, Karl 160, 193-194, 203 Milton, John 1, 187, 266 Nietzsche, Friedrich 17, 160, 195, 204, 250, 263, 267, 269 Pagano, Maurizio vi Pascal, Blaise 27, 28, 75, 239, 269 Pastore, Annibale 5, 261 Plotinus 205, 223-224, 234, 267 Ravera, Marco vi, 2, 27, 28, 262, 263, 264 Redding, Paul vi, 263

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Ricoeur, Paul 1, 22, 25, 31, 264 Riconda, Giuseppe vi, 27, 29, 261 Sartre, Jean-Paul 264 Scheler, Max 36 Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph 12, 20, 21, 26, 28, 202-205, 232, 238, 239, 263, 267, 269 Schlesinger Pareyson, Rosetta vi, 6 Socrates 75 Solari, Gioele 5, 261 Vattimo, Gianni ii, iii, vi, 1, 6, 15, 263, Verra, Valerio 6 Vico, Gian Battista 155, 193194, 207, 234, 267 Wahl, Jean 36 Zabala, Santiago ii, iii, vi