Plato and Levinas: The Ambiguous Out-Side of Ethics

Plato and Levinas

In the second half of the twentieth century, ethics has gained considerable prominence within philosophy. In contrast to other scholars, Levinas proposed that it be not one philosophical discipline among many but the most fundamental and essential one. Before philosophy became divided into disciplines, Plato also treated the question of the Good as the most important philosophical question. Levinas’s approach to ethics begins in the encounter with the Other as the most basic experience of responsibility. He acknowledges the necessity to move beyond this initial, dyadic encounter but has problems extending his approach to a larger dimension, such as community. To shed light on this dilemma, Tanja Staehler examines broader dimensions that are linked to the political realm and the problems they pose for ethics. Staehler demonstrates that both Plato and Levinas come to identify three realms as ambiguous: the erotic, the artistic, and the political. In each case, there is a precarious position in relation to ethics. However, neither Plato nor Levinas explores ambiguity in itself. Staehler argues that these ambiguous dimensions can contribute to revealing the Other’s vulnerability without diminishing the fundamental role of unambiguous ethical responsibility. Dr. Tanja Staehler is Senior Lecturer in Philosophy at the University of Sussex.

Plato and Levinas The Ambiguous Out-Side of Ethics

Tanja Staehler

New York

London

First published 2010 by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Simultaneously published in the UK by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2009. To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk. © 2010 Taylor & Francis All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Staehler, Tanja. Plato and Levinas : the ambiguous out-side of ethics / Tanja Staehler. p. cm. 1. Lévinas, Emmanuel. 2. Plato. 3. Ethics. I. Title. B2430.L484S74 2009 194—dc22 2009004556 ISBN 0-203-87312-2 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 10: 0-415-99180-3 (hbk) ISBN 10: 0-203-87312-2 (ebk) ISBN 13: 978-0-415-99180-3 (hbk) ISBN 13: 978-0-203-87312-0 (ebk)

To Leon Alexander Staehler

Contents

Acknowledgments Introduction a) The Central Question b) Plato’s Phaedrus c) Levinas’s Two Main Works d) Levinas on Plato e) Methodological Remarks f) Before Culture

PART I 1

2

3

1 4 7 12 15 19 24

29

Preliminary Reflections on the Self

31

a) Interiority and the Myth of Gyges b) Otherness in the Same?

32 36

Dimensions of Corporeality

44

a) Levinas and the Body as Vulnerability b) The Body in Plato’s Phaedrus

45 49

Enjoyment or Suffering? Modes of Sensibility

56

a) The “permanent truth of hedonist moralities” b) Pleasure, Pain, and Vulnerability

57 60

PART II 4

The Self

xi

The Other

67

Origins of Speech

69

a) Speech as Apology b) Socratic and Levinasian Teaching

70 73

viii Contents 5

6

The Ambiguity of Eros

79

a) Levinas About Eros Between Being and Non-Being b) Plato on Beauty and Wings c) The Place of Eros

80 85 90

The Ethical Relationship

95

a) The Paradox of Ethical Resistance b) An Infi nite Responsibility c) Getting Under the Skin

PART III 7

8

95 100 106

The Others

111

The Universality of the Good

113

a) Levinas and Universal Humanism b) Plato and the Good Beyond Being

113 117

Communities, Politics, Laws

128

a) Plato on the Advantages and Disadvantages of Law b) Levinas and the Political Calculus

129 137

PART IV Historical–Cultural Worlds

149

9

The Critique of Writing

151

a) Writing Versus Speech b) The Saying and the Said

151 157

10 The Ambiguity of the Aesthetic

164

a) Images and Shadows b) The Irresponsibility of Art c) The Work and Tyranny 11 History and Culture a) Between Past and Future b) Levinas and the Stranger c) Philosophers and Strangers in Plato

165 168 175 180 180 187 192

Contents 12 Concluding Remarks on Ethics and Ambiguity a) A Univocal Ethics? b) Ambiguity in de Beauvoir, Merleau-Ponty, and Levinas c) Attempting a Genealogy of Ambiguity d) Plato’s Contribution e) Ethics and Ambiguity

ix 199 199 204 209 216 222

Postscript: Derrida on Hospitality

228

Notes Bibliography Name Index Subject Index

239 269 279 281

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my colleagues and the students at the University of Sussex for discussing drafts of several chapters that I presented to the “Philosophy Society” over the course of the last six years. Particularly helpful was the feedback offered by Paul Davies, Rickie Dammann, Joseph Ward, Vicky Roupa, Persephone Lioliou, and Celine Surprenant. Many thanks to Edward S. Casey, Alexander Kozin, and anonymous readers for Routledge Press for reading parts of the volume and providing instructive comments. A fellowship from the Alexander von Humboldt-Foundation has allowed me to spend fi fteen months focusing entirely on this manuscript while being hosted by Sybille Kraemer at Freie Universität Berlin, for which I am very grateful. Special thanks go to Michael Lewis, who read the entire manuscript and provided extremely valuable comments regarding style, grammar, and content. Any remaining problems and unclear formulations are entirely my responsibility. This book is dedicated to my son, born on September 10, 2006, still sufficiently ‘other’ and strange to exemplify many of Levinas’s ideas. My thanks go to him for inspiration and to those who looked after him when I needed to attend to this manuscript: my parents and Alexander Kozin.

Introduction

The face opens the primordial discourse whose fi rst word is obligation, which no “interiority” permits avoiding. It is that discourse that obliges the entering into discourse, the commencement of discourse rationalism prays for, a “force” that convinces even “the people who do not wish to listen” (Plato Republic, 327b) and thus founds the true universality of reason. Preexisting the disclosure of being in general taken as basis of knowledge and as meaning of being is the relation with the existent that expresses himself; preexisting the plane of ontology is the ethical plane. Levinas (TI 201/175)

“The face opens the primordial discourse . . . ” Passages such as this make it clear that Levinas’s philosophy is a peculiar one. Its unusual language might turn out to be the least of its several peculiarities; in the end, he is not alone in this. Another minor idiosyncrasy is his constant conversation with other philosophers, carried on explicitly by way of references and criticism, implicitly through themes and terms. More unusual—and perhaps most distinctive—is Levinas’s approach to philosophical ethics. Its strangeness, however, should certainly not be taken as an argument against Levinas’s philosophy. After all, philosophy has often been said to present a strange element, an abnormality, or a disturbing factor in relation to our everyday convictions. Plato thematizes the philosopher as the stranger in several dialogues, and Socrates calls himself a stranger on numerous occasions.1 If Levinas’s thought strikes us as strange, this makes it a philosophy in the emphatic sense. However, such strangeness must respond to certain problems and questions. Even Plato, who regards philosophy as a form of madness, would never claim that any form of madness is automatically philosophy. What distinguishes Levinas’s philosophy, and to what dilemmas in traditional philosophy does it respond? Levinas’s ethics is different from traditional ethical theories in two important respects, which will be sketched in broad strokes here and fleshed out more fully in subsequent chapters. In the first place, for Levinas no element of retroactive punishment or reward has any relevance whatsoever to ‘ethics.’ Philosophers from Socrates onward have been aware of the inconsistency of

2

Plato and Levinas

any theory that emphasizes the necessity to be just and do good solely for the sake of doing good, but at the same time includes some form of reward for good deeds after our death. Despite this prevalent insight, however, traditional ethical theories usually refer to some guarantor of justice. 2 Secondly, Levinas does not tell us what we ‘ought’ to do, nor does he provide a criterion for right or moral action. Instead, we are summoned by the face of the Other3 who, in his or her vulnerability, calls on us. In both respects, Levinas overcomes several traditional problems associated with metaphysical explanations yet finds himself confronted with the problem of how much evidence he can actually provide for his distinctive ideas. This study examines the scope and limits of Levinas’s approach by taking it as a unique theory yet one which has been deeply influenced by traditional ethics. The underlying conviction is that Levinas’s philosophy gains clarity and plausibility when related to traditional theories; at the same time, in this way, what is distinctive about his thought will be brought into relief. In order to approach the main question guiding this analysis, it will be helpful to consider in more detail the passage quoted previously. “[P]reexisting the plane of ontology is the ethical plane.” This sentence expresses the driving force behind Levinas’s philosophy, usually captured in the phrase “Ethics as fi rst philosophy.” Two ideas are contained in this phrase. Firstly, Levinas diagnoses a primacy of ontology (or, in modern philosophy, epistemology) in the philosophic tradition. Ethics comes on the scene as just one discipline among many, after the important foundations have been discussed and secured. This is problematic, according to Levinas, because starting with ontology or epistemology means that certain general questions have already been decided upon and certain parameters set by the time ethical questions are even raised. Levinas wishes to reverse this order. Secondly, Levinas maintains that the ethical plane preexists the ontological plane. On what level does he advance this claim? For obvious reasons, it cannot be an ontological claim, though at fi rst it sounds as if this were the case. Is it a phenomenological claim, that is, a claim that operates on the level of phenomena or appearances?4 Does Levinas mean to say that ethics appears to be the most basic discipline—that it moves us, strikes us, as the most important aspect of philosophy? This train of thought has a certain plausibility, but at the same time, Levinas does not fully embrace phenomenology—in part because it does not give priority to ethics, either. Ultimately, it has to be an ethical claim. Levinas’s philosophy usually exhibits the following two movements. On the one hand, he examines and criticizes other philosophers and points to certain problems. On the other hand, he develops his own descriptions and analyses. Each of these movements harbors specific problems. At fi rst glance, critique seems to be less problematic, but upon closer scrutiny Levinas’s critique often solicits frustration as he seems to at least partially misunderstand the philosophers he addresses (albeit in the process of raising important points). There is a certain ambiguity involved in this critique:

Introduction

3

if we accept Levinas’s presuppositions, the critique is justified; yet from a different perspective, various responses to his objections could be given. In that sense, the second movement is more important: How does Levinas justify his own claims, and what is the method of his analyses? If we can answer these questions, the critique will gain plausibility. Yet some level of circularity is involved here: If the claim about the primacy of ethics is itself an ethical claim, where do we start? Following Levinas, we can only start from ethics and propose an ethics of ethics, as it were, rather than an ontology or phenomenology of ethics. It is hardly surprising that Levinas does not take methodological considerations as his starting point. Instead, he starts from the “relation with the existent that expresses himself.” The starting point is the self-expression of the Other, and this self-expression is the Other’s call. Unlike Heidegger, who starts with the being that is concerned about its Being (namely, Dasein), Levinas begins from the “existent that expresses himself.” In other words, I do not start from myself and my concerns but from the expression that I encounter, the self-expression of the Other which obliges me. Just how this obligation arises and is played out remains to be seen. This expression—this call—is a fact for Levinas. The call is there, and there is no need to provide a proof for its existence; the only question is how I will respond. Levinas is quite willing, however, to give examples of this call, from the Other who asks me to hold open the door for him or her to the Other who wants me to open my door without conditions, to host, feed, and ultimately die for him/her, if necessary. The Other expresses himself or herself mainly through the face, of which the face in the literal sense is just one instance. More precisely, Levinas explains that “[t]he way in which the other presents himself, exceeding the idea of the other in me, we here name face” (TI 50/21). Face is thus the way or mode in which the Other comes to appearance. Even if I only see the shoulders or hear the voice of the Other, it is still the face (in Levinas’s sense) of the Other to which I respond. As the Other exceeds any idea of him/her in me, I have to acknowledge the asymmetry of our relation. This asymmetry is neglected in any theory that takes the universality of reason as its starting point, for such a theory would emphasize equality and the reversibility of perspectives. According to Levinas, my encounter with the Other is ethical from the start, and I am infi nitely responsible for the Other. It is not possible to defi ne a point when I can say with complete confidence that I have done enough. To begin from a symmetry of perspectives would be to neglect the alterity of the Other. For Levinas, I violate the essence of the Other if I model him or her after myself and assume that I can put myself in the Other’s place. The Other is radically different from me, so different that the problem arises as to how we can relate to each other at all, and how we can relate without each diminishing the Other’s alterity. Levinas’s response is speech, or discourse: the “primordial discourse” opened by the face that speaks to me and calls upon me.

4

Plato and Levinas

Levinas thus starts from the face-to-face or one-to-one encounter. Despite this unusual starting point—the elucidation of which will be one task of this study—Levinas acknowledges the necessity that an ethical theory extend its scope beyond the one-to-one. In the passage we have been explicating thus far, he claims that primordial discourse “founds the true universality of reason.” The true universality of reason is thus not a starting point but something at which we arrive on the basis of a more original relationship, namely, my relationship with the Other based on discourse or dialogue. Although Levinas also takes the political and social realm into account, he believes that such interactions on a larger scale are always secondary to the original face-to-face encounter. These preliminary considerations, stemming from a central passage in Levinas’s text, allow me to give a fi rst formulation of the central question of this study. I will do so by briefly referring to Plato’s Republic. Afterward, I will give a brief introduction to Plato’s Phaedrus and to Levinas’s philosophy before sketching several important themes in Levinas’s discussion of Plato.

a) THE CENTRAL QUESTION In the Republic, Socrates aspires to determine the nature of justice by examining the human soul. He makes the controversial move of investigating the state rather than the soul because—according to him—we achieve more clarity by examining larger versions of the same thing, and because Socrates proposes an analogy between the polis and the soul. Justice between two individuals or souls runs parallel to justice on the level of the state, Socrates claims. Ever since, ethics has moved in the space between smaller and larger communities. In this study, I want to show that Levinas’s idea of starting an ethics from the smallest community, from my encounter with the Other as the primordial ethical situation, is convincing. To put it bluntly, why would I ever worry about the community at large, laws and international relations, if I had not already found myself in such a primordial ethical situation? And at the same time, it is necessary to move beyond the one-to-one relation. If we are to follow Levinas’s suggestion and root politics in ethics, we must determine what such a relationship entails. Although one might say that the transition from the dyad to larger communities is not in itself a problem insofar as we always already fi nd ourselves in larger scale communities, the proposal that “politics must be able in fact always to be checked and criticized starting from the ethical” (EI 80) requires a closer examination of this transition. The same principal dilemma can be found in Plato’s dialogues. When Socrates asks in a one-to-one conversation what justice and the other virtues are, he wants to fi nd out what justice is for everyone. At the same time,

Introduction

5

the answers at which he arrives turn out to depend on the particular interlocutor and conversational situation. Nevertheless, some insights seem to remain in place throughout the Platonic dialogues, especially those concerning the idea of the Good as the highest principle. This idea is approached most prominently in the Republic, where Plato examines the Good in the individual soul as well as in the state, but also, for example, in the Symposium, where love as evolving from the one-to-one encounter is illuminated from different perspectives. The idea of the Good directs all interpersonal relationships, from the smallest to the largest. In addition to the smallest community and the universal one, there exist intermediate communities: historical, cultural communities (such as nations or smaller subdivisions thereof). This idea is sometimes hinted at by Levinas, for instance, when he emphasizes that in the myth of the last judgement at the end of Plato’s Gorgias, there is a European judge for the Europeans and an Asiatic judge for the Asiatics, even though all other specificity has been consciously removed from the souls of the dead who are to be judged (OB 199n./204n.). It will be one of our hypotheses that Levinas, despite such occasional hints, does not sufficiently consider the significance of historical–cultural worlds. Plato more fully integrates this dimension into his philosophy, as we will see, insofar as he takes into account the specific interlocutors in each dialogue and the particular situation of the Greek polis, and discusses the necessity of comparing laws, constitutions, etc. Nevertheless, Levinas and Plato share certain apprehensions that make it difficult for them to appreciate the role of cultural worlds. These apprehensions concern history, art, and writing.5 Both favor dialogue, speech, or discourse as “a ‘force’ that convinces even ‘the people who do not wish to listen’” (Plato Rep. 327b). We will need to examine the basis for this privileging of speech—as well as asking whether the privilege is indeed established as straightforwardly as it seems. In the course of this study, we shall open the floor to a number of further interlocutors in order to make the transition from Plato to Levinas. These interlocutors will be Kant,6 Hegel,7 Husserl, Heidegger, and Merleau-Ponty. Their roles become particularly important where themes such as history, culture, and strangeness are concerned—topics regarding which Levinas criticizes his predecessors and contemporaries. We shall examine Levinas’s critique and inquire as to whether these philosophers could provide a response to Levinas’s criticism. At times, it might appear that we have too many figures in play; this is necessary because Levinas develops his philosophy through a constant implicit and explicit dialogue with ancient as well as with contemporary philosophers. Moreover, the themes which shall be treated here have been discussed in controversial ways throughout the history of philosophy—especially as far as relations between ethics and politics, philosophy and politics, and art and truth are concerned.8 While Levinas only rarely thematizes what I here call “cultural worlds,” it is remarkable that cultural and historical specificities are perhaps more

6

Plato and Levinas

tangible in his writings than in any other philosopher. Insofar as his intellectual double origin, Greek as well as Jewish, has been commented upon by himself as well as by other philosophers,9 Levinas’s cultural and religious origins as such will not be examined here.10 The question is rather: What is the role and significance of cultural worlds in general for the tension between the one-to-one encounter and the need for a universal or universalizable ethical theory? This study claims that Levinas’s approach to ethics, which starts from my encounter with the Other, is persuasive but that he does not sufficiently explore the move to larger communities. Such negligence is rooted in Levinas’s self-proclaimed Platonism; yet Plato’s own philosophy offers resources whichLevinas does not fully explore. Levinas’s resistance to an exploration of historical–cultural worlds is linked to his tendency to avoid ambiguities, which he identifies in the erotic, artistic, and political realm. These diagnoses of ambiguity are plausible, and they coincide with Plato’s ambivalent treatment of these same themes, which interpreters usually read as contradictions in Plato’s work, while in fact they point to ambiguities in the phenomena themselves. The response to such fi ndings cannot be an evasion or elimination of ambiguity but rather a closer exploration. The main theme determines the structure and the path of this investigation. The fi rst two parts are modeled after the main sections of Levinas’s Totality and Infinity. Where he proceeds from “Interiority” to “Exteriority,” we will follow the same movement under slightly different titles (titles that are closer to Plato as well as to the later Levinas). The first part, “The Self,” examines the sphere of the self, the sphere in which the Other plays no essential role. What remains, then, is most importantly my body, my bodily needs, and my wish to enjoy myself in fulfi lling those needs as well as to separate myself off and protect myself. The second part, “The Other,” expands this picture to include the Other, establishing the dyadic relation. This relationship is fi rst introduced through various forms of communication between myself and the Other. The more intense form of that relationship is what both Plato and Levinas call ‘Eros’ or ‘the erotic.’ However, both also harbor suspicions about the erotic—Levinas more so than Plato. The highest form of the dyadic relation is the ethical relationship in which I take responsibility for the Other, as Levinas puts it, or strive for perfect justice, as Plato has it. The third part takes us from the Other to a plurality of others, or from the face-to-face relationship to a more inclusive realm—the realm which Levinas designates as the political. Whereas Levinas seems to conflate the move to humanity as a whole with the move to political communities, I suggest that we need to differentiate between universality and politics, which constitute two distinct modalities. The differentiation between universality and politics in Part III is partly motivated by surprise at the fact that Levinas does not examine communities that are larger than the dyad, yet smaller than all of humanity. Levinas’s reluctance to explore historical–cultural

Introduction

7

worlds seems grounded in his Platonism on the level of culture, art, and literature. The fourth part discusses four related themes, namely, writing, art, history, and strangeness. These themes are interconnected on the most general level, because a foreign cultural world is determined by its stories or myths. Both Plato and Levinas have a complicated attitude toward stories, and even more so toward painting and visual art, in general. With Levinas, in particular, doubts about works of art and literature go hand in hand with a resistance toward history. Throughout these parts, several phenomena turn out to be determined by an essential ambiguity, especially in erotic, political, and artistic domains. The ethical encounter with the Other, in contrast, is often described by Levinas as unequivocal or nonambiguous. Chapter 12 investigates the extent to which ethics is indeed nonambiguous, and how Levinas’s concerns regarding ambiguity are linked to his difficulties in exploring the relation between ethics and politics. The title of this study is partly inspired by Simone de Beauvoir’s The Ethics of Ambiguity. While de Beauvoir develops an ethics based on human ambiguity, Levinas, trying to do justice to such ambiguity, deems ethics to be devoid of ambiguity, on the most fundamental level. In his later philosophy, however, Levinas proves to be more open to explorations of ambiguity. De Beauvoir’s concept of ambiguity will be briefly explored in Chapter 12 to see how it relates to Levinas’s. Before sketching several important themes in Levinas’s discussion of Plato, I will give a brief introduction to Plato’s Phaedrus and to Levinas’s two main works: Totality and Infinity and Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. Since this volume will refer to the Apology, Gorgias, Republic, Phaedrus, Symposium, Philebus, and Parmenides, it might well seem arbitrary to offer a short introduction to the Phaedrus at this point. However, this dialogue is arguably the most significant one for the topic of this study, for reasons I will now outline. The presentation of the dialogue’s main themes provided in the following section might appear rather more detailed than befits an introduction, but this reading forms the basis for discussions in later chapters.

b) PLATO’S PHAEDRUS The Phaedrus occupies a special place in Levinas’s philosophy. Firstly, Levinas alludes to the Phaedrus more than to any other Platonic dialogue.11 Later we will see which of the Phaedrus’s themes in particular Levinas deems most significant. Secondly, and more importantly, the Phaedrus raises a whole set of themes that are relevant to our question: Eros in its various shapes; philosophy in contrast to rhetoric; the Good and the beautiful; speech in its ethical significance as well as in contrast to writing; art and

8

Plato and Levinas

its ambiguity; and, though not in an obvious fashion, corporeality, nature, and the elements. Furthermore, the Phaedrus is a dialogue par excellence. It assembles two interlocutors who focus very much on each other as well as on the matters in question. The dialogical situation of the Phaedrus thus serves as an example of the one-to-one encounter in Plato. Fourthly, the Phaedrus contains three myths that will be helpful for our reflections on the relation between philosophy and mythos. These myths have drawn the attention of other philosophers, especially Jacques Derrida12 but also Martin Heidegger.13 Heidegger claims that the Phaedrus constitutes the framework for the basic questions of Platonic philosophy.14 One of the most important questions of Platonic philosophy, and, indeed, of every philosophy, is “What is philosophy?” This question is always too simple and at the same time too difficult; yet no philosophy can avoid at least an attempt to answer it. As Plato tries to determine the essence of philosophy, logos comes into view as an indispensable element. Due to the multiplicity of meanings that logos holds (as speech, reason, argument, etc.), however, this determination is a specification of the question rather than an answer to it. Furthermore, the question concerning the nature of philosophy for Plato always involves a delineation of philosophy in relation to rhetoric or sophistry. A discussion of the differences between philosophy and rhetoric is carried out in the Phaedrus, and there it is centered on the theme of logos. In the following, I will give a brief summary of certain central themes in the Phaedrus by focusing on the various meanings of logos. Logos fi rst appears as Socrates tries to determine what Phaedrus was doing in the house of Lysias, the rhetorician. Most likely, Lysias was offering logoi as nourishment on this occasion (Phaedr. 227c). The fi rst meaning of logos to arise in the dialogue is thus speech, and Lysias’s speech is further determined when Phaedrus says that it is a logos erotikos, a speech about love. Yet in a Platonic dialogue, we expect logos to refer not only to speeches (since this meaning leads us into rhetoric) but also to reason or argument (as the determining features of philosophy). And Phaedrus indeed informs us right away about the argument of Lysias’s speech: “Lysias argues (legei) that it is better to give your favours to someone who does not love you than to someone who does” (227c). This leads Socrates to introduce an ethical dimension of logos. “I wish he would write that you should give your favours to a poor rather than to a rich man [ . . . ]. Then his speeches would [ . . . ] contribute to the public good besides!” (227c–d). We learn that not only do speeches make an argument and need an argument but also that speeches can contribute to the public good. They can be helpful, but they can be harmful as well. Whether they can be ethically neutral is not determined at this point, but later on in the Phaedrus, and even more explicitly in other dialogues (for instance, the Gorgias), Socrates proves that the very defi nition of rhetoric and of speeches makes it impossible for them to attain ethical neutrality. They

Introduction

9

ultimately pertain to the question of justice, and this is the ethical question par excellence. Phaedrus proceeds to read Lysias’s speech and to ask Socrates about it. Socrates, in what could be interpreted as an instance of Socratic irony, pretends to be quite surprised when Phaedrus wants to know whether he agrees with Lysias’s argument. Wasn’t he, Socrates, only expected to pay attention to the rhetorical side of the speech? For a while, Socrates acts as if he accepts the rhetorical distinction between the form and the content of a speech. Not only does he restrict his criticism to the form of Lysias’s speech but he even offers to give a speech with the same argument (an alternative logos as speech based on the same logos as argument). Before Socrates starts to deliver his speech, however, he hesitates and tries to back out. This gives Phaedrus the opportunity to offer his own, rather different, logos. Phaedrus says: “My logos is an oath” (236d), the oath being that he will never recite another speech for Socrates if Socrates does not deliver the promised speech on love. Phaedrus thus introduces yet another dimension of logos: commitment. A logos can be an oath, and perhaps a logos is always an oath of sorts. Socrates has to give in since he is, by his own admission, a philologos, a lover of speeches. This confession may come as a surprise: Socrates is a philosophos, a lover of wisdom. If he is also a philologos, this leaves us wondering whether the two descriptive terms are the same. Moreover, is Socrates a lover of logos as speech or of logos as reason? At this point in the dialogue, the topic is logos as speech; but we can assume that there has to be a significant connection between the different meanings of logos. Socrates presents his speech, and he points out that a defi nition of the subject matter—in this case, Eros—needs to be given at the beginning of a speech. This defi nition is what Lysias had omitted.15 What is love? Love is some kind of desire, we are told, and more specifically, it is unreasoning desire (aneu logou epithumia; 238c). For we have two principles in us: judgment or reason (logos) on the one hand and outrageousness (hubris) on the other. Now we have arrived at a fi rst determination of the relation between logos and Eros: Eros can be defi ned precisely by its lack of logos. That is, Eros belongs to the genus of desire, and its specific difference is its lack of logos, along with the fact that Eros is directed at beautiful bodies. This determination of the relationship between Eros and logos will be reversed in Socrates’ second speech. Why can the defi nition of Eros as desire without logos not be maintained? Three hints are given. Firstly, Socrates himself says that his speech (as well as that of Lysias) was “horrible” because it offended the god Eros. Everybody says that Eros is a god (or at least the son of a god),16 and that love is a thing divine. Since nothing bad can come from the gods,17 the argument of the speech was wrong. Secondly, and on a less explicit level, a close connection between logos and Eros has already been hinted at in the talk about a logos erotikos on

10

Plato and Levinas

the one hand and about Socrates as a philologos, a lover of speeches, on the other. We have learned that Eros can be the subject matter of a logos, and logos can be the object of love. There is a logos of love, and a love of logos—not necessarily a symmetrical relationship but defi nitely a close intertwinement, and a mutual implication. The third, most developed clue is presented by Socrates in his second speech.18 There he explains how Eros is a divine mania, a divine madness. Socrates distinguishes between a bad, human madness and a good, divine madness. Divine madness takes four shapes; the fourth of these is called Eros, which leads us into philosophy. This madness comes about because our souls have at one time seen justice, self-control, etc., as such, and they get excited if reminded of this primordial vision. To explain the character of this primordial vision, Socrates introduces the myth of the chariots. Souls, he says, can be likened to a team of winged horses and a charioteer. While the gods have charioteers and horses from good stock, humans have to deal with mixture rather than purity. One of our horses is beautiful and good; the other is ugly and bad. Socrates points out that it is the “bad horse,” which drags the chariot toward the earth as the chariots move around to catch a glimpse of justice as such, along with the other ‘objects’ (247b)19. Some souls manage to take in more of what the virtues in themselves are, others less. But sooner or later, every soul tumbles down to the earth, either by its own fault or others’. And this is where Eros, the divine mania, can befall us. We fall in love when we see something beautiful, which reminds us of the beauty our souls saw in the heavens. Interestingly enough, it follows that those who remember best what they have seen—and they are, according to Socrates, the philosophers—experience love more strongly (251a), and they exhibit all the features of madness, even though they try to hide them when in front of others. What happens to the two horses when the soul is in love? It is not surprising that the “bad horse,” whose character is further specified as wild and stubborn, will be connected to the physical side of love. But we need to read more closely. As the lover encounters the loved one, the good horse is dominated by its sense of shame and does not jump on the loved one right away, while the bad horse goes wild and leaps forward. The task of the charioteer is in this situation largely to keep the bad horse in check until it is willing to approach the loved one’s soul slowly and properly. Socrates gives a long description of how the bad horse needs to be tamed and what a strenuous and painful procedure this is; but we must remember that it was the bad horse who was initiating the movement in the fi rst place. No matter how uncivilized the bad horse’s movement is in the beginning, this horse provides the motive force in our erotic response to beauty. 20 Eros moves us. It accounts for the fact that we are drawn to the loved one without being able fully to say why and how. Similarly, we enter into

Introduction

11

philosophy without fully being able to explain how we ever make a beginning in philosophy. Eros is the other of logos, yet intimately connected to it. Without Eros, we would not be able to philosophize; we would not be able to reflect on logos. The paradox of philosophy’s beginning consists in the fact that we can only see the beginning in retrospect. Outside of philosophy, we cannot come to an understanding of it; prior to philosophy, we can only make a beginning in a nonphilosophical fashion—but in that way, we will never be able to enter into philosophy. 21 We are pulled in, attracted through a madness that we can only explain after the fact. If the relationship between logos and Eros is so crucial indeed, it might help us to fi nd an answer concerning the question of what the Phaedrus is ultimately about. Two obvious and conflicting answers are: Eros on the one hand and rhetoric on the other. The fi rst answer stems from the fi rst half of the dialogue, the second answer from the second half, in which Socrates and Phaedrus examine the essence of speech. Not only do these two possible answers confl ict but each of them also has to discard one major part of the dialogue as irrelevant. A third answer is possible and was fi rst suggested by Friedrich Schleiermacher: the theme of the Phaedrus is neither Eros nor rhetoric, but philosophy. I cannot defend this claim in detail here, but one advantage is obvious. If the dialogue is about philosophy, then the two halves of the dialogue are connected, and both are necessary in order to determine what philosophy is. Perhaps a more elucidating formulation of this possibility would be to say that the theme of the dialogue is the relation between logos and Eros. 22 Unfortunately, many interpretations of the Phaedrus (most prominently Derrida’s) focus almost entirely on the theme of writing in the second half of the dialogue. The written text is criticized in the dialogue for its inability to defend itself, thus allowing for all sorts of misunderstandings (275e). What we will have to examine in more detail, however, is whether the rejection of writing is indeed to be taken literally. 23 There are other passages in the dialogue where Socrates argues in favor of writing and even the passage in which the critique of writing occurs allows for several interpretations. Perhaps the important distinction is not between speech and writing as such but between a logos that is alive and closely connected to its subject matter, and a dead, stale logos, be it written or spoken. If the theme of the Phaedrus is indeed philosophy as the relation between logos and Eros, then the differences between the philosopher and the rhetorician can be articulated in terms of this relation. Logos is what connects the philosopher and the rhetorician, but there are also several differences between the philosopher and the rhetorician. For example, the philosopher sees the different meanings of logos and their connections, while the rhetorician focuses on the fi rst meaning, speech. The philosopher knows that in order for logos to be alive and stay alive, it has to be kept intact and remain in connection with what it discloses, while the rhetorician tends to make use of stale logos under the guise of living logos. And, as Lysias’s

12

Plato and Levinas

speech proves, the rhetorician tries to keep his cool as far as he can. The philosopher, in contrast, is inspired by divine madness, by Eros.

c) LEVINAS’S TWO MAIN WORKS While introducing some central ideas from a Platonic dialogue in just a few pages is already a dissatisfying task, it is all but impossible to introduce one of Levinas’s works in such a small space. Moreover, both of Levinas’s main works—Totality and Infinity and Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence—will be of equal importance for this study. 24 Rather than attempting an introduction to these two works, let me take a structural approach and sketch the composition of these works, thereby pointing out several important differences between the two texts. The main difference is already reflected in the table of contents. Totality and Infinity has a rather clear structure; it consists of four parts: “The Same and the Other,” “Interiority and Economy,” “Exteriority and the Face,” and “Beyond the Face.” While Levinas himself would probably not call this structure “linear,” it certainly does appear linear in comparison to the structure of Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. The latter work could be described as “concentric,” where the chapter “Substitution” serves as the core around which the other chapters are grouped. This circularity also becomes evident as Levinas returns to themes from previous chapters to describe them in a new way, adding more aspects, creating new connections, and clarifying problems.25 While this procedure characterizes Levinas’s work in general, it is most prominent in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. But what is the relationship between Totality and Infinity and Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, if we focus on the content rather than the structure? Almost all of Levinas’s commentators have offered suggestions, and these are split between those who stress a continuity and those who stress a discontinuity in Levinas’s thought. Unlike certain other philosophers, Levinas has not often thematized the development of his philosophy, with the exception of specific topics such as Eros or justice. The fact that he neither announced a “turn,” nor a change in method may be taken as an indication that he did not feel the need to revoke his earlier ideas. It is evident that his primary concerns stay the same, even as they become more explicit—as, for example, with the thought of ethics as fi rst philosophy. Yet it is also evident that there are certain shifts in emphasis, as well as attempts to resolve problems that emerge in the earlier works. This shifting continuity is particularly apparent in the relationship between Totality and Infinity and Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. That relationship is complicated, however, and this is not the place to turn it into a separate theme. I hope that the treatment of themes such as enjoyment, suffering, Eros, responsibility, writing, politics, and ambiguity

Introduction

13

will help us situate the two works with respect to one another. At fi rst sight, Totality and Infinity seems to invoke a more optimistic, lighter atmosphere, so to speak, as evoked by discourse on enjoyment, bathing in the elements, dwelling, and Eros. While most of these themes are still present in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, they take on a different cast. Sensibility is predominantly a matter of vulnerability (though this insight is already expressed at certain points in the earlier text), and food is mentioned not so much in the context of enjoyment as in the context of responsibility, of “giving the bread from my mouth.” It is certainly true that the emphasis on ethics is even stronger in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence than in Totality and Infinity. Moreover, ethics becomes concretized under the heading of ‘substitution’: me for the Other. But this does not mean that sensibility plays a minor role. On the contrary, ethics is described in terms of sensibility, leading to a rather graphic language at times (for instance, I not only give the bread from my mouth, but even offer my skin). The increased turn to responsibility and the move away from the structure of interiority and exteriority nevertheless does not mean that Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence places more emphasis on the Other. On the contrary, it is predominantly Totality and Infinity that shows and explicates the radical otherness of the Other. “Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence elaborates this ethics of alterity like ethics itself, by turning back to the moral sensibility of the subject awakened by the other, to its unique temporal and moral de-phasing, a fissured self, traumatized, held hostage by the other.”26 Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence focuses on the self but not as separated from or prior to the Other. One could describe Totality and Infinity and Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence as two phases of Levinas’s unique philosophical approach. In the fi rst phase, the asymmetry between myself and the Other needs to be shown by demonstrating the Other’s irreducible alterity. Then, in a second step, Levinas arrives at a new concept of the subject, which is no longer an indubitable starting point for philosophy, but an infi nitely responsible subject that has already been invaded by the Other. It must be noted that these shifts are mostly shifts in emphasis, mirrored by changes in terminology. As mentioned previously, more distinct transformations concern particular topics. Levinas states that to his own mind, his development is mostly a matter of themes. The philosophical path only presents itself as a path if described from the outside. “For the scholar himself, the only possibility lies in describing those themes that occupy him at just this very moment, at the moment in which he is trying to take stock, as it were.”27 We will return to a more developed discussion of the relationship between these texts in subsequent chapters. Here, at the beginning, however, it is worth mentioning two exemplary difficulties that may occur when reading Levinas’s texts, especially Totality and Infinity. 28 The fi rst concerns Levinas’s usage of expressions such as “earlier” and “later,” but

14

Plato and Levinas

also “primordial” and others. For example, Levinas writes that “[a]lterity is possible only starting from me” (TI 40/10), and the structure of Totality and Infinity also implies that interiority is earlier than exteriority, where the desire for the Other originates in a being that is “already happy” (62/34). Levinas seems to present separation as a primordial mode of being, but then he says that separation is “anterior posteriorly” (170/144). This expression, “anterior posteriorly,” is a contradiction in terms. What can it mean? Why does Levinas use it? Why, in general, does he use temporal expressions if we are not supposed to understand them in terms of a straightforward “earlier” or “later”? In the specific instance of the “anterior posteriorly,” one could explain how the passage justifies such an expression. He is here talking about the world and the elements that sustain us but from which we also separate ourselves. In this sense, the ego is earlier but also later than the elements. More generally, it has to be kept in mind that Levinas’s understanding of time is not the everyday sense of time at all. Husserlian phenomenology had already pointed out that “clock time” does not reflect the way we experience time.29 Heidegger, then, makes us question our conception of past and future, arguing that the past is something “which already goes ahead” of us.30 The past is not closed off, lying behind us as something we do not need to worry about anymore but essentially determines our future possibilities. Levinas acknowledges these insights and goes even further by asking us to think of temporality as based on alterity. 31 While we are used to leaning on temporal (and foundational) expressions as aids in understanding philosophical relations, Levinas asks us not to interpret the Other on the basis of the accepted understanding of temporal structures but to think time anew. This novel conception of time would then be able to do justice to experiences of rupture, surprise, and excess as introduced by the Other. In other words, we should not rely on Levinas’s temporal expressions as a way into his work—however tempting this may be due to the familiarity of temporal expressions. Just as little do these expressions point to an irresponsible inconsistency on Levinas’s part. Rather, they have to be read in line with and perhaps even after his overall reflections on interiority and exteriority. The second difficulty concerns Levinas’s attitude toward formal logic. Levinas criticizes formal logic at various points. A critique of formal logic as such is not necessarily a novelty. Already in Hegel (one of the totalizing philosophers, from Levinas’s perspective) we fi nd the thought that any true philosophy has to break with the law of noncontradiction. For Hegel, negation is much more complicated than a mere “not.” Negation does not produce a mere nothingness but the nothingness of that which is being negated—and therefore, a “determinate negation.” Levinas does not articulate his critique of formal logic to the same extent, but it seems that he is questioning the principle of identity—in line with his critique of Parmenides. When Levinas says “is,” he does not necessarily mean simple identity. This is not a revolutionary idea either, given Aristotle’s elaborations on

Introduction

15

the insight that “being” is said in many ways. 32 Nevertheless, a specific caution is required concerning the function of the words “to be” when reading Levinas’s texts. For example, take the following two statements: “We name this calling into question of my spontaneity by the presence of the Other ethics” (TI 43/13), and, “the calling into question of the I, coextensive with the manifestation of the Other in the face, we call language” (171/146). My being called into question by the Other is ethics, and it is language. Do we then conclude that ethics is language? That sounds bizarre. It is possible to read these statements in various ways. On the one hand, one could problematize the two original statements themselves and differentiate between “my spontaneity” and the “I.” However, it seems that the emphasis in both statements is on my being questioned, and not on the distinction between different manifestations of interiority which then determine the difference between ethics and language. A second and more convincing option is to examine whether the identification of ethics with language is indeed so strange. As we will see in more detail later, for Levinas, language implies teaching, my being taught by the Other. This teaching is an obligation, reminding me of my responsibility. And ethics, indeed, is not a set of morals or values but this very responsibility placed upon me by the Other. In that sense, ethics is language, or is at least closely connected to and implied by language.33 The difficulty only arises because we would like to make use of the principle of identity by replacing an unfamiliar term with a familiar one. If ethics is language, and if we do not quite know what ethics (in Levinas’s sense) is, it becomes tempting to think of language— whether as a set of linguistic rules, a collection of signs, or even language in the context of some non-Levinasian philosophy—and to try and equate ethics with it. This leads to some strange consequences. Levinas, in contrast, wants us to try fi rst to understand “being called into question by the Other,” and if we understand this, then both ethics and language will gain clarity. Is this an impossible demand? Does Levinas block all familiar entryways and request that we open up to an entirely unfamiliar way of thinking in which all words acquire a new meaning? No, he does not; and one kind of access that he offers us is by way of other philosophers, such as Plato. This may not be the easiest path either—it certainly requires careful reading, and even then, certain ambiguities are hardly avoidable—yet it will prove a fascinating and rewarding point of access.

d) LEVINAS ON PLATO While no interpreter denies the enormous significance of Plato for Levinas’s thought, the relation between the two philosophers has not been tackled in any substantial manner. The few essays that have been dedicated to this subject focus on certain specific aspects of the relation.34 In turn, several

16

Plato and Levinas

monographs discuss contemporary continental interpretations of Plato35 but devote only a few remarks to Levinas—despite the fact that Levinas, unlike Heidegger, explicitly demonstrates the importance of Plato’s philosophy for our times—or, as Peperzak puts it at the end of his elucidating, yet rather brief chapter on “The Platonism of Emmanuel Levinas”: “We may therefore conclude that Plato’s actuality is proven by at least one of the key figures of twentieth-century philosophy.”36 Levinas’s references to Plato are numerous. Without going into statistical analysis, I am confident in claiming that he is referred to more than any other philosopher in Levinas’s corpus, and particularly in Totality and Infinity and Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence.37 At fi rst glance, these references seem to be random, unsystematic, and sometimes obscure. They often take up only half a sentence and make the reader wonder whether Levinas’s associative style is not in fact making him more difficult to understand. Upon closer scrutiny, however, it becomes clear that the majority of these citations and allusions are not random at all but rather point to certain themes and threads that are central to Levinas’s own thought. In this section, I will briefly introduce some of the most important connections, although they will be fully elaborated only as this study proceeds. Levinas repeatedly stresses that, for him, the two most important insights in the philosophical tradition are Plato’s idea of the Good beyond Being, and Descartes’ idea of infi nity. The idea of the Good beyond Being from Plato’s Republic will be an important topic in Chapter 7 of this study, as it is tied to Plato’s formulation of the unconditional character of ethics. The Good is beyond Being, it does not belong to the order of Being; instead, the allegory of the sun reveals it as the cause of Being (as well as the cause of becoming and knowing). The status of the Good beyond Being is certainly difficult to determine—as becomes obvious in Plato’s concession that it cannot be directly broached, but only by way of analogy or through its offspring. Any immediate approach to the Good would commit the error of integrating the Good into the order of Being. Levinas says that the “place of the Good above every essence is the most profound teaching [ . . . ] of philosophy” (TI 103/76). This insight is so profound and unusual because it breaks open the “totalitarian” character of traditional philosophy, which has tended to establish totalities, albeit under different titles (God, Being, etc.). Levinas diagnoses this tendency as springing from a wish to establish one ordering principle. By placing the Good beyond Being, Plato ruptures the totality of Being and shows how any totality as such is only possible in virtue of a transcending principle. The Cartesian idea of infi nity places a similar emphasis on transcendence and excess. While this idea is not immediately rooted in the realm of ethics, Descartes’ insight is nevertheless essential insofar as he focuses on the role of the self in relation to this idea of infi nity. My powers are transcended; I must admit my failure to comprehend the infi nite or that the idea could have been caused by me, rather than by an actual infi nity outside

Introduction

17

of me. According to Levinas, this is exactly the experience that I undergo when I encounter the Other who exceeds any idea of him/her in me. While Levinas gives credit for this realization to Descartes, he is also aware that Plato’s Phaedrus contains a similar thought. One of the most striking passages from the Phaedrus concerns the defi nition of philosophy as a divine madness. This madness comes about through indirect contact with an idea that transcends my capacities or, more precisely, it arises when something reminds me of an idea that my soul has seen at an earlier point but that cannot be grasped by the soul in its earthly existence. 38 Furthermore, the particular madness of philosophy is introduced by Plato as Eros, as god-sent desire. Such desire is another insight that Levinas borrows from the Phaedrus. Throughout his work, Levinas draws a distinction between need as resulting from a lack that can be fi lled, and desire as an insatiable longing that can only be deepened. The object of the latter sort of desire is the Other as surplus and rupture. In the Phaedrus, such an encounter is said to make me “shudder” (251a; cf. OB 87/110). It is the shudder that overcomes me as I see someone beautiful who bears a trace of beauty as such.39 I shudder because I am encountering something so different and alien that my familiar expectations and categories fail me. Nevertheless, a relation between myself and the Other is possible by way of speech, as mentioned previously. In order to determine such a speech more precisely, Levinas again returns to the Phaedrus. In the fi rst place, he welcomes Plato’s distinction between speeches directed at fellow men or the crowd and speeches that please the gods (Phaedr. 273e; TI 70 f./37). True discourse may still be directed at human beings, but it presupposes the acknowledgment of the asymmetry between myself and the Other, which means to address the Other like a god and in a way that pleases the gods. Secondly, Levinas embraces one of the most well-known passages in the Phaedrus: the critique of writing. Socrates explains that written speech is open to misunderstanding, for it “can neither support itself nor come to its own support” (Phaedr. 275 e). This passage has evoked a wide array of discussions and can be interpreted in various ways.40 Most important for Levinas is the way in which the call of the face is a living speech in which the Other addresses me and stands up for his or her words, taking responsibility for them. This call and my response to it are more immediate than all fi xed statements; all established propositions and theories depend on such primordial speech. Having maintained in Totality and Infinity that speech allows me to encounter the Other in his/her otherness, Levinas’s later philosophy asks once again and more generally how it is possible to establish a relationship to an entity without changing this entity. Levinas finds this same question posed in Plato’s later philosophy. In the Parmenides, Socrates wonders whether any relation with the Absolute would not necessarily reduce the Absolute to the relative (Parm. 133b–135c; 141e–142b). This problem in Parmenides’s doctrine of the identity of Being and thought is one of

18 Plato and Levinas the reasons why Plato questions the doctrine and distances himself from it. Levinas writes of Plato’s “parricide” in relation to Parmenides (OB 166/211).41 At the most basic level, Levinas deems Plato’s thinking to be incompatible with that of Parmenides because of their different approaches toward ontological totality. For Parmenides, there is nothing outside of the totality of Being: no nothingness, no becoming, no alterity. For Plato, the Good is higher than all Being, transcending and breaking any totality of Being. Relying on Plato’s version of the Parmenidean doctrine in the dialogue, Parmenides, Levinas examines various dimensions of the One: the One not beyond Being, but on the hither side of Being, fragile and vulnerable; the One without Being, not as the Good, but as the subject. Levinas continues to refer to Socrates’ remarks about a speech that comes to its own support as he develops the distinction between the “saying” and the “said.” The saying is this fi rst, self-supportive speech by which I am called into question by the Other. It is inevitable that the saying be transformed into a said, into language as a particular linguistic system, subject to the rules of formal logic. Yet this transformation tends to betray the saying; something gets lost. Nevertheless, Levinas does not want us to think of the saying as an origin in any straightforward sense: it is anarchical (OB 7/8). To further elucidate these ideas, Levinas calls on another Platonic dialogue, the Gorgias. In two extensive and fascinating footnotes, Levinas interprets the myth of the last judgment at the end of the Gorgias, in which souls are judged, having been stripped of their skin, in complete nudity, such that no deception is possible.42 For Levinas, the significance of the myth lies in the possibility of passing judgment outside of any “said,” that is, merely on the basis of the proximity of naked souls. Other dimensions of this myth will be discussed later.43 There are many other references to Plato in Levinas’s works, several of which will be taken up in subsequent chapters. It might be thought that in the end Levinas’s critical, negative, or dismissive comments on Plato are not sufficiently considered in this study. Such comments can be found especially in Levinas’s early works, such as Time and the Other.44 While some of the critical comments, especially those from Totality and Infinity, will be taken up in the chapters on teaching and Eros, most of the comments from Levinas’s earlier works will be neglected here. It seems to me that Levinas’s criticism is directed against Platonism rather than against Plato, or against the Platonic heritage in the philosophical tradition.45 In that sense, they are directed against all of philosophy, since according to Levinas, “all philosophy is Platonic” (PN 113).46 Such criticism is thus less interesting than Levinas’s later comments, which focus on that which makes Plato’s philosophy unique. It is, however, also important to keep in mind that there are connections between Plato and Levinas that are not explicitly thematized by Levinas. Firstly, both of them attribute a primacy to ethics. Whereas Levinas has to thematize and explain this primacy, Plato’s philosophy precedes the

Introduction

19

Aristotelian separation of the pragmata, the philosophical disciplines.47 Plato does not need to tell us beforehand whether a certain dialogue is concerned with ethics, metaphysics, physics, or epistemology; yet while most dialogues treat several topics, certain dialogues would fall under one category more than others (e.g., the Timaeus presents Plato’s philosophy of nature). However, the primacy of ethics in Plato’s philosophy is obvious— not because we can retroactively apply the headings and find that the greatest number of them fall under the category of “ethics” but rather by virtue of considerations such as the following. The idea of the Good is the highest idea; without it, Plato’s doctrine of Forms is nonsensical. While one can interpret Plato’s allegories in the Republic along epistemological lines, the ethical concern predominates. Socrates’ main passion is to inquire into the essence of justice and the other virtues. His principal accusation against the sophists is that they attempt to bracket ethical concerns, while speeches have an ethical component from the very start. It is this emphasis on ethical questions that motivates Levinas to rely on Plato to such great extent. Secondly, Plato and Levinas share an immense interest in the theme of Eros.48 When Levinas develops his “Phenomenology of Eros” in Totality and Infinity, he draws heavily on Plato’s considerations in the Symposium and Phaedrus. However, Levinas later becomes suspicious of Eros and searches for a love without an erotic component. Such scepticism, which is based on the ambiguity of Eros, is not unfamiliar to Plato either. I will ask whether these suspicions are justified, or whether Levinas dismisses Eros too quickly, being more Platonic than Plato himself. Similar inhibitions arise regarding the theme of art, especially painting, where Levinas adopts Plato’s supposedly dismissive stance all too easily. Thirdly, both Plato and Levinas integrate stories, and specifically myths, into their philosophy, despite Plato’s critique of the poets. These considerations lead me to a general remark. Throughout this study, references to stories, literature, fiction, and most importantly myths are taken seriously, just as Plato and Levinas take them seriously. Myths and stories are much more than mere illustrations, let alone simple decoration. At the same time, it is problematic to base a philosophical argument on a story. This tension becomes obvious on numerous occasions in Plato’s and Levinas’s writings, and will be discussed in Chapter 10. Mythos and logos are not identical— books of fiction are not books of philosophy—and yet they are closely connected. This connection is particularly important for hermeneutics, as well as for phenomenology. I will continue this introduction with some remarks on the hermeneutical–phenomenological method that informs this study.

e) METHODOLOGICAL REMARKS It is not possible to present a fully developed, precise method here, for neither phenomenology nor hermeneutics can be discussed as mere methods

20 Plato and Levinas in separation from the particular issues or themes being addressed. At the same time, it is justified to call phenomenology and hermeneutics methods, in the literal sense of methodos, “following a way.” Phenomenology is a way toward phenomena, and hermeneutics is a way toward understanding texts, as well as toward understanding ourselves and the problems in which we are entangled. In this section, I will sketch out how phenomenology and hermeneutics can complement each other. The “results” and accomplishments of such a combined method can only become clear in the actual pursuit, but some preliminary remarks are indispensable. Aside from the fact that they cannot be considered as methods detached from their subject matters, another problem arises when trying to approach phenomenology and hermeneutics. There is not “one” unified phenomenology, nor is there “one” standard hermeneutics. It will be necessary to refer to particular philosophers in order to identify certain ideas, but it is impossible to specify exactly “whose” phenomenology or hermeneutics will be at stake. The concept of phenomenology that concerns us here is derived from Husserl, Heidegger, and Levinas himself.49 Phenomenology, in the broadest sense, is an investigation of certain phenomena, of the way in which things appear to us rather than what appears to us. The question we pose to Plato and Levinas would then be whether their descriptions do justice to the phenomena they discuss. Yet matters immediately become more complicated: in the following, we will be interested less in perception (as the classical topic of phenomenology) than in questions of ethics, politics, and Eros. Is, for example, a phenomenology of something like Eros even possible? Does Eros appear, does it show itself—and if so, how? Heidegger reminds us that in addition to the formal meaning of phenomenology, namely, “to let what shows itself be seen from itself, just as it shows itself from itself,” there is a deformalized, phenomenological concept of phenomenon: “What is it that is to be called ‘phenomenon’ in a distinctive sense? [ . . . ] Manifestly it is something that does not show itself initially and for the most part, something that is concealed, in contrast to what initially and for the most part does show itself. But at the same time it is something that essentially belongs to what initially and for the most part shows itself, indeed in such a way that it constitutes its meaning and ground.”50 For Heidegger, this is the Being of beings. Do certain other phenomena not also fulfill this description? Is there, for example, a form of concealment peculiar to Eros? Moreover, if Eros names the desire that may be designated as the other of philosophy, that yet leads us into philosophy, then Eros is not strictly speaking a ground but indeed something that remains concealed in what shows itself. Levinas employs a different, albeit related, concept of phenomenon. For him, the phenomenon is the being that “appears, but remains absent” (TI 181/156). Being on the border between visibility and invisibility, being present in absence and absent in presence is what Levinas calls “phenomenality.”

Introduction

21

Phenomena in the emphatic sense are those that must be situated on the threshold between visibility and invisibility, being and non-being, presence and absence. A phenomenology of such phenomena shows the possibilities as well as the limits of phenomenology. Phenomenology is thus by no means restricted to chairs and tables, to themes of foreground and background, and so forth. A phenomenology of the other human being is a more complicated but also a more provocative task. Husserl and Heidegger turned to the theme of the Other, but in ways that, according to Levinas, cannot ultimately do justice to his/her otherness. Levinas points out that the Other does not appear as such and, in that sense, cannot be grasped by phenomenology. Levinas’s philosophy is at the limits of phenomenology, yet so deeply influenced by it that it still seems justified to call it a phenomenology in the broadest sense. Levinas states that he engages in phenomenology,51 and he explicitly calls his investigation of Eros a phenomenology, to give just one example. At the same time, Levinas resisted all requests to formulate the method of his philosophy, stating in an interview that he does “not believe that transparency is possible in method.”52 Our methodological remarks in this chapter thus concern not Levinas’s philosophy but rather the method of this study. The method of this study needs to be described, not because I disagree with Levinas’s remark about the impossibility of transparency in method but because a study of this kind, unlike a great piece of philosophy, is obligated to attempt such a formulation. Plato and Levinas provide helpful resources for this attempt. Our goal is to investigate the relation between certain phenomena or regions of phenomena (e.g., ethical, political, artistic, erotic phenomena), which turn out to be the foci of Plato and Levinas. However, if we are interested in investigating certain phenomena, why turn to Plato’s and Levinas’s texts rather than to the things themselves? Is this not a detour, to say the least, or even a distraction? If the phenomenological method is complemented by hermeneutics, the apparent detour might actually turn out to be the most appropriate path to the phenomena. Without getting into the details of hermeneutics and the differences among various hermeneutical approaches, hermeneutics can generally be defi ned as the art of interpreting. Hermeneutics claims that we are always already interpreting.53 If this is so, we better consciously engage in interpretation and approach the phenomena through relevant philosophical texts. For Plato, Eros actually represents a hermeneut or interpreter. In the Symposium, Eros is characterized as a mediator between gods and humans, traveling back and forth to deliver messages and gifts. Put differently, Eros is needed by those who cannot communicate without an interpreter or translator. And when we are reading a text, we are ultimately always interpreting or translating it into our own times and our own language, that is, into our own home. 54 The movement that characterizes Eros in the Symposium, traveling back and forth between humans and gods, points to another aspect

22

Plato and Levinas

of hermeneutics. It is a circular movement, always returning to its starting point. Such a movement indicates the hermeneutic circle. Both in the hermeneutic circle and in the movement of the Platonic hermeneut, there is progress despite the circular motion. Enrichment and closer clarification are achieved by the exchange of messages in the broadest sense. The figure of the hermeneutic circle is important in this context because I wish to show that the philosophies of Plato and Levinas can illuminate each other. The goal is not simply to trace out Platonic influences on Levinas but rather to put Plato and Levinas in a dialogue concerning certain themes. How would they respond to each other? What does Levinas learn from Plato, and what could Plato have learned from Levinas? As Heidegger points out, it is not necessary to try and avoid hermeneutic circles (much less dread them for their circularity), but to fi nd the right point of entry into them.55 The search for an appropriate point of entry is connected to the relationship between the bigger picture and its smaller components, or between the encompassing horizon and that which appears within this horizon. It is very difficult to approach the horizon as such, and we are usually tempted to turn to more specific phenomena. Yet these phenomena are only what they are in light of the horizon. We have a preunderstanding (German Vorverständnis), which helps us to orient ourselves. At the same time, we gain a clearer understanding of the encompassing horizon as we proceed with our particular investigations. To take one of Heidegger’s examples, if we want to know what art is, we may start by examining an artwork, or we could investigate what an artist is. But we only recognize artwork and artists because we have some preunderstanding of art (OWA 1 f.). This preliminary understanding helps us to investigate artworks, and as a result of our analyses of artworks, we will have clarified our understanding of art. Circles will play a role in this study even aside from the relationship between Plato and Levinas. Firstly, the figure of the circle needs to be kept in mind when looking at the structure of our investigation. The sphere of the self is the starting point, but already within the first three chapters, the Other will enter into the discussion. It is not possible to talk about the self, the one, or the subject without having some understanding of alterity. Secondly, there is the main question of the investigation—how to get from a one-to-one encounter to a larger community—but there are also smaller, related questions. Yet how are such themes as myths, Eros, and art relevant to the main question? The smaller topics lead into the larger theme in the end, and they are already situated within its horizon. At the same time, however, they also have relevance in themselves. Such an approach also leads back to the phenomenological aspect of our investigation. The headings of the individual chapters reflect the fact that different phenomena will be analyzed. The one-to-one relation, for example, will be considered through its different manifestations or through the ways in which it comes to appearance: as speech, as erotic encounter, and as ethical responsibility for the Other.

Introduction

23

Let me add a remark concerning a problem of language or style, a problem posed by Levinas’s philosophy. As is surely clear by now, Levinas uses various terms that are either unfamiliar to the reader (e.g., interiority, exteriority, anteriorly posterior) or that he endows with a special meaning (e.g., need, desire, face). After introducing these terms to the extent that they are relevant for our purposes, I will also use them in this study. As a result, at times the text may appear somewhat alien, and there is a tangible difference between the passages that deal with Levinas directly and those that address other philosophers or more general questions. Yet it is impossible to avoid this impression; it follows from the phenomena being discussed. Even though every attempt will be made to explain the basic problems and arguments that are at stake, it would be extremely artificial and misleading to avoid the technical terms altogether, or to substitute them with synonyms after they have been introduced as technical terms. Levinas’s thought constitutes an interruption of (classical) philosophy. This interruption leads us back to Plato—to something old rather than to something new, yet it leads back in a unique way.56 Levinas does not request that we abandon traditional philosophy but rather investigate it from within. Such an investigation of the tradition from within, leading us back to the beginning of Western philosophy, certainly takes significant methodological inspiration from Heidegger. However, there are at least two crucial differences between Levinas and Heidegger. Firstly, Heidegger locates the beginning of Western metaphysics in Plato, such that a primordial, premetaphysical beginning can only be sought in the Presocratics. For Levinas, metaphysics starts with Aristotle, who distinguishes between different philosophical disciplines and subordinates ethics to ontology as First Philosophy. Secondly, in line with the diverging assessment of philosophy’s history, Heidegger emphasizes the significance of ontology (and specifically Daseinsontologie) whereas Levinas places ethics at the center. To approach Plato from a hermeneutical–phenomenological perspective requires taking a greater or lesser distance from other ways of reading Plato. It is not possible to explain and justify these distances here, 57 although the debates between different Plato interpretations certainly belong to the most heated and interesting discussions of that kind in the history of philosophy. As indicated previously, the phenomenological approach has the significant advantage that it keeps returning us to the phenomenon in question. With respect to the critique of writing, which proves itself to be the essential issue of Plato interpretation, some of the implications can be indicated here. Against a developmental reading that tries to determine the chronology and phases of Plato’s writings, the phenomenological approach will consider different dialogues, potentially from different phases, to achieve a more well-rounded interpretation of the phenomenon in question. Against the Tübingen School’s reconstruction of an unwritten doctrine mentioned by other ancient philosophers (Aristotle, Aristoxenus, etc.), our focus rests on the dialogues to which we have access and which give a multifaceted

24

Plato and Levinas

presentation of the written text rather than a straightforward critique. Against an analytic reading of Plato’s dialogues in terms of the arguments presented and their logical coherence, the reading undertaken here presumes that the force of a certain standpoint depends on a number of factors, such as other statements in the same dialogue (and sometimes other dialogues), the phenomenon under discussion, and the setting of and action within the dialogue, among others. 58 These factors are usually taken into consideration by contemporary nonanalytic interpretations for which there is no unified name, yet which sometimes take a radical shape that could be called the “dramatic” approach. Perhaps the most extreme version of this interpretation is to be found in Leo Strauss and those who were inspired by him, especially Seth Benardete and Stanley Rosen. While the dialogue setting and the specific interlocutors should certainly be considered, this focus must not deter one from the actual discussions within the dialogue. It is not irrelevant whether Socrates speaks to Pythagoreans, mathematicians or rhetoricians; but it does not follow that the phenomenon presents itself entirely differently, depending on the audience. 59 And Plato, as his thematization of writing shows, was well aware that he was writing for his readers; so the discussion is not restricted to the characters within the dialogue. Despite the commitment to the hermeneutical–phenomenological approach, results from other interpretations will be considered in relation to specific dialogues, themes, and statements. Such an admittedly eclectic approach is necessary for examining the texts and phenomena from a variety of relevant perspectives. In the end, the concept of ambiguity should provide a response to what appear to be contradictions in Plato’s work, opposed statements regarding topics such as myth, poetry, writing, Eros, politics, etc. in different dialogues (and sometimes even within one and the same dialogue). If the seeming contradictions are in fact expressions of ambiguity in the phenomenon itself, a one-sided solution will prove impossible.60 After these methodological considerations, I will return to the central problem motivating this study. The text in which Levinas most explicitly argues against “philosophies of culture” is “Meaning and Sense.” At the same time, this is the text in which Levinas exposes himself most obviously as a Platonist.

f) BEFORE CULTURE The title of this subsection has been borrowed from the title Levinas gives to Section VIII of his essay “Meaning and Sense.” In this text, Levinas opposes “contemporary philosophy of meaning” to Platonism. Contemporary philosophy of meaning is represented here predominantly by Hegel, Bergson, and Merleau-Ponty. Their position can be summed up as “truth

Introduction

25

would be inseparable from its historical expression” (MS 83). However, this formulation evokes an important distinction: Is there no access to truth outside of its historical givenness, or is there no truth outside of its historical givenness? It would lead us too far astray to consider how each of the three philosophers mentioned by Levinas would respond to the question that presents this alternative.61 What is Levinas’s criticism regarding contemporary philosophies of culture? He does not criticize them for their emphasis on culture as such, but for assuming that culture is an irreducible, original structure. Moreover, Merleau-Ponty describes relations between cultures as lateral, and Levinas explains why this description is appropriate: “For there does exist the possibility of a Frenchman learning Chinese and passing from one culture into another, without the intermediary of an Esperanto that would falsify both tongues which it mediated” (MS 88). There is not one universal language that all languages need to pass through in order for translation to be possible. In that sense, all languages operate on the same level. Levinas, in contrast, emphasizes verticality as the original mode of our encounter with the Other. According to him, Merleau-Ponty’s analysis forgets about the original orientation that motivates and inspires the Frenchman to learn Chinese, which obviously precedes the actual learning process (ibid.). An investigation of culture must not neglect that an interest in cultural structures only arises because of a more original dyadic relation, which inspires and motivates me to undertake such investigations. For this first relation, the cultural background of the Other is irrelevant. Yet this does not foreclose a later examination of cultural worlds, provided that the original dimension is not forgotten or violated. While Levinas’s reminder seems justified, it is not clear whether the relationship between cultures would indeed have to be lateral, just because there is no universal language that connects the various languages. Levinas’s argument for the asymmetry and irreducibility of my relation to the Other states precisely that there is no common ground between myself and the Other. Hence the absence of a common world could be an argument for an analogous asymmetry between cultures.62 What Levinas seems to be arguing against, in this essay, are radical historicism and relativism. At the end of the section “Before Culture,” Levinas writes that norms of morality “are not embarked in history and culture,” but rather, “they make all meaning, even cultural meaning, possible, and make it possible to judge cultures” (MS 102). Here, Levinas shows that he is a Platonist at heart, and we will have to investigate how such norms of morality can be conceived.63 For our current, introductory purposes, it will suffice to see that Levinas does not consider the exploration of cultural worlds problematic as such, but rather the assumption that often goes along with it, claiming that there is no “antecedence” to cultural values. If the antecedence of moral ideas and the primacy of ethics are preserved, nothing prevents an investigation of culture and history. As long as the

26

Plato and Levinas

face-to-face encounter is acknowledged as the starting point, it is permissible to ask how we can get from there to larger communities. As Levinas refers to Platonism to criticize contemporary philosophies of culture, he also points out that these philosophies themselves fall back on a certain Platonism (since the arguments that are used to justify tolerance and the value of cultural meaning are, in their essence, Platonic). The identification of such Platonist tendencies allows us to wonder whether a strengthening of a certain Platonism in Levinas could not, surprisingly, take him closer to contemporary philosophies. As indicated previously, Plato places emphasis on culture and on cultural strangeness. In contrast to Levinas, Plato discusses the transition between the dialogical dyad and larger communities quite explicitly and develops detailed, albeit at times problematic, accounts of the relation between philosophy and politics. We will see that there is a connection between the diffi culty Levinas faces in expanding his ethics beyond the initial dyad, and his diagnosis of certain phenomena as ambiguous, such as Eros, art, and politics. At certain points in his early and middle work, Levinas tends to move away from all ambiguous phenomena since they represent a threat to ethics. Their ambiguity consists in a propensity toward self-enclosure at the expense of ethical concerns. 64 We can only point out here in a preliminary fashion that Levinas’s apprehensiveness regarding ambiguity goes hand in hand with his neglect of cultural worlds for their inherent ambiguity. Whereas Levinas tends to marginalize ambiguous phenomena in Totality and Infi nity, he shows much more openness to ambiguity in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence and even describes the examination of ambiguity as the task of philosophy. However, Levinas does not return to Eros, art, and politics in an attempt to undertake more detailed and balanced phenomenological investigations of these ambiguous phenomena. While he now considers ambiguity more significant, he has abandoned the phenomenological method almost completely such that a phenomenology of ambiguity cannot be undertaken. This study will ask what such a phenomenology of ambiguity might look like, or how certain insights from Totality and Infi nity (along with its phenomenological method in the broadest sense) can be brought together with Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence (and its focus on ambiguity). Rather than criticizing Levinas, this attention to its strongest aspects, as well as the investigation of its Platonic influences, will enrich his philosophy. When Levinas identifies a phenomenon as ambiguous, he utilizes Platonic arguments (especially the critique of writing from the Phaedrus, which Levinas extends to various domains). While it seems likely that Plato would agree with a description of Eros, art, and politics as essentially ambiguous, he takes a different approach. Rather than turning away, he stays with the topic and produces what is often read as a contradiction,

Introduction

27

but which could also be interpreted as a thorough investigation of an ambiguity that refuses to hastily favor one side. In this respect as well, Levinas might benefit from attending to Plato even more than he does. Yet in order to see this, we need to start from the very beginning, from the point at which we will always already have begun: the self.

Part I

The Self

The fi rst part is concerned with an account of the self or interiority. Throughout this part, it becomes obvious that interiority both precedes and presupposes exteriority. Although interiority is never entirely closed, it appears plausible to delimit it as a sphere for reflection since it is characterized by the fact that the Other plays no essential role in it. Levinas alerts us to interiority and its possibilities of enjoyment to show that the Other does not fi ll a gap or a lack but evokes an insatiable desire. Chapter 1 discusses interiority through the Platonic myth of Gyges to show that there is a possibility of separation and radical egoism which does not in itself harbor a contradiction. Despite the fact that I am already obsessed by the Other, having the Other in me, I am capable of ignoring the Other. I can ignore the call of the Other, and even though I cannot be right as I do so, I can nevertheless enjoy myself. This opportunity of the self is related to me having a body, which is the topic of Chapter 2. While Levinas takes up fi ndings from previous phenomenologies of the body, especially regarding a primordial exchange between me and the world (or the elements), he stresses another aspect as most fundamental, namely, corporeality as exposure and vulnerability. Against the common assumption that we cannot learn from Plato about the body, it turns out that the main characteristics of the body already surfaced in the Platonic Phaedrus, albeit in more indirect ways. Vulnerability turns out to be, in Chapter 3, at the basis of any alternative between enjoyment and suffering. The force of enjoyment is acknowledged in hedonism to which both Plato and Levinas ascribe a momentary truth. Hedonism fails because of the future, which comes to manifest itself differently in Plato and Levinas. Yet the most fundamental level on which any momentary truth of hedonism and any fear of suffering are based is passive sensibility, like the denuded “One without Being” in Plato’s Parmenides that cannot ever be detected in its pure form. Perhaps surprisingly, it turns out that mere selfhood without any other would not be happy, but would be suffering in the most inescapable sense.

1

Preliminary Reflections on the Self Interiority must be at the same time closed and open. Levinas (TI 149/123)

Throughout his philosophy, Levinas discusses the “inner life”; in Totality and Infinity, he calls this inner life “interiority.” In this fi rst chapter, the inner life will be examined in a preliminary fashion before turning to more specific aspects of interiority (namely, corporeality and sensibility) in the following two chapters. An exploration of the self in Levinas faces certain difficulties. There are several questions about the status of the inner life and its relation to “exteriority,” which need to be taken up. Furthermore, complications emerge as Levinas’s account changes from Totality and Infinity to Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. When Levinas discusses the inner life as a “psychism” in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, explaining that this term names an “otherness in the same,” we start wondering whether this is a response to possible misunderstandings which could emerge from the systematic account of interiority and exteriority in his early and middle work. However, Levinas maintained from the beginning that interiority does not precede exteriority in any straightforward fashion; nor has it ever been treated by Levinas as a sphere completely free from otherness. In section (a) of this chapter, the Platonic myth of Gyges shall be our guide for exploring interiority, since Levinas states that this myth is not a fictional story but presents our human condition. It is possible, so Levinas claims, for us to sever our connection to the world and to others, to close ourselves off within ourselves, and indulge in egoistic enjoyment. This would be a state of seeing without being seen, observing without participating. Seeing without being seen neither creates internal contradictions nor can it easily be detected by others. Thus the ring of Gyges symbolizes a state of radical injustice at the core of our existence. The topic of an “otherness in the same” has been very prominent in contemporary philosophy, and recent texts have related this question to Levinas in an effort to expand on his philosophy. In section (b) of this chapter, our discussion will take into account a recent text by Judith Butler, namely, her “Adorno lectures” published in English under the title Giving an Account of Oneself. We shall see that this topic itself already existed before Levinas (in authors like Hegel and Husserl, to name just two), but

32

Plato and Levinas

that Levinas takes a very specific approach which, for various reasons, would reject Hegel and Husserl’s treatments of alterity as well as more recent variations on the theme.

a) INTERIORITY AND THE MYTH OF GYGES The myth of Gyges will be considered here because it will help us to discuss some important questions about the dimension Levinas refers to as “interiority.” What is interiority? Is interiority a state that precedes my encounter with others, and perhaps even my encounter with the world? Why does Levinas deem it necessary to investigate interiority, and do such investigations not run counter to his “philosophy of alterity”? A provisional response to the fi rst question could take its departure from terms Levinas brings up as he explores interiority—most importantly, “separation,” “closing oneself off,” and “being at home with oneself.” Separation designates a division, a severance of the ties between me and the world that surrounds me. Such a manner of speech, along with the expression “closing oneself off,” indicates that this separation severs a connection and is, in that sense, secondary or derivative in relation to the original connection. Levinas strengthens this impression when he says that separation “breaks” with participation, or “no longer” participates (TI 61/32, 90/62). However, a response to the second question will be more complicated than these preliminary remarks may suggest: the state of interiority is primordial as well as secondary, it is both anterior and posterior—and it is this paradox that Levinas imposes on us and our ways of thought. Furthermore, it seems that interiority is not a “real” state that occurs in any “pure” form. If I ever exist as a true interiority, it would be in a moment of egoistic enjoyment, a moment in which I do not lack anything. It is this observation, namely, the fact that “in a certain sense one lacks nothing” (TI 61/32) that the idea of interiority expresses. Ultimately, Levinas explores this dimension to show that at the basis of my existence there is not a lack but self-sufficiency. Thus, my encounter with otherness is not based on deficiency; the Other does not complement me, but rather ruptures my interiority. After these very preliminary remarks on interiority, which need to be fleshed out, we will explore the myth of Gyges in order to elucidate the human condition as Levinas sees it. The myth tells a story about Gyges, who was a shepherd in the service of the king of Lydia (Rep. 359d–360b). One day, after a thunderstorm and an earthquake had broken open the ground, Gyges fi nds a corpse in a chasm that has been opened by the earthquake.1 The corpse is wearing nothing but a golden ring, which the shepherd procures. After some time, he realizes that the ring makes him invisible if he turns it inward and visible again if he turns it outward. Gyges abuses the

Preliminary Refl ections on the Self 33 power of the discovered ring by seducing the king’s wife, killing the king with her help, and taking over the kingdom. Glaucon tells this story to Socrates to show that we only act in a just fashion because we want to avoid punishment. Nobody, so the common opinion goes, would stay on the path of justice if given the chance to do whatever they wanted without being seen—and thus without having to be accountable for it. This, of course, is not Socrates’ conviction; he wants to show that we not only want to appear just but in fact to be just. However, the myth makes it obvious that Socrates has a very difficult task if he wants to show that justice indeed belongs to the highest goods, which are valued both for their own sake and because of their consequences. The function of this myth for Levinas, on the most general level, is the following: it represents our condition of being separated from each other, being enclosed in ourselves, and not acknowledging the call of the Other. But before going more deeply into Levinas’s interpretation, let us examine the context in which this myth comes up in Plato’s work. Glaucon tells the myth of the ring of Gyges because he wants to represent the common opinion about justice. According to the common view, justice is an intermediate between two extremes. The best would be to do injustice without being punished, the worst to suffer injustice without being able to take revenge (Rep. 359a). Out of fear of suffering injustice, people make laws and contracts. So the myth of Gyges is told in the context of a discussion about justice, the main topic of the Republic. More precisely, the myth marks the transition between the ordinary views of justice as they are represented by Cephalus, Polemarchus, and Thrasymachus in Book I of the Republic, and Socrates’ account of what justice is as he develops the idea of a perfect polis. While Socrates argues that injustice brings about a confl ict in the soul, Levinas maintains that injustice is so powerful because it does not involve any apparent contradiction that would force us out of this condition. Levinas calls this state the ego’s interiority or separation, and he says that the myth of Gyges is a myth of the I and interiority. Separation would not be radical if the possibility of shutting oneself up at home with oneself could not be produced without internal contradiction as an event in itself, as atheism itself is produced—if it should only be an empirical, psychological fact, an illusion. Gyges’s ring symbolizes separation. Gyges plays a double game, a presence to the others and an absence, speaking to “others” and evading speech; Gyges is the very condition of man, the possibility of injustice and radical egoism, the possibility of accepting the rules of the game, but cheating. (TI 173/148) The state of the ego that closes itself off is not a contradictory state but a self-sufficient one. There are no internal contradictions because there is

34

Plato and Levinas

no lack that the presence of the Other would fi ll. If egoism is interrupted, this happens not because there are logical contradictions in this position or because I realize that I want to live my life differently but because the Other makes me aware of my egoism. It is not possible to develop an ethics grounded in egoism; rather, ethics happens as the Other calls my selfishness into question. Egoism will then still be a moment in ethics; yet it will not be the basis of ethics. It is the possibility of—and temptation toward—playing the game of Gyges. The ego’s interiority is ambivalent; it opens the possibility of error and of truth. Gyges is the very condition of man because we can radically close ourselves off from others. We have the option of seeing without being seen. We can turn away, lower our heads, remain inconspicuous. And we can excel in this attitude to such an extent that we do not even notice the imbalance between seeing and not being seen. We can be invisible; we have the ability to act as an invisible person in the realm that we take to be the realm of the visible. Being on the threshold between visibility and invisibility, being present in absence and absent in presence is what Levinas calls “phenomenality.” The phenomenon is the being that “appears, but remains absent” (TI 181/156). In order to explain this absence, Levinas refers to another Platonic myth that figures prominently in his work, namely, the myth of Theuth from the Phaedrus. 2 In the case of a written speech, the author does not come to the assistance of his speech but remains absent, opening the possibility of misunderstanding and misuse. Similarly, the state of interiority means that I am not taking responsibility for my actions but hiding away like Gyges. “As long as the existence of man remains interiority it remains phenomenal” (TI 182/158). The absence that characterizes phenomenality is an essential absence, a shadow “which is not simply the factual absence of future light.”3 Some things cannot be drawn into any light; others can, but are not meant to be drawn into the light. Levinas is suspicious of vision in general. Gyges exploits the possibilities of visibility and invisibility that speech and silence, for example, do not offer. Vision gives us the illusion of power; it means to have things on display, at our disposal. And Levinas believes that the visual metaphors in the history of Western philosophy (among which theoria is the most prominent, but certainly not the only one) had a major influence on the violent and totalizing character of philosophy. To illustrate such dangers, it might be helpful to consider briefly another version of the myth of Gyges, told not by Plato but by Herodotus.4 According to Herodotus, a strange episode occurred in Lydia when King Candaules had the idea of asking Gyges, his favorite spearman, to confi rm how beautiful Candaules’s wife was. The tale goes that Candaules was so in love with his wife that praising his wife’s beauty was not enough; he suggested that Gyges hide behind the door to watch the queen undress and see with his own eyes how beautiful she was. Gyges, though reluctant at fi rst and quite willing to confi rm that he completely trusted the king’s judgment,

Preliminary Refl ections on the Self 35 fi nally agreed. But when he left the bedchamber, the queen spotted him. She was ashamed, and yet she remained silent. The next day, she called Gyges and gave him the choice to die himself or to kill the king and take his place. She said: “Either he must die who formed this design, or you who have looked upon me naked.” So Candaules was killed and Gyges became king. A story about the ambiguity of love, about shame, secrecy, and possessiveness—and a story about visibility and invisibility, about breaking the secret of Gyges, in this case not broken by Gyges himself, but by the queen who discovers his secretive looking. The king who succumbed to the power of vision in the end loses it all. The myth of Gyges plays a significant role throughout Levinas’s thought. Yet Levinas undertakes some modifications and even reversals in regard to the original Platonic myth. For him, the myth is not about an unreal thought experiment, but it actually presents an ability that we, as humans, have. We can hide in our invisibility, in the interiority of the ego. We can do so—but we cannot be right as we do so. Using the ring of Gyges is radical injustice. In Totality and Infinity, Levinas examines interiority to emphasize that it is possible to ignore the call of the Other. Such ignoring is itself a response, namely, the response of denial. Analyzing this possibility is important since Levinas has to acknowledge the fact that the command coming from the Other is frequently denied on an everyday basis. Yet such denial does not refute Levinas’s ethical philosophy, which shall be examined below. Moreover, he points out that I encounter the Other not on the basis of a lack or need but from a self-sufficient basis. As the Other enters the scene, his or her demands solicit the separated being, who is satisfied and autonomous. The face of the Other that speaks to me calls into question the security of my dwelling. The approach taken in Totality and Infinity is helpful since it enables phenomenological analyses (in the widest sense) of interiority, the body, and enjoyment. However, this line of analysis can easily be misunderstood as implying that there is a sphere of interiority prior to my encounter with the Other. This is not the case; “the light of the face is necessary for separation” (TI 151/125). Yet interiority is not strictly speaking posterior either; it is both anterior and posterior. “Anterior” and “posterior” are not temporal categories here (since Levinas requests that we rethink time on the basis of ethics), but rather, designate conditions for the possibility of certain experiences, if these Kantian expressions may be used in an entirely different framework. My autonomous dwelling and enjoyment are conditions for encountering the Other (namely, for an encounter that is not based on a lack), and at the same time, this encounter conditions my enjoyment, since such egoistic happiness depends on the fact that I am retreating, no longer participating. This relation could be called a codependence if we are capable of thinking codependence in the strong, emphatic sense which maintains the original paradox.

36

Plato and Levinas

Another reason for Levinas to present interiority as if it were a prior state is his concern that it might be taken as a mere counterpart or reversal of my relation with the Other. Although it is important to understand interiority and exteriority in relation to each other, a flawed image of interiority would arise if it was simply taken to be the reverse of exteriority. Interiority is not solitude or longing; it has its own modes, such as sensibility and enjoyment. Levinas claims that “the relation with the Other is the only relation where such an overturning of formal logic can occur” (TI 180 f./156).5 Interiority cannot be understood as the reverse of exteriority, nor vice versa. The story of Gyges helps to show that the state of separation consists of its own stories and ways of being. An additional way of explaining interiority is introduced through the term “psychism.” Psychism is Levinas’s word for the “inner life” (TI 54/24 f.), and it is an important term which he will use again in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence with a different emphasis. The inner life, the life of the psyche, is not contrasted with the physical life; interiority actually encompasses corporeality. Rather, it names a resistance, a “resistance to the totality” (ibid.). Against the tendency to attribute a place in the world to every being, thereby making it part of the totality, the ego strives to maintain its uniqueness. Realizing that I am also part of a whole does not take away from my sense that I am opposed to this whole, and that the singularity of my enjoyment depends on my resistance and separation. Levinas acknowledges the difficulty of thinking interiority and separation. The structure of Totality and Infi nity, where the section on interiority precedes the section on exteriority, facilitates his investigation while at the same time inviting misunderstandings about the order and relation of these two modes. In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Levinas moves away from the systematic structure of his earlier work to avoid such misunderstandings. He now stresses that the Other is in me from the very beginning, and his name for this invasion is “psychism.” The idea of an otherness in the same is rather common in contemporary philosophy. It is therefore essential to see how exactly Levinas describes the other in the same—and what approaches to the theme he would be suspicious of.

b) OTHERNESS IN THE SAME? In order to discern the uniqueness of Levinas’s approach regarding an otherness in the same, we shall discuss his philosophy in the context of some other approaches to the same theme. This procedure will show Levinas’s reasons for not explicitly discussing the “other in the same” in his early philosophy, and we shall see how his late philosophy, while using familiar terminology, still essentially differs from other contemporary philosophies. This part of the current chapter differs in style from the phenomenonoriented considerations in other chapters. Since there have been manifold

Preliminary Refl ections on the Self 37 contemporary discussions of “otherness in the same,” we need to avoid getting lost in the multiplicity of authors. Hence the earliest occurrence of a given position shall be considered; Hegel and Husserl will function as representatives for these. As the topic itself is rather complex, it will not be possible to do justice to it in a few pages. Instead, a couple of very specific questions shall be posed. Firstly, why do other authors indicate the presence of an otherness in the ego? What are they intending to show? Secondly, how would Levinas respond to these approaches, and which aspects would he criticize? Thirdly, how does Levinas’s own approach in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence counter such objections? I will approach the fi rst question from a rather general perspective and only turn to specific authors a little later; this means that the standpoint summarized here may not be explicitly presented by any particular author. On the most general level, it seems that there are two main motives for emphasizing an otherness in the same. The fi rst could be designated as an epistemological motive, the second as an ethical one. Both are arguing against a view whereby the ego would be transparent to itself, hence forming a secure foundation for epistemological as well as ethical concerns. Such a transparent ego could recognize others as “alter egos,” and it could own up to its ethical responsibility. If we call this view, for lack of a better term, the “transparency hypothesis,” an acute problem immediately becomes obvious: no philosopher really holds the transparency hypothesis in a full-fledged version. However, a large portion of ancient and modern philosophy assumes that we would be better off if we could get as close as possible to the ideal of such transparency. In the ethical register, certain Platonists in their emphasis on the rule of reason and Enlightenment philosophers who follow Kant’s critique of inclinations constitute two prominent and influential examples. Those who argue against the ideal of transparency, for the most part, do not claim that obscurity is the alternative goal to strive for. Instead, they propose that we understand ourselves and our ethical responsibility better if we acknowledge that transparency cannot be reached, and if we focus on the more obscure or complex aspects rather than trying to ignore or eliminate them. This focus on the shadows, as Merleau-Ponty would call it, cannot be an attempt to illuminate them, or if so, then only in a very indirect fashion. They are aspects which by virtue of their very essence make illumination and clarification impossible. It is hence particularly difficult to describe them, especially if such description should go beyond merely negative assignments. What are the benefits of examining an obscurity in the ego or an otherness in the same? To turn to the epistemological register fi rst, it seems that an insight into the existence of such shadows yields two realizations. Firstly and most plainly, it allows us to see the essence of the ego more clearly (even if this may sound paradoxical) and to acknowledge that limitations

38 Plato and Levinas in our findings might have their roots in the essence of the ego rather than merely being flaws in our approach to it. Secondly, we may gain a basis for understanding otherness and the Other if we are already confronted with an initial instance of alterity in ourselves. It is this second conclusion in particular to which Levinas would object since it might lead us straight back into the “modern trap” of modeling the Other after myself. Let us look more closely at the way in which otherness can be found in the ego. Far from being a recent discovery, analyses of such otherness already surface in Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit and in the work of Husserl, the founder of twentieth-century phenomenology. However, both of them still seem determined to pursue the quest for transparency as far as possible.6 This indicates that their fi ndings of otherness reflect something in the phenomenon of the ego that even a persevering search for transparency cannot eliminate.7 Husserl shall be discussed here briefly in the context of epistemological problems, while Hegel will be our example for the ethical dimension of the same issue. As Husserl investigates the core of consciousness, he reports a necessary disappointment that we encounter in such investigations. This disappointment lies in the center of time consciousness, which is itself the most fundamental structure of consciousness. Everything that is given to me has to be manifest in my internal time consciousness, as something that has either appeared to me in the past, or is appearing just now, or is anticipated as yet to come. In order to investigate the transcendental ego as that which unifies all my experiences, I fi nd myself reflecting on my stream of consciousness. Yet this stream of consciousness is, as the term indicates, something constantly in flow, and I will always come too late in my reflection. To put it differently, I can never really reflect on my ego as it is functioning (fungierend), but rather, that part of my ego which becomes the object of my reflection is something which has just passed. The ego as it is reflecting can never be made the object of reflection.8 In this way, my approach toward myself can be said to resemble my approach toward others insofar as there are insurmountable limitations in both cases. While Husserl investigates such otherness in the ego on a rather formal level (but one that is crucial because that otherness lies at the very heart of consciousness), other authors have examined more concrete ways in which I fail to fully recognize myself. Husserl founded his phenomenology in 1900–01 when publishing Logical Investigations; at the same time, Freud, who had attended lectures by Husserl’s teacher Franz Brentano, began his writings about psychoanalysis. Many subsequent writings in contemporary philosophy which concern my failure to fully recognize myself seem to be influenced by psychoanalysis in some shape or form— often without thematizing this influence. The silence about certain psychoanalytic roots seems less a denial of such origins than a refusal to integrate all the theoretical baggage that comes with it.

Preliminary Refl ections on the Self 39 One contemporary way of describing my impossibility to fully recognize myself can be found in Judith Butler’s Adorno lectures, Giving an Account of Oneself. Starting from Hegel, or rather, from a particular interpretation of Hegel, she describes the ego as a constant process of self-alteration (GAO 27).9 My lack of self-knowledge becomes particularly pertinent where the emergence of something like an “I” is concerned; I cannot discern the origin of my constitution as an “I,” and I have a sense that there are stories involved which are not wholly my stories and which I cannot tell (64). In order to describe more adequately my experience of that which escapes me, Butler says that “there is something unyielding that sets itself up in us” (104). Something unyielding, something rigid is that which I cannot change—and I cannot change it because I am not even able to discern it. The consequences of this “blind spot” with which Butler is concerned are of an ethical nature, and yet she fi rst describes the situation in more or less epistemological terms. Before turning to the ethical dimension, let me speculate about Levinas’s reaction to such concerns about the impossibility of my knowing myself. As already indicated, such attempts would particularly worry him if they turned into an effort to comprehend the Other on the basis of myself. In that case, the Other will likely turn out to be a lesser version of myself, an alter ego that is less accessible than my own ego. But does it not make a decisive difference if the situation is described in terms of inaccessibility, inflexibility, and rigidity even in myself? In that case, the Other will have to be described as having these same properties as myself but to a greater degree. The Other would not be characterized by a lack of accessibility in comparison to myself but by an excess of inaccessibility. To that extent, Levinas could perhaps be sympathetic to such descriptions. But he would be dubious about the fact that we are mostly speaking about an excess of negative determinations such as inflexibility and inaccessibility; this makes it obvious that a likely reaction will be to try and overcome these features in favor of flexibility, accessibility, etc. Another option would be to treat these features as a common ground between me and the Other, allowing me to encounter him or her as someone who shares otherness with me. Such an approach is promoted by Butler, it seems, when she points to a “common vulnerability” as that which human beings share (100). Levinas’s own analysis of vulnerability, as we will see, would easily allow him to draw the same conclusions, and sometimes it even seems as if he did.10 However, he wants to make it clear that there is no common ground on which myself and the Other could base our encounter; there is no totality that encompasses us and yet retains otherness. We will need to return to these questions at a later point. For now, let it suffice to say that Butler’s other suggestion for a common ground, namely, language, coincides with the response Levinas gives when he has to take up the question of how an encounter with the Other could ever be possible if we are so absolutely different. It may be possible that Levinas could acknowledge such a shared element if it was possible to think of language

40 Plato and Levinas neither as mediation in Hegel’s sense11 nor as a totalizing common ground, but perhaps as an “Ab-grund” in Heidegger’s sense, a ground that is an abyss.12 Levinas continues to point out that the Other speaks to me, and this speech reaches over from him or her to me—but such reaching over does not provide any safe ground to stand on; it is like an abyss which supplies a connection while withholding any supportive ground. Within an epistemological framework, it seems difficult to see what further implications an otherness in the same would have. It surely has an important impact on our understanding of the ego, and a thorough phenomenological analysis of the ego needs to acknowledge this evasiveness at the core of the “I.” But since this blind spot in the ego by its very nature makes an elucidation of the blind spot itself impossible, it seems more fruitful to move on to its ethical consequences. This order of procedure would not be Levinas’s order, but it is the order chosen by other philosophers concerned with the issue. The second dimension of an otherness in the same concerns its practical rather than theoretical impact. As indicated above, this aspect shall be approached by sketching a part of Hegel’s position as he provides the earliest discussion of this issue. Both Hegel and Levinas were, to an extent, impressed by and sympathetic to Kant’s ethics, but they also felt that there was a deep problem at its core. While this problem does not present itself in the same way to both of them, and while their responses to Kantian ethics diverge, they share the conviction that no ethics after Kant can avoid going through Kant and taking him seriously. The familiar Hegelian critique of Kant amounts, on a very general level, to the claim that the categorical imperative is too formal, too empty, and lacks historical density. A slightly different aspect of the critique, concerning our current theme more directly, focuses on the observation that I usually do not “know all the circumstances” (PhS 389). I do not have all relevant information about the situation available to me in order to make sure that I really act in accordance with the categorical imperative, and nevertheless I need to act. For Hegel, it is better to act than to helplessly observe the confl ict of various duties. It is better to act, and yet I am always already guilty because of my ignorance about the circumstances (Oedipus being the extreme example of such guilt by ignorance). In the same way in which I do not know all the circumstances in the world that are relevant to my action, I also do not have full knowledge about my own motivations. As Kant himself already acknowledges, I will never know whether I act from pure duty or whether my inclinations (Neigungen) are motivating me. I am not transparent to myself, my motives are not transparent to me—but I have to act. For contemporary philosophers, this nontransparency often does not evoke a “nevertheless (we do need to act)” but a positive content for ethics. The task is not to develop an ethics despite these limitations but to acknowledge the nontransparency as something on which to base an ethics. This could mean that certain blind

Preliminary Refl ections on the Self 41 spots are established as that which I share with the Other. It may imply that I need to accept the fact of always already being guilty, calling on and depending on the forgiveness of the Other.13 Indeed, why not recognize a certain rigidity in myself and in others as a common, mediating ground for ethics, as Butler seems to suggest? Such an approach could more easily lead us to the insight that my spontaneity and autonomy are limited, and that all my decisions and actions are embedded in something that I did not bring forth, namely, language, norms, and conventions (GAO 28). This is at its basis a Hegelian position, which Butler would not deny. Such a position faces certain risks, which can be seen already on the most general level. If, for example, Hegel’s critique of Kant is isolated from its context and taken as the mere insight that I need to act even though not all the relevant circumstances will be known to me, this could easily be exploited as an excuse for hasty, indeliberate actions. It would also be possible to misunderstand my inherent rigidity and take it to the level of character traits, excusing my weakness of the will, etc. All this is obviously not what Hegel means, but it might be a consequence of taking the ethical consequences of a certain blindness in myself to a general level. While we are not yet in a position to discuss Levinas’s ethics in relation to those authors who emphasize an otherness in the same, we can summarize some preliminary results. The epistemological aspects of an otherness in the same may in principle be interesting, but Levinas does not fi nd himself concerned with an epistemological project. If these results were to be described on a more general level as an investigation into the human subject, Levinas would likely find himself more sympathetic to this task; yet he would emphasize that there are more appropriate ways to pursue an analysis of the subject. Furthermore, focusing on elements of otherness in order to investigate the same is dangerous since it might give the impression that the unique and essentially irreducible character of my encounter with the Other could be reduced to a magnified version of an experience which I already have with myself. When cashing out the epistemological results on an ethical level or approaching the theme from an ethical level tout court, Levinas would be most concerned about the temptation to establish a common ground between me and the Other by pointing to certain blind spots that we all share. We will have to see more clearly (in Part II) why he fi nds such common grounds problematic and what his alternative response is. Perhaps the time has come for an attempt to conceive of an encounter on non-Hegelian grounds—even if this means learning to think the encounter on the basis of an abyss rather than a common ground. Levinas’s own account of an otherness in the same arises in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence under the title “psychism” (psychisme).14 Levinas is not concerned with some formal element of otherness in me, but with the Other obsessing me, getting under my skin, being already under my skin. This is not an element of self-evasion such that I would be less

42

Plato and Levinas

accessible to myself (and therefore possibly less responsible for my actions), but rather, there is already too much in me; there are voices beyond my own. However, this excess is ultimately, in a strange way, my salvation; according to Levinas, I would suffocate if I were alone in my skin. Levinas says that “the psychism in the soul is the other in me” (OB 69/86). In other words, psychism is his name for my experience of being invaded by something other. Whether psychism is coextensive with the soul or one particular aspect of the soul might not ultimately be very important.15 Levinas refers to the Greek sense of psychē, yet we cannot assume that we are thinking the same thought that the Greeks were thinking. Levinas explains how the psychism animates me, thereby invoking the original Greek sense of psychē as the principle of life, which Plato takes up before developing his own, more complicated sense of a tripartite soul (OB 71/88 f.).16 The psychism is a “loosening up of identity” (OB 69/86) with the result that “the soul is a seed of folly” (191n./86n.). Being possessed or obsessed by the Other complicates my structure, makes my identity less tight and less restrictive, and at the same time, creates the possibility for madness. Levinas wants us to hear the connection to psychosis in his use of the term, but he may also want us to think of madness as it appears in Plato’s Phaedrus, taking on different forms all of which seem to be connected to an openness in me. This openness allows me to perceive a trace of something beyond myself, something excessive. Perhaps this openness is created because my identity has already been loosened up and broken open. For Levinas, psychism designates the uniqueness of the soul, my being possessed by the Other, rather than a general soul structure, a genus soul “common to several souls” (OB 126/163). If we own up to what it means to be obsessed by the Other, to have the Other in one’s skin, then the trauma of thus being possessed cannot be diminished by pointing out that this is everybody’s destiny. At the moment when I feel full responsibility, the weight of this responsibility is not lessened by recognizing that others have responsibilities as well. Rather, if I were to think of responsibility as a common structure, I would already have denounced and rejected my responsibility. My absolute responsibility does not depend on the recognition of similarities between me and the Other. It does not depend on a shared genus of soul; it does not depend on recognition at all.17 ∗

∗

∗

This chapter has given some provisional explanations of the self or the inner life. The term “interiority,” which Levinas employs in Totality and Infinity, designates a separation. This separation conditions my encounter with the Other, and at the same time, my encounter with the Other is dependent on separation, or at least on the possibility thereof. Interiority resists explanation since it seems already interspersed with other modes of existence, and with an openness toward the Other. At the same time,

Preliminary Refl ections on the Self 43 Levinas is right to point to the possibility of a pure, egoistic enjoyment in which there is no lack. The story of Gyges illustrates this possibility of closing myself off, of seeing without being seen. Levinas chooses this story to explain our human condition, which includes the possibility of radical egoism without contradictions. This condition is not just a thought experiment or an abstraction but rather our everyday situation. It is as a self-sufficient being that I encounter the Other, and this encounter is not based on a lack (but, as we will see, on desire). The talk of a “psychism” in Totality and Infinity, which designates my resistance to participation in a totality, recurs in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence with a different emphasis. Here, Levinas explicitly emphasizes that there is an otherness in myself, that I am obsessed, invaded by the Other. Yet the possibility of enjoyment is still fundamental, and Levinas explains that I can only give the bread from my mouth to the Other because I am myself enjoying it. In that sense, the structure of enjoyment as both anterior and posterior remains, although in different terms. Since there is an otherness in me, Levinas might seem to fi nd himself in line with several contemporary philosophers who focus on such an otherness, or on the same as another. We have seen that discussions of an otherness in the same, which have their roots in philosophers such as Hegel or Husserl, can take various forms. But from a Levinasian perspective, those attempts share a tendency to start from epistemological concerns (or from concerns about my wanting to become transparent to myself, and failing), and a temptation to conclude that this otherness in the same can provide a common ground for us since we all share it. For Levinas, an otherness in me does not provide a shared ground but rather a seed of madness. If there is an inaccessibility in me, this inaccessibility is already caused by an excess (rather than a lack), and this initial excess opens me up to further excesses. If Levinas’s account of the self is more difficult to think than other such accounts, this is also due to his persistent request that we think the self not in logical terms, as a negation, nor in dialectical terms, as a reversal, but as a separation and resistance that is fighting an original obsession.

2

Dimensions of Corporeality Every logos must be put together like a living creature, with a body of its own. Plato, Phaedrus 264c

There are several reasons why corporeality, or the topic of the body, arises as a theme at this point. After some preliminary considerations regarding the self or the inner life in the previous chapter, interiority needs to be examined more closely through the ways in which it is actually experienced. When Levinas examines the sphere of interiority in Totality and Infinity, his analyses are all more or less connected to the body. Admittedly, he talks less explicitly about the body than about need, enjoyment, happiness, and the elements, and so on. Yet all of these involve the body in some fashion. Therefore corporeality as a more general philosophical subject shall be broached here, before turning to the more specifically Levinasian topics of enjoyment and suffering in the next chapter. Furthermore, the body belongs to those themes which are mentioned on a regular basis as an argument against Plato’s philosophy. Most well-known in this context is Plato’s claim in the Phaedo that the body constitutes a prison for the soul (Phaedo 82e). But even Levinas might appear to neglect or underestimate the role of the body, ignoring the accomplishments of phenomenologists such as Husserl or Merleau-Ponty. Yet it will turn out that neither Plato nor Levinas ignore the body. A fi nal reason for examining corporeality, which can only be substantiated much later, concerns the way in which the ambiguity inherent in the erotic, artistic, and political domains is based on the materiality of these phenomena which is rooted in our existence as embodied, vulnerable beings. This chapter is divided into two sections. The fi rst will focus on the body in Levinas, and the second on the body in Plato (specifically, in the Phaedrus). Levinas will be our fi rst focal point since he himself provides an examination of the body that continues and radicalizes earlier phenomenological accounts of corporeality. We will consider three approaches the fi rst two of which are non-Levinasian approaches to the body which evolve chronologically and logically from one another. The first position is concerned with the body in distinction from mere objects, and with our connection to the world through the body. The second approach strives to move beyond a subject–object model, focusing instead on a reciprocity or reversibility in perception and on the role of the elemental. The fi nal

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account is the Levinasian one, which considers the body in terms of passivity, exposure, and vulnerability. We shall thus see that Levinas does attribute a significant position to the body and that he does not at all dismiss the results of phenomenological analyses, but carries them further by focusing on the body’s vulnerability. Despite the fact that only the third account is genuinely Levinasian, traces of the others (and certain points of criticism) may be found in Levinas’s philosophy. Turning to Plato’s Phaedrus, I will then show how Plato’s account of the body is much more subtle than the seemingly straightforward statement that the body is a prison. A close reading of specific passages illustrates that all of the features of the body yielded by the different phenomenological accounts can already be discovered in this Platonic dialogue. Finally, we will discuss possible objections to such an interpretation.

a) LEVINAS AND THE BODY AS VULNERABILITY Before examining Levinas’s analysis of the body, I wish to give a brief and very incomplete1 history of phenomenological accounts of the body, distinguishing three approaches. The third approach, Levinas’s, is distinct from the other two; however, he also confi rms fi ndings from the other two phases. Introducing these three perspectives will subsequently be helpful for an examination of Plato’s treatment of the body. The first phase is represented primarily by Husserl’s Ideas II and MerleauPonty’s Phenomenology of Perception. The predominant question in these texts concerns the special way in which we experience our bodies and particularly how the body is given in a different way to things (while still having a thingly dimension). Some of the most important features of the body are its spatiality as an absolute Here from which I cannot distance myself, the capacity for double sensations (e.g., one hand touching the other), and kinaestheses, that is, the close intertwinement of perception (aisthēsis) and bodily movement (kinēsis).2 This first perspective emphasizes how our body opens us up toward the world in a unique fashion. As such, the body is the condition for having a world, and at the same time, our existence would be entirely different if we had the body of an insect or an elephant.3 Merleau-Ponty explains how neither intellectualism nor empiricism offer satisfying accounts of the body. When I climb the stairs, such an action does not depend on an intellectual awareness of the factors involved, such as the distance between the steps. Yet it is also not a purely mechanical action, based on stimuli and responses, as the empiricist would claim. The action enjoys some level of freedom as I can adjust to changes in the situation; at the same time, merely knowing about a changed situation (e.g., a broken step) is not sufficient for successfully adjusting to it. In this spirit, MerleauPonty discusses the special role of the “habit body,” which keeps certain actions in store, but is also capable of learning and modifying movements.

46

Plato and Levinas

Levinas acknowledges the fi ndings of this fi rst approach in Totality and Infinity in the chapter “Labor, the Body, Consciousness.” He points out that the body is not “an object among other objects” (TI 163/137). One essential aspect that makes the body different is its habituality (167/141). In terms that are very similar to those of Merleau-Ponty’s, Levinas describes how a bodily action like reaching out and groping does not depend on the thematization and explicit awareness of the goal and its properties. In order to reach out for the phone that is ringing, I neither need to know the distance between my hand and the phone, nor do I need to make a conscious decision to pick it up. The habitual action is based on “skill and practice” (ibid.). In sum, Levinas accepts and integrates the results of the early phenomenological analyses of the body, but he will go beyond them.4 The second phase strives to overcome the privileging of subjectivity. The most prominent and far-reaching representative is Merleau-Ponty in his late philosophy, especially The Visible and the Invisible. However, it becomes difficult at this point to undertake a phenomenology of the body as individuated: Merleau-Ponty stresses that the body is made of the same “flesh” as the world. Rather than attributing a special role to the human subject, he emphasizes the interchange, exchange, or, as he calls it, “reversibility” between me and the world. Drawing from descriptions of painters who claim that objects are “looking at them,”5 Merleau-Ponty proposes a new understanding of perception where the objects speak to me, solicit my attention, and even look back. In order to see better what is meant by flesh, Merleau-Ponty refers us to “the old term ‘element,’ in the sense it was used to speak of water, air, earth, and fi re” (VI 139). An element belongs to a particular location or region without being tied to it. Air is usually, but not always, “above” earth. My body is made up of these elements, thus inhabiting an intermediate position. Such an account poses problems, and interpreters suggest that some expressions in Merleau-Ponty’s late philosophy should be taken metaphorically since otherwise the distinctions between body, world, and things become blurred.6 It is certainly important to maintain divisions between human bodies, tools, stones, elements, etc. Yet it is also important to realize that perception is not a one-sided occurrence but an interaction between me and the world, where I indeed respond to the allures of an object.7 Phenomena such as attention, where the question arises as to why I attend to one object rather than another, can only be understood if the object–side is also included in the description—hence Merleau-Ponty’s talk of the “rivalry of things.”8 And this interaction goes far beyond perception. In perception, I still have a fairly clear distance from the object; but there are other, more fundamental levels, at which I am immersed in the world, being a part of it as well as depending on it. Levinas comes closest to the position of this second phase when he examines our relation to the elements. The discussion of “Element and Things, Implements” (TI 130–34/103–108) emerges in the context of his reflections

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on enjoyment; we will thus come back to this theme in the next chapter. By analyzing what he calls “bathing in the elements,” Levinas wants to offer a critique of Heidegger’s claim that our most primordial relation to the world is determined by our handling of tools or equipment. Heidegger’s analysis, Levinas maintains, is forgetful of the elements, and also of enjoyment.9 Levinas could have lamented that Heidegger does not consider the body in Being and Time,10 but rather than diagnosing this systematic absence, he takes the more phenomenological approach of starting from those (bodily) experiences that are neglected in Heidegger’s analyses. In contrast to things, elements are “nonpossessable.” The examples Levinas gives are “earth, sea, light, city” (TI 131/104). Why not “earth, water, fi re, air”? Levinas wants to describe the way in which we experience the elements fi rst and foremost. Our most important experience of being “steeped in” the elements is our dwelling place, or domicile. This dwelling place, even if often referred to as “property,” is not in the fi rst instance a property; possession is a secondary and derivative relation to it. And what makes the place a dwelling place is not fi rst and foremost a set of walls, a house or an apartment, but rather the location—the city, as Levinas says, or the area, the streets I walk, the stores and cafes I visit. Levinas points out that the wine I drink and the bread I eat can be regarded as “fuel in the economic machinery” (TI 134/108); but this presupposes a certain interpretation of the world that conceals and ultimately destroys the level of enjoyment. By focusing on enjoyment rather than perception, Levinas views the body from a perspective rather different to that of Merleau-Ponty. Yet there are also defi nite convergences, both in intention and in result. When MerleauPonty tries to explain what he means by “flesh,” he refers to “the old term ‘element,’ in the sense it was used to speak of water, air, earth, and fi re” (VI 139). However, Levinas would not embrace Merleau-Ponty’s concept of flesh, nor the idea that body and world are of the same “flesh.” This is because “separation” is such an important concept in his philosophy not just in order to describe the relation between me and the Other but also to describe the body. The body is “integrated into being and remains in its interstices,” and this is so because I am “a separated being” (TI 168/142). Without separation, there would not be any enjoyment. Even though I bathe in the elements, I can only devour them and enjoy them insofar as they are different from me and since I do not have them. Levinas goes so far as to defi ne the body by way of separation: the body appears “not as an object among other objects, but as the very regime in which separation holds sway, as the ‘how’ of this separation” (TI 163/137). This analysis of the elements already points to the deepest level of embodiment. If we examine the reverse side of this separation, we arrive at a third phase of analyzing the body, with the characteristics that Levinas deems most essential. What is the reverse side of separation? In its initial formulation, it is dependence—dependence on something that is different

48 Plato and Levinas from me. “To be a body is on the one hand to stand [se tenir], to be master of oneself, and, on the other hand, to stand on the earth, to be in the other” (TI 164/138; his italics). This “being in the other” signifies my dependence on the elements; yet this dependence does not diminish the enjoyment, as Levinas points out. Upon closer scrutiny, the inevitable dependence of incarnated beings on the elements reveals that our position is a precarious one indeed. Levinas criticizes the fi rst approach for its emphasis on activity. In it, the body is described as our point of access to the world, as an “I can.” For Levinas, this emphasis conceals the deep passivity of the body. While it is much more comforting to describe the body as activity and “I can,” it has to be admitted that having a body means being exposed, being vulnerable. And this vulnerability exists without the Other entering into the picture insofar as I am already exposed to the elements: “nakedness and indigence, exposed to the anonymous exteriority of heat and cold” (TI 175/150). Levinas calls the body a crossroads, a point where different movements meet—enjoyment, dwelling, but also nakedness and vulnerability. For Levinas, having a body is essentially connected to ethics. The fi rst two approaches that we considered did not sufficiently consider the body’s vulnerability, passivity, and ethical involvement. The Other’s vulnerability makes me responsible for him or her. Having a body means that one can kill and be killed; it also means that one can offer support and protection.11 Already the ancient Greeks emphasized that we, as mortal beings, care about our future. This concern is our main motivation to work and protect ourselves through the products of our labor. Yet Levinas emphasizes that this protection is always fragile. Since we depend on something other, we are, on a fundamental level, not active and autonomous but passive and exposed. Events occur “despite oneself.” A strong proof of this “despite oneself” is, on the bodily level, the experience of aging. In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Levinas maintains that aging is the body’s temporality, the mode of time that is peculiar to the body (OB 53/69).12 Since temporality, for Levinas, always involves the Other, it is not possible to provide a phenomenological analysis of the body’s temporality without taking responsibility (and generativity) into account. The body’s temporality points to Eros as well as fecundity.13 The body is hence a decisive aspect of the sphere of interiority, yet already it leads us beyond this sphere toward exteriority and ethics. My enjoyment is precisely the other side of my dependence on the elements, and this dependence testifies to my fragility and vulnerability. Even though the results that Husserl and Merleau-Ponty gained in the fi rst two approaches are valuable, they neglected the deeper passivity of the body that is its vulnerability. Starting from perception, they assumed a certain ethical neutrality of the body. For the late Levinas, it even becomes questionable that I have my body to myself, since the Other is already “in my skin.”14 As

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Levinas situates the body between enjoyment and suffering, the ethical dimension is present from the start.

b) THE BODY IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS Levinas has helped us to identify three phases of phenomenological analyses concerning the body. We shall see that these three approaches to corporeality can also be traced in Plato’s philosophy. This may come as a surprise in light of the infamous Platonic claim that the body is nothing but a prison for the soul. Of course, fi nding something like a phenomenology of the body in Plato might evoke some objections which will be thematized at the end of the chapter. I propose to trace out the body in Plato through a reading of the Phaedrus.15 The Phaedrus lends itself to such a task for various reasons. Firstly, it deals with the theme of Eros, which for Plato always has to do with the body, no matter whether in a positive or negative fashion. Secondly, the notion of a living organism (zōon) is essential for this dialogue. As Socrates and Phaedrus discuss the deficiencies of Lysias’s speech, Socrates says: “Every speech (logos) must be put together like a living creature (zōon), with a body (sōma) of its own; it must be neither without head nor without legs; and it must have a middle and extremities that are fitting both to one another and to the whole work” (264c). This is just one of several places where the talk of zōon and sōma come up; yet it is an important one since Socrates claims that every logos must have a sōma. The insights about the body that this dialogue offers should consequently also shed some light on logos as one of the key terms in Plato’s dialogues.16 If logos and body stand in such intimate connection, the claim that Platonic philosophy excludes the body becomes dubious. Yet the statement about the connection between logos and body can also be read in a critical fashion, making it all the more probable that Plato’s philosophy would exclude important dimensions of life. The most prominent representative of this critical position that we will turn to is Derrida. He accuses Plato of a logocentrism, where logos would be used to delimit philosophy and cut off whatever does not fit into the rational picture. Also, logocentrism implies that the Platonic logos is focused on centers, neglecting marginal phenomena such as the body. We will return to some aspects of this accusation (Chapter 9). In this chapter, Derrida’s position will be of interest to us only in relation to Socrates’ claim about logos and body since Derrida offers an alternative reading of it. Socrates’ criterion for good speeches arises as he criticizes the speech of Lysias because it “doesn’t even start from the beginning” (264a). Derrida claims that the implications of a rule like “a speech must begin with the beginning and end with the end” are immense (PP 80). What are these implications? What motivates Derrida’s claim? First of all, it implies that

50 Plato and Levinas there is a beginning. But who determines where the proper beginning is? Would we look for a beginning at all if we did not always already start from the presupposition that there are beginnings and origins? Then again, the rule entails that there is a proper order to be followed, a step-by-step progression. And fi nally, it means that there is an end, a point of “having said it all,” a point of closure or completion. It seems that Derrida is reading the statement along these lines. However, these implications sound more Hegelian than Platonic. What is it, once more, that Socrates really claims? He maintains that Lysias starts from the end, from the conclusion that one should give one’s favors to the nonlover. Furthermore, he implies that Phaedrus will have noticed this. Is Socrates not simply saying that the direction of a speech is determined by the subject matter itself, and that it is the task of the orator to present that which shows itself as it shows itself, and in that direction? Socrates’ point would then be this: if a speech reverses the order of that which it speaks about, we will notice this as we hear the speech; the speech will sound wrong or false—as if it were given in reverse order. The statement about starting from the beginning can thus be read in different ways, and it can be more or less problematic. The question arises whether Derrida, who fi nds the passage problematic, might be presupposing a certain interpretation of the body that would indeed make the comparison between logos and body precarious. Since Derrida does not elaborate on this issue, we will take his precaution against the statement as the starting point for a more general reflection: What does it mean to have a body, and what could be problematic about it? What concept of body would lead to a restricted and restrictive concept of logos (and philosophy) indeed? First and foremost, such a problematic conception would think of the body as self-enclosed. It is indeed possible—and even tempting—to think of the body in terms of inclusion and exclusion. The body would then be a container for its organs, moving in space, handling objects that are clearly delineated from it. The skin would be the outermost border of the body. Furthermore, one might conceive of the body as well ordered and organized not just in terms of inside and out but also in terms of top and bottom, right and left. The body would in this case provide a secure standpoint that enables and organizes our active engagement with objects. Yet are these characterizations correct? Do they represent Plato’s idea of the body, and can they do justice to our experience of having or being a body? It soon becomes obvious that such a depiction observes the body from the outside and takes a predominantly mechanical, medical, or biological point of view. However, if we analyze what it means to be a body, a different description ensues. This description was summarized previously by way of three approaches to the body. The result is that fi rstly, the body opens us up to the world; secondly, it is in constant exchange with the world; and thirdly, the body is fragile, always in danger of being “injured”; it has an ethical dimension. What, then, about Plato? I claim that the

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results of these phenomenological analyses can be found in the Phaedrus, though in a slightly modified form. Possible objections that such a reading is anachronistic and otherwise problematic will be considered after I have explicated this claim. The fi rst dimension of the body—namely, that the body is distinct from mere things, that we are essentially incarnated beings, and that the body is our “means” of having a world—is present throughout Plato’s dialogues. The setting of a dialogue in general alerts us to the role of the body. Dialogues are only possible because two (or more) people get together, which is to say, bring their bodily presences into proximity with each other.17 When I read a philosophical treatise, there is little trace of the body. In reading Platonic dialogues, I inevitably imagine the interlocutors talking to each other as they stand, walk, sit, lie down—and Plato usually gives quite precise information about these proceedings. While these characteristics hold for all Platonic dialogues, the Phaedrus presents a special case. The Phaedrus is the only dialogue in which Socrates leaves the city walls behind, taking a walk to the river where he and Phaedrus settle down. Already in the very fi rst sentence, Socrates brings up the theme of movements: “Phaedrus, my friend! Where have you been? And where are you going?” (227a). Phaedrus takes the question literally: he has been with Lysias, and he is going to take a walk because he has been “sitting there the whole morning” (ibid.). It is, in other words, Phaedrus’s body that calls him to take a refreshing walk. It is not possible to focus on logoi all day long without drinking, eating, or stretching your legs. However, one could also read Socrates’ question in a less literal and more philosophical fashion.18 Socrates would then ask where Phaedrus comes from as a human being and what his destiny is going to be. This question only makes sense for incarnated, fi nite beings, and not for stones, angels, or gods. The question is answered, in a somewhat indirect fashion, through the myth about our souls as tumbling down from the heavens, becoming incarnated, and returning to the heavens after a defi nite period of time. As Socrates joins Phaedrus on his walk, seduced by the speech that Phaedrus promised, the two of them start looking for the best place to sit. This place requires careful choosing; they will only be able to attend to and fully appreciate the speech if the bodily position is right. And the right position, for a sentient being, does not mean to notice the body as little as possible but to feel the light breeze, smell the fragrance of the blooming chaste-tree, and listen to the song of the cicadas (230b). While such remarks clearly do not amount to a full-fledged phenomenological analysis of the body, it becomes obvious that Plato, in a more indirect and poetic fashion, accounts for some of the same phenomena. The second approach to corporeality would require an acknowledgement of the interchange and perhaps even the “reversibility” between me and the world. Plato, just like Levinas, gets closest to this position when he talks about the elements. Admittedly, the Phaedrus does not tell us as much

52 Plato and Levinas about the elements as, for example, the Timaeus. Yet the instances that are mentioned serve less as a theoretical and geometrical account and more as a direct description of our experiences of light, wind, water, and earth. Socrates clearly is enticed by the place: “Feel the freshness of the air; how pretty and pleasant it is; how it echoes with the summery, sweet song of the cicadas’ chorus! The most exquisite thing of all, of course, is the grassy slope: it rises so gently that you can rest your head perfectly when you lie down on it” (230c). We are unaccustomed to hearing such statements from Socrates. He speaks of echoes or resonance, and he ascribes gentleness to the grass. His language resembles that of a poet and reminds us that artists indeed sense a greater affi nity and exchange between themselves and nature or things, as Merleau-Ponty points out. Such talk is extraordinary indeed for Socrates, the philosopher. Phaedrus remarks that Socrates appears out of place, as he is usually a stranger to nature. Socrates offers an explanation, and this explanation moves us to the third, ethical dimension of the body. Socrates maintains that landscapes have nothing to teach him, but the people in the city do (230d).19 If we are permitted to describe this statement in Levinasian terms, it seems that Socrates here acknowledges the surplus specific to other humans: they teach me by exceeding my expectations, in a way that a landscape never could. But what about vulnerability, which is the decisive mode of the body for Levinas and the most essential aspect of the third approach? In order to fi nd a trace of vulnerability in Plato, we need to move further along in the dialogue and turn to its centerpiece: the myth of souls as chariots. There are two kinds of movement described in this myth, the souls as they move around in the sky, and the souls as they lose their wings, tumble down, and become incarnated. It is due to the heaviness and inertia of the horses that the souls tumble down. Although the accidents among the chariots happen before the moment of incarnation, there is a distinct element of bodily fragility already in this description of the horses. For Plato, even our souls are fragile. As they are immortal, they cannot be killed; but they are still exposed and open to damage. This points to a much deeper and more primordial intertwinement between soul and body than it is usually attributed to Plato. Our vulnerability is already in effect on the level of soul. According to the myth, all souls sooner or later fall into a body, as it were. This part of the myth fi rst seems to be in line with the idea of the body as a prison. But this is not how the story continues; Socrates does not lament the sad state of the incarnated soul. Rather, it has to be kept in mind that Socrates tells this myth in order to explain what Eros is. After the souls have been incarnated, they can fall in love if they see a beautiful person who reminds them of the beauty that they have seen in the heavens. It is due to our fragile state as embodied beings that we can fall in love and that we experience this state as a gift. We need the (bodily) presence of the Other to receive the divine gift of Eros.

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Love, as it is described in the Phaedrus, opens me up to that which exceeds me: beauty (and, more indirectly, the Good). To catch a glimpse of this otherness, we are not asked to forget about our own body or turn away from others. Philosophy as divine Eros involves a distinct aspect of sensibility (even though Plato also makes it clear that philosophy cannot consist in enjoying the carnal pleasures of love to excess). Therefore, Levinas frequently refers to the “winged thought” of the Phaedrus and to delirium or madness (249a, TI 49/20). The image of the wings is so fascinating because it points to our fragile bodily nature of having fallen in various senses, being vulnerable, and desiring the Other. Finally, it has to be discussed how this reading of Plato might itself appear vulnerable. One could contest such a reading on specific points of detail, but one could also question the overall approach. At least two objections come to mind. Firstly, has not this entire interpretation constituted a series of anachronisms where certain theses of contemporary philosophy are read back into Plato? On some level, this is certainly true. But perhaps we can never completely avoid being anachronistic when reading ancient Greek philosophy. How could we accomplish an entirely neutral reading, not importing any ideas of our own and remaining absolutely true to Plato’s words? Those philosophers who discuss this problem have stressed the importance of leaving presuppositions and ready-made theories aside when approaching a text or a topic20; yet the same philosophers, in taking history seriously, have also explicitly or implicitly admitted that an absolutely immediate beginning, one entirely without presuppositions, is not possible. And if we go so far as to follow the hermeneutical insight that we are always already interpreting, it will be more honest to engage in such a reading consciously, to reveal our sources, and to make connections explicitly rather than in an allusive fashion. The question becomes whether the connections are plausible; this is an issue for open debate. 21 Alternatively, it might seem strange to claim that certain results were already present in Plato’s dialogues only to then be reattained over two thousand years later. I certainly do not deny that these aspects only become visible in the shape described here from the perspective of later philosophical theories, namely, from the perspective of phenomenology. Yet it is not surprising that Plato, in attending to the phenomenon of corporeality, arrived at certain aspects that prefigure the later fi ndings. Phenomena are not independent of historical developments; but at the same time, there is continuity to the way in which certain matters appear to us. Having a body was neither the same nor an entirely different matter in Plato’s day as it is nowadays. Secondly, the objection might be raised that there are a number of passages in the Phaedrus where the body is rejected just as it is in other Platonic dialogues. This is indeed true, yet it is essential to note that these passages occur almost exclusively in those speeches about Eros, which are going to be renounced later: in Lysias’s speech and in Socrates’ fi rst speech.

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Lysias, for example, claims that those who are in love merely seek the physical pleasure and forget about the spiritual dimension altogether (232e). Yet in Socrates’ second speech, it turns out that human desire is a lot more complex than this, and that the physical pleasures alone cannot account for the intensity and madness of erotic desire. Equally untenable is Socrates’ claim in his fi rst speech that the lover will look for a weak loved one and will try to make this person increasingly weaker in order to make him more dependent (239a). This idea clearly goes against basic Socratic convictions—namely, that we seek the good or at least what appears good to us—and that desire is directed at the beautiful. It cannot be our intention to destroy what we desire. But do we not encounter a more subtle and more serious objection when turning back briefly to the myth of Theuth, which Derrida and Levinas have considered to be so important?22 Is Socrates, in his interpretation of the myth, not rejecting materiality and favoring (self-present) speech, as Derrida claims? As I mentioned previously and will explicate later (Chapter 9), the dismissal of writing is not as straightforward as it fi rst seems. The passages from the fi rst half of the dialogue, which have just been discussed and which consider the body in an affi rmative fashion, should certainly also motivate us to carefully reconsider the issue of writing and its materiality. Finally, if we were to agree that the body does play a significant role in the Phaedrus, that it situates us in the world and opens us to the world, that it is in constant exchange with the world, making us fragile and dependent as well as enabling us to fall in love and, ultimately, become better human beings—what does all this mean for the statement about logos that was quoted in the beginning, namely, that every logos has to have a body? Logos would then not be self-enclosed but in constant interaction with the world, opening us up toward it as well as being determined by the world’s historicity, materiality, etc. There would also be a reciprocity and, therefore, receptivity and passivity peculiar to logos. Philosophy turns out to be concerned with limits and resistance just as much as with exploration and possibility. Furthermore, it becomes obvious that logos has an ethical dimension. It moves in the realm of ethics from the start; we have a responsibility toward logos, and in turn, we can also exercise our responsibility through logos.23 ∗

∗

∗

This chapter has examined the body as one important dimension of interiority, which is involved in enjoyment as well as suffering. Three approaches, or models, of the body have been considered, each emerging from the previous one. While the fi rst two approaches fi nd their main representatives in phenomenologists such as Husserl and Merleau-Ponty, the third dimension is Levinas’s contribution. We have seen that these three dimensions can also be found in Plato’s Phaedrus. The main steps of this examination shall be briefly summarized here.

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The fi rst approach asks how my body is different from things, and how it opens me up toward the world. Levinas acknowledges this level, particularly by way of some interesting reflections on bodily habits or the habitual body. In Plato, the dialogical settings that are especially pronounced in the Phaedrus show how the body cannot be discarded and how having a body opens me up to the world as well as to logos. The second approach stresses exchange and even reversibility between me and the world. Both Plato and Levinas consider the elements as an important dimension prior to any subject–object relation. We depend on the elements as they support our dwelling on an everyday basis. Thirdly, Levinas moves on from previous accounts of corporeality to stress that sensibility is intimately connected to vulnerability, thus adding an ethical dimension. Our bodily exposedness becomes obvious in Plato’s Phaedrus already on the level of souls which, despite being as yet disincarnate, are fundamentally fragile. Later on, the erotic encounter shows how our bodily exposedness and openness is a necessary condition for recognizing in the Other a trace of beauty itself. As these various dimensions of the body emerge in Plato, the analogy between body and logos that determines the Phaedrus also acquires a richer texture and more facets. This analogy, then, does not present logos as something self-enclosed but as open and exposed. If neither Plato nor Levinas neglect the body—if they are aware of its various dimensions and its intertwinement with thinking or with logos— this does not necessarily mean that they simply advocate bodily pleasures. Each has a subtle and differentiated standpoint regarding hedonism. Most importantly, it has to be kept in mind that the body is a source of pleasure and pain, enjoyment and suffering. As bodily beings, we are vulnerable. It is as “beings of flesh and blood” (OB 74/93), as Levinas puts it, that ethics is so relevant and so close to home for us. Or, to put it in the simplest terms: “Only a subject that eats can be for-the-other” (ibid.).

3

Enjoyment or Suffering? Modes of Sensibility Socrates: “But as to pleasure, I know that it is complex and, just as I said, we must make it our starting point and consider carefully what kind of nature it has.” Plato, Philebus 12c

“To bite on the bread is the very meaning of tasting” (OB 73/92), Levinas says. In this immediacy and non-ambiguity lies the strength of pleasures. Yet immediacy and non-ambiguity are negative characterizations; they only determine pleasure indirectly. What is enjoyment? How does it relate to the ‘other side’ of our bodily nature, namely, suffering, which emerged in the previous chapter when the body was discussed as vulnerability? Is human existence enjoyment or suffering? For Levinas, it is not very helpful to ask about ‘enjoyment or suffering’ as an alternative. Ontologically speaking, existence is both; it has both of these modes. The most important task is not to succumb to some kind of relativism where, depending on individual destiny, one person’s life is enjoyment while another’s is suffering. Levinas’s ethics relies on the insight that life is enjoyment as well as suffering and that they can be distinguished but not separated. “Without egoism, complacent in itself, suffering would not have any sense” (OB 73/93). Suffering is based on the fundamental egoism of enjoyment. Suffering and enjoyment belong together—even though in each individual moment, they seem to exclude each other.1 This chapter is divided into two parts where the fi rst one examines enjoyment, the second one suffering. The fi rst part takes its departure from the strength of hedonism—which, despite being a momentary strength, gives hedonism a permanent truth, according to Levinas. Plato, in the Philebus, also acknowledges the momentary truth of hedonism but moves on quickly to the criticism of hedonism. This criticism considers problematic aspects and kinds of enjoyment. Suffering fi rst emerges as a failing or lack of happiness, but this would be too weak of a defi nition to do justice to the power and significance of suffering (just like the medieval concept of evil as a mere lack of goodness fails to account for the strength and impact of evil). Similarly to pleasures which do not always depend on a lack and cannot be explained as a mere absence of pain, suffering is more than a lack of happiness. According to the notion of the “One” in Plato’s Parmenides, which will be considered in the fi nal

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part of this chapter, both enjoyment and suffering point to a deeper level of sensibility and radical passivity.

a) THE “PERMANENT TRUTH OF HEDONIST MORALITIES” Levinas claims that hedonism has a “permanent truth” since it acknowledges that enjoyment does not depend on an order or value system behind it (TI 134/107). Hedonism recognizes that we enjoy our enjoyment itself and that the impact of this enjoyment should not be underestimated; nor can this enjoyment easily be corrupted. We shall see that both Plato and Levinas attribute a certain limited significance and justification to hedonism. In short, hedonism holds true for the moment and for the sphere of interiority. What makes hedonism ultimately an untenable standpoint is temporality. Plato describes this temporality in terms of the past and the future that we, as human beings, cannot neglect. For Levinas, temporal dimensions open up as the Other enters my life and questions my hedonistic pleasures. These ideas shall now be investigated with reference to specific texts. In the Philebus, Socrates is suggesting a contest to determine the power of hedonism. In this contest, pleasures and knowledge compete with each other concerning which way of life is “better.” At issue is the good life, and along with it, the different ways to pursue it. For the purposes of a fair contest, Socrates confirms with Protarchus the concept of hedonism that is in question here, namely, hedonism as proposed by Philebus: “Philebus holds that what is good for all creatures is to enjoy themselves, to be pleased and delighted, and whatever else goes together with that kind of thing” (Phil. 11b). This kind of hedonism clearly has moral implications: it claims that pleasure is good. The opposite position holds that, “knowing, understanding, and remembering, and what belongs with them, right opinion and true calculations, are better than pleasure” (ibid.). It becomes obvious right away that the anti-hedonists employ a whole arsenal of faculties, as it were, whereas hedonism claims that pleasure by itself brings about the good life. The central faculty for the antihedonist, however, is knowledge (epistēmē).2 The competition may appear questionable from the beginning since it is not clear what the Good is. Is hedonism really talking about the kind of good that Socrates has in mind? Socrates seems aware that there is no easy resolution to the contest, since such a resolution would certainly depend upon a distinct concept of the Good against which pleasure and knowledge respectively could be measured. It has become obvious in other dialogues that the Good can only be approached indirectly, by way of an analogy or an offspring, and in this dialogue as well, it will turn out that the Good “takes refuge” in the beautiful, as Socrates puts it (Phil. 64e).3 Instead, Socrates suggests a compromise right away, a compromise that is introduced as “a doctrine (logos) that once upon a time I heard in a

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dream—or perhaps I was awake” (Phil. 20b). If we leave aside the remarkable elusiveness of introducing an idea in this fashion, the idea itself if quite straightforward: the good would neither be pleasure nor knowledge but a mixture. Socrates admits that the good life needs both elements, and the winner of the contest will be the candidate who can affi rm a stronger presence in the mixture. Not surprisingly, knowledge wins the competition. But along the way, important insights are won, about false, impure, and pure pleasures, and about hedonism. Hedonism is refuted quite early in the dialogue by way of what one could call the “mollusk argument.” The hedonist position (as presented here) is untenable because it insists on exclusiveness: if one can have the greatest pleasures, nothing else is needed. Not even reason and memory? Protarchus claims these to be unnecessary. Here, Socrates can make his argument: without memory, the pleasures could not be remembered; they would only be momentary pleasures. And even worse, future pleasures could not be brought about; all pleasures would be arbitrary, momentary one-time occurrences. Such a life would not be “a human life but the life of a mollusk” (21c). Would such a life be desirable? Protarchus has to agree that it would not.4 On the level of the immediate present, hedonism is irrefutable. When the pleasure is fully there, I am not interested in analyzing it.5 Yet we cannot remain on this level, since we, as human beings, live in an awareness of our past and future and are concerned about those. Even the hedonist does not just take the pleasure as it comes along, being apathetic if it does not. Rather, the hedonist seeks pleasures and wants to know how to generate them. Hedonism cannot be maintained as a consistent philosophical theory. A theory has to give reasons and arguments, and as soon as we employ those, we have left the moment of simple pleasure. Hence Philebus’s nonargumentative, sleepy attitude during the discussion. We need to keep in mind that for the present moment of pleasure, hedonism is true, irrefutable, and self-sufficient. However, if we would stay in the moment and do not consider anything else, our life would be that of a mollusk. Even before we establish theories, we are directed toward our past and future, and this is where hedonism fails. Levinas agrees with Plato about the self-sufficiency of the moment of enjoyment (TI 118/91). In his own way, he also attributes a certain right to hedonism—even more so than Plato. Levinas criticizes Plato’s analyses of pleasures in the Philebus as too formal. When Plato identifies false pleasures as those that are based on an illusion or consist in a mismatch between expected pleasure and actual pleasure, he is explicitly connecting pleasures to judgments: since my judgment (as mere opinion, doxa, and not knowledge, epistēmē) can be mistaken, my pleasure can be mistaken as well.6 Such a conception of pleasure for Levinas, “fails to recognize the originality of a structure which does not show through in the formal, but concretely weaves the living from. . .” (TI 136/110).7 According to Levinas,

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enjoyment constitutes a more original level than judgment. His account of pleasure does not allow for a categorization into false, mixed, or pure pleasures. Enjoyment is not based on reasons or causes; it is my primordial way of dwelling in the world. When Levinas discusses the permanent truth of hedonism, he points out that “[t]he need for food does not have existence as its goal, but food” (TI 134/107). The care for existence and the care for nutriments cannot be conflated. Somebody might care for his or her existence, but only minimally for nutriments, and vice versa. If the need for food was merely about existence, I would not enjoy eating any longer after I have eaten the amount I need for survival. Levinas claims that it is a particular human feature to be able to enjoy without a particular purpose. This is the truth of hedonism: enjoyment is not good for something; it is simply enjoyable. Yet even though the level of enjoyment entails a certain self-sufficiency, we are led away from this level. It is the temporal dimension that calls us out of enjoyment; however, this kind of temporality is not to be conflated with the one discussed in Plato’s Philebus. Temporality, for Levinas, is based on the encounter with the Other that instigates a rupture in my time; it is the radical surprise of the future, which cannot be anticipated. Enjoyment entails a twofold otherness: the otherness of the elements, and the otherness of the other human being. The fi rst interruption comes about because I cannot rely on the elements. I do not possess them; they come from a source that is not at my disposal and that is not even accessible to me. The elements escape or withdraw. They also overflow at times (as in storms and floods). In the element, there is no consideration of my needs; at the same time, I am particularly grateful for such enjoyment precisely because it gives itself in such an uncertain, unreliable fashion. “The indetermination of the future alone brings insecurity to need, indigence: the perfidious element gives itself while escaping” (TI 141/115). However, we also have our ways of dealing with the disquietude evoked by the elements. These ways are called labor (TI 140 f./114 f.). As we build and dwell, it is almost tempting to forget that we cannot ultimately keep the elements in check. Every so often, we are being reminded. But those reminders just inspire us to engage in more vehement labor to attempt a securing of our access to the elements and, hence, our enjoyment. The second interruption of my enjoyment is even more severe; here, I lack a remedy.8 This disturbance comes about as the other human being questions my egoistic enjoyment. The Other asks for the bread from my mouth, Levinas states—whatever shape or form this bread might have in a given context. I do experience this questioning as an intrusion and even a pain, but I am also aware of the vulnerability of human beings that is immediately connected to the possibility of enjoyment. Levinas says that my “giving” and my “Being-for-the-other” are only possible on the basis of my primordial enjoyment that is being interrupted and threatened. Only

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because I care so deeply about my enjoyment can I give true gifts. Egoistic enjoyment is intimately linked to ethics. This rupture brought about by the Other is not secondary to my enjoyment in any temporal sense;9 nevertheless, enjoyment is a basic level of life. The idea that enjoyment is a more fundamental level of life than contact with things and even with other human beings may not easily be explained in logical terms, but it is a very plausible idea in light of our experience of enjoyment, which is to say, from a phenomenological perspective. Levinas emphasizes that, “[t]he description of enjoyment as it has been conducted to this point assuredly does not render the concrete man,” for we usually already live in society and in the midst of things rather than mere elements (TI 139/112). In a life without the Other (if this were possible), my enjoyment would not be contested; yet in such a life, I would also not experience time in the genuine sense. The future that is generated when the Other intrudes on my sphere of interiority is not simply a future as care for my existence but the future as a surprise that accompanies the demands of the Other, which I could not anticipate. Levinas discusses fecundity (in Totality and Infinity) and motherhood (in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence) as specific modes of such temporality.10 Let me just note, without entering into the intricacies of these analyses, that motherhood presents a particularly appropriate example to explain closeness to the elements and prereflective pleasure in its close connection to suffering. Motherhood exemplifies a responsibility immediately linked to sensible affectivity and a radical bodily exposure.11 In sum, it becomes obvious that for Levinas, as well, hedonism is a matter of the moment, and our existence is not just a momentary existence. Yet the future that disturbs my enjoyment is not a future that involves my making plans on the basis of my memories, as in Plato’s Philebus; rather, it is a future that is not in my hand, constituted through my relation with the Other. As enjoyment is by defi nition egoistic, based on my solitary savoring of the elements, it is necessarily interrupted by the Other. At this point, one might wonder whether Levinas would exclude the possibility of my enjoying the Other. According to Levinas, I do not enjoy the Other (unless I objectify him or her); rather, I desire the Other. The prereflective, affective mode of encountering the Other falls under the heading of Eros. Erotic encounters may also be enjoyable—this constitutes the very ambiguity of Eros (Chapter 5). The distinction between need and desire is crucial for understanding the essence of pleasure as well as, later on, the essence of Eros. We will turn to this distinction now before examining pain and suffering as dimensions which complement enjoyment.

b) PLEASURE, PAIN, AND VULNERABILITY Levinas believes that Plato fails to see the deepest, most original, mode of enjoyment, the mode of “living from . . . ,” and remains caught at the level

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of surface phenomena such as false pleasures. It is true that Plato does not really ask what makes pleasures so enjoyable. The context in which he examines pleasures makes it difficult to arrive at their deepest level. Since Socrates wants to make a case for the importance of knowledge, it is tempting for him to examine pleasures which are already closer to knowledge: distinct pleasures, which means, pleasures with distinct objects. Nevertheless significant insights can be had from Plato’s analysis of pleasures. Not only does he recognize a certain value in hedonism but he also examines the relation between pleasure and pain, where pain is conceived as a lack of some sort. These considerations are important for Levinas’s distinction between desire and need. As Socrates inquires into the essence of pleasures, he examines the position of those who claim that all pleasures are a release from pain. If this position was justified, pleasures would be comparable to a scratching that relieves an itch—not a very satisfying explanation, according to Socrates. While there are lots of pleasures which are indeed connected to some previous pain or lack, this observation cannot be maintained for pure pleasures. False pleasures usually have a component of pain, and one special subcategory of false pleasures are those which appear larger than they are, simply because the release of pain is so pleasurable. What makes such a pleasure false is the fact that the pleasure would not appear as distinct and intense if it did not contrast with the previous pain. Pure pleasures are of a different kind. They do not stem from pain; they come into being without a previous lack. Socrates provides us with examples: seeing a perfect shape (usually a geometrical one) or a color, listening to a pure tone, sensing a pleasant smell. In all these cases, there is no previous pain involved. I do not enjoy the concert so much because I was suffering from a lack of sounds before, or because the traffic noise on the way to the concert was hurting my ears. And Socrates gives a fi nal, important example: learning. He claims that “there is no such thing as hunger for learning” (Phil. 52a). The case of learning is complicated, as Protarchus remarks: Do we not at least experience the loss of knowledge through forgetting as a painful loss? Yet the retroactive loss is a different issue. I may also experience it as painful when I can no longer perceive a beautiful shape and no longer hear beautiful music, simply because I remember it and long for it. It does not follow that the perception has in the fi rst place been a response to a previous lack. The phenomena which Plato discusses under the heading of pure pleasures have a structural similarity with the Levinasian concept of desire. According to Levinas, I desire something not on the basis of a lack but because it overwhelms me and deepens my desire. Needs, in contrast, can be sated. They are connected to a previous lack, even though need “cannot be interpreted as a simple lack” (TI 114/87). As mentioned before, our enjoyment certainly does not stop with the fulfi llment of some kind of lack. Moreover, Levinas claims that we are happy for our needs. Need does not

62 Plato and Levinas take away from the enjoyment; to the contrary, if we were without needs, we would not experience enjoyment. In the discussions of enjoyment, Levinas frequently refers to the mania from Plato’s Phaedrus: madness, delirium, folly. Enjoyment is akin to such mania because of its irrational, excessive element. It is certainly not a calculable response to a quantifiable lack. Needs cannot be measured in mathematical terms; yet, in contrast to desire, they can be fulfi lled. Needs strive to incorporate the other, where the fulfillment of a need means to turn the other into the same (like devouring my food). In order to explain the difference between need and desire, Levinas references not only the dialogues Philebus and Phaedrus; probably his most important explanation involves a passage from the Symposium. Levinas writes: “Need—the vulgar Venus—is also, in a certain sense, the child of poros and penia; it is penia as source of poros, in contrast with desire, which is the penia of poros” (TI 114 f./87). This passage is not necessarily self-explanatory. Penia and poros emerge in the Symposium as Diotima recounts a myth about the origin of Eros. Contrary to the common belief, Eros cannot be beautiful and perfect, since he otherwise would not desire anything. Instead, he is forever in-between, as the child of penia (poverty) and poros (resource). What, then, does Levinas mean when he says that need is ‘penia as source of poros’? A need is a state of poverty, and the satisfaction of this poverty takes its departure from the poverty. The wealth of satisfaction derives from the poverty. Desire, on the contrary, is ‘the penia of poros.’ Here, the starting point is a different one. There is a wealth, or overabundance, that I desire. This overabundance exists, and I do not have it. Therefore, I suffer from poverty, but in relation to the wealth that I desire and that I will never be able to possess: the Other. Levinas wants to set up need and desire as siblings, both originating from poros and penia. But they are very diverse siblings, even if they stem from the same basic tension between poverty and plenty.12 Also, the image of siblings becomes problematic, as Levinas points out that, “need already rests on Desire” (TI 117/90). Levinas argues for the priority of desire on the basis of the respective temporal structures, in a fashion that can only be outlined here. If time rests on alterity, and if time in the emphatic sense rests on my encounter with what is truly other and cannot be assimilated, then the more manageable time of needs (where I can “work” on the other) presupposes the time of desire, which is not at my disposal. Enjoyment is thus based on the satisfaction of needs, yet this structure must not be misunderstood in any formalistic or quantifiable sense. For a description of my sphere of interiority, enjoyment is so essential that Levinas deems it possible to defi ne personality through it: “The personality of the person [ . . . ] is the particularity of the happiness of enjoyment” (TI 115/88). The ways in which I enjoy myself determine who I am as a person. The very possibility of enjoyment characterizes personality as an

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ontological structure, and my specific forms of enjoyment constitute my empirical personality. This is an unusual but plausible approach. A personality that is determined through its enjoyment must not be confused with my choosing myself in a free and autonomous act. Rather, what shapes my personality is my specific way of responding to the otherness of the elements. My personality and my enjoyment are connected because of the truth of hedonism. However different the particular pleasures that we are seeking may be, we are all on some level—and ‘level’ is indeed the appropriate expression here—hedonists. For Levinas, enjoyment and happiness are so fundamental that even suffering is based on them.13 The relationship between enjoyment and suffering is a complicated one; Levinas determines it in different fashions. On the one hand, Levinas discusses suffering as the opposite of enjoyment, as a “failing” of happiness. Yet on the other hand, Levinas sometimes refers to suffering as intimately bound to enjoyment, where happiness is not really opposed to but encompasses suffering. This broader sense of enjoyment “covers the ‘defective modes’ of what one ordinarily counts as enjoyment,”14 namely, need, suffering, pain, etc. It would perhaps be more appropriate and unambiguous to use the term “sensibility” (or perhaps “vulnerability”) to designate that which includes enjoyment and suffering alike. Yet there are also different senses of suffering, wider and narrower. In its broadest meaning, suffering is connected to passivity as the literal translation of Greek paschein. Such suffering is not necessarily painful. For the Greeks, the stone may “suffer” being heated by the sun; yet Levinas refers to a passivity deeper than this. He repeatedly calls it a “passivity more passive than all passivity.” Whereas phenomenologists like Husserl and Heidegger had already emphasized the importance of the subject’s passivity in relation to its active engagement, Levinas wants to explore a passivity more passive than the synthesizing passivity of time consciousness (Husserl) or our facticity of being thrown into the world (Heidegger). Mostly, Levinas points to this fundamental layer of passivity by criticizing Husserl and Heidegger in various ways. The different meanings of suffering provide instances for a positive presentation of such passivity, rather than a mere negative delimitation from alternative approaches. When it comes to narrower, more specific, senses of suffering, a distinction needs to be made between the suffering of the self, separated from the Other, and the suffering undergone for the Other. The suffering endured for the Other does not yet concern us here, since we are still trying to leave the Other out of the picture as much as possible. The suffering of the self has different dimensions. One instance is physical pain. For Levinas, the experience of pain is more revealing than anxiety before death. In such a situation of suffering, I am nothing but my pain; there is no escape. I would like to take a distance from myself and get away, but I absolutely cannot. I am standing with my back to the wall, as it were. This experience discloses a deeper condition of my existence: I am a burden to myself, but I cannot

64 Plato and Levinas get away from myself. My skin is too tight; I am locked up in it. Such a relation to myself is a suffering, but it is a suffering with some awareness—a suffering that constitutes the self. Levinas describes this basic state of the self as follows: “In its own skin. Not at rest under a form, but tight in its skin, encumbered and as it were stuffed with itself, suffocating under itself, insufficiently open” (OB 110/140). The subject that has to endure this basic form of existence lives on the “hither side” of Being: not beyond Being like the Good but so tightly connected to itself that it does not, properly speaking, have its own Being yet. To explain the notion of the hither side of Being, Levinas invokes Plato’s Parmenides. These references are perhaps the most impenetrable comments about a Platonic dialogue that can be found in Levinas’s work, predominantly because the Parmenides itself is such a complex dialogue. We are confronted with hermeneutical problems of the most severe kind, exemplified by such questions as: Does Plato represent and interpret the Parmenidean doctrine correctly? Furthermore, does Levinas read Plato correctly when he refers to him as explaining the self’s mode of Being? We will circumvent these questions (or, more precisely, let them rest) 15 by way of a deliberately cursory reading of these passages, just considering why Levinas deems the Parmenides helpful in this context. Levinas maintains that the subject is “outside of Being, like the one in the fi rst hypothesis of Parmenides” (OB 110/140). The hypothesis that is at stake in the fi rst part of the Parmenides can best be rendered as “The One is” or “The One exists.” This is Plato’s version of the Parmenidean doctrine. During the dialectical examination of this claim, it becomes obvious that such a One would have to be without movement, without place, and without time. It would have to be a totality, and, as such, it could not be encompassed in or juxtaposed to anything else. The result of examining the fi rst hypothesis runs as follows: “Thus if One is, the One is all things and is not even one, both in relation to itself and, likewise, in relation to the others” (Parm. 160b). To put it briefly, the thesis that “The One is” cannot be maintained, for it would mean that there is nothing but the One. If there was nothing but the One, the One would not have an identity because it would not be delineated in relation to anything. It could not move, it could not change, it would have no time, no place, and finally, no Being. Hence the One is without Being (and the second part of the dialogue examines the consequences of this claim). Levinas employs the idea of the One without Being to show how the “One,” namely, in this instance, me without the Other, is indeed suffering, thrown back onto itself, not able to take distance from itself in either time or space. Sensibility or vulnerability, then, mean exactly this kind of oneness without Being: “The subject will be described as denuded and stripped bare, as One or someone, expelled on the hither side of Being, vulnerable, that is, sensible, to which—like the One in Plato’s Parmenides—Being cannot be attributed” (OB 53 f./69). Such a description might be somewhat

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surprising after Levinas has already established my primordial relationship to the elements, where I am in touch with something other, in a happy kind of dependence, and where having a body means exactly this kind of dependence along with my separation from the elements. There is no oneness here in the Parmenidean sense of a totality; there is always already alterity. Yet if we keep in mind that the subject does not actually live in this way, namely, in a way that matches the One in the Parmenides, then the analogy may be helpful. A subject by itself, without any kind of otherness, cannot be found as such; it can only be accessed indirectly, by way of a trace. If the subject which is already in contact with otherness should be described by itself, it would have to be described like the One without Being, suffocating in its own skin. Even if one may argue that such a description has the character of a thought experiment, valuable insights can be drawn from it. For example, it becomes obvious that happiness already involves otherness, even if this otherness ends up being incorporated into the same (as in eating). If mere selfhood, without elements, without world, and without others, were possible, it would not be happy. Rather, it would be suffering in the deepest sense. The trace of this suffering is our passivity, sensibility, or vulnerability. I only truly experience my sensibility when I am actually in contact with something other; but the utmost passivity underneath this sensibility, the very capacity of sensing that is not even a capacity yet, precedes all contact. It is on the basis of this deepest passivity that I can experience pleasure and pain. Suffering is a failing of happiness, and it is only because I have something to lose that I am vulnerable. At the same time, there is this deepest layer of passivity, prior to any otherness, where I am neither happy nor unhappy yet, but merely sensing, ready to suffer, and ready to be happy. ∗

∗ ∗

This chapter began with an analysis of hedonism in its strength as a momentary way of being. Hedonism has a momentary truth, but fails as a more extensive standpoint due to the temporality of our existence. For Plato, this temporality becomes manifest as even the hedonist has to admit that he would like to remember pleasures and seek them out again in the future. Levinas maintains that Plato sees the power of hedonism yet fails to give a sufficient account of pleasures. Plato’s distinction between pure and false pleasures is too formal, moving to the level of judgment before enjoyment could truly be explored. A genuine analysis of pleasure, according to Levinas, has to show how pleasures are fi rst and foremost without purpose (and hence not yet connected to our care for our existence in its past and future dimensions). However, for Levinas as well, temporality breaks into this original enjoyment. This temporality is not a reflection of my care for myself but brought about through my encounter with the Other, who intrudes into my existence and questions my happiness.

66 Plato and Levinas This intrusion also makes me aware that the possibility of enjoyment is complemented and in some sense threatened by the possibility of suffering. Levinas sometimes presents suffering as a failing of happiness, as if it were nothing but a lack. This presentation is not quite convincing in light of Levinas’s broader approach. A more consistent account understands both suffering and enjoyment as dependent on a deeper level of passive sensibility. The deepest level of the self is elucidated through Levinas’s references to the One in Plato’s Parmenides. This most primordial level is always already covered over16; but enjoyment as well as suffering point to a profound level of passive sensibility and exposure—which is ultimately an exposure to the Other.

Part II

The Other

The second part of this study turns to the Other, the face-to-face encounter, or exteriority. Different dimensions of such dyadic encounters are explored by way of hermeneutical–phenomenological reflections: the relationship of teaching in the widest sense, the erotic relation, and the ethical relationship. Chapter 4 examines teaching by starting from the idea of apology, which, in its original Greek meaning as defense, is a crucial concept in both Plato and Levinas. Teaching and apology are corresponding terms; I defend myself as I am teaching the Other. Speech has to be understood on the basis of teaching and apology, with the result that speech, like teaching, is not about conveying a particular content and, like apology, is never neutral. Chapter 5 focuses on Eros, a topic that Levinas discusses in constant dialogue with Plato’s Symposium and Phaedrus. A phenomenology of Eros emerges that reverts to terms like secret, evasion, caress, and frailty for describing erotic phenomena which move at the limits of what comes to appear. Eros poses special problems for a description since we are concerned here with hiding and evasion based on a certain materiality while always going beyond the material dimension. Although fruitful results for philosophy as well as for my desirous relations with the Other emerge from this phenomenology, Levinas does not fully explore or utilize such opportunities—in contrast to Plato who stresses the significance of Eros for philosophy but perhaps in turn loses some of Eros’s essential features. Chapter 6 fi nally turns to the ethical relationship, the core of Levinas’s philosophy. Levinas explains how the Other’s infi nite ethical resistance is inherently connected to his or her quasi-null physical resistance. The Other is infi nitely vulnerable and at the same time infi nitely unforeseeable in his or her reactions. He or she addresses me soul to soul, getting under my skin as in the Gorgias’s fi nal judgment. My responsibility, in turn, is unlimited as no point of ‘having done enough’ can be determined.

4

Origins of Speech In the Apology there is a saying which explains it all, when Socrates says to his judges: Athenians, I believe as none of those who accuse me. Revealing words! He believes more than they, but he also believes in another way, and in a different sense. Merleau-Ponty, In Praise of Philosophy, 35

Speech emerges as my possibility to encounter the Other. As such, speech is the response to two important questions which Levinas’s philosophy faces. Firstly, how can we approach the Other without destroying his or her otherness? Secondly, if the Other is indeed as different and unpredictable as Levinas wishes to show, how can we have any access at all? In order for speech to be a plausible answer to these questions, Levinas’s understanding of speech needs to be examined carefully. If we employ a traditional understanding or even a classic phenomenological understanding of language and speech, Levinas’s suggestion cannot develop its full force, and one of the crucial steps in his philosophy remains unexplained. Levinas’s concept of speech has the two crucial elements of apology and teaching. More precisely, Levinas claims that speech is apology and is teaching. He emphasizes these two elements in order to show that speech is never neutral and that it is always related to an interlocutor. Plato’s dialogues comprise these two elements and are thus most helpful in understanding Levinas’s idea of speech. In particular, Plato’s Apology is crucial for Levinas’s concept of apology, and the same dialogue also serves us to compare Socratic and Levinasian teaching in the second part of the present chapter.1 In his Apology, Socrates defends his life as a philosopher. This philosophical life is a special kind of teaching yet not the teaching which the sophists advertise. Socratic teaching inspires Levinas’s concept of teaching in which I am questioned (rather than instructed). For Levinas, we are constantly being taught by the Other, provided we are willing to listen. At the same time, our speech is a kind of apology in which the ego defends itself and its egotistical interests while already being in a conversation with the Other to whom this apology is offered. Before focussing on the topic of speech as apology and teaching, let me briefly respond to a possible objection regarding this procedure: Is it not problematic to establish a connection to the Other by way of speech before the otherness of the Other is understood? Does this not undermine Levinas’s project, since discussing speech at this point might weaken the otherness of the Other before it has even been able to reveal itself? For

70 Plato and Levinas Levinas, we need speech in order to see the otherness of the Other. When we more fully explore the unforeseeableness of the Other in Chapter 6, we will be able to immediately discuss the ethical implications—namely, my absolute responsibility. A discussion of otherness for its own sake runs the risk of misunderstanding otherness as an ontological or even epistemological idea.

a) SPEECH AS APOLOGY What is speech? What is the nature of language?2 A commonsensical or everyday understanding of language regards it as a means of communication, a means to convey a content. Moreover, it regards language as a set of words, connected by rules of grammar. The paradigm example of a word is a term that refers to a spatiotemporal object such as a house, dog, cat, etc. which is assumed to exist beforehand. On the basis of such a model, translation is easy and uncomplicated, and the only task would consist in explaining how more abstract words evolve. Overall, words are conceived as signs which refer back to the disclosed world in more or less obvious ways. Merleau-Ponty and Heidegger contest this view of language. They emphasize that a model of words as signs cannot capture how language really works and that speech can only be understood in relation to silence and meaning through the connections between words. Merleau-Ponty, following Ferdinand de Saussure, points out that meaning emerges in the differences between words. Language has to be understood as a whole, and to learn a new language does not mean to learn one sign after the other (as if studying a dictionary from A to Z); rather, it means to get to know a new linguistic world. Merleau-Ponty also shows how our normal understanding of language emerges from a focus on spoken language as an available repertoire of phrases and expressions. However, such “spoken language” is only possible on the basis of a “speaking language” as new and creative (otherwise, transformations in language and the poetic use of language could not be explained).3 Heidegger claims that, in opposition to the common view, only language lets the thing be a thing, and only on the basis of language’s disclosive power is a conversation (Gespräch) possible. Only in and through language can humans be with each other. We have to realize that, usually, we conceive of the relation between humans and language in the wrong way: language is “not anything that man has, but on the contrary, that which has man.”4 Speech is no autonomous action; we do not produce anything, but a thought comes to us. Therefore, Heidegger says that “language speaks” and that “man speaks insofar as he corresponds to language [der Sprache entspricht]”—that is, listens to it.5 Even though these phenomenological descriptions of language present important reversals to the common sense view, they still fall short, from

Origins of Speech 71 a Levinasian perspective. They are flawed because language appears as an original horizon upon which conversation can be based in a second step and because it gives the impression that language is neutral. Although Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty move beyond the early Husserl—for whom monologue was the basis of dialogue6 —and regard monologue as an abstraction from dialogue, they claim that there is something still more primordial than dialogue—namely, language itself. Heidegger’s expression “language speaks” calls for us to be more humble and to acknowledge that language is not at our disposal. For Levinas, language indeed is not at my disposal; however, this is not because of an abstract horizon called language but because of the Other. My spontaneity is not limited by language but by the Other. According to Levinas, it does not make sense to focus on language itself, particularly not before my dialogue with the Other has been explored. “The interlocutor cannot be deduced, for the relationship between him and me is presupposed by every proof” (TI 92/65). Claiming that dialogue or conversation happens on the basis of language means to want to deduce an interlocutor, and it means to attempt a deduction where the possibility of deductions has not yet emerged since the interlocutor is lacking. Furthermore, language is not neutral. Language consists in me being called into question (TI 171/146) such that I am summoned to respond. Heidegger had already explained how my speech is a response, but he regarded it as a response to language rather than to the Other.7 According to Levinas, my original experience consists in my being accused by the Other and having to defend myself in an apology. “Apology [ . . . ] belongs to the essence of conversation” (TI 40/10), Levinas maintains. If we want to find out about the Levinasian understanding of conversation and speech, Levinas suggests that we examine apology. But what kind of apology is implicated here? The most famous apology in the history of Western philosophy stems from Socrates. In his apology, Socrates does not apologize in the least. Rather, he emphasizes that he does not regret at all what he has done and would do it again. Even if the people of Athens were to let him go unpunished this time, under the condition that he has to refrain from the behavior he has been accused of, he would not accept this judgment: he has to follow the call of god rather than the judgment of the Athenian people (Apol. 29d). Rather than an apologetic speech in the modern sense, the apology of Socrates is a speech of defense. Socrates is defending his case as he presents himself in a court situation. However, the setup of the court is unusual; Socrates addresses the people of Athens both as his judges and as his witnesses.8 The Greek word apologia (= defense, justification) is derived from the verb apologeomai (= to defend oneself), which in turn stems from the combination of apo (= away from) and logos. It means to step back, away from logos, but in the sense of giving the logos, putting it forth. In that sense, apologia is connected to logon didonai, giving reason or account. An apology is a logos that I give, a logos that I bring out into the open. I step away

72 Plato and Levinas from this logos not to distance myself from it but to let it stand on its own or by itself such that others can examine it and, ultimately, pass a judgment about it. This original logos presents the connection between me and the Other. If I were by myself, an apology would not make any sense. Hence Levinas’s remark: “Apology [ . . . ] is the primordial phenomenon of reason, in its insurmountable bipolarity” (TI 252/229 f.). We shall briefly examine how Socrates, in his apology, defends the philosophical life. In order to provide the appropriate framework for his apology, Socrates repeats the charges that have been put forth against him. Most importantly, he has been accused of “corrupting the young and of not believing in the gods in whom the city believes” (Apol. 24c).9 While he refutes these two charges by pointing out logical inconsistencies in Meletus’s arguments, his main goal is to defend the life he has chosen—namely, the life of the philosopher. Socrates explains that this life has been imposed on him by the god.10 He cannot abandon this life; he even considers it unethical to refrain from it. Although he acknowledges that his behavior disturbs the polis, he claims that such a disturbance is healthy and helpful for the state of Athens. Yet what does he actually do? What does philosophy mean for him? Socrates answers this question by referring to the Delphic oracle. The oracle has claimed that Socrates is the wisest man, and since Socrates certainly does not want to assume that the oracle is lying, he ventures out to try and make sense of the oracle’s claim. He visits a statesman, a poet, and a craftsman. The result is that all of these seem to know something, but when pushed by Socrates, their ignorance comes to the fore. The statesman appears to be wise but cannot answer Socrates’ questions (about politics and justice, we may assume). The poet does not know how to speak about his poetry; his art is motivated by madness (mania; Apol. 22c) and is based on illusion rather than truth. The craftsman can at least account for his specific craft. However, this knowledge is very limited, and since the craftsman does not admit of those limitations, his ignorance concerning other matters conceals the knowledge he has. All three suffer from a lack of awareness regarding the limitations of their knowledge. This leads to the well-known insight: Socrates is wise since he knows that he does not know. Yet a serious general problem is not really addressed in the Apology: How can Socrates accuse someone of not knowing the truth when he himself does not provide the truth either? Can falsity be disclosed if the truth is not known? How does Socrates present his teaching here in the Apology and elsewhere? “Socratic teaching” has become such a commonplace that it is difficult to attend to Socrates’ actual way of proceeding. Socrates questions his interlocutors. As they propose answers, he shows logical inconsistencies in their reasoning. In the end, it becomes obvious that they did not know what they thought they were knowledgeable about. However, in the early dialogues, Socrates does not provide a positive account as an

Origins of Speech 73 alternative. Can he be a teacher without offering a content to learn? Some of his interlocutors get truly upset for various reasons. Either they are used to winning every argument, such that they are simply frustrated, or they cannot get rid of the impression that Socrates does have an answer but is not disclosing it. Another possible reason for frustration would be the fact that Socrates asks questions that would not even have occurred to others; a problem suddenly arises at a point where there previously was none.

b) SOCRATIC AND LEVINASIAN TEACHING Does Socrates, as presented in the dialogues, really not offer anything? Is he, in a certain way, taking something without giving anything at all? Is he creating a hole where there was not even a scratch on the surface and not filling it in? Such teaching would be strange indeed. And Socrates himself says, in the Apology, that he is not a teacher. His argument, however, is peculiar: he is not a teacher because he does not take money, and his poverty testifies to this (Apol. 19d, 23b). Is he simply saying that he is not a teacher in the sense in which the sophists are teachers? Yet we have already seen that Socratic teaching is problematic in other respects as well and that his interlocutors are frustrated because he cannot provide answers. Nevertheless, we do conceive of Socrates as a teacher and in certain ways even as the teacher par excellence. In order to shed more light on the teaching of Socrates, let us turn to Levinas’s account of teaching. Although Levinas’s approach seems rather different at fi rst, it will provide several insights regarding the Socratic method. For Levinas, only the Other can teach me something. Neither I myself nor the objects in the world have the capacity of teaching.11 However, the Other teaches me something not just about himself or herself, but also about the world. This entails that my approach to the world is put into questions. For Levinas, I do not even have full-fledged access to the world without the Other; my access is ambiguous, lacking negation as well as confi rmation. The fi rst insight about teaching that Levinas wishes to convey to us is that teaching is not maieutics, midwifery. “[I]t comes from the exterior and brings me more than I contain” (TI 51/22). Whereas for Plato, the other can only teach me what I knew but had forgotten, Levinas emphasizes that the Other gives me more than I had. Is this an insurmountable point of disagreement at the very core of their accounts?12 Only if Plato thought I could well remember (and in that sense, learn) without the help of the Other. Yet the very setup of Platonic dialogues makes it obvious that I do need others. Socrates did not sit down at home, trying to remember by himself; neither did Plato. Socratic learning happens through questioning. The main difference then concerns that which is being learned: Where does it come from, where has it resided before I knew it? According to the concept of maieutics,

74 Plato and Levinas my soul has seen it before the soul entered my body. For Levinas, what I learn comes from the outside and has not yet been in me. Plato’s theory of Forms is a complex topic that he himself, in his late dialogues, examined more closely than anyone who came after him. As Levinas, in his opposition to maieutics, does not offer a critique of Plato’s doctrine of Forms, it is likely that he does not want to resolve the epistemological aspects of this issue at all; instead, he warns against a certain misunderstanding according to which learning would only involve myself, my memory, and the Forms. This, however, is not Socrates’ view of learning either. In that sense, the role of Socrates in the early dialogues is most instructive, since neither Socrates nor the interlocutor “remembers” much—yet they still learn a lot. Teaching in the Levinasian sense means that the Other expresses himself or herself to me. The Other’s expressions, so I come to notice, are always more and different in relation to what I anticipated. The Other questions me, my freedom, my power. Levinas describes the Other as rupture, excess, and surplus. This surplus that exceeds my anticipations creates an imbalance between me and the Other, or, as Levinas describes it, an asymmetry. More than anything else, I am being taught this imbalance. The most primordial teaching does not convey a general content (TI 98/71) but speaks of this asymmetry.13 Yet if a content should be named, this content would be “the ethical,” or my ethical responsibility toward the Other (TI 171/146). On the basis of this primordial teaching in which the Other instructs me about the relationship between him or her and myself, there can also be a teaching about objects, as the Other presents things, ideas, and explanations to me. How are these ideas about a primordial teaching related to Socrates? Levinas maintains that the relationship between me and the Other mainly consists in my being put into question by the Other. Socrates is clearly the questioner par excellence. He questions everything, takes nothing for granted, problematizes all of one’s concepts and ideas. Socrates is a person whom nobody expected or anticipated. In that sense, he is the paradigm case of otherness; he himself is aware of this and calls himself a “stranger” on several occasions.14 Consequently, Socrates is a teacher in Levinas’s sense. He does not primarily teach some specific content, but he educates his interlocutors regarding the limitations of their knowledge. He does not teach them what he knows, if this “what” should be something defi nite; but he teaches them about themselves what he knows about himself, namely, that he does not know. Yet from the perspective of some of his interlocutors, there is still an important objection to Socrates’ teaching: If they never had the desire to know about justice as such, beauty as such, and so on, is Socrates’ revelation of their ignorance relevant to them? Throughout the dialogues, Socrates shows that the themes he raises are relevant for us; they concern the question as to who we are as human beings. Mostly, he fi rst asks his interlocutors something about themselves, who they are, what profession

Origins of Speech 75 they exercise, etc. He exposes that they do not know themselves (and, according to the famous statement in the Apology: “the unexamined life is not worth living” (38a)). Yet they need him to become aware of this lack of self-knowledge. The only positive account of Socrates’ teaching in the Apology is entirely consistent with his showing our limitations and lacks to us. In his positive account, Socrates says that he teaches the “care for the best possible state of [the] soul” (30b) rather than care for body or wealth. Such care for one’s soul is by no means a solipsistic undertaking in which I turn to myself and away from others. Care for the soul means to develop into a better person from an ethical perspective, and this can only happen in relation to and through interaction with others. Moreover, I need to examine my soul through dialogue. Socrates thus makes us aware of the limitations of our knowledge and of the fact that we do not take sufficient care of our soul. His questions about virtues and the soul are highly relevant even if his interlocutors have never thought about them before Socrates approached them. Yet acknowledging that Socrates’ questions matter does not diminish the fact that he presents a major disturbance to the people of Athens, and he admits that other peoples would react in the same fashion were he to go into exile. Socrates is a disturbance indeed, a gadfly—but only because we assume that we are secure and safe, that we know what it is important to know and that others are similar to ourselves. Socrates shows that I cannot model the Other after myself. He makes it obvious that we do not all care about the same things (how much land someone has, how many sheep, etc.).15 This means that teaching should also not be about acquiring the greatest amount of information in the shortest possible time with the least effort (as some sophists believed). Original teaching is the rupture brought about by the Other who puts me and my concepts into question. Levinas raises another point of criticism in regard to the Socratic concept of maieutics. He seeks to uncover a level prior to the Socratic dialogue, for the latter “already presupposes beings who have decided for discourse, who consequently have accepted its rules” (TI 180/155). Levinas points to the well-known philosophical dilemma that one cannot philosophize with someone who is unwilling to listen and respond. Socrates’ interlocutors are usually presented as willing to enter into dialogue with him, though he sometimes encounters resistance or frustration in the course of the conversation.16 Furthermore, Levinas laments that the Socratic interlocutors are already too fi xed or set in their opinions, that they are fully developed subjects and not easily disturbed. Unlike Levinas, Plato is not interested in the development of subjectivity, in the question of how a subject comes about.17 For Levinas, the phenomenon of apology is very helpful in understanding what a subject is and how a subject must already be related to the Other in order to fully come to be. When the Other teaches me, this does not mean that I myself and the Other

76 Plato and Levinas are fully present before the teaching. Rather, “the whole infi nity of exteriority is not fi rst produced, to then teach: teaching is its very production” (TI 171/146). Teaching is the production of exteriority, and apology holds a similar role for the ego. At times, Levinas calls the ego an apology (TI 118/91). However, the crux of this statement is that, “[a]pology does not blindly affi rm the self, but already appeals to the Other” (TI 252/229). My apology, and I myself as apology, only makes sense if I address the Other and appeal to the Other. In my apologetic speech, I present my position, and I leave it to the Other to pass a judgment. In this judgment, the Other will accept or reject my reasons. I may agree or disagree with this judgment but, like Socrates, I cannot reverse the judgment that is being passed, even though I may continue my apology. What, then, is the relation between apology and teaching? For Levinas, both are situated at the origins of speech and therefore at the basis of my relation to the Other. The two modes hold a similar significance for Plato as Socrates, in his apology, distances himself from the traditional teacher; simultaneously, he defends his own philosophical questioning and teaching. Socrates teaches his listeners valuable lessons in and through his apology. It appears that teaching and apology are certainly closely connected without, however, being identical. Comparing them in a more schematic fashion, we could say that teaching is the way in which the Other approaches me, while apology is my way of expressing myself. In other words, teaching is the original logos of the Other while apology is my logos. As Socrates presents his apology, we are being taught. An appropriate response to Socrates’ apology would be an apology in the modern sense of apologizing to him. We cannot help but also think of school teaching when listening to Socrates and Levinas.18 In a classroom situation, would the students adopt an apologetic attitude toward the teacher? First of all, it has to be kept in mind that such a situation is derivative of the original teaching situation between me and the Other, where the Other teaches me by confronting me with an infi nity beyond my grasp and where I can approach the Other only by presenting my case, defending my interests, and yet being open to the situation. But, of course, such original teaching has implications for teaching in the narrow and derivative sense. One of these implications is that the importance of teaching cannot be overemphasized (no matter how one responds to the question of whether teaching should be institutionalized). Furthermore, it is not determined beforehand who the teacher is: if I am in front of the classroom, designated as the teacher, I still learn an enormous amount from those with whom I am confronted, even if this learning may not be related to the declared “content” or subject matter of the class at all. And fi nally, no matter what side of the classroom situation I place myself on, there will be an apologetic element in my speech, defense as well as justification. This is so because the Other accuses me in the primordial sense of questioning and provoking me.

Origins of Speech 77 It is true to Levinas’s concept of speech that teaching does not convey a body of knowledge or a fi xed content. Knowledge is only possible on the basis of speech as teaching or on the basis of my dialogue with the Other. Therefore, Socrates’ teaching, despite possible misunderstandings that could emerge from the concept of maieutics, can serve as a paradigm example even for Levinas. In particular, Levinas deems the Socratic critique of writing essential for understanding teaching and speech: it is crucial that the Other comes to the assistance of his teaching and attends to it (TI 91/64). If teaching consisted in conveying a body of knowledge or if speech consisted in transmitting a content, then the role of the Other would be negligible. The speaker could be replaced, I could learn from a book, or somebody else could convey a message that has been left for me. These phenomena do occur, but they are secondary, and according to Levinas, they are problematic. Not only are they open to misunderstanding and misinterpretation but they also convey mistaken ideas about speech and teaching; they let them appear as neutral and as mostly concerned with a defi nite content. Levinas remains a Platonist in his ideas on speech as apology and teaching, and we will need to investigate further the consequences of this Platonism.19 When Levinas comments on the “what” of teaching rather than the mere “how,” he states: “The Place of the Good above every essence is the most profound teaching, the defi nitive teaching, not of theology, but of philosophy” (TI 103/76). What does it mean for teaching if the Good beyond Being is that which is ultimately taught? It means that the Other teaches me, but that the Other does not just teach me about himself or herself. The Other teaches me about ethics, about radical calling into question, and about that which exceeds all Being: the Good. 20 ∗

∗

∗

Although a full discussion of speech would need to reach much further than has been possible in this chapter, some preliminary results may be summarized here. While a common sense account of language conceives of language as a totality of words and words as signs pointing to objects, phenomenological accounts of language by Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty stress that language can only be understood as a whole, and this whole is more than an accumulation of words (which are not signs to start with). For Levinas, such phenomenological accounts of language still fall short in two important respects. Levinas emphasizes that language does not precede conversation and interlocutors and that language is not neutral but ethical from the start. These characteristics of language lead us away from phenomenology to Plato, who has understood teaching through dialogue and speech as apology in the sense of a defense, exemplified in the case of Socrates. Apology emphasizes that there is a (nonneutral) connection to the Other from the

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very start. Yet Socrates’ defense is, on the fi rst level, rather peculiar; all he knows is that he does not know. What, then, is Socratic teaching? Socrates teaches others that they also do not know. He teaches them not to take things for granted but, rather, to question everything. Although Levinas is sympathetic to teaching as questioning, he frequently criticizes the Platonic concept of teaching as maieutics, pointing out that the Other teaches me more than what I already latently know. Moreover, Levinas points out that Plato’s discussions of discourse and teaching start rather late, already presupposing a subject (willing to listen) rather than asking how a subject comes about through apology and teaching. Yet it has turned out that Socratic teaching and Levinasian philosophy are closer than one might fi rst assume. For both Plato and Levinas, teaching involves the Other, and it involves the Other in a much more fundamental fashion than teaching understood as the conveying of a content. Neither teaching nor language are concerned with transmitting a content, and therefore, they require the attendance of the Other. Speech is apology and teaching. Are all my relations to the Other essentially apology? Levinas points out that there is a possibility for the subject to “renounce itself by itself, renounce itself without violence, cease the apology for itself. This would not be a suicide nor a resignation, but would be love” (TI 253/231). Eros is a relationship to the Other that goes less far and yet further than speech. It is a peculiar, ambiguous encounter with the Other, as Levinas’s detailed analysis will show.

5

The Ambiguity of Eros The possibility of the Other appearing as an object of a need while retaining his alterity, or again, the possibility of enjoying the Other, of placing oneself at the same time beneath and beyond discourse— this position with regard to the interlocutor which at the same time reaches him and goes beyond him, this simultaneity of need and desire, of concupiscence and transcendence, tangency of the avowable and the unavowable, constitutes the originality of the erotic which, in this sense, is the equivocal par excellence. Levinas (TI 255/233)

Eros is a crucial theme for Plato as well as for Levinas; both of them investigate erotic love as an essential form of my relation to the Other. At the same time, both of them also point to the dangers of love as a disruptive force, possibly diverting us from our ethical responsibilities. The Greeks were familiar with the “bittersweet” character of love through Sappho’s poetry,1 and the Platonic dialogues certainly offer material which invites this expression as a characterization of Eros.2 It is also possible to translate this characterization into more Platonic terms, as Giovanni Ferrari suggests when he proposes a defi nition of sorts: “To be bittersweet is to offer material for censure as well as praise.”3 However, this understanding of Eros as bittersweet does not really go further than the fi rst speeches given in the Symposium, which attempt to cope with the bittersweetness by presuming that there are two gods of love—a good one and a bad one.4 It might fi rst seem that an investigation of the ambiguity of Eros, as it is proposed in this chapter, would simply replace “bittersweetness” with a less descriptive term; yet the diagnosis of ambiguity invites an investigation rather than already giving an answer. It allows us to consider all the aspects of Eros which the different speeches and dialogues bring out and to assess how appropriate they are for an investigation of Eros. Finally, it allows us to ask how this ambiguity comes about and how it is connected to our nature as incarnated beings, as it is discussed in the Phaedrus in particular. In this chapter, the different reflections on Eros will be read as phenomenologies of love, which is to say, as analyses of the way in which Eros presents itself to us. Levinas provides a “Phenomenology of Eros,” under this very heading, in his Totality and Infinity. Even though Plato does not offer any explicit phenomenology of Eros, his description of Eros in the Phaedrus and the Symposium can be read as phenomenological descriptions. It will turn out that Levinas and Plato identify similar features of love which concern its inexplicable and apparently “irrational” character, its ambiguous position between physical attraction and desire from soul to

80 Plato and Levinas soul, and regarding the way in which Eros can never ultimately be fulfi lled or sated. At the same time, there are also important divergences, especially regarding the product of love. In the fi nal section of this chapter, I will investigate the place of Eros in Plato and Levinas. It turns out that Eros ultimately holds a more central position in Plato’s philosophy and that Levinas, who dismisses the significance of Eros in his later philosophy, might benefit from being more Platonic. In contrast to a form of “love without Eros,” which Levinas seeks in his later philosophy and would perhaps fall under the heading of “agape,” erotic love aims at the Other in his or her excessive otherness.

a) LEVINAS ABOUT EROS BETWEEN BEING AND NON-BEING A phenomenology of Eros fits well with the project of Totality and Infinity.5 Firstly, Levinas is not yet, in this book, solely concerned with developing his philosophical ethics, but explores more generally the relationship between the same and the Other.6 As he investigates the realm of interiority, he focuses on phenomena such as sensibility, enjoyment, and nourishment. His phenomenology of Eros shows that Eros is closely connected to the sensible yet cannot be reduced to it. Secondly, Levinas struggles in this work to develop his phenomenological method in relation to Husserl and Heidegger. Eros turns out to be a very special kind of phenomenon (and one that neither Husserl nor Heidegger approached). Yet is a phenomenology of Eros even possible? Does Eros appear, does it show itself, and if so, how? Perhaps Eros leads us to the limits of what phenomenology can explore and by doing so, provides certain insights about phenomenology and about what phenomenology can mean. The “Phenomenology of Eros” is preceded by a brief chapter about “The Ambiguity of Love.” Levinas diagnoses the ambiguous character of love from the very beginning; he is aware of this ambiguity, and nevertheless, the phenomenology of Eros appears to be a struggle, a struggle with this phenomenon which appears and hides away, evading conceptualization. This struggle is fascinating because it is genuine; it shows Levinas’s difficulties in coming to grips with Eros. The problems do not stem from a flawed framework or approach but rather they lie in Eros itself. One might wonder whether the difficulties emerge from Levinas’s framework of ethics as fi rst philosophy or philosophy as ethics. However, I wish to show that Levinas is mostly concerned with complications which Eros itself imposes on him, and only certain conclusions seem influenced by ethical considerations— especially his later search for a “love without Eros.” The ambiguity of Eros is so intriguing because it cannot be eliminated or overcome; Levinas helps us to detect and describe this difficult ambiguity, this equivocity par excellence, no matter whether we agree with his conclusions or not.

The Ambiguity of Eros 81 As Levinas approaches the ambiguity in preliminary considerations, several “both. . . and. . .” formulations are relevant. Eros surfaces as a “plane both presupposing and transcending the epiphany of the Other in the face” (TI 253/231); it goes “both further and less far than language” (TI 254/232), and it is as if “the too great audacity of the loving transcendence were paid for by a throw-back [to] this side of need” (ibid.). Overall, an image begins to emerge in which Eros is connected to immanence, enjoyment, need, and egoism—but in a manner much more complicated than, for example, hunger or thirst. Eros goes too far and is therefore thrown back. It goes to a beyond, and as if caught by a strong oceanic wave, it finds itself on the hither side. On this fi rst level, Eros is ambiguous because it is located on the threshold between need and desire. There is a dimension of enjoyment involved in Eros, and this enjoyment throws me back onto myself. At the same time, the enjoyment is only possible because I desire the Other in his or her otherness, in a fashion that does not allow for saturation but only for a deepening of the desire. An account of Eros that would focus merely on needs or physiology could never reach the essence of Eros.7 We are concerned here with a need that presupposes the transcendence of the beloved. Therefore, love of things or books is love in a derivative, restricted sense. Love is not simply a mixture of need and desire; the two elements are too different to yield a combination. Eros is too little as well as too much, lack (and thus, need) as well as excess (and thus, desire). A caress, for example, expresses less than language and at the same time, more. When Levinas describes this disproportion of too little and too much as a movement or process, he wants to make sure that we do not imagine lack and excess simultaneously, such that they balance each other out. At the same time, the process is not a dialectical one where the need turns out to be a desire already, or vice versa. There is no higher unity; this would be a balance as well. Therefore, Levinas has to revert to descriptions that appear metaphorical. Eros desires an excess and has to accept that it is thrown back onto a “too little”; but it can only find itself thrown back onto a need because it was striving for, and is still holding on to, transcendence. There is no way out of this fundamental disappointment involved in Eros. Any attempt to acknowledge the needful aspect of Eros and embrace it as mere egoistic enjoyment will fi nd this enjoyment denied because the desirous character of Eros cannot be ignored. This disproportion of lack and excess also plays out regarding the material side of Eros. There is an “ultramateriality” (TI 256/234) involved here. As Eros focuses on sensibility, it wants the materiality of the beloved. At the same time, the beloved escapes and evades, hides away, and nudity—in some sense an overabundance of flesh—is also a withdrawal, a secret, as if there was nothing at all, or at least nothing that can be captured. Nudity escapes the grasp; it is only accessible to the caress.

82 Plato and Levinas In his phenomenology of Eros, Levinas focuses on the “way [manière] of the tender” (TI 256/233), which he describes as fragility and vulnerability. One of the main features of phenomenology is to focus on the “How,” the way or mode of givenness, rather than the “What,” the object as such. So Levinas is broaching a classical phenomenological path here—but the extraordinary feature of Eros is that the phenomenon itself demands such a treatment, since Eros is not about objects but about ways or modes. It is in this sense that Eros is the phenomenon par excellence, the phenomenon that by itself calls for a phenomenology. This becomes obvious as Levinas turns to the caress. The caress “is sensibility” and yet “transcends the sensible” (TI 257/235). It is not possible to describe the caress without talking about sensibility, and at the same time, the caress cannot be described by talking only about sensibility. Moreover, the caress “aims at neither person nor thing” (TI 259/236). In other words, when I caress somebody’s shoulder, I am not directed at the shoulder (and yet, it is not completely indifferent that it is the shoulder that I am caressing). What the caress seeks lies not within the light of the graspable. The caress is not probing; it is directed at a secret without ever revealing the secret. The same holds for voluptuosity as a desire that always remains unfulfilled. It treats the hidden as hidden, without disclosing it. Voluptuosity does not objectify; it does not try to completely understand. Voluptuosity signifies a particular mode of enjoyment, where enjoyment characterizes more broadly our way of dwelling in the world and our sensibility. Levinas’s descriptions can thus be read on the very concrete level of the engagement between two lovers but also on a more metaphorical level of describing our existence as situated between needs and desires of various sorts. The enjoyment involved in Eros is of a peculiar kind if compared to other forms of enjoyment (e.g., eating and drinking). We have seen previously that enjoyment is connected to the moment and that the momentary power of enjoyment cannot be denied, which endows hedonism with a certain truth (see Chapter 3). Eros manages to maximize this momentary truth. In order to elucidate this aspect of Eros, Levinas uses three comparisons. He relates Eros and the caress to “an animality ignorant of its death, immersed in the false security of the elemental, in the infantile not knowing what is happening to it” (TI 259/236). Each of these three elements stresses a particular aspect of Eros. Levinas says repeatedly that the beloved is somewhat similar to an animal and that I play with my beloved as I do with a young animal (TI 263/241). The comparison with animality is supposed to capture the impersonal character of Eros since the caress aims at a certain person as well as beyond them. In love, I am very much concerned with the particular person I adore, and at the same time, I am not fully concerned with him or her as a person—otherwise I would not have to leave the level of discourse. The second resemblance—namely, the reference to the elemental— stresses that erotic enjoyment does not feel threatened but dwells in the

The Ambiguity of Eros 83 world as if it could go on forever. The pleasure that stems from immersing myself in the elements is a fundamental and deep pleasure, but it is based on something other—namely, the elements. As it is dependent on the elemental, it is exposed to the withdrawal or dangerous overflow of the elements. Erotic enjoyment is oblivious to such dangers and enjoys the beloved as if it could rely on this enjoyment continuing indefi nitely. At the same time, the lover is aware that the beloved is fragile, as Levinas stresses from the beginning. “Love aims at the Other; it aims at him in his frailty [faiblesse]” (TI 256/233). It is difficult for Levinas to explain how Eros as a response to the Other’s frailty differs from responsibility as a response to the Other’s vulnerability (which will be discussed in Chapter 6). Differentiating between the terms “frailty” and “vulnerability” is not sufficient to explain the much greater disparity between Eros and ethics. The reference to the infant exemplifies the frailty of the beloved. In similar ways, Levinas brings up virginity and the feminine.8 Femininity is defi ned as the “simultaneity or the equivocation of this fragility and this weight of non-signifyingness” (TI 257/234). This defi nition is general and broad enough to allow Levinas in a later interview to say that he means the feminine in every person rather than something which only women share.9 Femininity names that kind of fragility which does not signify, does not issue a call, does not place demands on my responsibility. How is this possible? Perhaps it is possible when fragility is not aware of itself as such. Innocence and virginity are then neither moral nor experiential categories but point to unawareness, to a childlike oblivion. All three aspects share an element of oblivion. Eros is oblivious to the person as a person, oblivious of its own precarious state where enjoyment is threatened and will not last and oblivious to the fragility involved. Ultimately, this oblivion concerns death, fi nitude, or mortality, as the animal is ignorant of its death. When I become aware of the Other as a being that can be killed, Eros gives way to ethics. As long as both myself and the Other are immersed in oblivion regarding our mortality, we can indulge in erotic enjoyment and assume that this enjoyment will last. But is there not some awareness of mortality involved in Eros? Yes, and Levinas indeed describes the beloved “as vulnerable and as mortal” (TI 259/236). This tension is a reflection of the original ambiguity involved in Eros, namely, the ambiguity of need and desire. On the level of need, I enjoy the beloved in oblivion of death. On the level of desire, I encounter the Other as a mortal and vulnerable being. Ultimately, the intensity of my enjoyment stems from the combination of these elements since, as Levinas has already said, erotic enjoyment necessarily involves a being with a face, a being that can be desired, and hence, a mortal being. The fact that Eros can survive these tensions and can gain even deeper enjoyment from them is rooted in the unique approach of Eros as it “remains blindly experience” without passing into concepts (TI 260/238). Eros aims at the beloved without employing concepts; it simply desires the beloved

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as beautiful. This characterization curiously resembles Kant’s defi nition of the beautiful as being an object of disinterested pleasure where no determinate concepts are applied to the ‘object.’ However, Levinas would add that erotic pleasure in the beautiful, while not involving concepts, differs from the beautiful in Kant’s sense since it entails an interest—an interest in the existence of the beloved. The mode or way of Eros is determined through such attributes as “between being and non-being,” hiddenness, secrecy, modesty, and the preposition “beyond.” What connects these modalities is their precariousness; they are constantly on the verge of turning into something else, yet this transformation would mean losing the essence of Eros. The tender is a way of “remaining,” of holding one’s precarious position in the “no man’s land between being and not-yet-being” (TI 259/236). The non-being is hence more precisely specified as a “not-yet-being.” At this point, Levinas begins his controversial critique of Husserl, as he wants to emphasize that his notion of the “not-yet” does not point in the direction of Husserlian intentionality at all. On the one hand, the “not-yet” is not a possibility, but beyond all possibilities; it is not an as yet unrealized reference in a nexus of references. On the other hand, the “not-yet” is different to the not-yet of a meaning. According to Husserl, transcendental consciousness does not give existence to objects (it is by no means a creative God); rather, it endows them with meaning. Levinas, in contrast, emphasizes that the face is the first signification and that it precedes all “Sinngebung.” The face, in other words, is not constituted. This becomes especially obvious in Eros: Eros is non-intentional since we are not dealing with a subject–object structure here and since Eros does not issue, accomplish, or intend anything. What Eros gains lies beyond all intentions. Furthermore, Husserlian intentionality is characterized by a dynamic striving for an ever closer determination. Such closer determination is precluded by the secrecy and hiddenness implied by the erotic relation. One simple indication that the Other is not the goal or intentional object of erotic desire is the fact that the desire does not come to stop at the Other but reaches beyond. It has already been intimated several times that there is a special kind of temporality involved in Eros and that Eros is determined by its peculiar temporal structure (which is also connected to its ambiguous character). Eros aims at the “not yet” (TI 257/234). This “not yet” does not designate a future in the usual sense. Specifically, it does not involve the “possible” (259/237) or possibilities, and it does not involve projections (261/238). Our normal conception of the future is based on our experience of past and present; we anticipate certain future possibilities in light of past and current events. Such a future is thus not entirely undetermined but already prefigured. Yet what lovers seek cannot be determined on the basis of past and present; it cannot be named at all. Eros is directed forward without being directed at anything specific. This experience is somewhat similar to the one outlined by Plato when he says that lovers cannot specify what they

The Ambiguity of Eros 85 want from each other and why they seek out each other’s presence (Phaedr. 251d ff.). Levinas’s exploration of this indeterminate, yet forward, directed character of Eros is fascinating. When he fi nally specifies what is being sought there as fecundity, or a child, this response is plausible as well as disappointing. It is plausible because a child indeed exceeds and crosses out all expectations, and it certainly has a special place in relation to sameness and otherness: it is “me a stranger to myself [moi étranger à soi]” (TI 267/245). A child is something much more astonishing than just a biological product of love, and my relationship to a child is a unique and unpredictable one. At the same time, the response is somewhat disappointing because it narrows the analysis down to one specific option when the most intriguing part of the temporal character of Eros is that it aims at something which is neither possibility nor projection.10 Although we must not conflate fecundity as a general structure with its specific and indeed unforeseeable manifestation, the response is nevertheless a restriction in relation to the initial indefi niteness of the “not yet,” and it is not clear how the step from the “not yet” to fecundity is accomplished in Levinas’s examination. Although Levinas does not explicitly discuss it, fecundity seems to emerge from the tension between mortality and oblivion to death that is involved in Eros. Perhaps Levinas wants to argue, like Plato, that the lovers gain a kind of immortality through their fecundity, thereby accommodating their own fi nitude as well as the fact that love is oblivious to mortality and reaches beyond death. When Levinas’s notion of fecundity was criticized from various sides and perspectives, especially by feminist philosophers, Levinas clarified that fecundity, for him, is not restricted to “biological kinship” but refers to generativity in general (EI 71). This remark is helpful if we are to explain temporality as a responsibility for what is not mine and for what cannot even be anticipated by me. However, the connection between Eros and fecundity becomes even more obscure if fecundity is conceived in terms of future generations in general rather than particular children which I take care of, whether or not they are my biological children. Perhaps Plato’s suggestion that love wants to give birth in beauty—and children are just one instance of this—is more flexible but will prove to create different problems.

b) PLATO ON BEAUTY AND WINGS The main questions concerning Eros that Plato accounts for in the Phaedrus are these: How is it that the lover seeks out the beloved’s closeness at all times yet cannot really give rational explanations as to why this is the case? Why does the lover, most of the time, appear to be completely mad? Plato accounts for these erotic peculiarities with a myth which describes our souls as chariots with wings. The soul is analogous to a chariot with

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two winged horses and a charioteer. As far as human souls are concerned, one of the horses is beautiful and good, the other ugly and bad. When the souls circle the heavens, they catch glimpses of justice, beauty, and the other ‘objects.’ Yet, eventually, all souls sink down to earth, due to accidents caused by themselves or by others. As our incarnated souls dwell on this earth, Eros, the mania instantiated by the gods, overcomes us when we see something beautiful which reminds us of beauty itself. The philosophers, who have been able to take in more of beauty in itself, are most struck (251a). Ordinary people think that the philosophers are sick—but they are enthusiastic (in the literal sense of having the god in them, being possessed by a god).11 Plato says that Eros causes our souls to grow wings again. This is a process which we are not used to at fi rst but to which we easily become addicted. When the loved one is taken away from us, the wings dry out again and cause us pain. Hence our desire to be around the loved one at all times—a desire that cannot be accounted for by reason: we cannot explain why the loved one’s presence exerts such a strong pull. Our desire is not merely caused by the beloved’s physical appearance nor is it an entirely intellectual attraction; it is something that goes beyond all those features. Seeing the beautiful beloved is nourishment for our wings.12 The Platonic myth also accounts for several other features of Eros. It helps to explain why there are such different kinds of loving relationships: they depend on our character or on the constitution of our souls. Furthermore, the myth justifies the varying or even contradictory behavior that lovers sometimes exhibit. Such changes would be caused by attempts to tame the horses, while letting them run free at other times. Plato’s descriptions, just like those of Levinas, can thus be read on the literal level of an engagement between lovers but also on the level of Eros in relation to philosophy. Can a phenomenological description of how we fall in love confi rm the account given in the myth? A possible description—inspired by Levinas’s philosophy—would be this: when we fall in love, we see a trace of beauty which pulls us toward the loved one. The notion of the beautiful should be taken in the widest sense, as something which evokes our desire. When we follow this trace and indeed fall in love, we fi nd more and more of what has evoked our desire—an inexhaustible excess, like beauty itself. We experience an excess in the loved one, and this excess strengthens our desire. We are aware that we do not love a particular feature, or a group of features, in the other person, but something which goes beyond all such features and of which they only bear a trace. We never fully grasp the loved one; there is always something which escapes us, and this deepens our desire. This excess could be named beauty, and, from a phenomenological perspective, that which reminds us of beauty might best be called a trace, as a manifestation of beauty which points to something that we cannot reach as such: there is always more of it, and it always withdraws.13 The concept of the

The Ambiguity of Eros 87 trace which becomes so important for Levinas’s philosophy thus captures most aptly the experience which Plato describes here, even though Plato does not use the concept in this dialogue.14 “Trace” can describe the experience of feeling reminded of something without being able to remember in any clear fashion where this memory is coming from.15 The beautiful is a trace of beauty, reminiscent of an inaccessible surplus. Like Levinas, Plato describes a desire that is evoked in the realm of the sensible and yet transcends all sensibility. Eros is not free-floating, not merely spiritual, and it is not merely physical either. It alerts us to who we are as human beings, weighed down by the heaviness of earthly existence while at the same time reminding us of who we can be if we allow our wings to grow. Eros does not turn away from earthly beauty but is inspired by it. It is remarkable, however, that the essential features of Eros can only be captured by a mythos, even though Eros, for Plato, is so intimately connected to philosophy. Plato’s second dialogue on Eros, the Symposium, provides a more multifaceted image of Eros, represented by way of several different speeches. While Levinas seems to assume that it is the speech of Socrates (or rather, Socrates paraphrasing Diotima’s speech) that presents Plato’s theory of Eros, the situation might well be more complicated. It can be argued— but an exploration of this topic would lead us too far astray—that all the speeches in the Symposium, including Alcibiades’ intrusion at the end, need to be read together to yield a complete picture of Platonic Eros.16 For our purposes, those aspects of the Symposium which are of interest are those that provide a phenomenology of Eros in the widest sense. A very cursory and selective reading will be undertaken in order to see how the erotic comes to appear or how erotic phenomena can be described. As in the Phaedrus, Eros turns out to be an evasive phenomenon that requires indirect approaches. The fi rst three speeches of the dialogue, by juxtaposing different theories and opinions, present the common understanding of Eros. Agathon’s speech, despite coming later in the series, belongs to the same group. The fi rst three speeches and Agathon’s speech form pairs: Phaedrus presents Eros as the oldest god, Agathon presents him as the youngest god. While Phaedrus and Agathon praise Eros for providing us with the greatest goods (Phaedrus) and for being virtuous (Agathon), Pausanias and Eryximachus point to the ambiguous and thus potentially dangerous character of love. To dissolve this ambiguity, Pausanias as well as Eryximachus establish two gods of love—a good one and a bad one, as it were. This is not surprising, given that the ambiguity of love is prevalent in Plato’s work. Love has a precarious side to itself which lets us lose self-control and puts us in a state of obsession such that we are outside or beside ourselves. Yet the seeming solution of establishing two gods cannot ultimately be successful: the gods have to be good and unified. Furthermore, we cannot understand the one phenomenon of love by splitting it in two.

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Aristophanes’ speech stands on its own. Its content is well-known: in the beginning, human nature was completely round, with four arms, four legs, etc. There were three kinds of these beings—male-male, which Aristophanes likens to the sun; female-female, resembling the earth; and male-female, an offspring of the moon. The gods split these round humans because they were too powerful and ambitious, and this is the state in which we are nowadays, searching for our other half, be it male or female. One remarkable aspect of this myth is that it explains the power of erotic desire through a previous fate which we do not remember. No wonder that lovers “cannot say what it is they want from one another” (Symp. 192c). The intensity of sexual pleasures cannot explain why “each lover takes so great and deep a joy in being with the other” (192d)—hence the myth. Another important discovery consists in the realization that the lovers will never reach their goal of being melted together, even though they would not turn down the offer if Hephaestus with his mending tools asked them whether he should join them into one (192e). Lovers thus desire a state which cannot ultimately be achieved, and they cannot give an account of why they desire the presence of the loved one so much. Levinas considers the picture of Eros as conveyed in the myth of Aristophanes partly correct and partly incorrect. It is justified to the extent that it presents one side of love’s ambiguous nature. It presents Eros in its affi nity with need and enjoyment, which requires a return to the self. Yet Eros is ambiguously located between need and desire, and the myth fails to capture the desirous, insatiable aspect of Eros since Eros is not nostalgic, not concerned to return to some previous, already familiar state, but striving for something new and other which cannot be anticipated (EI 66 & TO 86). Although the myth of Aristophanes presents Eros as aiming at a state which cannot be attained, it goes wrong, according to Levinas, when it presents this infinite longing as nostalgic. If the Symposium is read as providing a phenomenology of Eros, different speeches serve to emphasize different aspects. The myth of Aristophanes would then need to be supplemented by other speeches, such as the speech of Socrates/Diotima. From this speech, we learn that love is always love of something, and more precisely, of something we are lacking. If love attains what it desires, the desire turns into a concern to keep its object for the future as well (200d). Furthermore, Eros as a demi-god is in between; he is between beauty and ugliness, between understanding and ignorance, between mortal and immortal. This makes him a messenger between mortals and immortals, a hermeneut. The character of Eros between mortality and immortality also determines the purpose of love, namely, “giving birth in beauty” (206d). Such giving birth, be it in the shape of babies or, on a higher level, in the shape of beautiful works and ideas, provides a form of immortality accessible to mortals. However, the important “in-between” character of Eros gets lost when Eros realizes itself in immortal, beautiful products.17 This is unfortunate since the “in-between” aspect captured a crucial feature of Eros—namely, its insatiable longing.

The Ambiguity of Eros 89 Just as fecundity in Levinas emerged as a response that cannot sustain every feature of Eros as directed toward the ‘not-yet’ beyond possibilities, designated by lack as well as by excess, so Plato’s suggestion of giving birth in beauty cannot uphold the character of Eros as an infi nite search, never arriving at its destination.18 It is not altogether clear how, for either Plato or Levinas, the insatiable desire which was directed at the beloved one who can never fully be possessed or grasped, changes orientation and turns into a wish to be productive. If this development should be based on Eros as essentially creative or overflowing, it is still not obvious why there would have to be a product that can be named.19 A longing for immortality might be intrinsic to humans as fi nite beings, but attempting to preserve my beloved in a child is a dubious endeavour. If a child is conceived predominantly out of fear that my beloved might die, this would have detrimental consequences both for the child and for myself, since I would now have to worry about the vulnerability and mortality of two or more beings. Since Plato’s as well as Levinas’s ideas about generativity and fecundity are problematic and break with some of their earlier results, it may be permitted to consider them as an addendum to their respective phenomenologies of Eros rather than as substantial parts. Does the Symposium provide further insights about Eros as “in-between”? Diotima fi nishes her speech with the famous stepwise progression from one beautiful body to all beautiful bodies, 20 from there to beautiful customs, beautiful ideas and theories, and, at last, to beauty itself (211a). It is said that whoever catches sight of beauty in itself—which can only happen in a moment or suddenly (exaiphnes)—will give birth not just to images of virtue but to virtue itself. This is the end of the teleological progression as suggested by Diotima, but it is not the end of the dialogue. All of a sudden (exaiphnes), a drunken Alcibiades enters, refuses to hold a speech on Eros, and offers a speech on Socrates instead. From this moment onward, Socrates and Eros are linked to one another. Alcibiades keeps on praising Socrates: his moderation, his courage in war, his sturdiness in drinking. After reporting how he did not manage to seduce Socrates, Alcibiades praises Socrates as “daimonios” and “thaumastos”—a reference to Eros as daimon and to wonder as the mood initiating philosophy (218a ff.). Socrates is a lover—loving wisdom, but also loving earthly beauty—and a beloved, to Alcibiades and others. And in the sense that love is precisely between lover and beloved, belonging neither to the one nor to the other exclusively, the case of Socrates leads back to the fi rst conception of love as intermediary. Socrates loves other humans, but he also loves the good and beauty itself. So we have returned to the fi nal ascent of Diotima’s speech. Is the end of Diotima’s speech purely metaphysical, or is there a phenomenological indication as to why she connects love with beauty in itself? When we love someone, we might feel that there is something ‘greater,’ something which surpasses the individual. If asked why we love this person, we cannot point to any particular features of the individual which would

90 Plato and Levinas adequately account for our love. Rather, there is something wondrous and divine which goes beyond this particular person. This might well be called beauty, especially if we remember how beauty is described in the Phaedrus: beauty is that which is most radiant and bright, and therefore cannot be taken in immediately by the human eye or mind. The end of the Symposium takes us back to the physical realm, 21 to a discussion of the order of seating which ends with Agathon, Aristophanes, and Socrates exploring comedy and tragedy and drinking wine from a large cup. Drinking and drunkenness are a theme throughout the dialogue. This is not surprising, given that the theme of the dialogue is love. We come to know that Socrates drinks but has never been seen drunk—not because he condemns drinking and stays away from it but because he enjoys pleasures in a measured fashion rather than in a limitless way. He does not lose himself in pleasure; nor does he become dissolved in the object of love. Is love then still madness (mania) for Socrates, as he develops it throughout the Phaedrus and as he describes it in the Symposium with regard to Alcibiades (Symp. 213d)? Yes: insofar as love is extraordinary, taking us elsewhere than we usually tend to be—just as philosophy does. The fi nal interaction between Socrates and Alcibiades yields an aporetic but not a merely negative outcome. The distinction between lover and beloved is submitted to further examination, and we return to love as an intermediary, illustrated by Socrates, who comes to sit between Agathon and Alcibiades. In Socrates, we have found a lover and beloved whose love might fulfi ll the original characterization of a mediator, forever in-between, a philosopher who falls in love with beautiful things, bodies, and ideas. The features of love that are diagnosed and accounted for—partly by way of myths—in Plato’s Symposium, concern the strong attraction of the beloved which cannot be reduced to physical or intellectual features and which cannot be rationally explained, and the character of erotic love as “in-between,” as an infi nite longing which cannot fully arrive. Furthermore, erotic love is ambiguously located between sensibility and spirit, and it can be beneficial as well as detrimental to our lives. In order to relate these fi ndings back to Levinas’s phenomenology of Eros, let us consider the place of Eros in terms of its structural and systematic position in Plato’s and Levinas’s philosophies.

c) THE PLACE OF EROS In the Symposium, Eros emerges as the theme for the speeches since Phaedrus (as Eryximachus recalls) has remarked on the peculiarity of the fact that no poet has ever praised the god Eros. From what we know about Greek literature and poetry, this hardly seems fair, but nobody objects and the speeches begin. Is there a reason for introducing Eros in this fashion? Perhaps the true reason for focusing on Eros can indeed only become

The Ambiguity of Eros 91 obvious later. This true reason would be philosophy or, rather, Socrates’ interest in fi nding out about the nature of philosophy and the question as to how we can enter into philosophy. Eros and philosophy mutually illuminate each other’s nature: Eros is the driving force that leads us into philosophy, and the god Eros, according to Diotima, is the philosopher par excellence. Philosophy, in return, provides an answer to the question whether Eros, popular as it is, should be considered a good thing or a bad thing. But why can Plato not start the dialogue by stating that he is interested in those questions? On the one hand, the suspicion might arise that we will only get to know a small portion of Eros if philosophy is the ultimate interest of the dialogue. On the other hand, we learn something about the necessary entryway into philosophy: in order to enter philosophy, we have to start from where we are, outside of and prior to philosophy, in the natural attitude (as Hegel and Husserl would call it), common sense, or the everyday approach. This is indeed the procedure of the Symposium: the speeches start with a theme that is very popular in everyday life, and the fi rst speeches represent common sense views on this theme. After these everyday views have been put on the table, as it were, Socrates can enter and point to their inconsistencies, thereby laying the ground for explaining the connection between philosophy and Eros.22 The procedure in the Phaedrus is similar. While we get a somewhat artificial explanation in the Symposium, the theme of Eros is not justified in the Phaedrus at all. Before the dialogue starts, Lysias had already chosen his theme for the speech that Phaedrus then reads to Socrates; so Socrates and Phaedrus do not seem to have a choice. The fact that Lysias, the rhetorician, chose this theme, points to its popularity as well as to the fact that there is an open question, prior to philosophy: Is Eros a good or a bad thing? Should we seek out and trust the lover or the nonlover? And, just as in the Symposium, the fi rst two speeches serve to remind us of some everyday opinions concerning Eros before Socrates lays out the intimate connection between philosophy and Eros. In sum, Eros emerges in those two Platonic dialogues as a theme that, supposedly, has not received sufficient consideration despite the fact that most agree on its significance. It then turns out to be closely connected to philosophy, but this cannot be presupposed from the start. Just as Eros itself serves as a driving force to guide us into philosophy, so the theme of Eros in the Platonic dialogues offers an introduction to philosophy. Since “the many” (hoi polloi) consider erotic pleasures to be the highest kind, it will be relatively easy to convince them of the value of speeches on love. Eros thus plays a special role for the way into philosophy. Ultimately, Plato has to show that Eros is not predominantly directed at pleasures but at beauty itself. The situation is quite different when we turn to Levinas’s Totality and Infinity. His “Phenomenology of Eros” belongs to the last part of the book, entitled “Beyond the Face,” and it is almost an appendix, following after

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the important relations between the same and the Other, between interiority and exteriority have been explained. The theme of Eros is, however, foreshadowed long before the actual phenomenology of Eros starts, primarily in the themes of need and desire. Eros then comes into play as one important mode of the relation between myself and the Other. Yet Levinas is suspicious of Eros from the outset, as his short chapter on “The Ambiguity of Love,” which precedes the “Phenomenology of Eros,” shows. On the basis of our previous reflections on the ambiguous character of love, we might be in a position to understand what Levinas means when he says that Eros is beyond the face. Eros goes beyond the face as well as behind it—but not in the sense of fi nding something that is hidden behind a mask, as Levinas reminds us right away. Rather, Eros weighs the face down, and this weight is “the shadow of non-sense” (TI 264/242). The shadow of nonsense falls on the face as “the hidden is torn up from its modesty” (ibid.). The hidden is torn up; it is not disclosed, not brought into the light, and yet it shows itself—as a shadow, and as a shadow that is “not simply the factual absence of future light,” as Merleau-Ponty would call it. 23 This essential shadow, this nonsense without signification shows the weight of existence, a weight that is connected to our bodily, material nature, but goes beyond and deeper than that. Levinas will explain later that this weight involves the coinciding of freedom with responsibility (TI 271/248); it is the weight of beings who are embodied and need freely to relate to this embodiment. This weight of our existence cannot be fully disclosed. The secret, the hidden, resists the light; it slips away if we want to grasp it. What erotic desire strives for cannot be captured as if it were that which has simply not yet been discovered; rather, it is that which gets lost when drawn into the light, when scrutinized. It gets lost when we try to possess it. Nothing is further from Eros than possession, Levinas says (TI 265/243). Only if we can let the secret be a secret, and yet desire it, does Eros survive. Levinas embraces Plato’s conception of Eros. When he speaks of love as being situated between need and desire, we sense Diotima’s myth about Eros as the child of penia and poros, poverty and plenty, lurking in the background. Levinas praises Plato for rejecting the myth of Aristophanes, according to which love would be motivated by nostalgia for a lost totality. All the more so does Levinas agree with Diotima’s presentation of Eros in the Symposium as well as with the account of Eros in the Phaedrus. As we, according to the Phaedrus, feel reminded of beauty as something beyond our grasp, Eros points to an exteriority which exceeds our powers. Yet despite the fact that Levinas’s conception of Eros is heavily influenced by Plato, the connection between Eros and philosophy in Levinas is not as straightforward as it is in Plato. Levinas’s phenomenology of Eros has significant implications for his concept of philosophy, which unfortunately he does not discuss. Eros involves a secret that cannot be uncovered, and our philosophical thinking is to some extent defeated by the phenomenon of

The Ambiguity of Eros 93 Eros. If Eros is an element of philosophy itself, and yet evades philosophy, then there is obviously something intrinsic to philosophy that escapes it. This could be the desire that fi rst leads us into philosophy—a desire that already has to be to some extent philosophical if it is to lead us into it. There is thus an element of otherness within philosophy which makes it impossible for there to be such a thing as a totality within philosophy. In this case, Levinas’s idea of philosophy as a philosophy of the Other could already be justified by the way philosophy begins as love of wisdom—if we take the phenomenon of Eros seriously. Eros is a desire that is aware of its inability to achieve complete transparency; this awareness does not diminish the desire but rather deepens it. Philosophy in the twentieth century has come to realize that a complete philosophical system is impossible. Philosophy has chosen elucidation as its task; but how successful philosophical thought can be in achieving clarity is also determined by the extent of its awareness that complete transparency is impossible. In consequence, Levinas develops a philosophy that takes heaviness, materiality, and sensibility into account. From a Platonic perspective, Levinas should fully acknowledge the significance of Eros for philosophy and formulate his philosophy in light of the phenomenology of Eros. Yet Levinas seems to move away from Eros: in his philosophy after Totality and Infinity, Eros is hardly mentioned at all. Instead, Levinas searches for a “love without Eros,” as he calls it. 24 By separating love from Eros, Levinas wants to get rid of those aspects of love which make it a danger to ethics: love as need, according to Levinas, is ultimately a “dual egoism” (TI 266/244), that is, a return to the self and a turning away from society. Yet in seeking a love without Eros, Levinas denies himself the possibility of retaining the interesting results gained in his phenomenology of Eros. More importantly, charity or a love without Eros tends toward a love among equals, thereby losing the radical otherness of the Other. 25 Is there a way to resolve the conflict between Eros and ethics? From Plato’s perspective, Eros and ethics are not opposed since Eros leads us closer to catching a glimpse of justice and the other virtues, as such. Within the framework of Levinas’s philosophy, a different solution has to be developed. If it can be shown that Eros offers a privileged opportunity for encountering the Other, in which the Other’s otherness is revealed, then the erotic would have an ethical impact, at least indirectly. In the erotic encounter, the Other withdraws, escapes, slips away—and yet, I constantly attempt to grasp the Other; such is the nature of desire. In Eros, I realize that the Other is both too much and too little, more than I could ever anticipate and yet never enough to fully satisfy my desire. The Other is both overwhelming and escapes me. After we have undergone this experience of radical otherness in the beloved Other, we might be able to fi nd a trace of this otherness in the Other whom I do not know but who calls on me in the ethical face-to-face encounter. Such an experience of the trace bears certain

94 Plato and Levinas similarities with Socrates’ account of catching a glimpse of beauty in the other. Eros and ethics cannot be reduced to one another, but they also do not necessarily contradict one another. 26 We will return to these possibilities at the very end of this study, after considering art and politics as other ambiguous areas of existence. ∗

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At the outset of his “Phenomenology of Eros,” Levinas identifies Eros as an ambiguous phenomenon, situated between need and desire, and thus on the one hand, satiable, on the other hand, insatiable. As a form of enjoyment, Eros does not fully acknowledge the Other in his or her otherness; and yet, erotic love is directed at a being who is absolutely other. Rather than describing the object or the ‘what’ of Eros in its constant withdrawal, Levinas performs a true phenomenological analysis by focusing on the way or the ‘how’ of Eros as manifested in the caress and voluptuosity. It turns out that erotic love, in contrast to ethics, involves certain forms of oblivion. Eros does not own up to the full vulnerability of the Other and tries to stay in the moment, ignoring the extension of time. Threatened by the mortality of its object, Eros seeks a precarious solution in fecundity. Plato’s treatments of Eros are based on similar findings with regard to the peculiar strength of Eros which cannot be fully explained by a logical account—hence the retreat to myth. Situated between sensibility and intellect, erotic love constantly reminds us of our uneasy position as human beings, who transcend the physical but never leave it behind altogether. In the Symposium, the ambivalent nature of love is reflected in unsuccessful attempts to establish two gods of Eros and in the acknowledgment that a pure form of love might be beyond human nature. Instead, Eros is tied to the precarious realm of the “in-between” and to the temporal modality of the moment or the sudden. It points to a transcendent beauty without revealing it as such. For Plato, Eros is intimately bound up with philosophy; it guides us into philosophical dialogues. Levinas, by contrast, marginalizes Eros, already when ascribing to it a site “beyond the face,” and even more so when seeking a “love without Eros.” Such a quest is unfortunate, given the valuable results of his phenomenology of Eros, which can help us to understand his concept of philosophy and to give us a fi rst impression of the Other, which could complement, although certainly not replace, the ethical encounter.

6

The Ethical Relationship The face, still a thing among things, breaks through the form that nevertheless delimits it. This means concretely: the face speaks to me and thereby invites me to a relation incommensurate with a power exercised, be it enjoyment or knowledge. Levinas (TI 198/173)

This chapter takes us to the center of Levinas’s philosophy—namely, the ethical relationship with the Other. The main characteristic of this relationship, according to Levinas, is my infinite responsibility for the Other. Since the current study is not so much focused on the ethical relationship as it is upon the question of how to proceed from this relationship to ethics in the wider sense and specifically to the realm which Levinas calls politics, no new insights regarding the ethical relationship will be developed. At the same time, I have claimed that the dyadic starting point chosen by Plato and Levinas is as such convincing, and hence this claim needs to be made plausible. On the most basic level, it is helpful to start from the one-to-one encounter because we are all familiar with one-to-one situations and because we more easily accept responsibility for one human being who confronts us than for a larger group or the whole of humankind. This is a matter of proximity versus distance or the concrete versus the abstract. However, it is not at all obvious that my relationship to the Other is ethical by its very nature and that I am infinitely responsible for the Other. In this chapter, the ethical relationship with the Other will fi rst be considered by focusing on the question “Why must I not kill (the Other)?” Levinas’s response to this question is based on the concept of resistance or, more specifically, three different, yet related concepts of resistance. The next question to ponder will be “Why do I have an infi nite responsibility for the Other?”—a question which can be posed differently by stressing different components of the question. Overall, it will turn out that Levinas’s ethics involve a radicality and immediacy which he shares with Plato. Demands such as that which require me to give my skin to the Other can best be understood by considering Plato’s Gorgias and the myth of the bare souls encountering souls without the mediation of skin.

a) THE PARADOX OF ETHICAL RESISTANCE Levinas describes how the face of the Other tells me not to kill him or her; the face says “no” to my intention of killing it. Before considering how the

96 Plato and Levinas face says no and what the implications of this are, let us briefly consider the status of Levinas’s claim. First and foremost, Levinas describes what effect the face of the Other has on me. He does not ask, “Why must I not kill (the Other)?”; he just describes how the Other tells me, without or sometimes with words, not to kill. This could even be regarded as a phenomenological description in the widest sense, though obviously not in the sense of a phenomenology which starts from perception. But how do we get from such a description to the ethical level? Is this not the old problem of moving from an “is” to an “ought,” which philosophers have always struggled with? For Levinas, the question is not how to move to the ethical level. Rather, he has us begin on the ethical level. There is no need to transform the “is” into an “ought.” The fact that the face is saying “no” is equivalent to the fact that I ought not kill, or rather, that I must not kill. The face does not so much state “You ought not kill me” (or, to use an even more objective and hence, for this context, inappropriate formulation: “You ought not kill”) but rather, “Do not kill me!” A specific problem with Levinas’s ethics arises if we consider the levels on which his statements operate. When he defi nes ethics as my being put into question by the Other and responsibility as literally emerging from my response to the Other, certain connections immediately arise. Once I have admitted that the Other is calling me into question and that I must respond to this question in some form, and furthermore, that there is no natural limit to the Other calling me into question, then infi nite responsibility appears a plausible idea. Yet this level of consideration seems rather abstract or, as Levinas would more likely say, formal. And especially when it comes to ethics, dealing with issues that concern us on a fundamental and existential level, we do want philosophical considerations to have some bearing on the concrete problems we face. Furthermore, Levinas’s considerations on ethics need to be connected to traditional ethics; it would be rather dissatisfying to call for ethics as fi rst philosophy but to formalize the meaning of ethics to such an extent that no relation to previous forms of ethics can be recognized. It is certainly possible and, if we follow Levinas, desirable to transform ethics but not to an extent where the meaning of the term would be entirely different. Fortunately, such worries are misplaced, as becomes obvious when we turn back to Levinas’s texts. He is concerned with exactly the same problems that ethics has always been concerned with, and he is giving us some answers, although never easy ones. The problem rather consists in the transition between two levels of analysis. The fi rst level shall here be called “formal” and the other one “practical.” It would be more accurate, but also more awkward, to call the fi rst one an “ethics of ethics,” the second one an “ethics of praxis.” To be sure, considerations that pertain to the fi rst level are by no means empty. It would be a misunderstanding of the terms “formal” and “abstract” to assume this. Even without Hegel and his reflections on the abstract as the concrete,1 it is quite obvious how abstract considerations lead us back to the

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concrete and help us to gain a better understanding of it. If we get trapped in the concrete, in the specific details and determinacies of a given situation, we are prevented from seeing the larger context. Too much proximity to the concrete circumstances actually makes our viewpoint abstract in the negative sense and prevents us from seeing how matters “grow together”— which is the literal meaning of “concrete“ (Latin concrescere). Levinas himself explains his method in this respect quite succinctly: The method practiced here does indeed consist in seeking the conditions of empirical situations, but it leaves to the developments called empirical, in which the conditioning possibility is accomplished—it leaves to concretization—an ontological role that specifies the meaning of the fundamental possibility, a meaning invisible in that condition. (TI 173/148) He thus aligns concretization with so-called empirical developments and distinguishes this level from the conditions for the possibility of the empirical, which are traditionally called transcendental. The concrete level is said here to “specify the meaning” of the more formal level.2 Although the two levels are closely connected and although both of them are necessary, the transition between them is problematic. This holds true especially when exploring questions such as, “Why am I infi nitely responsible for the Other?” since a response will be likely to start on one level and make a transition to the other level at a certain point. Moreover, Levinas’s various attempts at a response undergo this transition at different points. These difficulties shall be kept in mind as we now turn to a specific way in which Levinas explains infi nite responsibility. This way is based on the issue of resistance, which harbors a paradox. Resistance is Levinas’s name for the “no” with which the Other confronts me. The paradox of resistance, in its briefest form, consists in the fact that, when it comes to murder and other acts of violence, the Other’s physical resistance is quasi-null, yet his or her ethical resistance is infi nite. More precisely, the Other’s infi nite ethical resistance consists in or results from his or her quasi-null physical resistance. “Physical resistance” is a term chosen here to describe what Levinas calls the “resistance of the obstacle” (TI 198/173). Let us examine this paradox from the start. The theme of resistance is discussed in “Ethics and the Face,” arguably the central chapter of Totality and Infinity.3 In this chapter, three kinds of resistance are mentioned, and all of them concern ways in which the Other resists me. The fi rst kind is mentioned in the opening sentence of the chapter: “The face resists possession, resists my powers” (TI 197/172). Levinas continues to explain that the face exhibits “resistance to the grasp,” and this expression shall be used here to name the fi rst kind of resistance. This resistance consists in what Levinas calls “the very unforeseeableness of his reaction” (TI 199/173). We have already seen (in Chapter 1) that this unforeseeableness must not

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be misunderstood as an epistemological category; what is unforeseeable is literally the Other’s reaction—his or her response to my action. I cannot anticipate this reaction. No matter how well I know the Other, I can always be surprised. This surprise does not have the character of a “Jack in the box” moment, a surprise which can be delightful or slightly shocking but ultimately harmless. Rather, it is a traumatizing surprise because even if the effects are rather limited in a given instance, they make me aware of the possibilities of surprise, which I will never be able to master or restrict.4 Secondly, there is the “quasi-null resistance of the obstacle,” which could also be called physical resistance (TI 198/173). Levinas speaks of the “banality of murder,” the banality of the fact that, of course, it is incredibly easy, from the perspective of physicality, to kill the Other. Differences in physical strength among human beings do not translate into a difference regarding this quasi-null resistance. In order to emphasize the feebleness of the Other’s physical resistance, Levinas contrasts it with a rock. The rock withstands my attempts to shatter it with strong material resistance. The skin of the Other, in contrast, is thin almost to the point of nonexistence. Such an investigation of the quasi-null resistance of the obstacle would not be very interesting in itself; yet it is relevant in and through its relation to the third kind of resistance: ethical resistance. Ethical resistance is introduced by Levinas as “the resistance of what has no resistance,” which means, no physical resistance (TI 199/173). This ethical resistance is described by Levinas as infi nite, based on the infi nity of the Other. Since the Other’s infi nity is based on the fact that I cannot grasp the Other, 5 a connection between this third kind of resistance and the fi rst, the resistance to the grasp, is indicated. The fi rst and the third kind of resistance will turn out to be virtually identical, especially in that both of them are infi nite resistances. Yet the resistance to the grasp does not immediately present itself as an ethical category—even though it will turn out already to have been one—and therefore a consideration of the second kind of resistance is necessary in order to establish how the fi rst and the third kind indeed express the same idea.6 In order to see how the fi rst and the third kind of resistance coincide, we need to shed some light on the paradox of resistance. How is it that exactly by offering almost no physical resistance the Other exhibits an ethical resistance of infi nite dimensions? How, to put it bluntly, do we get from nullity to infi nity? Since Levinas uses mathematical categories, a brief reference to a mathematical connection may be useful. If something is the inverse of the other, then nullity and infi nity are indeed immediately related. Let us assume y equals 1/x; if x approaches zero, y will approach infi nity. Generally speaking, such an inverse relation means that the smaller the fi rst component becomes, the larger the second, the inverse one will get. In our particular case, this consideration suggests that the smaller the physical resistance becomes, the larger the ethical resistance will be. Indeed, physical resistance would need to be the inverse of ethical resistance. If this

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proves true, we are no longer dealing with a paradox. In fact, the paradox only exists as long as we assume that resistance in both cases means the same thing rather than the inverse. Yet can such a formalized explanation elucidate the issue at stake here? What are its implications? The lack of physical resistance on the part of the Other seems to coincide with his or her vulnerability. Levinas’s reasoning would then be that precisely because the Other is so infi nitely vulnerable to all forms of violence, he or she infi nitely resists murder, telling me absolutely not to kill.7 The supposed paradox of resistance would be Levinas’s way of leading us from vulnerability to responsibility, where infi nite responsibility is inherited from the Other’s infinite ethical resistance. To be sure, Levinas would not really want resistance to be discussed in these mathematical terms—predominantly because infi nity is not a quantitative idea, greater than even the largest number, but can only be defi ned as that which “overflows (déborde) the thought that thinks it” (TI 25/XIII). Levinas borrows the idea of infi nity from Descartes, and one might wonder whether some mathematical baggage is imported inadvertently. When Descartes proves the existence of God by arguing that the idea of infi nity cannot come from myself, he does not think infi nity in strictly mathematical terms either; infi nity is not meant to continue a series of numbers. At the same time, infi nity in mathematics is a fascinating discovery since it goes beyond every number, however large, without being just another number. It is a limes, or limit, rather than a number, and something that can never truly be reached by numbers. Levinas’s expression “quasi-null resistance” (TI 198/173) resembles such considerations about limits that are not actually reached, and in that sense, our mathematical reflections might be permissible as an analogy, illustrating how physical resistance and ethical resistance relate to each other. However, our mathematical analogy could lead to various consequences, which Levinas wants to reject. Firstly, it could seem that the more vulnerable a person is on the physical level, the more responsible I become toward him or her. This would imply that I am more responsible toward the physically weak. While a common sense understanding of ethical issues would welcome such a conclusion, it is an inference that Levinas does not want to draw. Vulnerability is a metaphysical8 determination, not a physical state, and thus not a matter of degree. When Levinas says that our physical resistance to being killed is quasi-null, he does not mean that the physical resistance of the person who is strong and trained in martial arts happens to be farther away from zero. It is not futile to evaluate who needs help most urgently—but such assessments ultimately belong to the political realm. The mathematical considerations pursued previously are only intended to demonstrate how physical resistance is the inverse of ethical resistance. The only way in which it makes sense to say that “the smaller the physical resistance becomes, the larger the ethical resistance will be” is to point out that the ethical resistance is infinite in a being whose physical resistance

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is quasi-null, and this is a being whose vulnerability I can already see in his or her face which tells me not to kill. This leads us directly to a second possible implication—namely, the familiar question about our ethical responsibility toward (nonhuman) animals. There is sufficient evidence in his writings that, for Levinas, my infi nite responsibility does not extend beyond the human realm to nonhuman animals.9 This is so, in the briefest form of the argument, because they do not have a face. They do not have a face because they do not have speech (even though they may well be able to communicate) or, which ultimately means the same thing, because they do not radically call me into question. In Levinas’s words: “I can wish to kill only an existent absolutely independent, which exceeds my powers infinitely, and therefore does not oppose them but paralyzes the very power of power [paralyse le pouvoir même de pouvoir]. The Other is the sole being I can wish to kill” (TI 198/173). When Levinas here speaks about exceeding one’s powers, he is not referring to physical or material powers, but to the “unforeseeableness” of the Other’s reaction. Even though my cat might do something which I did not expect at all, such an action does not “paralyze the very power of power.” My cat’s actions might be peculiar but not traumatizing. Only a being that resists my grasp, thereby radically calling me into question, can bring about the transition from physical resistance to ethical resistance. It is only such a being that signifies his or her quasi-null physical resistance such that the transformation to infinite ethical resistance comes about. This is not to say that we have no responsibility toward animals but that it is not the same responsibility (and not based on the same grounds) as my responsibility toward the Other.

b) AN INFINITE RESPONSIBILITY While the preceding considerations of infi nite ethical resistance were supposed to shed some light on the question “Why do I have an infi nite responsibility for the Other?” from the perspective of resistance, other approaches to this question are possible.10 Overall, it should be obvious by now that the question can only be approached in an indirect fashion rather than on a direct path. This is partially, but not exclusively, a function of the two levels mentioned previously, the formal and the practical one. Giving different emphases to the same question results in different responses. If, for example, the emphasis of the question is “Why do I have an infi nite responsibility for the Other?” a response could begin from the Kantian concept of spontaneity in order to then take a radically different turn. I am responsible because only I can take the initiative and respond to the Other. When Levinas emphasizes that my taking responsibility is always already a response, he reinterprets the traditional concepts of spontaneity and freedom which implied making a start rather than a response.

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However, only I can make a start in responding. If I respond by distributing responsibilities and delegating tasks, I have already left the ethical level and moved to political considerations of distribution. If I ask “Why me (and not someone else)?” I am acting in an unethical fashion—on the practical level because such a response means simply to push responsibility away, and on the formal level because I deny that the one that the Other has called into question is me (rather than someone else). When asked whether this structure of infi nite responsibility is not ultimately a reciprocal one such that the Other is also infi nitely responsible for me, Levinas gives the frequently cited response: “Perhaps, but that is his affair” (EI 98). It is not up to me to distribute responsibilities or to alert others to theirs; it is only up to me to accept my responsibility (or to ignore it, which is also a response). If, on the other hand, the question is rather, “Why do I have an infinite responsibility for the Other?” a response could refer to the Other’s infinity as discussed previously, in relation to the Other’s infinite resistance to the grasp. On the practical level, we would need to consider how it is impossible to establish a plausible limit for our responsibility. Where would such a limit come from, and who would be in a position to decide on it? On the empirical level, of course, I might simply reach my own physical or emotional limits. It is on the empirical level that a statement like “I have done everything I can” makes sense. But it is not plausible to ever say “I am certain that I have done enough,” because there is no “enough” in matters of ethical responsibility. Levinas explicates my infi nite responsibility in ways that resemble his reflections on desire: “The infi nity of responsibility denotes not its actual immensity, but a responsibility increasing in the measure that it is assumed” (TI 244/222). As I assume my responsibility, it does not become smaller, but increases—just as desire is never satisfied but deepens. Of course, desire and responsibility are only formally, not practically, identical. Yet this formal identity stems from the character of the Other with whom I am never “fi nished.” When comparing the infi nite and insatiable character of desire with the deepening of my responsibility as I assume it, the impression may arise that the Other is a parasite of sorts, drawing me in deeper and deeper.11 Yet Levinas explains how the process at stake ultimately deserves the name of “goodness” (which is, naturally, infi nite) and how I actually gain my identity as a subject through this process (TI 245/223). What is deepened here is the undertaking of “doing good”; and if this process takes on an addictive character, we do not need to be too worried. Finally, if someone asks, “Why do I have an infi nite responsibility for the Other?” some remarks on the character of this responsibility are in place. Firstly, we have already mentioned that responsibility, at least on the formal level, is a response. It should be difficult to deny that I respond to the Other, even if my response consists in negligence. Furthermore, it would be a misunderstanding to associate this responsibility with some kind of blame, as if I were infi nitely to blame for everything that happens between me and the

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Other. Yet what is this responsibility, positively? Levinas will not provide defi nite answers to this question. Responsibility, for him, means to realize and acknowledge the nature of my relationship to the Other as an asymmetrical and irreducible relationship, as a relationship in which the Other “resists my grasp” and exceeds all my ideas of him or her. Levinas will not and cannot tell us what to do; this would defy his philosophical project. One major and striking point of convergence among Plato, Kant, and Levinas consists in the fact that none of them believes that philosophy can or even needs to tell us what to do—because we on some level already know it. Plato assumes that we are naturally drawn to the Good unless someone disrupts this desire (and there are plenty of such disruptions in everyday life and everyday states). The task of education is to ‘cultivate’ this natural desire and help us remember what justice in itself is. Kant is convinced that we are familiar with the moral law calling on us. We often or even always respond to our inclinations rather than to the call of the moral law, but we know what it means to conceive an unconditional “ought.” Levinas, fi nally, points out that the call of the Other is an experience familiar to all of us. It is our affair to respond to it, but it is not Levinas’s task to prove that there is such a call. And how do I know that neglecting the call is not the appropriate response to the Other? Levinas would likely say that such a question is not a sincere one because it presupposes that we already do know. “Infi nite responsibility” is an idea extending through Levinas’s work, even though Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence presents it in a framework different from that of Totality and Infinity. In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Levinas emphasizes that my encounter with the Other is not an encounter between two independent subjects. Rather, I become a subject only in and through this encounter, and as a subject, I am always already “obsessed” or held “hostage” by the Other. While the expression “call” from Levinas’s earlier work could be misunderstood to connote a flexible situation, the language of Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence makes it obvious that I have the Other “under my skin” no matter how much I try to free myself from him or her. When the Other says “no” to my killing him or her, this is not so much a no from a being in front of me as a no that touches me to my very core, as if coming from my inside, threatening to rip my existence apart if I fail to heed it. In his late philosophy, Levinas points out that being a subject means being responsible and, more precisely, being infi nitely responsible: “The self is a sub-jectum; it is under the weight of the universe, responsible for everything” (OB 116/147). Subjectum, literally “being thrown under,” means not being able to evade this weight and having to respond to everything that is resting upon me. With the abolition of the primacy of epistemology, being a subject no longer means that I constitute the world as a representation which depends on me but that I have to carry the weight of the world and take responsibility. This move could also be seen as a move

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back to an ancient Greek conception of the human being in which a ‘subject’ designates neither an epistemological relation nor a relation of power but rather entails weight and responsibility. Levinas alerts us to extreme forms that this responsibility may take where the most radical shape would be my sacrificing my life for the Other or my substituting myself for the Other to the point of risking my life. Obviously, Levinas does not and cannot state that I ought to sacrifice myself for the Other.12 He observes that I can do so, and this “can” has strong implications. We might formulate it as a reversal of Kant’s famous formula “You can because you ought”13 into “You ought because you can.” To be sure, certain misunderstandings would have to be excluded. First of all, in the Levinasian context, “can” does not denote the possibility of a free, independent, and spontaneous subject but of a subject that has already been traumatized by the Other. “Can” is not so much my ability as rather an expression of the fact that such sacrifice and substitution are possible. Secondly, the formula could be misread as implying that everything I can do is also something I ought to be doing, including acts like murder. The fact that this runs counter to Levinas’s intentions does not necessarily annul the formula as such; it again depends on the understanding of “can.” “Can” does not refer to the realm of arbitrary actions that are possible to me but circumscribes the limits of the ethical realm. The fact that substitution is possible instructs us that the limits of this realm are rather wide. Substitution is a condition for the possibility of ethics, and it conditions a radical ethics.14 Those who accuse Levinas of reducing ethical questions to extreme situations ignore the fact that Levinas never limits ethics to such situations; rather, he explores extreme cases to learn something about the realm and the conditions for the possibility of ethics.15 In order to explore further the concepts of responsibility and of having the Other “under my skin,” we shall now turn to Plato’s Gorgias, which proves a crucial dialogue for Levinas’s Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. Levinas’s claims about infi nite responsibility strike many readers as outrageous in a way similar to the upset caused among his contemporaries by Socrates’ claims about the happiness of the just person. In the Gorgias, Socrates holds the extreme position that doing injustice without being punished is the worst thing that can happen to a person (since there is no chance for improvement) and that such a person would be most unhappy (Gorg. 479d f.). The arguments for this statement go through various twists and turns. When arguing with Polus, Socrates defends the argument by examining the different meanings of shamefulness. Since Polus admits that doing injustice is more shameful than suffering it and also agrees with Socrates that what is more shameful surpasses what is less shameful either in pain or in badness, he has to agree that doing injustice is worse than suffering it (for it clearly does not seem more painful) (Gorg. 475b). When Callicles picks up the discussion, unhappy about Polus’s capitulation, Socrates refutes the thesis

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that goodness is pleasure, that is, a certain form of hedonism, as part of his argument for the thesis about the happiness of the just person. Following this argumentation step by step would require a substantial analysis. However, the argument underlying both of these considerations is ultimately a simple one which involves the nature of the soul. The soul, so Socrates argues, has a certain purpose, and this purpose is being just. The purpose is what the soul aims at, what the soul is good at, and what fulfi ls the nature of the soul. Justice in the soul, according to Socrates, connotes being well-organized and self-controlled (Gorg. 506d). If our soul is able to fulfill its function, this will make us happy, whereas disharmony or chaos in the soul induces misery. Socrates likes to utilize an analogy between body and soul to point out that just as a sick body does not make a person happy, so a sick, unjust soul will also lead to unhappiness. Therefore, the unjust person who is being punished is better off than the unjust one who escapes, since there is a chance for improvement in the latter case. Socrates does not specify, and the Greek concept of eudaimonia makes it unnecessary to specify, that he means happiness in the long run, as it were, and true happiness in contrast to an illusion of happiness. The rich tyrant may assume that he is happy, but he will turn out not to be. And in the long run, this will even become obvious to other people, as Socrates shows in the myth of the last judgment; those who have an unjust soul at the time of dying will receive their due punishment. Before turning to this myth and Levinas’s interpretation of it, Plato’s ideas about the happiness of the soul shall briefly be examined from a Levinasian perspective. Would Levinas embrace the Platonic conception of the just soul? Levinas’s ethics is quite obviously not based on a conception of the just soul as harmonious and thus happy. Such a conception would focus too much on the ego and his or her soul, neglecting the Other. Furthermore, any theory of a soul divided into parts would nowadays have to take a stance regarding psychoanalytic ideas, and Levinas does not wish to engage in such a debate. The rare reflections on the psyche that we fi nd in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence are striking, however, since Levinas writes, “the psychism in the soul is the other in me” (OB 69/86). He establishes where the Other who is obsessing me can be found, namely, in my soul. More precisely, as a footnote specifies, “the soul is the other in me” (OB 191n./86n.). While it seems futile to look for the soul’s harmony in Levinas, there are two points of proximity between Plato and Levinas, in addition to the rigor which connects their positions and separates them radically from everyday assumptions about justice.16 Firstly, both regard the soul as a connection between interiority and exteriority. For Plato, this connection takes the form of mirroring; the individual soul mirrors the state (and vice versa). According to Levinas, the Other enters my soul as an obsessive power, but the Other also transcends my soul. A situation of mirroring, as described

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by Plato, appears more peaceful and harmonious. Yet when we think of the mad and delirious soul in the Phaedrus, driven by a desire for ideas or Forms, which it has partly forgotten and which nevertheless obsess it, it becomes obvious that a Platonic harmony of the soul is not a simple achievement either. Secondly, and on a more general level, both Plato and Levinas attempt an ethics that does not involve bad conscience as a motivating factor—and yet, both philosophies can easily be misconstrued as harboring this idea. When Plato discusses the harmony of the soul as leading to happiness, a modern interpretation might tend to read disharmony as bad conscience, as the chaos that inhabits remorseful souls. But harmony of the soul is very different from a mere strategy to avoid bad conscience. Such harmony refers to the balance of the soul, and having a well-balanced soul does not presuppose experiencing and avoiding bad conscience. Furthermore, the chaos that designates an unjust soul is a more encompassing and precarious condition than bad conscience. Bad conscience has already realized that something went wrong and is focused on particular occurrences. Disorder needs a more thorough diagnosis since the person whose soul is affected by it may only have a very vague sense of something going wrong. For this reason, Socrates has to engage his interlocutors in long discussions about the soul, its parts, and its state of being. Yet if someone recognizes that Socrates is right, this can lead to a fundamental turn (periagogē) of character described in the allegory of the cave. The element in Levinas’s philosophy which might seem to resemble bad conscience is the “impossibility of murder.” In what sense can I not kill the Other? In what sense can I not kill the face? It is tempting to assume that I cannot kill the Other because I will continue to feel guilty about it. Levinas might even admit that the Other’s face will haunt me and that this haunting is part of the impossibility of killing; yet this is not the same as the psychological risk of bad conscience. Bad conscience would partly be in my control, and I could provide reasons as to why I do not have to feel guilty about my deed. But the face of the Other as haunting me is entirely beyond my control.17 I am responsible for the Other even after his or her death; even if I have killed the Other on the physical level, my responsibility does not come to a close. On a practical level, this responsibility would extend to those who were close to the deceased one, to everything and everyone left behind, but also to the victim’s corpse18 and soul. These two points of proximity are countered by what may seem to be an opposition at the very core of their ethical theories, an opposition concerning their respective concepts of justice. According to Levinas, “justice consists in recognizing the Other as my master” (TI 72/44).19 How does this statement of Levinas’s relate to Plato’s defi nition of justice? In the Republic, we learn that “justice is doing one’s own work and not meddling with what isn’t one’s own” (Rep. 433b). “Not meddling with what isn’t one’s own” seems to imply that we should leave the Other alone—but what Socrates

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means is that we ought not undertake tasks for which we are unsuited since the three parts of the soul should be in harmony. “Doing one’s own work” could well mean to be responsible for the Other (for example, in health care); moreover, it might turn out that it is exactly my “work” to recognize the privilege of the Other and to do everything this recognition demands of me. Hence, there exists no real contradiction regarding the different concepts of justice. However, the fact that the two concepts of justice do not confl ict in such an obvious way does not yet mean that Plato and Levinas would be in agreement as to the nature of justice. They do agree that justice is not a matter of law courts and that it belongs to a more fundamental level. This is a conviction which virtually all philosophers share and, ever since Kant, discuss under the heading of ‘morality versus legality.’ However, for Plato as well as Levinas, justice is something immediate, unmediated by either a concern for consequences (as in consequentialist ethics) or by a version of the categorical imperative (as in deontological ethics). In Plato, this immediacy is expressed in his considerations about the Good beyond Being and all myths that involve the soul’s contact with justice. According to Levinas, the myth at the end of the Gorgias serves particularly well to show this immediacy. This myth plays a crucial role for Levinas’s philosophy. There are indications that the significance of the skin in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence can be traced back to this Platonic myth.

c) GETTING UNDER THE SKIN The myth at the end of the Gorgias is told by Socrates, who claims that it is not a mere tale but an account, a logos (Gorg. 523a). The myth, which goes back to Homer, says that during Cronos’s time, Zeus realized that the cases of the people judged for their lives were badly decided because the people were judged the day they were going to die, when they were still alive and fully dressed. The judges were awestruck by the clothes of the people they had to judge but also by the beauty or ugliness of their bodies. In order to come to a fair judgment, both the judge and the person judged have to be stripped not only of their clothes but even of their bodies, so that soul encountered soul. Socrates says that just as the corpse, after the soul has left it behind, still shows whether someone was fat or thin, healthy or sick, so too the soul after being stripped naked of the body shows its true nature and what has happened to it. Since the soul is more naked than a naked body, no deception is possible, and fair judgments are passed. The role of this myth at the end of a dialogue about justice is problematic since it could ruin Socrates’ claim that we want to be just for justice’s own sake rather than for the sake of some external reward. According to the myth, the last judgment decides whether the dead souls go to the Isles of the Blessed or to Tartarus. Since Socrates seems aware of conflicts with his

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earlier claims, he does not present this myth as an argument for his thesis that the just person is the happiest person. He merely holds that “to arrive in Hades with one’s soul stuffed full of unjust actions is the ultimate of all bad things” (Gorg. 522e)—namely, a further horror beyond the unhappiness one experienced when alive, due to the disorder of the soul. It has also been suggested that Socrates presents this fi nal myth for those listeners who are unwilling to engage with the philosophical arguments.20 This myth forms an interesting contrast with the myth of Gyges.21 Both myths explore issues of visibility and invisibility, and both involve a reversal. When Gyges, with the help of his ring, becomes invisible, he still moves in the realm of the visible, so that he can be unjust without being punished. In the myth of the Gorgias, souls encounter each other in the realm of the dead. Everything that constitutes visibility for human beings is taken away, and precisely this removal is presumed to make it possible to see more. The function of these myths for Levinas, on the most general level, is the following: the myth of Gyges represents our condition of being separated from each other, being enclosed in ourselves, and not acknowledging the call of the Other. The myth of the Gorgias, on the other hand, symbolizes radical openness to the Other, an encounter from soul to soul, a proximity that gets under the skin. Levinas interprets the myth of the Gorgias as a description of the Other’s approach to me. This approach is immediate, and external attributes do not play any role in it. The removal of external attributes takes place in two steps. First, everything that covers the body is removed, like clothes and jewelry. But this removal is not yet radical enough; the skin and the body have to be removed as well. The skin color, for example, should not play any role in my encounter with the Other.22 Such removal suppresses “all the conditions for knowledge” (OB 199n.25/204n.), Levinas claims. A judgment in the original and emphatic sense, an ethical judgment, is not an epistemological endeavor. In contrast to a judgment in a legal court, it does not become fairer if more information is gathered and laid out. While Levinas appreciates how Plato describes the ultimate insignificance of all specific attributes, he does not fail to point out that, in some sense, the origin of the Other makes a difference. When it comes to choosing the fi nal judges, Plato takes care to establish a “certain community,” as Levinas calls it, between the judge and the judged. 23 If the judge comes from the same wider region as the judged one, a fairer judgment can be expected. This is a Platonic insight which Levinas reports but does not fully utilize, as we will see later (Chapter 11). There are two main lessons which Levinas would like us to draw from these Platonic myths, and each of these lessons goes along with a correction from Levinas’s side. Firstly, “we can note that for Plato the approach of the other is beyond experience, beyond consciousness, like a dying” (OB 190n.35/64n.). The approach of the Other is like a dying—it is traumatic, immediate, and pure. It ruptures my world and transforms it in a way that

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is as fundamental as the transition from life to death. However, and this is Levinas’s correction, he brings these myths (the myth from the Gorgias as well as that of Gyges) back into our world, the world of the living. We do not encounter the Other in this radical fashion after our deaths; the very condition of our existence is the proximity of naked soul to naked soul. Similarly, the condition of Gyges is not a mere thought experiment but describes our human condition. Levinas shows that the Platonic myths are about the here and now, about this world. The second lesson concerns the possibility of the Other speaking to me soul to soul, straightforwardly without any mediation. When the Other speaks to me and calls on my responsibility, vision and hearing are inessential; eyes, ears, and mouth are only secondary. Levinas calls this radical proximity, “saying,” and the myth from the Gorgias helps to indicate that there is a “signifyingness” in the saying which is “not ‘poorer’ than the said” (OB 199n.25/204n.). 24 However, Plato misconceives this primordial contact when he describes it as a judgment. The original encounter with the Other is, according to Levinas, not a situation of being judged but one of being accused in the literal sense: called upon. Judgments only arise and become necessary when someone else enters the face-to-face relationship, namely, the third (OB 190n.35/64n.). The original face-to-face encounter is immediate such that the attributes of the Other do not matter. However, is skin not a rather unfortunate image, given how difficult it is for us to imagine a skinless encounter in this world rather than after our death? Why is skin so important for Levinas’s ethics? Levinas wants to show the significance of a “‘contact’ without the mediation of the skin” (OB 199n.25/204n.). We are familiar with at least one relation in which I encounter the Other without the separation of skin: pregnancy. Pregnancy or maternity is one of Levinas’s model for explaining the Other in me, my being obsessed by the Other, and my being there for the Other. Maternity, Levinas points out, is a “gestation of the other in the same” (OB 75/95). It is immediately linked to, and in fact sometimes equated with, the Levinasian concepts of vulnerability and responsibility, showing how neither of them is taken over voluntarily. Is the analogy of pregnancy helpful? Levinas is certainly not retreating to biologism here. The analogy shows that there indeed exists a relation to the Other which does not link two independent beings and a contact that is not mediated by language. Yet we expect Levinas to provide an account of the ethical relationship which extends beyond the example of pregnancy which, to state the obvious, is not even accessible as an experience to half of humankind. Pregnancy is an extreme case in which the Other is literally under my skin, but beyond this case, there are various ways in which the Other can get under my skin. Several languages acknowledge the possibility of being approached in a way that penetrates my cover and protection—“getting under one’s skin,” “unter die Haut gehen,” “avoir dans le peau.” A phenomenological description of skin yields the insight that skin is indeed the

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cover protecting my body—but a cover with several gaps and holes, and a cover that can be pierced.25 In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Levinas seems to toy with the idea of replacing, or at least supplementing, “face” with “skin.” At times, he talks of “the unity of the face and the skin” (OB 192n.27/113n.). When he discusses the face as a strange phenomenon, present and absent, he starts his analysis with “a face approached, a contact with a skin—a face weighed down with a skin” (OB 89/113). Both face and skin are surface phenomena which Levinas wants to understand in a nonsuperficial fashion. The face of the Other is a nonphenomenon; it is beyond visibility and invisibility. The face is beyond the body, although the body is the trace of it. The myth of the Gorgias shows similarly that the face lies beyond the body—that it is under the skin. For Levinas, it is especially the “skin with wrinkles” (OB 88/112, 90/115) which exposes my vulnerability and fragility. While it is more difficult for us to imagine an encounter without mediation of the skin than a face-to-face encounter, a careful examination of skin shows how skin immediately alerts us to a depth dimension which may remain more hidden in the notion of face and a fragility that is hard to endure. When Levinas states that the face of the Other calls me to give away the bread that I am tasting in full enjoyment, and that it even calls me to offer my skin to the Other (OB 77/97), the questions arises: Does the Other have the right to ask so much of me? Is the skin that I am giving away not still my skin, and is it not me who is giving it away?26 A philosophy of encountering the Other has to account for my need to protect myself, including my wish to establish some borders in this encounter—the most original border being my skin. Levinas acknowledges the need for protecting myself; and yet there is something more fundamental, something which “all protection and all absence of protection already presuppose: vulnerability itself” (OB 75/94). Protection is secondary to the most primordial vulnerability which the notion of skin signifies. While the Other approaches me by facing me, my skin represents the need for protecting myself—until I realize that the Other is already under my skin. If we take the call of the Other seriously, we encounter him or her, soul to soul, as in the myth of the Gorgias. ∗

∗

∗

We have seen in this chapter how both Plato and Levinas take a radical approach to ethics, which distinguishes their philosophies from common sense conceptions but also from the main philosophical theories which tend to fall into either the deontological or the consequentialist camp. Although Plato and Levinas seem closer to deontological ethics, their respective ethical theories do not involve moral principles like the categorical imperative but take a more immediate approach where unconditional demands are placed that do not take the shape of formal principles.

110 Plato and Levinas For a better understanding of Levinas’s ethics, it seems helpful to distinguish between a formal and a practical level within his philosophy. The question, “Why do I have an infi nite responsibility for the Other?” can be approached on both levels, and if an emphasis is placed respectively on “I,” “infi nite,” or “responsibility,” different answers ensue. The underlying tenor, however, is that I have a responsibility for the Other since I inevitably respond to him or her, and my responsibility is infinite since no limits can be drawn in any plausible fashion. This responsibility can also be approached in terms of resistance, where a distinction between different types of resistance in Totality and Infi nity shows that physical resistance stands in inverse relationship to ethical resistance. Consequently, the quasinull physical resistance of the Other, which amounts to an infinite vulnerability, yields an infi nite ethical resistance and hence responsibility. Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence takes a slightly different approach to responsibility, defining the subject by way of its responsibility. This idea and the relevance of skin (as supplementing the face) can best be understood in reference to Plato’s Gorgias and specifically to the myth at the end of the dialogue. This myth explains how fair judgments can only be passed if we move beyond the skin to the soul. Levinas interprets this myth as a story not about the fi nal judgment but about the ethical encounter here and now. Disregarding the skin of the Other has several merits, but also several problems, as Plato acknowledges by demanding a minimal community between judge and judged. These issues will become more pertinent and complex as we move from the one-to-one encounter to a wider community.

Part III

The Others

Our guiding question in this part will be: “How does Levinas envision the relation between the face-to-face relationship and a wider community?” Interpreters of Levinas’s work overall agree that the relation between ethics and politics creates special difficulties for his philosophy. It causes problems already because Levinas discusses it in different texts, including two significant chapters in his main works. Overall, there are three texts to consider: “The Ego and the Totality,” “The Other and the Others” in Totality and Infinity, and “From Saying to the Said, or the Wisdom of Desire” in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. A full account would thus need to consider Levinas’s entire opus and particularly all the developments from TI to OB.1 However, we have to approach the topic in a more restricted fashion, which may be permissible since the relation itself between ethics and politics has already been the subject of numerous significant studies.2 The theme shall be approached here from a particular perspective. This perspective relies on the observation that a plurality of others, in Levinas’s philosophy, takes two shapes or modalities. One modality is the level of universality or “humankind,” and the other is the level of politics or political communities. While these two modalities are certainly related, Levinas tends to conflate them (and as a result, interpreters of Levinas’s work do not distinguish between these two dimensions either).3 When we think of politics, however, we do not necessarily and not even predominantly envision the universality of humankind. The tension between universality and ethics may become clearer if we compare Levinas’s approach to traditional philosophy. Put in a rough and simplified fashion, most of political philosophy before Hegel and Marx focuses on the necessity and possibility of social contracts for groups of people.4 The dimension of universality traditionally occurs under the heading of ethics rather than politics. Traditional ethics is supposed to hold for all rational beings, based on an “impersonal reason,” as Levinas often criticizes it. It is striking that Levinas seems to reverse the traditional understanding

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by conceiving of politics as something universal (or related to universality), yet of ethics as the one-to-one encounter. For Levinas, universality is accomplished insofar as all others appear in the eyes of the Other, who is facing me. The modality of politics as it concerns the formation of laws and institutions is not as explicitly discussed by Levinas. Hence the impression arises that universality takes us straight into the realm of politics. It is the thesis of the current study that distinguishing between these two modalities of a plurality of others is both helpful and necessary. Rather than following the order of the three relevant texts by Levinas, the following chapter will discuss universality, the subsequent one politics.

7

The Universality of the Good In like manner, then, you are to say that the objects of knowledge not only receive from the presence of the good their being known, but their very existence and essence is derived to them from it, though the good itself is not essence but still transcends essence in dignity and surpassing power. Plato, Republic 509b

In this chapter, we will not yet be concerned with manifestations of the political such as states, laws, and institutions but rather with Levinas’s move from “the Other” to a plurality which he describes not as ‘some others,’ but ‘all the others,’ or humanity. It is in the eyes of the Other that humanity shines forth. Not surprisingly, such universalism has its roots in Plato and is tied to the “Good beyond Being.” This difficult theme—which Levinas considers one of philosophy’s greatest insights—shall be approached here by relating Levinas’s interpretation to those given by Gadamer and Heidegger, among others. It will turn out that there are definite connections and resemblances between these interpretations, but that Levinas would not consider it productive to discuss the Good beyond Being either in terms of its accessibility or in terms of its status between theory and praxis. In his essay “Meaning and Sense,” Levinas criticizes contemporary philosophy for its anti-Platonism (where a relativism comes to replace Plato’s universalism) and points to certain inconsistencies in these theories.

a) LEVINAS AND UNIVERSAL HUMANISM Levinas states in the chapter, “The Other and the Others” that “the epiphany of the face qua face opens humanity” (TI 213/188). When the face of the Other reveals itself in the emphatic sense, when I truly attend to the face as face, the whole of humanity will be present in this face. This idea as such is not unusual, and it is therefore particularly important to examine Levinas’s presentation of this move in order not to confuse it with more traditional arguments of a similar kind. For example, Levinas emphasizes that the connection between the singular face and all of humanity does not ultimately happen by way of my realizing that the face belongs to a human being. “Human being” implies some biological kinship, the commonality of a genus. Levinas cannot and does not deny that there is a biological connection between humans. Yet when it comes to our connection as members of a society, this biological commonality is irrelevant.1 Instead, the essence

114 Plato and Levinas of communities is to be found in speech or language. It is striking that Levinas speaks of “the essence of society” (TI 213/188) as if there were just one society. However, it becomes obvious right away in what sense there is indeed just one society and just one language: it is the “commonness of a father” (TI 214/189 f.) that unites us as brothers. And Levinas points out that “monotheism” (ibid.) establishes the basis for such fraternity. There are various ways to approach these claims about fraternity which are admittedly rather unusual (from the perspective of philosophy). One possibility consists in approaching Levinas’s philosophy from the outside, as it were, considering what could be possible alternatives to his concept of a monotheistic brotherhood. A well-known example is the infamous “community of wives and children” in Plato’s Republic. This alternative is diametrically opposed to Levinas’s concept insofar as it emphasizes precisely the biological notion of brotherhood. In a proposal that is as plausible in its goals as it is bizarre in its execution, Plato advocates the abandonment of the nuclear family. By arranging “marriages” through a fi xed lottery system in such a way that the parents will not stay together after the child has been conceived, Plato suggests creating one big family in which everybody in the state would conceive of everybody else as a possible parent, sibling, or child. The main purpose of this arrangement is to create peace in the polis, which will be guaranteed in this scenario by shame and fear. “Shame will prevent him from laying a hand on his parents, and so will the fear that the others would come to the aid of the victim, some as his sons, some as his brothers, and some as his fathers” (Rep. 465b). Many arguments have been put forward to oppose this idea; Socrates is well aware of the resistance he will encounter. When describing the concrete mathematical rules to prevent incest, Socrates is very precise—and, as is often the case with Socrates’ precision on the empirical level, he gives us the impression that he knows about the complications but provides some exact rules for our sake, for those who want to examine and criticize the suggestion on the level of its practicability. Aristotle counters the Platonic proposal not so much on the level of execution but more on the philosophical level: Would the result not be a general diminishing of responsibility such that instead of everybody feeling responsible for everybody, nobody would feel responsible but would rather put the other in charge?2 From a Levinasian perspective, such a diminution of responsibility does not follow; when the Other calls on me, I am aware that it is me and not someone else who has to respond. However, Levinas would agree with Aristotle that this responsibility cannot be based on biological kinship or the hypothetical possibility thereof. Levinas wants us to conceive of ourselves as brothers in a nonbiological way, as united by a father who, in his absolute transcendence, is much more enigmatic than the fathers in Plato’s ideal state (who are certainly humans, walking the streets of the same city and are sometimes even identifiable by way of certain physical similarities, as Aristotle reminds us in another

The Universality of the Good 115 objection). He wants us to regard ourselves as brothers not due to our biological features, such as our being two-footed and featherless, but by way of something that we share in a less graspable and yet, according to Levinas, even more obvious fashion: our otherness, each of us having a face and calling on each other in an immediate way. The face of the Other lets us catch a glimpse of absolute transcendence. Yet Levinas emphasizes from the very beginning, and already before he discusses how all of humanity is revealed in the face of the Other, that there “can be no ‘knowledge’ of God separated from the relationship with men” (TI 78/51). The way to God never moves around or even away from humans but, rather, directly toward them. It is in the face of the Other that the “dimension of the divine opens forth” (TI 78/50). There is thus no need to search for God elsewhere, to turn our back on social life and retreat to contemplation; rather, “[m] etaphysics is enacted in ethical relations” (TI 79/52). To say that having a face, albeit in the Levinasian sense, connects us as human beings is precarious since such a statement could undermine the asymmetry between myself and the Other, which determines the ethical relation. However, this asymmetry needs to be revisited in any case since Levinas describes justice as extending to the whole of humanity. It may come as a surprise that Levinas, an opponent of reciprocity, now speaks about equality. Equality needs to be founded on the face-to-face relationship, and it emerges in my encounter with the Other as follows: “Equality is produced where the other commands the same and reveals himself to the same in responsibility; otherwise it is but an abstract idea and word” (TI 214/189). The order between equality and responsibility is important. If responsibility was grounded in equality, an entirely different—namely, traditional—ethics would ensue. Levinas now concedes that the Other also bears responsibility and that I am also a master: “This command can only concern me inasmuch as I am master myself” (TI 213/188). But even if it is ultimately possible to say that the Other is responsible for others, this does not diminish my responsibility. Furthermore, the Other needs to reveal this responsibility to me; I cannot force it upon him or her, nor can I deduce it from my own responsibility. When the Other does reveal himself or herself to me as responsible, equality in the genuine sense is accomplished (rather than abstract responsibility based on an equally abstract notion of a human being). However, the Other is fi rst and foremost not responsible for me, but for “the third.” Who is this third? When Levinas refers to the third in Totality and Infinity, he seems to imply that we already know who this third is. He either assumes that we can derive the necessary information from the term itself or that we are familiar with his earlier essay “The Ego and the Totality.” In this essay from 1954, “The Third Man” functions as a heading for the second subsection of the text. Levinas here analyzes the intimate society of love, a society in which “[t]hird parties are excluded” (ET 30). The “third man” is a disturbing factor in relation to this intimacy. It seems

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plausible, from a phenomenological perspective, to describe an erotic relationship by way of a disruptive factor which breaks open the exclusivity of this duality. “Third man” is appropriate and illuminating here. However, is it true that such a third man would look at me “in the eyes of the Other,” as Totality and Infinity will claim (TI 213/188), or is the third man here not a third person who enters the duality from the outside, appearing next to the Other rather than in the eyes of the Other? It is conceivable that I become aware of that which is excluded from the erotic relationship even as I am looking into the eyes of the loved one—and yet, a certain dissonance remains. It becomes obvious in various places that Levinas uses the term “the third” slightly differently in his early essay, but it is difficult to determine this difference exactly. Adriaan Peperzak maintains that “whereas Totality and Infinity presents the ‘second’ as the fi rst and original other [ . . . ], ‘Ego and Totality’ identifies ‘the third’ with the other and the ‘second’ with the beloved person who is too intimate to deserve the name of ‘other’.”3 Peperzak implies that instead of marking the transition from the ethical one-toone relationship to the universal community, the term here designates the difference between the intimate relationship of love, i.e., the “closed society” of the couple (ET 32), and the ethical relationship. While some textual evidence indeed points in this direction, there are a few passages which show Levinas is thinking of justice, law, and politics when he introduces the third in his early text (e.g., ET 33). Also, Levinas mentions “a multitude of third parties whom I will never face” (ibid.), which indicates that “the third” in “The Ego and the Totality” cannot be equated with the singular Other who faces me in Totality and Infinity. This complexity might well be productive. If the third in the early essay is partly identical with the Other of the ethical face-to-face relationship, but at the same time connected to a multitude that requires political institutions, then this ambiguity may serve to remind us once again that, for Levinas, the third is already there in the face of the Other—like a different layer lurking behind yet still within the face-to-face. It also reinforces the difficulty of understanding how we are to relate the ethics of the face-to-face to politics, with universality as the connecting but equally enigmatic link. When considering the three texts most relevant to the issue of the third, it seems that “The Ego and the Totality” introduces the third along with issues of society, politics, and the state; but it does not discuss what we here call universality—namely, the moment of all the others looking at me in the eyes of the Other (even though it is implied that the third leads me to the fourth, etc.). “The Other and the Others” in Totality and Infinity focuses mainly on universality, explaining how fraternity between me and all the others comes about. “The Saying and the Said, or the Wisdom of Desire” in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence takes up themes from the previous work such as fraternity and equality, but the main emphasis here is on political institutions, written laws, and the role of philosophy as paralleling

The Universality of the Good 117 while also criticizing politics. A brief summary of this development could thus be given by saying that the early essay passes over universality, the middle work emphasizes universality at the expense of politics, and the late text involves both dimensions but does not clarify their relation (and puts more weight on politics). The main connecting element in all three texts is the role of God. In “The Ego and the Totality,” God enters the scene as the “fi xed point exterior to society, from which the law comes” (ET 32). As the true exteriority and transcendence, God remains outside of any social totality. The law that comes from God is certainly indirectly related to, but by no means identical with, the political law and the written law which Levinas refers to in other passages.4 In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, as in Totality and Infinity, God guarantees fraternity and equality. Who is this God whom we, according to Levinas, only fi nd in relationships with other humans? If we approach this question from a deliberately naïve and rather formal perspective, Levinas’s statement that God is “the One [ . . . ] beyond [B]eing” (PE 73) becomes significant. Usually, Levinas talks about “the Good beyond Being,” which he regards as Plato’s most significant contribution to philosophy. Is God hence the Good? Is this even a question that can be posed? That which is beyond Being must not be considered as a being and thus cannot be submitted to the same categories as beings, such as the category of identity. However, if we take Levinas’s statement about the “One beyond Being” literally, it seems implausible that there would be a multiplicity of transcendences. An investigation of the “Good beyond Being” in Plato will help to elucidate this complex topic.

b) PLATO AND THE GOOD BEYOND BEING Levinas describes the Good beyond Being as Plato’s most significant contribution to philosophy and, along with Descartes’ idea of the infi nite, considers it the most essential insight overall. Both of these ideas are fascinating to Levinas because they thematize something that essentially exceeds my powers, an absolute alterity that undoes every totality. Yet why is the Good beyond Being important to our current considerations? How is the Good beyond Being related to universality? From a Levinasian perspective, Plato’s emphasis on the Good beyond Being as an orientation for human beings gives expression to the insight, forgotten by contemporary philosophy, that “before all culture and aesthetics, meaning is situated in the ethical, presupposed by all culture and all meaning” (MS 100). Ethics has a universal and eternal character to it, even if our attempts to formulate and thereby establish universal ethical principles and truths fail. As Levinas explains in his essay “Meaning and Sense,” which will be significant for this chapter, Platonism can only be criticized and overcome by contemporary philosophy

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through certain moves that are themselves Platonic in essence (even if philosophers are not aware of this dependence), like a tolerance based on humanism and the idea of the human being. From a Platonic perspective, the Good beyond Being grants universality since it is a universal and eternal point of orientation from which philosophy and politics takes their guidance. Rather than being a concern exclusive to philosophers and statesmen, the Good actually signifies goals that connect all human beings. It is the ultimate “for-the-sake-of-which” (hou heneka)5 that directs all human striving. When Plato discusses differences between philosophers and nonphilosophers, he points out that the main distinction lies in the fact that the philosopher takes a different approach to those issues that concern everybody—namely, justice and happiness.6 Rather than focusing on single instances, the philosopher asks about justice as a unitary phenomenon. In investigating justice and the other virtues, the philosopher searches for a higher principle that unifies even these: the Good beyond Being. Before the Good beyond Being is discussed by way of the three allegories at the center of the Republic, Socrates apologizes and offers his well-known qualification—namely, that he will discuss only an offspring of the Good (Rep. 507a). He claims that he will talk about the Good itself at some other point, but the characterization of the Good that we obtain through the allegories makes it questionable whether a more direct approach would even be possible. Just like the sun is the cause of Being, becoming, and knowing for the visible things, so the Good is the cause of Being, becoming, and knowing for the intelligible things. Knowledge of the Good itself would thus require a different “light,” a different source to guide this knowledge.7 Is the Good beyond Being accessible or inaccessible to humans? This question takes us to an old (yet unresolved) conundrum of Plato interpretation—namely, whether Plato envisioned it to be humanly possible for us to have access to the Good and whether he thought, like Hegel, that philosophical striving would come to an end such that philosophy would be actual wisdom rather than mere love of wisdom. Crucial passages in this context are found in both Republic and Symposium. There is, fi rstly, the allegory of the cave where the sun stands in for the Form of the Good and is “the last thing to be seen, and it is reached only with difficulty” (Rep. 517b). It is reached only with difficulty—but can it be reached? What here seems possible is in other dialogues described as impossible for humans to attain. And in the Republic as well, we wonder why Socrates would have had to present an offspring of the Good if it were possible to talk about the Good more directly. Socrates’ reasoning about time constraints does not seem convincing as he usually emphasizes that philosophers have time or leisure (scholē). If we stay within the allegorical speech about the Good as an analogon to the sun, it seems that Socrates wants to indicate that we can catch a glimpse of the Good just like we can look at the sun for a brief moment;

The Universality of the Good 119 yet this moment certainly does not allow us to examine and scrutinize the sun. Rather, we access the sun through its effects, and we have an idea of the Good beyond Being through the effects it has in the world. That we can glimpse the sun at all, however briefly, is ultimately a benefit since it implies that the Good is connected to this world and not hidden in such a way that we would not even know how to look for it. Just as we cannot truly see the sun because it is the cause of seeing, so we also cannot know the Good because it is the cause of knowing (as well as Being and becoming). The other dialogue in which reaching the Good might seem possible is the Symposium. However, Socrates appears much more cautious here from the beginning. Firstly, he presents a speech originally delivered by the goddess Diotima; in order to confi rm that we are dealing with divine rather than human knowledge, Diotima stresses that Socrates might not be able to understand the “final and highest mystery” (Symp. 210a). Secondly, the progression leads a philosophical lover from one beautiful body to several and then to all beautiful bodies, from there to beautiful ideas and customs, and fi nally to beauty itself—beauty itself, not the Good itself. This is one of the instances where the Good “takes refuge” in or behind beauty (as Socrates will express it in the Philebus).8 The Symposium thus does not, and even less so than the Republic, present the Good beyond Being as something accessible to human beings. However, the passage about the progression from one beautiful body to all beautiful bodies, and fi nally to beauty itself, tells an important story about universality. In order to see the difficulty involved in this progression, let us briefly turn to some Levinasian remarks on Eros. In “The Ego and the Totality,” Levinas explains why an erotic relationship “is not the beginning, but the negation of society” (ET 31). This is so because the erotic relationship, for Levinas, constitutes a “dual egoism,”9 a dyad that excludes everybody else rather than opening up to other people in a natural fashion. Levinas explains: “The universality of love can only be built up in time, by means of successive infidelities, or by the change of friends” (ET 31). This is, to be sure, not a recommendation on Levinas’s part; rather, he emphasizes that love could only yield universality if I were to successively enter into an erotic relationship (or at least friendship) with every human being. We saw earlier that Levinas, when diagnosing an ambiguity within Eros, puts an emphasis on the exclusive side of love (in the literal sense of excluding others).10 When focusing on the exclusive tendency of Eros, it indeed follows that no universality can be achieved on the basis of erotic relationships. This is the reason why Diotima’s suggestion in the Symposium sounds rather odd if taken literally. Does she indeed recommend that we fall in love with several and ultimately all beautiful bodies? Yes, but not in the same sense in which we initially fall in love with one person. We do not enter into erotic relationships with all beautiful bodies. Rather, falling in love inspires us to see traces of beauty elsewhere. We realize that beauty is not restricted to

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this one body and that it is not restricted to bodies at all. Yet while the progression, for us (or pros hemas), starts from one beautiful body and moves on eventually to beauty itself, this is only possible because, in itself (or kath’auto), beauty makes the beautiful bodies, things, and ideas beautiful. The progression described by Diotima thus presents an alternative to the account in the Phaedrus where we fall in love because something beautiful reminds our soul of beauty itself. The presentation of a development or progression entails an advantage insofar as it establishes different levels of beauty (where ideas are more beautiful than bodies) but also a disadvantage insofar as it conceals the more direct connection between beauty itself and something that is beautiful. Similarly, Levinas’s emphasis on the exclusive aspect of erotic relationships hides the possibility of seeing all the others in the eyes of the beloved Other (although this possibility would indeed be countered by the exclusive tendency of Eros). The basic observation remains that universality is based on a unifying principle, which Plato calls the Good beyond Being. Even though we, as humans, might assume that we would reach universality by moving from one instance to the next and fi nally to all of them, it is obvious that such a procedure is ultimately impossible as well as unnecessary. We do not need to look at all instances of beauty to fi nd something beautiful. Yet how is the Platonic doctrine of the Good as a unifying principle which allows for universality different from all those totalizing theories of Western philosophy, which Levinas criticizes in Totality and Infinity? On a certain reading, it would not be different at all; the Good could be just one totalizing principle among others, like Being, God, etc. But if the emphasis is, with Plato, placed on the fact that the Good is beyond Being, the difference becomes more obvious. The Good does not unify beings like an enveloping container in which they are sheltered, nor is it a term for the totality of beings as such. It stands outside of the totality of beings, no matter what beings are envisioned, and as a consequence, it stands outside of any totality. Since a totality does not allow for an outside, the Good ruptures and breaks open the totality of beings; this is the true meaning of “epekeina tēs ousias” (Rep. 509b). As a cause, the Good beyond Being supports and carries everything there is; yet as a “beyond,” it also complicates and disrupts its own creation by orienting it toward a transcendence that can never be integrated into the totality. Levinas claims that the Good beyond Being could have served as the basis for a “pluralistic philosophy” in which the plurality is neither dissolved into the unity of a number nor integrated into the totality (TI, 80/53). Numbers in general represent unifying entities under which everything, however different, can be subsumed. The Good beyond Being complicates a quantitative approach to the world since there is always something that escapes quantification. When the counting has been accomplished, it has not managed to capture everything, and while it may be tempting to try

The Universality of the Good 121 and incorporate the excess by simply adding “plus one,” the Good is certainly not something that can be included in this way. It does not stand in line with countable beings, it is not a being; it is beyond all beings. How can we know that there is such a Good beyond Being? For Plato, the fact that we know anything at all testifies to the existence of the Good as making such knowing (and Being and becoming) possible. For Levinas, it is the face of the Other, exceeding all my powers, which lets me catch a glimpse of such radical transcendence. Moreover, my awareness of my responsibility, no matter how vague, reminds me that there is goodness toward which this responsibility is oriented; and this goodness cannot be an entity in the world. Whereas Plato discusses the Good beyond Being in the general context of explicating the Forms—this is the purpose of the analogy between the sun and the Good—Levinas mostly detaches the Good beyond Being from the general Platonic doctrine of Forms.11 This separation relieves Levinas of having to investigate and accept the theory of Forms in order to then turn to the Good beyond Being. Rather, the Good beyond Being acquires prominence in relation to philosophical ontologies in general and the question of a “beyond Being” or an “otherwise than Being” as it features prominently in the title of Levinas’s second major work. This shift of the question, which may at fi rst appear as an illegitimate strategic simplification, is ultimately warranted by Plato’s writings themselves.12 Firstly, if one considers dialogues like the Sophist and the Parmenides (which are very important for Levinas), there is no one uniquely coherent “theory of Forms” which Levinas would need to accept or reject. Secondly, the theme of the Good beyond Being comes up in other contexts and dialogues which are not immediately concerned with the Forms. Thirdly, even the very passage from the Republic, which describes the Good as beyond Being, does not relate this claim back to the theory of Forms. If we wanted to connect the Good beyond Being to the Forms, the question would arise whether, in some sense, all Forms are beyond Being. Yet it becomes obvious from the other two allegories that “beyond Being” is different from the various levels of Being as they arise along the divided line, for example. The perfect triangle is not beyond Being, and not even justice itself is beyond Being. Different realms of Being, like the intelligible realm, only create further totalities. The Good ruptures these totalities as it resists any integration. It is the ultimate cause but not a cause that could be integrated in a straightforward causal line with what is caused by it. Levinas could say that the Good is the cause of causes (and not the cause of something) such that without the Good, there would not be any causes at all. The Good itself is hence much more elusive than justice itself or beauty itself. As Hans-Georg Gadamer points out in relation to several Platonic dialogues and especially the Philebus, Socrates often reports on a tendency of the Good itself to retreat or take refuge behind the beautiful, as it were.13 Such a tendency, for Gadamer, is not a misfortune; rather, it means that

122 Plato and Levinas the Good shows itself to us in a shape that is accessible to human beings— namely, as the beautiful. In doing so, it not only shows itself (however indirectly) but it also tells us something about who we are as human beings. We learn that the Good “shows itself as it is not” or “shows itself only through images,”14 and that we, as humans, are dependent on the Good beyond Being in such a way that the Good cannot be given to us as such. From a Levinasian perspective, it seems that the question whether the Form of the Good can or cannot be reached by human beings is a misplaced question—or rather, a question that forces us into an approach to the Good, which can only fail to do justice to its nature. Levinas’s fascination with the Platonic Good beyond Being, just as with Descartes’s idea of the infi nite, stems from the fact that philosophy here opens up to something beyond our grasp, something that exceeds my powers (intellectual and otherwise). In that sense, it appears that Levinas would rather follow those interpreters who, like Gadamer, read Plato as saying that the Good is not accessible to us as human beings. However, the point is not that the Good points to the limits of our capacities or that it refers us to beauty instead. The Good is essentially excess, and rather than learning something about my limitations as a fi nite being, I learn something about the Other. If a proponent of the opposite interpretation of Plato (the non-Gadamerian kind, as it were, stressing those Platonic passages where access to the Good seems possible) were to object that Levinas then needs to account for my having any kind of access to the Good at all, Levinas could point to a crucial Platonic concept which indeed accounts for this very access: Eros, or desire. I can desire something which I do not have—and as Socrates, with the help of Diotima, explains in the Symposium, in fact I only desire that which I do not have. What could inspire a greater desire in me than the Good, which I will never be able to have, and which is excess in the most emphatic sense? Another question is often raised and discussed by Plato scholars concerning the center of the Republic, a question which Levinas would regard as even more seriously misconstrued. This issue concerns the ostensibly contemplative aspect of Plato’s doctrine of Forms. The person who is just in the Platonic sense of justice has to be directed toward the Forms and predominantly toward the Form of the Good; would this person then not be entirely caught up in theoretical pursuits and ultimately have to be described as unethical and unjust? Would not the Platonic philosopher, rather than constituting a good king, withdraw from the world that is so inferior to the Forms and deficient in comparison to it?15 Plato scholars of a different orientation would respond to this criticism by pointing out that, according to Plato, our only way to the Forms is through this world, and the person who has left the “cave” will inevitably feel compelled to go down again to teach the others. Socrates’ life testifies to this practical dimension of the Forms. For Levinas, the alternative between the theoretical and the practical is misguided where Plato is concerned. The legitimate

The Universality of the Good 123 question is whether the Good beyond Being is an ethical concept, and it certainly is. For Plato as well as for Levinas, ethics is not opposed to other dimensions of philosophy but, if anything, provides their basis. Ethics is not so much concerned with questions about what we “ought to” do but, rather, with the question as to how to lead a good life in the most encompassing and thorough sense. This issue will gain more clarity when briefly considering Heidegger’s approach to the same question. Heidegger also attributes a special role to the Platonic Good beyond Being. In his early lecture course, The Metaphysical Foundations of Logic, he emphasizes that the idea of the Good beyond Being balances out the general emphasis on the theoretical realm that determines Plato’s doctrine of the Forms.16 Whereas Plato underlines in principle the role of vision and theory (connected in the Greek notion of theōria) in contemplating the Forms, and thereby prioritizes the theoretical over the practical, the Good beyond Being presents a counterpole. It represents the practical side of human existence; since Plato presents the Good beyond Being as the cause of becoming, Being, and knowledge of the other Forms, a balance between the two realms is achieved. Heidegger thus praises the idea of the Good beyond Being on grounds not altogether different from Levinas’s appreciation of it. Both of them acknowledge that, for Plato, philosophy was not yet split up into different disciplines among which theory or epistemology acquires more significance than ethics. However, there are at least two important differences. Firstly, Heidegger identifies Plato as the beginning of the turn toward theory (and toward an understanding of truth as correctness),17 whereas Levinas focuses on that part of Plato’s thought, which distinguishes him from Aristotelian and later tendencies. Secondly, Heidegger searches for a common root of theory and praxis as equiprimordial dimensions whereas Levinas aims not just to balance theory and praxis but to establish ethics as fi rst philosophy.18 After clarifying how Levinas’s interpretation of the Good beyond Being denies all the classical alternatives (accessible versus inaccessible or contemplative versus practical) and showing how, despite certain resemblances with Gadamer’s and Heidegger’s interpretation of the same idea, Levinas’s approach remains uniquely different, we need to examine what role Levinas attributes to this idea so far as the general theme of universality is concerned. This task leads us to the essay “Meaning and Sense,” which is the single most relevant Levinasian text for our overall theme and problem.19 In this text, Levinas discusses contemporary philosophy (or a certain strand of it) as essentially characterized by an anti-Platonism. Mostly by way of contrasting Merleau-Ponty with Plato, Levinas problematizes the contemporary fascination with and emphasis on “culture.” Overall, Levinas seems to identify phenomenology in this text with Merleau-Ponty’s thought20 and certain instances of Heidegger’s philosophy. The picture would be different if he turned to Husserl as the founder

124 Plato and Levinas of twentieth-century phenomenology. Levinas briefly acknowledges Husserl’s special role by pointing out that Husserl marks both the end of a certain intellectualism as well as a continuation of it. Intellectualism here designates the tradition, inaugurated by Plato, which regards meaning as ultimately “reducible to contents given to consciousness” (MS 76). Husserl is thus a Platonist, but he also institutes a form of anti-Platonism. As Plato marks a turning point in the history of philosophy at the threshold between mythos and logos as well as between Presocratic thought and the history of Western metaphysics, so Husserl also fi nds himself at the threshold between the old and the new. Levinas remarks that the mixture of intellectualism and anti-intellectualism in Husserl constitutes “one of the— perhaps fertile—ambiguities of his philosophy” (ibid.). This is a remarkable statement on a more general level since Levinas here designates ambiguities as potentially fruitful; on the more specific level, he admits that Husserl’s philosophy does not simply coincide with the conception of phenomenology as anti-Platonism, which determines the rest of the essay. In order to understand better how Husserl is, in a certain way, still a Platonist, one may think of the Husserlian concept of the “thing in itself” as an idea which guides the perceptual process. This “idea” of the thing in itself resembles the Platonic ideas or Forms while maintaining a less problematic status. In its briefest version, this “guiding idea” (Leitidee) emerges as Husserl describes how perception is characterized by a basic dilemma: I only ever perceive certain sides and features of the object yet assume that the entire object is given to me. My perceptual process is guided by the idea of the fully determined object, even though perception will never yield this idea. Moreover, this idea is not fi xed at the beginning of the process but can undergo changes as I continue to perceive (since I might realize that the mannequin I perceive is actually a human being or vice versa). 21 Such an idea of the thing is thus different from Platonic Forms in that it is neither eternal nor universal. Yet Husserl shows that there are certain “invariant structures” of the world which can count as eternal and universal, such as the fact that there is always some ground (Erdboden) on which we build our dwelling and which gives us orientation—even if this ground is perceived differently by different cultures and epochs.22 The Husserlian theory of ideas, presented here in its most truncated form, shows the possibility of a Platonism that would overcome certain of the problematic implications of Plato’s doctrine (while perhaps creating some new problems). Levinas acknowledges Husserl’s Platonism, but points out that we “are not obliged to follow him down the way he took to rejoin this Platonism,” since there are alternative ways to reach “the straightforwardness of meaning” (MS 101). Rather than turning to perception and my encounter with a thing, Levinas focuses on ethics and my encounter with the Other. Yet independently of the actual shape or form, Levinas deems necessary a return to Platonism, although “mediated by all the development of contemporary philosophy” (ibid.).

The Universality of the Good 125 The return is necessary because of an inherent inconsistency in contemporary philosophy, which Levinas exposes through a move that can best be described as deconstructive. He points out that contemporary philosophy presupposes that which it is trying to get rid of or that there is a Platonism inherent in contemporary anti-Platonism. In Levinas’s words: Philosophy thus had to rejoin contemporary ethnology. It is then that Platonism is overcome! But it is overcome in the name of the generosity of Western thought itself, which, catching sight of the abstract man in men, proclaimed the absolute value of the person, and then encompassed in the respect it bears in the cultures in which these persons stand or in which they express themselves. Platonism is overcome with the very means which the universal thought issued from Plato supplied. (MS 101) Contemporary philosophy demands tolerance based on a humanism, which presupposes the idea and absolute value of the human being. Without Plato, this move could not be accomplished. It seems that contemporary philosophy faces three general possibilities: (a) It could admit the need to acknowledge its inherent Platonism. (b) It could maintain its current position and be theoretically inconsistent. (c) It could embrace a more radical anti-Platonism devoid of all ethical principles which lets other cultures be not out of humanism and tolerance but, ultimately, out of indifference. This is not to say that every philosophy other than Plato’s is either inconsistent or immoralist but rather that every ethical theory has some element of Platonism. It is more fruitful to acknowledge this element, to discuss and refi ne it, than to deny its existence. An investigation of such inherent Platonic elements, as Husserl undertakes it in the epistemological and Levinas in the ethical register, makes it possible to transform those elements and avoid the problems of classical Platonism. It might eventually turn out that it is not a shortcoming on Plato’s part that he provides so little definite information about the Good beyond Being. Rather, the Good beyond Being can serve as a title for the insight that all ethical theories require an element that surpasses cultural relativism, and that we assume some, however inaccessible, universal standard of the Good. This character of ethical theories goes hand in hand with the realization that human beings cannot be defi ned by biological standards but only by the fact that we have a common orientation—even if this orientation appears differently to us, depending on our historical and cultural heritage. We have thus seen that the significance of the Good beyond Being, from a Levinasian perspective, lies neither in its function for the doctrine of Forms nor in the fact that it points to the limits of human knowledge. Rather, the Good beyond Being signifies that there is a ‘beyond’ of all totalities. What makes us human is not the fi nitude of our knowledge as such but the direction and orientation given to us by the Good beyond Being as the ultimate “for-the-sake-of-which.” This Levinasian interpretation seems justified in

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light of the relevant Platonic texts. It follows that our orientation is ultimately an ethical one which unites us as human beings. This ethical orientation is understood here in the encompassing sense which ethics has for Plato as well as for Levinas. Rather than providing specific guidelines for action, it concerns my being directed toward and being put into question by the Other. ∗

∗

∗

Levinas concedes his debt to Plato where universality and universal ethical standards are concerned. At the same time, universality has to start from the face-to-face, from seeing humanity in the eyes of the Other, who is facing me. Humanity here does not designate biological kinship but points to God as a common father who, as Levinas emphasizes, can only be reached by turning to humans. In effect, Levinas detects and describes humans as equal yet by virtue of an equality based on responsibility rather than vice versa. As Levinas moves beyond the dyad, the issue of “the third” arises, and it emerges differently in the three relevant texts. The ambivalent position that the third maintains from the start (either as disrupting the erotic dyad or as appearing in the eyes of the Other) becomes more ambivalent because the two modalities of universality and political manifestation determine these three texts in different ways. The connecting element is God or the Good beyond Being, which naturally leads us to Plato and his paradigmatic universalism. Plato describes how the Good beyond Being can only be accessed indirectly, for example, by way of allegories. The Good beyond Being is the cause of Being, becoming, and knowing, and as such, it is the cause of causes behind which we cannot go back. Universality can never be reached by moving from one instance to the next; rather, the Good beyond Being allows for instances of goodness. It is a unifying, yet not a totalizing, principle, as it is “beyond Being” and ruptures every totality (since it cannot be integrated as a being could be). While Levinas, so it seems, would in general be more sympathetic to those readers of Plato who regard the Good itself as inaccessible to human beings, he would ultimately believe that such a debate is misplaced. Common readings of Plato focus on human capacities and the limits thereof rather than acknowledging the Good beyond Being as the ultimate excess and absolute otherness (to which we are connected through desire). Similarly, Levinas would regard a distinction between theory or contemplation and praxis as misconstrued where the Good beyond Being is concerned, for the primacy of ethics goes beyond such distinctions. Levinas argues that every consistent ethical theory which deserves the name of ethics has some element of Platonism in it and, specifically, some Platonic universalism, taking its direction from the standard of the Good beyond Being. Considering how Levinas reestablishes and retraces

The Universality of the Good 127 Platonism, it could be argued that Plato is less prone to an (extreme) Platonism than Levinas, given his reflections on the Good, which takes refuge in an alliance with the beautiful. This sensitivity to the beautiful—and to traces of it in beautiful works—provides clues as to how something universal can shine forth in this world. This might signify an openness in Plato to the more ambiguous dimensions of existence, as it will similarly shine forth with regard to the issue of writing laws, which sheds light on the tension between real states and ideal states, tied to the Good itself. How can universal ethical standards be reconciled with politics? The next chapter attends to this question.

8

Communities, Politics, Laws The submission to tyranny, the resignation to a universal law, though it be rational, which stops the apology, compromises the truth of my being. Levinas (TI 253/231)

Levinas states in a 1981 interview that “politics must be able in fact always to be checked and criticized starting from the ethical [contrôlée et critiquée à partir de l’éthique]” (EI, 80). In order to accomplish such “checking,” the relation between ethics and politics needs to be examined. Even though the move from a face-to-face relation to a plurality of others happens inevitably and has always already happened, the relation is enigmatic. Levinas states that it is important to understand how a state emerges (and how the Hobbesian presentation of this emergence is flawed) and that detaching politics from ethics may lead to tyranny. When Levinas says that “Plato’s philosophy is as it were obsessed by the threat of tyranny” (FC, 16), it is not clear whether Levinas deems this a fortunate or an unfortunate obsession. There are indications in Levinas’s work that he himself is subject to the very same obsession yet proposes a different “cure” than the one suggested by Plato. While Plato seeks a solution in the political realm, Levinas emphasizes the need to focus first and foremost on the ethical dimension. However, his concern about politics going astray, becoming totalitarian or tyrannical, is always in the background of his texts. As far as the Platonic treatment of politics is concerned, this chapter will focus predominantly on the difficulty of “writing laws” as explained in Plato’s Statesman. Before turning to the Statesman, we shall focus on certain claims from other dialogues regarding the political. In doing so, the development of Plato’s philosophy and the important differences between Plato’s early and late dialogues will be mostly ignored; the only justification that can be provided here for such a selective procedure is our goal of highlighting a problem at the heart of Plato’s thoughts on politics, a problem which takes different shapes but runs throughout the dialogues. This discussion will then serve as a background for examining Levinas’s thoughts on totalities, measure, politics, and laws. Since Levinas’s remarks are rather scarce and not very detailed, some speculation becomes necessary. For both Plato and Levinas, politics and philosophy are intimately connected, yet in an ambiguous way. Plato explains how the philosopher both is and is not a statesman; Levinas examines how philosophy interrupts as well as preserves the state.

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a) PLATO ON THE ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES OF LAW Politics is a theme throughout Plato’s philosophy, from the early to the late dialogues. As philosophy, for Plato, does not yet fall into various disciplines, it would be misleading to say that he engages in political philosophy. Rather, as a philosopher he is concerned with the “matters of the polis,” as an alternative translation of his Politeia, his Republic, would have it. Yet this concern has a difficult nature; it seems to be partly determined by the trial and death of Socrates, which apparently led Plato to change his mind about a career as a politician. Instead, he is designing ideal states, and it is not clear to what extent these ideal states could or should serve as models for real states and to what extent they rather serve as thought experiments to test philosophical ideas. Related to his reflections on ideal states are Plato’s discussions of the nature of the politician or statesman in contrast to the philosopher, comparing their respective tasks. Could Socrates, for example, have been a politician? We receive different answers to this question. We will briefly focus on two examples regarding the question of Socrates as a politician: Apology and Gorgias. This question is interesting for our purposes because the diverging answers provide a fi rst orientation regarding the tension between philosophy (or the concern for justice) and politics (or the concern for the polis). Conflicts regarding the real and the ideal state emerge from precisely this original tension. In the Apology, Socrates proclaims that he has never been and, by his very nature, cannot be a politician, but that he is a divine gift to the city. He cannot be a politician because “a man who really fights for justice must lead a private, not a public, life if he is to survive for even a short time” (Apol. 32a).1 To give evidence for this statement, Socrates adjusts to the needs of his listeners who, given the situation of the law court, expect concrete examples rather than philosophical explorations. He cites two instances in which his engagement with public affairs proved unsuccessful, and he points out that the fi rst instance occurred during the times of democracy, the second after oligarchy was established (32c). Socrates thus makes it obvious that it is being a politician in the real, current state of Athens which he would not have survived and that his difficulties were the same under the two different constitutions. The reason Socrates cites for not succeeding as a politician is his uncompromising commitment to justice. In both of the instances just mentioned, Socrates indicates, people initially disagreed with him but later came to agree with his judgment. Rather than claiming that the really existent state is necessarily unjust, Socrates implies that the state is too slow in realizing what is just. This implication coincides with the famous image of the gadfly, which Socrates employs in order to show that he is a gift to the city. In this image, he compares the city to a “great and noble horse which

130 Plato and Levinas was somewhat sluggish because of its size and needed to be stirred up by a kind of gadfly” (Apol. 30e). The city is sluggish, meaning that changes are implemented slowly, and it takes a long time for people and government to realize that a certain law or procedure needs to be improved. The reason Socrates gives for this sluggishness is the size of the city. This does not seem to be a statement about the actual size of Athens at the time; every city, simply by virtue of being a city, is ultimately too large. Any city is too large to have a real conversation about matters of justice in which everybody could participate; it does not allow for a dialogue situation that would affect politics. Therefore, Socrates’ task in the city has to be subversive, as it were. He is disturbing the city or, to use a Levinasian expression, “interrupting” it. Socrates is instigating the ethical interruption of politics—and he points out that such an interruption, although it feels unpleasant, like a sting, makes of him a divine gift. For politics, as we might say with Levinas, if left to its own devices, tends toward tyranny. Just as we have learned and understood how Socrates is not and cannot be a politician, we fi nd a rather different statement in the Gorgias. Socrates says: “I believe I’m one of a few Athenians—so as not to say I’m the only one, but the only one among our contemporaries—to take up the true political craft and practice the true politics” (Gorg. 521d). Is this a contradiction, or at least a significant change of heart? Not necessarily. The important difference is quite obviously marked by the term “true” (alēthes). Socrates is not one of the actual, current politicians, and he probably still agrees with his statement from the Apology that he would not survive among those. What is more, he denies all contemporary Athenian politicians the name “politician.” Socrates informs us right away why he is practicing the true political craft. He does “not aim at gratification but at what’s best” (Gorg. 521d). A true politician does not try to please the crowd but examines what is best for the polis. He takes his orientation from the Good, the Good beyond Being. This turn has taken us to the center of Plato’s philosophical politics and to its main difficulty. The difficulty can be approached through different questions, such as: How does the Good beyond Being connect with what is good for the polis? Is the philosopher really a good politician? Does not the gap between the real polis and the ideal polis replicate the paradox of realizing the Good beyond Being, of attempting to realize that which is by defi nition unrealizable? Socrates is the true politician, but as a politician in Athens during his time, he would not be able to sustain his profession. It seems that he would need an ideal state in order to practice the true politics. According to the Republic, the philosopher is necessarily a good statesman. When Socrates presents his well-known thesis that “until philosophers rule as kings or those who are now called kings and leading men genuinely and adequately philosophize, that is, until political power and philosophy entirely coincide [ . . . ] cities will have no rest from evils” (Rep. 473d), he makes a claim that

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only gains full force as the conversation proceeds further. The main arguments in favor of the thesis are presented in Books VI and VII when we learn that the philosopher is concerned with the most stable subject matters and ultimately with justice itself. The differences between various kinds of knowledge become obvious in the three allegories. There is no need for us, at this point, to enter into a discussion of the details or even of the overall setup of the allegories. 2 Even if we accept that the philosopher, by investigating the nature of justice and the other virtues, gains some reliable insights, it is not immediately clear how this makes him a good statesman. Regarding the general discussion of the Republic, at least two aspects need to be kept in mind that complicate the picture presented in that text. Firstly, Plato makes it clear that the city which has been described exists in theory but does not actually exist anywhere on earth (592b). It is tempting to assume that the ideal city presents a model; but it is not stated that really existing cities should strive to become like the ideal one. 3 In fact, Socrates states that it does not matter whether such a city would ever be realized or not. Consequently, no advice is given about how to improve existing cities. Secondly, it is not the task of the text to develop a political philosophy. Rather, Socrates tries to fi nd out what justice is, and he is predominantly concerned with justice in the soul of the individual. Yet what is the relation between real and ideal state if we cannot derive from the Republic that a transformation of the real state into an ideal state or an approximation thereof ought to happen? In order to receive a more direct response regarding the mediation between the real and the ideal, between politics and the Good, we will now turn to a very specific topic: the issue of writing laws. This issue exemplifies the old Platonic question as to whether the philosopher should be a politician and, if so, how he should go about the practice of politics. The question takes the form, “Should the wise statesman write laws?” The intuitive response, in good Platonic spirit, would be that he should not and cannot. Rather, all decisions would have to be made by him directly. It is still unclear how a philosopher would evaluate a given situation in light of his reflections on justice in itself and the Good as such. But even leaving this problem aside, it is obvious right away how impractical such a suggestion would be, on many levels. Since Plato is convinced that only very few people are capable of being good statesmen, this small number could not possibly attend to all cases and all matters which need to be decided, let alone pass on the decisions verbally (and make sure that the addressee neither misunderstands nor disobeys). Let us turn to the text in which this question is explicitly tackled: Plato’s Statesman. After discussing better and worse constitutions, ‘Young Socrates’ asks his interlocutor, the Stranger,4 whether he sticks to what he intimated before—namely, that the ideal government should rule without any laws. The Stranger responds: “Now in a certain sense it is clear that the art of the legislator belongs to that of the king; but the best thing is not that

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the laws should prevail, but rather the kingly man who possesses wisdom” (Stat. 294a). When the Stranger here refers to “the best thing,” he has in mind the ideal scenario. It is particularly helpful that this dialogue, unlike the Republic, makes the distinction between the ideal and the real case in such a way that we also learn what the real or realistic scenario would look like. The reference to the kingly man’s wisdom, however, leads us straight back to the discussions in the Republic and shows that Plato still maintains his basic position (regarding the ideal polis). The Stranger’s explanation as to why the law is flawed is worth pondering in full. The law “could never accurately embrace what is best and most just for all at the same time, and so prescribe what is best. For the dissimilarities between human beings and their actions, and the fact that practically nothing in human affairs ever remains stable, prevent any sort of expertise [technē] whatsoever from making any simple decision in any sphere that covers all cases and will last for all time” (294b). Giving laws is a technē, a skill or expertise. Since human beings and their actions are unstable and in that sense very different from ideas like justice in itself, no technē in principle can provide rules and decisions that would be best for all cases and all times. This is the basic dilemma of all politics. Politics is a technē; it has to refer to actual human beings and their actions, and as such, it has to try and accomplish the mediation between philosophical insights regarding stable ideas and unstable human affairs. Such mediation is precisely the job of the statesman, and according to Plato, the wise statesman is well equipped for such a job since he himself is flexible and can accomplish the mediation whenever necessary. The law, in contrast “resembles some self-willed and ignorant person, who allows no one to do anything contrary to what he orders, nor to ask any questions about it” (294c). The fi rst part of this statement resembles the characterization of the state as a sluggish horse in the Apology, except that there seems to be willfulness involved here which was not ascribed to the state/horse. The second part bears traces of the critique of writing in the Phaedrus; the critique of laws, particularly written laws, indeed repeats several arguments from the Phaedrus. The main argument against writing which Plato revisits here concerns the danger of misunderstanding, stemming from the fact that the written text can neither respond to questions nor defend itself against misinterpretations. Since it is the nature of the written text to function in the absence of its author, the latter cannot come to its defense. One might wonder how the written law figures in relation to other written texts and whether it perhaps exhibits these features to a heightened extent. It seems plausible to say that the law is even less “mobile”5 than other writings or that it is writing par excellence. A law has to be taken literally—the exact wording matters; and it is formulated in such a way that no word may be chosen arbitrarily. At the same time, advocates of the law would argue that the danger of misunderstanding is smaller for the written law than for other written texts

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since the law is deliberately unambiguous. Yet in the Levinasian sense of ambiguity (where, as we will see, ambiguity involves a tendency toward self-enclosure), the law is particularly ambiguous, and even on the level of common sense, we are all familiar with examples where a law appears utterly ambiguous when applied to a specific case. Furthermore, a written law can prove particularly problematic if all attention is devoted to the exact letters rather than to the spirit of the law. The formulation of a certain law may be fitting at the time it was written, but when it is applied later, a narrow focus on the law’s exact wording may run counter to the spirit of the law. Such difficulties of application are implied in Plato’s statement about the “dissimilarities between human beings and their actions.” The law has to be general, but the situation to which it is applied is always specific. As the law is applied, it has to be interpreted. Interpretation is not in itself a problem, but rather the destiny of all written texts; in fact, it can be argued that the written text is revived through interpretations.6 The important point, in the case of laws, is to provide for the best possible interpretation, which seems to require professional interpreters of the law. Yet if such professional interpreters are needed, why are laws still necessary? So far, Plato has only informed us about the dangers of laws. But the Stranger comes to conclude that it is nevertheless preferable and even necessary to have laws. In good Platonic fashion, we receive the argument for this necessity in form of an analogy from the field of sports. The athletic coach or trainer will not be able to prescribe training rules for each individual body but will make them suitable for the majority of individuals. Moreover, if the trainer had to leave the country, writing down the rules for the training would be his best option. This same example also serves for the Stranger to point out that if the trainer, upon his return, realizes that the written instructions are imperfect, it would be absurd not to allow him to change them. The implications run as follows: laws are needed because whoever rules the polis cannot attend to each individual case. They need to be written down or given determinate form because the lawgiver may not be present at all times, or more likely, he may have other business to attend to. However, it has to be possible to change the laws if it turns out that a change of circumstances makes this necessary. The latter claim is particularly striking since Plato argues in the Laws that such changes are very dangerous (Laws 797a ff.). Yet it is difficult to compare the two texts in any direct way, already because they employ very different analogies. The Statesman compares the legislator to an athletic trainer whereas the Laws examines an analogy between political laws and the rules of a game that children like to change. The fi rst is the perspective of the legislator, the second the perspective of the people who have to abide by the existing laws and would like to enact changes. It is understandable that not every desire to change the laws of a city as if they were merely rules of a game can be considered.

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Yet the Laws also gives advice to the legislators themselves, even though this advice still seems to concern the best response to the suggestions from the people rather than the legislators’ own insights into the plausibility of certain laws. The legislators should avoid change; but Plato makes an important distinction here that is helpful for the general issue of writings laws: “Other changes, that affect only deportment, will do less harm, but it is a very serious matter indeed to keep changing the criteria for praising or censuring a man’s moral character, and we must take great care to avoid doing so” (Laws 798d). First of all, this statement reminds us once again that the Greek sense of law is wider than our modern sense; it includes parts of what we call “customs,” and it also includes standards for judging someone’s moral character. Secondly, and more importantly, Plato here introduces a distinction between different kinds of laws: those that affect only deportment (schēmata), that is, appearances or shapes, and those which refer to judging someone’s character. This distinction can be generalized such that we are dealing with a difference between more important and less important laws; but how do we recognize those laws that can be altered without much harm being done? Which are the laws referring to shapes or appearances? At this point, it may be helpful to turn to the Statesman again and consider the changing circumstances and situations. Laws that refer to matters that are subject to change may have to be modified, though only reluctantly and with great care. These are the laws that deal with deportment or appearances, with matters that are external (e.g., certain quantitative or economic rules). Yet when it comes to someone’s moral character, the changing circumstances cannot make a difference. Such a distinction is admittedly only intimated by Plato but can easily be derived if reading the Laws in light of the Statesman. It is a crucial distinction since it points to the difference between ethics and politics. Those laws that belong more clearly to the realm of politics, as concerns comportment, distribution, commerce, etc., may have to be changed; but those that border on the ethical realm need to be maintained. Obviously, the line between the two domains is fleeting. However, the distinction addresses one major concern of all Platonic philosophizing about political matters: How can the Good beyond Being, which is forever unchanging, be taken as a measure for the changing human circumstances on earth? This difficulty is not limited to Plato’s theory of Forms but affects, in some reformulation, every philosophy that starts with ethics rather than politics and assumes that there are stable ethical standards, criteria, or imperatives. Unchanging ideals can be standards or criteria which the wise statesman looks up to, and in fact, something stable best fits the defi nition of criteria. But laws and all other political realizations will be compromises, to a smaller or larger degree. The distinction between more and less changeable laws reflects their distance from the ethical realm and is determined by the extent of the compromise.7

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Provisional titles for the two groups of laws could be “political laws” and “quasi-ethical laws”; however, these titles are only comprehensible in the context of Platonic and Levinasian philosophy. There are no laws which would be ethical as such8; hence the—clumsy—designation “quasiethical.” Quasi-ethical laws are closer to the realm of ethics, less in need of change and less dependent on a specific community and its traditions. Human rights, or perhaps rather the idea of human rights, might serve as an example for a quasi-ethical law. Yet the distinction here proposed between political and quasi-ethical laws would certainly evoke an effect adverse to Plato’s intentions if it were interpreted to say that political laws operate in a realm free of ethical standards. This is by no means the case: ethics remains the basis. From a Platonic perspective, political laws need to be examined and checked more often since they are subject to a twofold risk: they involve a greater compromise from the start, and they are subject to changing human circumstances and behaviors. Consequently, the legislators need to reconsider whether they have accomplished the best possible compromise. Before we turn to Levinas and read his texts in light of this distinction between two kinds of law, we need to return once again to the tension between real and ideal states inherent in Plato’s philosophy. When considering the necessity of laws in the Statesman, the Stranger makes it obvious that he is considering the second best model here, a model in which the phronēsis of the statesman is supplemented by laws. It is implied that only this second best model is realistic. But the state with laws as designed here still has a major flaw. It is assumed that this state is the best possible state—though not an entirely ideal one—such that it could not ever turn into a tyranny. When the Stranger discusses that the laws may have to be changed, he has small changes in mind, always brought about by the legislator; he does not consider a case in which the people might realize that the constitutional laws are flawed—and even less so a possible need for a revolution. Plato assumes that these cases will not occur since the statesman is wise. Yet given the fact that Plato’s philosophy is, as Levinas says, “obsessed by the threat of tyranny” (FC 16), there is an astonishing lack of acknowledgment that certain governments may have to be overturned. We would expect more reflection on what the polis should do if the wise man goes mad, as it were. This problem becomes virulent in the trial of Socrates. The state that condemns Socrates is not set up in accordance with Plato’s philosophy and would certainly not pass for a best possible state in Plato’s sense. Nevertheless, Socrates argues in the Crito that the laws must be obeyed absolutely. Yet his arguments are not altogether convincing. For example, the claim that remaining in the city constitutes an (tacit) agreement to its laws calls forth many questions: Does everybody have a choice to leave? And is it necessarily a more ethical decision to leave and go into exile if a state, say, turns into a totalitarian regime? Socrates implies that disagreement with

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the existing laws would have to be expressed while remaining within the city (as in his philosophical conversations with the Athenians). However, he would not think that I may disobey the laws once my disagreement has been expressed and ignored—nor would this be a plausible idea. And is expressing one’s disagreement the best procedure in a state that puts the person to death for doing so? Socrates does not exhibit any regret. Yet if we think of twentieth-century totalitarian regimes, it might seem a wiser choice for people to organize secret resistance movements than to go to prison for an unreflective remark. Without discussing the complex topic of (dis)obedience any further, we may conclude that Plato has provided some valuable insights regarding the necessity and value of laws, yet fails to fully consider cases of faulty laws. This failure seems connected to the fact that he does not sufficiently consider and thematize the distinction between ideal and real states, and the question of how to bring about a state as best as is humanly possible. The distinction proposed here between political laws and quasi-ethical laws can be utilized for reinvestigating the tension between real and ideal state. These laws both constitute a transition between a real and an ideal state. Political laws, although further removed from the ethical realm, are certainly not detached from ethical considerations but, rather, need to be checked and potentially corrected more often. It seems that political and quasi-ethical laws could not even be clearly delimited; there would be borderline cases. This would not create a continuum between the real and the ideal state; an ideal state as a model can only be reached through a leap rather than a continuous development. The existence of such a leap further confi rms that it is not Plato’s goal to establish such a state on earth. Yet the relationship between real and ideal states could be understood as a dynamic rather than a static relation, in line with the laws that are more or less changeable. Quasi-ethical laws are closer to an ideal state without being the laws of an ideal state. It is instructive to consider how Plato, in the Statesman, moves beyond the alternative between real and ideal states. After concluding that laws would ideally be unnecessary, the discussion does not move to the construction of an ideal state but considers how laws are nevertheless useful and even indispensable, for all practical purposes. Considering an ideal state—as it happens especially in Republic and Laws—should shed light on quasi-ethical laws in particular. Yet it would be helpful if Plato considered what to do if the fundamental laws of a state contradict ethical principles. Would it not, in this case, be permitted and even necessary to bring about radical legal changes? One may wonder whether constitutional laws are still political laws or whether they do not rather border on quasi-ethical laws that also influence how we criticize or praise someone’s moral character. Levinas has a rather different starting point, which might make it easier for him to criticize unjust regimes. Instead of considering ideal states, he begins with the actual situation of twentieth-century politics and thematizes

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the danger of totalitarian regimes9 as well as the mechanisms involved in them. Yet we will see that in Levinas there is also a blind spot—namely, a lack of sufficient consideration of the positive powers of laws and politics.

b) LEVINAS AND THE POLITICAL CALCULUS “But politics left to itself bears a tyranny within itself” (TI 300/276), Levinas says. If we leave politics to itself, it follows an inherent tendency toward tyranny. The alternative, for Levinas, is for politics “to be checked and criticized starting from the ethical” (EI 80). Levinas only offers few clues as to what such checking and criticism might look like. Before we turn to those, we need to ask what the nature of politics is and why it has such a tendency toward tyranny. When Levinas speaks of politics, he has a propensity to provide lists without explicating the connections between the enumerated elements: “State, institutions, laws” (TI 300/276); “comparison, coexistence, contemporaneousness, assembling, order, thematization, the visibility of faces, [ . . . ] the intelligibility of a system” (OB 157/200); “weighing, thought, objectification” (OB 158/201); “justice, society, the State and its institutions, exchanges and work” (OB 159/202); “totality, the State, politics, techniques, work” (OB 159/203). These examples may suffice. Clearly, the elements do not all operate on the same level; the state, institutions and laws are more immediately connected with politics than weighing or thematization. But the fact that the fi rst connection is more obvious does not mean that we learn more about the nature of the political when focusing on the state and its laws—especially given Levinas’s almost complete refusal to speak about these institutions. It is peculiar that he provides us with enumerations like the ones given. His procedure might appear to be a strategy of evasion, as if he does not need to elaborate because just offering a few key terms is enough for us to know what is meant. Or he may want us to make the connections by ourselves so that we become aware of intimate links between concepts that we might have thought to be unrelated. In trying to flesh out what Levinas leaves unsaid it will be necessary to be somewhat speculative in the remainder of this chapter, at times relying on intuitions and associations. To find an opening through which to approach Levinas’s enumerations, the concepts shall be loosely bundled into three groups under the following headings: (a) totality, (b) measure or proportion, and (c) the state and its laws. Afterward, we will be in a better position to ask what the political is as defi ned by these three concepts (as well as related subconcepts) and why politics tends toward tyranny. (a) A totality is often taken to be all-encompassing such that it would not allow for anything outside itself. The classical phenomenological concept of world as universal horizon or all-encompassing context is an example of

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such a totality. For Levinas, however, a totality is not all-encompassing. It is one major goal of his philosophy to show that all philosophical ideas of totalities are flawed since they stem from the wish to capture everything under one principle—but even something as absolute and encompassing as Being is related to something exterior: the Good. An all-encompassing totality is thus only an illusion, serving our desire for access, transparency, and simplification that is revealed by Levinas as imperialistic (not merely but also in the political sense of the word). What Levinas means by totality is something delimited, which is, at least to a certain extent, separate and independent: for instance, a state. In order to investigate the concept of totality, let me briefly turn to the essay, “The Ego and the Totality.” This text is usually taken to discuss issues of “the third” and social totalities, but we have already seen in the previous chapter that its treatment of the third party differs somewhat from other Levinasian texts. A similar problem arises regarding “totality.” The fi rst sentence of this text is striking and multifaceted: “A particular being can take itself to be a totality only if it is thoughtless” (ET 25). We leave to one side the question of how a thoughtless being can take itself to be anything at all; it may still have a sense of itself (as a totality) although certainly no concept. Levinas starts this text by discussing the difference between thinking beings and mere living beings. As thinking beings, we still have something of the mere living being in us; this becomes obvious in enjoyment. However, a thinking being knows that it is not itself a totality but, rather, situated in a totality without being “absorbed into it” (ET 27). It is this situation of being part of a totality while also being able to relate to it that interests Levinas. “This relationship of both participation and separation [ . . . ] is a society” (ET 28). By introducing society in this fashion, Levinas points out that society is not just an accumulation of individuals but is constituted by beings that have a particular relation to the totality that they are part of. The totalities that Levinas has in mind here are societies or states; they are not the entirety of humankind. But why is this difference important? It does not seem very important to Levinas, and he would probably rightfully argue that the relationship of participation and separation holds for smaller as well as larger societies. Yet the difference is important as far as the relation between these totalities is concerned. Since totalities, for Levinas, are not all-encompassing, they do stand in relation to each other. States interact with each other. It can be shown, going beyond Levinas, that the relation between societies resembles the relation between myself and the Other; it is also an asymmetrical relationship.10 However, in order fully to see this asymmetry, it would be important to consider that which constitutes a particular society: its historical and cultural heritage. What this heritage involves in a specific case is not essential as far as the fundamental asymmetry is concerned; but it is important to acknowledge the significance of traditions and customs as such. It now also becomes more obvious why the

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distinction between the universality of humankind and the realm of politics is important. (b) Before turning more directly to the political in the form of states and laws, some brief remarks about measure or proportion are in place; this theme once again echoes Ancient Greek philosophy. Levinas maintains that the entry of the third party marks a difference in the concept of justice since this entry (which is, as he repeatedly emphasizes, not to be thought of as an empirical one) calls for measure and distribution rather than infi nite responsibility. Such measuring is the “comparison of the incomparable” (OB 158/201), giving rise to logos and representation. “Out of representation is produced the order of justice moderating or measuring the substitution of me for the other, and giving the self over to calculus” (OB 158 f./202). This delivery of the self to calculus is precarious but necessary. What makes measuring problematic is the necessity of establishing one standard for everybody, inscribed in a certain set of laws. The difficulty is thus the same as that described by the Stranger in Plato’s Statesman: the laws in their generality cannot do justice to the particular people and situations that undergo change. For Levinas, this problem is especially virulent since the face of the Other is more unique than a particular instance forced under a general rule; it exceeds my powers absolutely and signifies an infi nite resistance to my grasp. This infi nite responsibility toward the Other cannot be cut off by some limit; yet measuring means precisely to impose limits. Levinas urges us to realize that such an inevitable distribution derives from and by no means diminishes my ethical responsibility. When Levinas proposes to trace the “said” (here in the form of laws) back to the “saying” (as the Other’s addressing me),11 one of the ensuing tasks is to realize that there is a distinction between legal measure and ethical responsibility. Through this proposition, Levinas reinforces the Kantian distinction between legality and morality in the name of the Other. However, legality inevitably entails violence, as we will see. As far as the relationship between responsibility and measured justice is concerned, Levinas asks us to avoid a misunderstanding: “In no way is justice a degradation of obsession, a degeneration of the for-the-other, a diminution, a limitation of anarchic responsibility [ . . . ] that would be produced in the measure that for empirical reasons the initial duo would become a trio” (OB 159/203). In this difficult sentence, the clearest part seems to be Levinas’s reminder that the entry of the third party is not an empirical event. Justice is not a matter of actual people joining and disturbing the duo but, rather, a structure that arises from within the dyad as I become aware of everything that is implied in the eyes of the Other. Furthermore, Levinas points out that justice is not a “de-”gradation or “de- ”generation. It is not a falling away from, it is not anything “less” than ethical responsibility—even though it is easy to assume so since turning something infi nite into something delimited constitutes a lessening. Yet it is not the same infinite ethical responsibility that would now, in a delimited

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and measured form, occur in the political realm. There are two different orders at stake here that mutually disturb and interrupt each other. Levinas’s formulations point to ethical responsibility as the more original order, but this does not mean that measure is imposed on this infi nite responsibility in any straightforward way. Measuring, for Levinas, means in this case taking a quantitative approach toward something that defies quantification and assigning a definite number to something that, at best, allows for a description in terms of the zero or the infinite.12 Is it this quantitative aspect that distinguishes Levinas’s concept of measure from the Ancient Greek idea of metron? No; Plato, in his admiration for mathematics, was not opposed to quantitative measuring. Measure plays a crucial role in the Philebus where the good life can only be determined with the help of measure. After it has been proven plausible that the good life needs to be a mixture (of reason and pleasure), measure enters as the crucial component of any successful mixture. Socrates’ considerations at the end of the dialogue have far-reaching implications. As Gadamer has stressed in his interpretation of this dialogue, the Philebus sheds an interesting light on the evasive nature of the Good. In determining the Good, Socrates has to retreat to a presentation of the beautiful, and he makes this explicit in a remarkable statement: “But now we notice that the force of the good has taken refuge in an alliance with the nature of the beautiful. For measure and proportion manifest themselves in all areas as beauty and virtue” (Phil. 64e). Gadamer points out that the beautiful seems to be the shape in which the Good becomes accessible to us as human beings.13 Measure and proportion, so the passage implies, are the missing links between the Good and the beautiful. It might appear tenuous to read these comments about the Good and the beautiful back into the controversy about law, but it seems quite plausible that measure would be a further clue regarding the question of how to mediate between the Good and actual laws. The legislator would have to concern himself with measure and proportion, with harmony and symmetry. The fact that measure has to do with quantities can be concluded from various Platonic dialogues: from the significance of mathematical education in the Republic, but also from the Philebus and Socrates’ elaborations on limit as containing “equal and double, and whatever else puts an end to the confl icts there are among opposites” (Phil. 25d).14 In the political realm, measuring means deciding in favor of one of two models: arithmetic measuring and geometric measuring. The former favors simple equality, the latter proportion according to merit. The choice is a difficult one: While arithmetic distribution can at fi rst sight be justified more easily, it appears on closer consideration that different people may require somewhat different shares. Geometric distribution, however, requires additional standards to determine those shares, hence causing additional problems of justification. This alternative cannot be discussed here; suffice it to say that contrary to the modern intuitive preference for arithmetic equality, Plato offers some reasonable arguments for geometric proportion.15

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Levinas’s concept of measure relies on a close connection between politics and economy. One may want to point out with Hegel that these two realms do not coincide, particularly not since the beginning of the modern era16; yet perhaps Levinas’s perspective is indeed appropriate for the twentieth century and marks a difference from the modern state that Hegel focused on. State legislation surely also applies to tax and trade, but politics in a fundamental sense is concerned with the more stable laws of a state, such as its constitution. If we employ the distinction suggested previously in the context of Platonic philosophy, it would seem that economic laws are subject to change more than any other laws, resembling the Platonic laws of “deportment.” Concretely, one might draw a further distinction, namely, between laws that regulate a state’s economy as such (deciding, for example, whether it follows a communist or capitalist economy) and those laws that refer to the actual distribution of welfare, trade, and tax. The former usually remain in place for an extensive period of time whereas the latter fluctuate constantly, accommodating changing situations (as well as changing interests). Marxists would probably welcome Levinas’s close link between politics and economics, and Levinas’s elaborations on economy are indeed instructive, already because he chooses to be more explicit here than in his reflections on politics. He states that describing the relationship between the ego and the totality inevitably leads to an investigation of economic justice (ET 29). The last part of his essay “The Ego and the Totality” is thus entitled “Money.” Levinas points out: “We cannot attenuate the condemnation which from Amos II, 6 to the Communist Manifesto has fallen upon money, precisely because of its power to buy man” (ET 45). But quantification as such, Levinas points out, is inevitable for society. The difference between the face-to-face relationship and a social community is marked by the fact that the former forbids quantification whereas the latter requires it by its very nature. In that sense, money “presupposes men who trust one another and form a society” (ibid.). Although Levinas does not provide suggestions for establishing economic justice and even less so advice on how to distribute money in the best way, his comments about money are insightful since he encourages us to refrain from simplistic condemnations. Instead of dismissing money as such, it would be better to acknowledge that quantitative distribution is inevitable when one considers the political realm. Those social and economic models that appear to place less emphasis on money need to be examined regarding their method of quantification and distribution. Such models might be—though they obviously do not have to be—all the more unjust since their ways of measuring are less transparent. (c) We have seen that measuring and quantification are necessary elements of the political such that the task cannot be to avoid them but, rather, to minimize the injustice committed through them. Levinas also emphasizes that measuring is not a belated imposition onto responsibility, which

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would delimit the latter. At the same time, a significant number of his scarce remarks about the state concern the right way of thinking the emergence of the state: “It is then not without importance to know if the egalitarian and just State in which man is fulfi lled (and which is to be set up, and especially to be maintained) proceeds from a war of all against all, or from the irreducible responsibility of the one for all, and if it can do without friendships and faces” (OB 159f./203). The last part of this sentence is also significant for our purposes since Levinas here seems to imply that the state cannot do without friendships and faces, in which case the state would be built on the smaller communities within it, as it were. Yet the main statement in this sentence concerns the emergence of the state. Against Hobbes and others, Levinas here suggests that the state proceeds from irreducible responsibility. In order to see more clearly how Levinas conceives this process, the essay “Freedom and Command” will prove to be most helpful. In this essay, Levinas describes a development of three steps that may at first seem Hegelian in spirit, but the final step will be quite different from that which one generally finds in Hegelian dialectics. Levinas first describes a situation of freedom, yet a freedom which is under threat. This threat is the fear of tyranny, of being suppressed by a stronger freedom. “Freedom, in its fear of tyranny, leads to institutions, to a commitment of freedom in the very name of freedom, to a State” (FC, 17). This is the second step. So far, the movement resembles traditional contract theories; but it is immediately obvious that this solution can only be preliminary from a Levinasian point of view. Levinas examines the manifestations of the state before showing how they do not succeed in preserving our freedom. The most important component of a state, according to this essay, is the written law that is exterior and “armed with force against tyranny” (FC 17). The written law, so it might seem, has a force against tyranny far superior to any ethical laws (such as the categorical imperative) since it is supposedly unambiguous and can be enforced in an uncompromising fashion. Levinas describes the written law as the “impersonal reason of institutions” (FC 17). However, the strength of the written law is simultaneously its shortcoming. Due to its objectivity and uncompromising power, the law is alien to the will and freedom “does not recognize itself” in it (ibid.). Is such alienation of the will perhaps Levinas’s formulation of the Platonic problem that laws are by defi nition general, yet in their generality cannot do justice to the particular changing situations they are applied to? Levinas is concerned with persons rather than with situations; however, the Platonic statement itself also contained several elements: “the dissimilarities between human beings and their actions, and the fact that practically nothing in human affairs ever remains stable” (Stat. 294b). Plato is thus also interested in the singularity of human beings, alongside the instability of their affairs. And Levinas, in turn, acknowledges the significance of temporal change when he describes the “contradiction [ . . . ] of the former will with the present will” (FC 17). This contradiction is once again a result of

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writing, of writing down the law. To elucidate the basic Platonic argument about writing in the context of will, Levinas gives the example of the “last will” (ibid.): a testament cannot be binding for the testator if he or she survives (even if the person were assumed to be dead such that the testament has been executed). This example is very similar to the Platonic analogy of the athletic coach who lays down rules in writing before traveling but who must not be irrevocably bound by these rules when he returns. Levinas would thus probably come to agree with Plato on the changeability of laws. However, he does not pursue the argument in this direction. Instead of exploring, in a vaguely Hegelian fashion, how alienation of the will could be overcome by passing through it and by creating a state that would minimize alienation, Levinas claims that the only step out of alienation is a step back—a step that questions whether the equality of wills is really the basis for building a state. This step back reveals that equality is already a result rather than a starting point, a result of all humans being brothers or of seeing all others in the eyes of the Other. Asymmetry and infi nite responsibility are more original than such equality, although it is difficult to determine the exact meaning of “original” in this context. Perhaps it suffices to keep in mind that the insight into such equality and universality came to me in the eyes of the Other and remains related to this moment. If the distinction of two modalities as outlined previously is plausible, it is important to keep in mind that even though the move from universality to politics may at fi rst sight resemble classical contract theories, it is substantially different insofar as this universality is not the starting point but a result, always related and tied back to the face-to-face encounter. Examining these two moves in such a formal and schematic fashion is problematic in a number of ways. Even though the difference from a Hobbesian view has just been sketched, it is always tempting to fall back, arguing that even if the fi rst step is different, the second one might still be exactly the same as in Hobbes and others. This is not the case; universality does not just arise from the face-to-face encounter but always bears its trace and, most importantly, stands in tension with its asymmetry. The more original level harbors a “command without tyranny” (FC 18), which is the condition for all laws, constantly reminding us that tyranny is not an inherent feature of discourse and of commanding. In this context, Levinas provides us with a helpful description of tyranny. “[W]hat characterizes violent action, what characterizes tyranny, is that one does not face what the action is being applied to” or “more precisely: it is that one does not see the face in the other” (FC 19). Tyranny means to act on a law, feeling justified in doing so by virtue of its being a law. It means to ignore that to which the law is being applied.17 When Levinas concludes the essay by writing that “speech, in its essence, is commanding” (FC 23), he accomplishes a reversal of the usual relations. The command does not absolve me from responsibility but, rather, the true command, coming from the Other, calls me precisely to acknowledge my responsibility.

144 Plato and Levinas The state’s tendency toward tyranny is then a tendency to focus on laws rather than faces. By sticking rigorously to its laws and its constitution, the state closes itself off and becomes immune to criticism. How can this tendency be combated? Levinas makes two suggestions. Firstly, he proposes that the state needs to be interrupted in order to disturb its tyrannical tendencies. Secondly, the state is less tyrannical in proportion to the room it leaves for the singularity of the face. Neither of these suggestions emerge from the political realm itself; they both run counter to the nature of the political.18 The nature of politics involves continuity rather than interruption and generality rather than singularity. It is thus built on obedience to the laws without exception. Levinas’s first proposal implies a special role for philosophy. Socrates regarded it as his task to interrupt the state of Athens, provoking it as a gadfly by way of his philosophical questions. At the same time, philosophers would be kings in an ideal Platonic state. Levinas considers exactly this dual role of philosophy when he discusses its relation to the state; rather than designing an ideal state reigned over by philosophers, he examines certain tendencies within philosophy that correspond to the tyrannical tendencies of the state. Philosophy thus has an ambiguous role, serving as the interruption as well as the conservation of the state. Levinas describes this dual role quite poignantly: “In an alternating movement, like that which leads from skepticism to the refutation that reduces it to ashes, and from ashes to its rebirth, philosophy justifies and criticizes the laws of being and of the city” (OB 165/210). Philosophy manifests the saying in a said, like the written laws, but it also allows us to trace the said back to a saying. It confirms the universality of impersonal reason, but it also facilitates the questioning of universality and equality. Or to let Levinas describe the double task once again in his own words: “Philosophy is this measure brought to the infinity of the being-forthe-other of proximity, and is like the wisdom of love” (OB 161/205). The danger of philosophy becomes most obvious when philosophy and the state work together, creating a coherence “which violently excludes subversive discourse” (OB 170/216). Such collaboration of philosophy and politics, avoiding any interruption, is normally called ideology. Political power can be reinforced with the help of philosophical arguments in such a way that philosophy becomes a tool of the state, losing its disruptive force. Levinas sometimes seems to regard this danger as immanent since it can be construed as the realization of philosophy’s own totalizing tendencies. However, at the time of Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Levinas claims that a discourse is already interrupted in the moment I speak to someone who listens and who is necessarily situated outside of my discourse (OB 170/217). If philosophy owns up to its function as the “wisdom of love at the service of love” (OB 162/207), it will always interrupt the very discourse that it helps to establish and justify. What would a state look like that managed to be open to such interruptions? Levinas writes: “justice remains justice only in a society where there is no distinction between those close and those far off, but in which there also remains the impossibility of passing by the closest” (OB 159/203).

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This sentence appears crucial for us since Levinas here seems to give a rather practical interpretation of how the relation between ethical responsibility and political justice needs to be thought. Levinas is stating that two conditions need to be fulfilled in a society in order for justice to remain justice. But what does it even mean for justice to remain justice? Arguably, it means for political justice to remain as close as possible to ethical standards of what justice is. It entails, in other words, that political justice continues to be tied back to ethical responsibility. The fi rst of the two conditions prohibits a “distinction between those close and those far off.” No general criteria or arguments must be set up that would distinguish between a group close by and a group far off, a group more important and a group less important, and so on. This prohibition is worth investigating, for it may seem that politics inevitably consist in making such distinctions. Must politics not be concerned with a particular state and take care of this state in such a way that it feels more responsible for the citizens of the state than for those who are living in, and are supposedly protected by, a different state? Levinas would probably respond that on the empirical level, such differences indeed arise. Moreover, exclusion and inclusion are components of the political. Yet we might be able to measure the tyrannical tendencies of the state by the extent to which it makes a principal distinction between its inhabitants and its noninhabitants.19 Possible predicaments that could arise from the first condition are countered by the second one, by “the impossibility of passing by the closest.” While it might at first seem that this condition opens up a distinction between those close by and those far off, a more plausible interpretation would focus on the existence of immediate concerns and immediate needs that have to be fulfilled. “The closest” are not the closest because they are distinct from those far off but because they are the ones who need immediate attention. The most important realization in all these reflections consists in acknowledging that the paradox intrinsic to politics cannot be absolved—a paradox that is rooted in comparing the incomparable. 20 It is also the paradox of creating continuity and generality in a realm that is determined by change and differences. Hence the philosopher has to remain a gadfly. The tension between ethics and politics cannot be resolved, and yet it should still be possible for politics to improve in some way. It is necessary but also paradoxical to measure what defies quantification, just as it is a necessary violence to impose laws. Levinas’s request that politics needs “to be checked and criticized starting from the ethical” (EI 80) can thus not mean that politics could be deduced from the ethical such as to avoid injustice but that the ethical has the role of criticism, interruption, and disturbance. ∗

∗

∗

It has turned out for Plato as well as Levinas that laws are necessarily flawed because they are too rigid for different human beings and their changing

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circumstances. A just decision would require attending to the individual case. However, we do need laws, and it is therefore helpful to consider and distinguish between different kinds of laws. For both Plato and Levinas, the issue of writing laws entails broader issues of politics that can be seen to crystallize in the topic of laws. Plato starts by considering an ideal state that stands in a precarious relationship to real states. A related problem concerns the nature of the politician or statesman when compared to the philosopher. Socrates is not a politician—in the sense that he necessarily fails when he becomes involved in the real politics of Athens, which he can successfully interrupt only as a gadfly—and yet, he is a politician par excellence since he is concerned with what is good for the polis (rather than himself), taking his orientation from the Good itself. The relation between philosophy and politics has proven ambiguous; philosophy preserves as well as interrupts politics. The statesman has to mediate between stable ideas and unstable human affairs. This mediation would ideally make laws unnecessary, but for various reasons, the statesman cannot consider each individual case. Written laws import the problems of writing into politics since they are inflexible and unresponsive. It seems obvious that the lawgiver needs to be allowed to change the laws; yet the Laws warn against such changes. More precisely, a distinction is suggested between laws affecting deportment and criteria for judging somebody’s character. These two kinds of laws have been designated in the current chapter as political laws and quasi-ethical laws. Depending on their distance from ethics, laws are more or less changeable. This distinction makes it possible to consider the tension between real and ideal state as a dynamic rather than a static division, with laws operating in the open realm between them. Despite this more flexible approach, Plato does not provide advice regarding a situation of tyranny where substantial changes to the laws are required. Levinas explores precisely the tendency of politics to close itself off and become tyranny. The alternative consists in checking politics against ethics, which is a difficult task, and one that can never fully be accomplished. To structure Levinas’s reflections on politics, three themes have been investigated: totality, measure, and the state with its laws. Levinas points out how the idea of an all-encompassing totality can only be an illusion; instead, he focuses on totalities that are delimited, like societies, as an interplay of separation and participation. Measure, for Levinas, entails the comparison of the incomparable—a calculus that suffers from problems similar to those of laws for Plato. The nature of a state is fundamentally determined by how it emerges. Levinas counters the Hobbesian model through the perspective of irreducible responsibility. With the emergence of a state, laws come into being that, at fi rst, seem powerful but that turn out to be an alienation in which the will does not recognize itself. The response, for Levinas, is a step back to responsibility as the basis for equality. The task, then, is to trace universality back to the face-to-face relationship, to a “command without

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tyranny,” whereas tyranny consists in obeying the law while ignoring the face of the Other. The relation between the two dimensions, universality and politics, takes different shapes in Levinas’s reflections. Levinas’s response to the alienation of the will that results from political systems and its laws is to examine the universality and equality that underlie them, but even more importantly, to understand this equality as emerging from a more original responsibility or face-to-face relationship. Overall, Levinas seems to locate universality between infi nite responsibility, on the one hand, and political communities, on the other. “The third” must not then be read to signify a gradual procession from the dyad to larger communities and fi nally to humanity; rather, it immediately leads us to every other. This connection does not describe a temporal process, to be sure, but a logical connection between the face-to-face and politics, which, for Levinas, is necessarily mediated by Platonic universalism. 21 Rather than criticizing Levinas’s presentation, I would like to emphasize that the relation between universalism and politics is not sufficiently clarified—it is not even made clear that two different modalities are involved—and that a closer examination, especially of the political realm, is necessary. How can the relation between ethics and politics be illuminated? Or which ultimately amounts to the same question, how can the state’s tendency toward tyranny be countered and interrupted? Such an interruption cannot itself be a matter of politics. Yet an awareness of tyrannical tendencies requires, so I argue, attending to the world in its ambiguity and exploring different dimensions and levels, such as works, culture, and history. The following part of this study will investigate these ambiguous domains, which are linked to the political realm, albeit in an indirect fashion.

Part IV

Historical–Cultural Worlds

Differentiating between universality and politics makes it possible to focus on political communities. Levinas does not examine communities that are larger than two people yet smaller than all of humanity. Moreover, it might strike us as odd that he identifies everything that extends beyond the dyad as political, or as essentially determined by political questions. What place do cultural worlds or communities hold? Can art and culture really be identified with politics? Part IV of this study approaches this question by turning to a number of related themes: writing, art, history, culture. While these topics appear rather incongruent at fi rst, they are connected through certain Platonic tendencies, which Levinas exhibits in respect to all of them, and through the fact that the constitution of a cultural world means to consider how different worlds relate to each other and how they are constituted through artworks, narratives, and other means of commemoration. Chapter 9 focuses on the Platonic critique of writing, which Levinas employs for discussing the precarious character of works in general. Plato would support such a generalization since, for him, written texts and paintings (and in some sense artworks in general) are analogous. Yet the critique of writing shows itself to be more complicated and multifaceted than it fi rst seems. Writing reveals itself to be an ambiguous phenomenon. While a written text is susceptible to misunderstandings and a certain solidification, it seems possible to revive the text or to “unsay the said,” as Levinas would call it. Levinas’s distinction between the “saying” and the “said” is interesting in this respect since it harbors structural affi nities with the distinction between speech and writing. Moreover, despite repeating the Platonic emphasis on the importance of living attendance to the speech, Levinas offers a solution in discussing how writings are interrupted through reading and interpreting. After these considerations on the written text, Chapter 10 turns to artworks, especially visual artworks. According to Plato’s Republic, artworks give an image or a copy, comparable to shadows in the cave. Levinas takes

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up the theme of a shadow but discusses how art, rather than being a shadow of reality, brings to the fore a shadow or withdrawal that is dormant in reality itself. Despite this interesting capacity of art, Levinas criticizes art as irresponsible since it creates a dimension of disengagement from ethical concerns. Levinas’s reservations about art appear reminiscent of Plato’s critique of the poets; at the same time, both Levinas and Plato offer resources to rethink art as instigating dialogue and discussion. Because they rest in themselves, artworks can be misappropriated; at the same time, they have a commemorative function which Levinas does not seem to consider, due to his doubts about any strong concept of history. Chapter 11 investigates Levinas’s suspicions against history and culture. However, Levinas’s thoughts on temporality as well as fecundity can be shown to bear certain similarities with the phenomenological notion of historicity. It will turn out that Levinas does not ultimately neglect historicity but, rather, the role of remembering. While the quest for a concealed history, a history that has never been a present, is intriguing and justified, such a quest does not have to happen at the expense of memory in its various manifestations. These manifestation make up a culture—and culture can be approached through the philosophically significant concept of the stranger. Considering the topic of strangeness is instructive as it sheds light on the nature of philosophy and on central issues like radical questioning, vulnerability, and responsibility. The relation between home and alien is characterized by an irreducible tension, which can help elucidating the asymmetrical relation between me and the Other on a different scale. It turns out that Levinas does not deny the philosophical and even ethical significance of cultural worlds if bearing in mind the orientation to the Other. Furthermore, the Platonism that he proposes to revive in response to the contemporary philosophies of culture can be employed for an exploration of cultural worlds.

9

The Critique of Writing What is proper to language—spoken, but also, and perhaps to a higher degree, written—is that it always lends assistance to itself, never saying only what it says but always more and always less. Maurice Blanchot, The Infi nite Conversation, 82.

Since this chapter takes up themes which are individually substantial enough to treat in an independent study, certain restrictions need to be imposed. The focus lies with those dimensions of writing and literature which will help us to understand the ambiguity of art, in the next chapter, and the role of works for history, in the subsequent chapter. In relation to Plato, these themes come under the classic headings “critique of writing” (especially in the Phaedrus) and “eviction of the poets” (in the Republic). Both critiques are quite puzzling already on a superficial level. The critique of writing is brought forth in writing, by an author who has left us many of his writings (although the critique is placed in the mouth of Socrates, the philosopher who does not write). And the critique of poetry occurs in the Republic, a work that encompasses a number of myths, composed by an author who praises Homer and, in the Phaedrus, describes poetry as a godsent madness. These tensions have naturally evoked extensive discussions in the literature on Plato. In this chapter, we will fi rst examine the Platonic distinction between speech and writing. I shall argue that the distinction between speech and writing as well as the critique of writing are much more plausible if they are not understood on an entirely literal level. Levinas takes the critique of writing in the Phaedrus very seriously and refers to it in various places. While he continues to emphasize Socrates’ statement that speakers are able to come to the support of their speeches, and such support is denied to writers, Levinas does not really examine the theme of writing as such. Instead, he proposes a distinction between “the saying” and “the said,” which resembles the distinction between speech and writing but cannot be equated with it. We will see that there is a structural similarity between the relation of speech and writing and the relation of the saying and the said.

a) WRITING VERSUS SPEECH The critique of writing holds a central position in Plato scholarship, dividing scholars as it does between those who argue that the Platonic dialogues

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are exempt from this critique (most importantly, Schleiermacher,1 but also Leo Strauss2), those who argue that the critique of writing needs to be taken most seriously and should lead us to search for an unwritten doctrine (as the Tübingen School claims), 3 and those who try to fi nd a balance between the two extreme positions. Proponents of an esoteric interpretation usually focus on Socrates’ second argument against writing in which he criticizes the written text for speaking indiscriminately to every audience. On the basis of this criticism, it is argued that Plato was hiding certain messages from the wider audience.4 Levinas also focuses mostly on Socrates’ second argument; yet unlike the esoteric approaches, Levinas does not claim to give an interpretation of the critique of writing as a whole or within the context of the Phaedrus and should thus not be accused of the same onesidedness that determines the esoteric readings.5 When the Phaedrus as a whole and the different arguments involved in the critique of writing are considered fully, it turns out that the critique is more complex than was at first presumed. While the critique of writing occurs close to the end of the Phaedrus, the theme of writing already surfaces at two earlier points, each time in relation to writing’s worth or value. If we consider that logos is a major theme of the Phaedrus,6 it is not surprising that the difference between written and spoken logos arises repeatedly as a topic. The first relevant passage can be found quite early on in the dialogue, after Phaedrus has convinced Socrates, the confessing philologos, to leave the town with him and listen to Lysias’s speech about love. When Phaedrus wants to recite the memorized speech to him, Socrates says: “Only if you first show me what you are holding in your left hand under your cloak, my friend. I strongly suspect you have the speech itself. And if I’m right, you can be sure that, though I love you dearly, I’ll never, as long as Lysias himself is present, allow you to practice your own speechmaking on me” (Phaedr. 228e). Socrates here maintains that he prefers the written speech over Phaedrus’s merely memorized version of it and that the presence of the written speech makes Lysias himself present in some capacity. These claims are not as such unusual, but they are certainly worth noting since they seem to contradict Socrates’ later statements about writing. We would be likely to agree with Socrates that it is preferable to hear Lysias’s speech read out literally from the written version rather than having it recited by Phaedrus from memory, which would risk omissions, divergences, and mistakes.7 One might wonder, however, whether it would not be even more desirable to have Lysias himself present, fully present and not just by way of the written speech; if this would be preferable to the written speech, Socrates’ statement might not contradict the critique of writing as he presents it later. Much later in the dialogue, yet still before the critique of writing, Phaedrus suddenly raises a hearsay argument against writing, claiming that “the most powerful and renowned politicians are ashamed to compose speeches or leave any writings behind” (257d). After Socrates has reminded Phaedrus of various famous politicians and lawgivers who did not reproach writing in

The Critique of Writing 153 the least, he summarizes the results as follows: “It’s not speaking or writing well that’s shameful; what’s really shameful is to engage in either of them shamefully or badly” (258d).8 This statement is simple yet significant since it could undermine the critique of writing. It is a rather self-evident statement; this makes it at first convincing but potentially weak in relation to a more detailed consideration of writing as Socrates will attempt later. The critique of writing by way of the myth of Theuth is introduced as Socrates refers back to his earlier statement. After he has elaborated on shameful speaking in comparison to good speaking, where good speaking involves knowledge of the truth, he says: “What’s left, then, is aptness and ineptness in connection with writing” (274b). The myth that follows thus already presupposes the observation that writing is not in itself shameful but only when deployed shamefully. Furthermore, Socrates pauses before presenting the myth which he has heard from the ancients and limits its impact somewhat by pointing out that we might not care as much about myths and what other people say if we could actually make discoveries for ourselves. Nevertheless, he presents and interprets the myth rather than pursuing an independent discussion. The myth9 goes that Theuth, a very creative divinity, invented various arts, such as the art of the number—that is, arithmetic—but also the art of the letter—that is, writing. It is important to take note of the fact that writing is introduced as an invention. Inventing something means opening up a realm of possibilities that has not existed beforehand. Furthermore, it usually means that the new invention can be put to good as well as bad or harmful use. If we keep in mind what Socrates said earlier—namely, that writing is not in itself shameful—it would appear sensible to investigate the useful and the harmful applications of this new invention. Theuth, however, is so enamored with his new invention that he merely focuses on the positive features, of which he names two when he presents the art of writing to the Egyptian king Thamus. He calls it “a potion [pharmakon] for memory and for wisdom” (275a). Thamus fi nds himself disagreeing on both accounts. The straightforward concern is that writing encourages forgetting since people will rely on what has been written rather than exercising their memory. It is more difficult for Thamus to come up with an argument as to why writing does not make people wiser (yet we should also keep in mind that Theuth has not really explained how, according to him, it strengthens wisdom). Thamus claims that students will be provided “with the appearance of wisdom, not with its reality” because they “will hear many things without being properly taught” (275a).10 While Thamus’s apprehension seems to arise from the temptation for students to read a lot and think they have understood without examining the subject matter carefully, it is not clear whether a careless student might not just as well pick up lots of hearsay information (spoken rather than written information) and thereby give the appearance of wisdom rather than being truly wise.

154 Plato and Levinas In his interpretation of the myth, Socrates criticizes writing for its vulnerability to various misunderstandings. The argument that Levinas cites most frequently concerns the speech as being abandoned by its “father”; as a consequence, it “can neither defend itself nor come to its own support” (275e). The author, or writer, abandons the text, leaving the interpretation to us. Socrates explains, furthermore, that the written words remain silent or, when questioned, merely repeat what will already have been said. Finally, the written words do not consider their appropriate recipient but speak indiscriminately to everybody. This latter problem becomes apparent, for example, when a philosophical text is extracted and used in political or economic contexts. Levinas is concerned with the same predicament when he explores how works are public, open to everybody, and therefore easily abused for propaganda purposes. All the problems that Socrates mentions are true problems and serious concerns; yet the question remains, what conclusion to draw? The Socratic solution that is developed as the text proceeds seems to consist in rejecting writing and not taking the written text seriously.11 An alternative conclusion that could be drawn from the very same considerations would be to regard these problems as hermeneutical problems and engage actively in hermeneutical considerations. It could also mean to diagnose an essential ambiguity at the core of the written text, which calls for examination rather than rejection. Socrates, however, does not take this path. He continues his criticism by way of a direct comparison between speech and writing, introducing speech as the better and more capable brother of writing, which avoids the pitfalls of the written letter. Phaedrus concludes that speech is “living, breathing discourse” (276a). At this point, we will pause and explore the opposition between living and dead logos with the help of interpretations supplied by Derrida and Heidegger.12 Derrida considers the myth of Theuth carefully under the heading of “Plato’s Pharmacy.” He examines the assumptions and presuppositions that inform Plato’s critique of writing in order to question the Platonic privilege of speech over writing. Derrida alerts us to the fact that Socrates, when he describes speech as the superior brother of writing, actually introduces speech as a logos “that is written down, with knowledge, in the soul of the listener” (276a). Thus Socrates feels the need to refer back to writing (in the soul) when he is actually trying to show how speech is more primordial than writing. The ambivalent status of writing also becomes obvious in its designation as pharmakon (274e). Derrida points out that pharmakon, which can mean ‘poison’ as well as ‘remedy,’ is rejected by Plato before its status is really clarified. This rejection takes place, so Derrida explains, because the pharmakon is artificial and because it is a mixture in which oppositions are absolved.13 According to Derrida, this is one of the prejudices operating in the text which ultimately concern relations of origin and derivation, where the derivative would always be considered inferior. Socrates himself

The Critique of Writing 155 says that writing exhibits certain similarities with painting (Phaedr. 275d), thereby reminding us of his vehement criticism in the Republic of images as doubly derivative, copy of a copy.14 Heidegger, in his lecture course on the Sophist, interprets the issue of derivation differently. His interpretation of the Phaedrus presupposes his reading of the doctrine of Forms. In this lecture course,15 Heidegger proposes a rather sympathetic reading of this doctrine, emphasizing two points in particular. Firstly, Plato’s talk of Forms serves to show that we neither construct nor derive the Forms (as a common sense explanation regarding the emergence of concepts would have it); they are given to us, and we depend on this giving.16 Everything we are dealing with in everyday life is already removed from the original Form. Logos is thus derivative in the plausible sense that it depends on something showing itself, something coming to appearance. Secondly, according to Heidegger, the anamnēsis doctrine points to certain obstacles or inhibitions that are essentially human. The dialectical process of synagoge, of collecting things into an appropriate unity, is a process that we engage in despite certain obstacles that stem from our human nature. If we succeed, it feels as if something has come to us that we once knew but had since forgotten. And we are indeed familiar with this experience: when we fi nally have an insight, the idea often seems rather self-evident, leaving us to wonder whether we should not have known this all along. The insight is then experienced as if there had previously been an oversight. As human beings, we constantly move in the space between remembering and forgetting. This is why we have and need writing; we do not imagine that the gods take notes. However, this does not foreclose the possibility of condemning writing as inferior and of establishing a hierarchy among different logoi. Derrida claims that Plato is clearly working with such a hierarchy; Heidegger does not deny this but places the hierarchy elsewhere. What Plato rejects, according to Heidegger, is a “free-floating” (German: freischwebend) logos, a logos that is absolved, that has lost its connection to what it is talking about.17 Such a logos does not reveal but conceals. Since this logos pretends to be capable of something that it cannot actually accomplish, it seems justified to hold that Socrates designates this logos as appearing to be alive, yet as in fact remaining silent when questioned (Phaedr. 275d). On the basis of the distinction between a free-floating logos and a logos that stays in touch with what it talks about, one could try to argue that writing has the potential to be free-floating logos, but is not necessarily free-floating (or dead, as Socrates would call it). Yet from a Derridean perspective, this interpretation would appear too generous; and indeed—if Socrates wants to make a more subtle point, why does he reject writing in such an outright fashion? We should remember that there are several passages in the text that support a reading as suggested by Heidegger—namely

156 Plato and Levinas that writing opens up the possibility of misunderstandings, but that it may also stay connected to the subject matter discussed in it. There is the passage from the beginning of the Phaedrus concerning Lysias’s presence by way of the written speech and also Socrates’ later claim that writing is not itself shameful but bad writing is. The myth of Theuth seems more rigorous in its critique, but as mentioned earlier, we need to keep in mind that writing is explicitly introduced as an invention, thereby opening up a realm of (good and bad) possibilities. Yet how shall we interpret, for example, a straightforward statement like this: “[H]ow could they possibly think that words that have been written down can do more than remind those who already know what the writing is about?” (275d). It seems Socrates is claiming here that I will understand a written text only if I already know what the text is telling me. If taken literally, this is an outrageous claim. Yet we need to keep in mind that learning, according to the anamnēsis doctrine, is always remembering. As we have seen, this idea can be interpreted on a phenomenological rather than metaphysical level, since an insight does not strike me as something entirely new, but as something that I should or could have known. If all learning is concerned with something that I latently already knew, then the same would obviously hold for learning from a written text.18 When Socrates, in his fi rst objection, relates writing to painting, he focuses on a specific feature of both: if asked, written or painted works remain silent. More precisely, they repeat the same thing again and again. This feature of repetitiousness is significant because it could be used to defi ne the object at stake here—namely, a work (be it a written work or an artwork). A work is an object that stays self-same and repeats the same ‘message.’ This characteristic could even be considered the strength of a work; it has the ability to stand in itself and “signify just that very same thing forever” (275d). Socrates says that this feature of the work is frustrating when we want to learn more from the work; yet we might wonder whether this frustration could lead to the realization that it is a different kind of learning that is called for here: a critical engagement with the work rather than an expectation to receive complete and fi nal answers. The features of the work that emerge from the fi rst objection are confi rmed by Socrates’ second objection, and especially by the initial part of that objection: the written speech “rolls about everywhere,” like a ball (275e). It “rolls about” because it has a certain materiality and, in that sense, resembles a spatio-temporal object. The written text can be taken somewhere—like the speech of Lysias under Phaedrus’s cloak. It can be stored up, even for generations to come. Indeed, the text is accessible to everybody who fi nds it, and there are defi nite dangers in this. Yet it should also have become obvious that its material nature strengthens the written text. Through the written dialogues, Plato and Socrates are in some sense present for us. Theuth is thus right to be proud of his invention: writing is a great reminder. Perhaps it even makes us wiser; Theuth—in Socrates’

The Critique of Writing 157 presentation—does not spell out how the new invention would make the Egyptians wiser, but we can imagine what he may have in mind. Facts, insights, stories, and discoveries can be recorded, shared, and accumulated across people and even across generations. It has even been argued that the emergence and development of philosophy in ancient Greece was dependent on the possibility of writing.19 The systematic and logical development of thought certainly benefits from being recorded. Writing thus proves an ambiguous phenomenon, a true pharmakon (as both Theuth and Thamus call it) in both senses: remedy and poison. Ascribing ambiguity to the phenomenon of writing does not just mean that writing can be good or bad, helpful or harmful. It means that the very materiality that sustains and strengthens the written text at the same time makes it vulnerable. Or, to bring out the precarious nature of the written text more clearly, the self-sufficiency of the written text makes it possible for the text to close itself off, as it were. Being self-enclosed, the written text does not protest when it is misread but repeats the same message over and over again. Reading is thus never sufficient. We need to appropriate what we read, and in that sense, to read is to be reminded. The written text needs to be revived by way of thought, discussion, and dialogue; otherwise, it indeed remains dead and stale. Just as there is bad and good writing, there is also bad and good reading. Even good writing may, in its obliviousness to its audience, become an object of bad, manipulative reading. This means that we need to learn how to write well and how to read well. Yet Plato does not seem to draw this conclusion and neither does Levinas (at least in his early and middle philosophy). Plato recommends that we engage in dialectical discourse; obviously, dialogue is the form of writing that comes closest to this recommendation. Levinas, for his part, proposes to trace the “said” back to a more original “saying.”

b) THE SAYING AND THE SAID In order to approach the distinction between saying and said, let us fi rst review some Levinasian remarks about the Platonic myth of Theuth. In what sense does Levinas support and appropriate Plato’s critique? Levinas draws on Plato to make a distinction between the “objective order of truth” to be found in writing, and living discourse, which can defend itself (TI 73/45). The objectivity inherent in the former kind of communication is said to be impersonal. Living discourse, on the other hand, is linked to risktaking and a possible exposure to a “traumatism of astonishment” induced by the encounter with something truly foreign (TI 73/46). This formulation is interesting when keeping in mind the Platonic link between wonder and philosophy. It seems that for both Plato and Levinas, true philosophy does not become manifest in writing.

158 Plato and Levinas Would Levinas really claim this? As Levinas distinguishes between living discourse and an objective, impersonal, order of truth, he connects the latter to universality, which is ultimately the universality of reason (ET 35). One of philosophy’s main features, according to Levinas, is the quest for such universality. Philosophy wants to arrive at claims that have general validity and can be understood by all rational beings. Few philosophers would contest this. Both Plato and Levinas are at pains to negotiate between the demand for universality and the wish to remain at the level of living dialogue. In Plato’s philosophy, universality is reached by the Forms. Yet the situation is more complicated since we do not get to see the Forms in this life; at best, we only catch a glimpse. Someone who has caught a glimpse will try to convey to others what he or she has seen, and this will be difficult, open to misunderstandings on various levels. It is perhaps because of this difficulty that Plato deems it necessary to complement his dialectical explorations with myths. It would be too easy to assume that philosophy might be pursued by appealing to universal reason alone. Levinas is acutely aware of philosophy’s precarious and ‘impure’ position. On the one hand, he equates philosophy with universality and with the dimension of the “said.” On the other hand, he does not turn away from philosophy but envisions a task for it. This task could be formulated in two steps, where the fi rst step consists in tracing the said back to a more original saying, and the second step makes these discoveries manifest by going from the saying to the said.20 Obviously, this return to the said does not simply take us back to our point of departure. The distinction between the saying and the said belongs to the most difficult areas of Levinasian philosophy. 21 There are some rather fragmentary remarks about the saying and the said in Totality and Infinity before Levinas takes up the theme in a more explicit and systematic fashion in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. Already in his early work, Levinas wants to prevent us from understanding the distinction in a simple and straightforward fashion. He emphasizes, for example, that the “saying, and not only the said, is equivocal” (TI 260/238).22 This ambiguity, so he explains, is not a matter of equivocal meanings but arises from the interplay between speech and that which is not speech: silence or the renunciation of speech. In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Levinas compares the “said” to an “oracle” (OB 5/6). This comparison is instructive, especially if we are thinking of Ancient Greek oracles. When Socrates, in the Apology, recounts how his friend Chaerephon learns from the Delphic oracle that Socrates is the wisest man, Socrates at fi rst does not want to believe it (Apol. 21a). By talking to politicians, poets, and craftsmen, he realizes that he is indeed wiser since he knows that he does not know. The oracle’s statement is thus ambiguous since it could be read as referring to a body of wisdom, which Socrates clearly neither has nor values. In order to understand the statement, Socrates had to explore it through dialogues with others.

The Critique of Writing 159 If the said appears in the form of statements in the widest sense, what then is the saying? It is proximity, it is “preoriginal,” and it makes all language possible (OB 29/6 f.). 23 When it comes to the saying and its relationship with the said, Levinas requires us to think a complicated configuration. The saying is in some sense “prior” to the distinction between saying and said, but at the same time, it is a component within this distinction. The “prior” saying is not an origin from which the distinction emanates; it is preoriginal and anarchical. It is the primordial proximity that makes origins possible. The relationship between saying and said, fi nally, should not be conceived as a dichotomy but as a fl ickering of meaning, oscillation, or ambiguity. 24 How does the relationship between saying and said relate to the distinction between speech and writing? In the closing chapters of Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Levinas presents writing and the said as phenomena that certainly overlap, even if they may not be entirely identical. When Levinas, close to the end of Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, discusses political justice, he describes its emergence as follows: “The saying is fi xed in a said, is written, becomes a book, law, and science” (OB 159/202).25 The connection between the said and writing becomes manifest once again as Levinas discusses the practices of Western philosophy. Here he refers to “the logos said, and written” (OB 169/215) and, more explicitly: “In the writing the saying does indeed become a pure said” (OB, 170f./217). If we attempted to determine the extent to which writing and the said are identical—an attempt that Levinas would most likely resist—it seems that all written logos belongs in the realm of the said, but not every said is written. Writing is perhaps the most fi xed manifestation of the said, the least flexible one, and in that sense, it is the said in the emphatic sense. However, oral statements, especially those detached from my encounter with the Other as listener and those that seem indifferent to the addressee, also belong to the wider domain of the said. The saying should thus not simply be equated with speech. More precisely, the saying is at least not the same as oral speech. Saying in the genuine sense is the proximity that occurs prior to verbal expression, involving silence and, possibly, touch. If we were to take these formalizations—which, again, Levinas would be at least dubious if not contemptuous about—even further, it seems that oral speech is located somewhere between saying and the said, depending on the mode of speech as well as on the aspect under analysis. Writing, for Levinas, seems to belong clearly to the realm of the said. Considering Levinas’s philosophical project of tracing the said back to saying, do we conclude that he is subscribing to a hierarchy of speech over writing as it is attributed to Plato? It has been argued that Levinas is absolved from the Derridean charge of phonocentrism since Levinas does not emphasize the significance of voice (phōnē).26 If Levinas’s critical remarks about logos and universal rationality are also considered, it may seem that Derrida’s worries about the philosophical tradition do not concern Levinas at all. Yet

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the Levinasian emphasis on proximity and presence as well as his suspicions about any kind of absence (be it on the political or artistic level) show that the situation is much more complicated and that Levinas, as a unique kind of Platonist, cannot easily be exempt from the Derridean accusations.27 In discussing Plato’s critique of writing, we have seen, following Heidegger, how the critique is more differentiated than it fi rst appears. We also have considered how it might be possible to draw different conclusions from Plato’s worries, conclusions that would not yield a subordination of writing but a requirement to read and write more carefully. Interestingly, Levinas offers suggestions along exactly these lines in the chapter “Skepticism and Reason,” the same chapter in which he explores the connection between writing and the said. In a striking passage about the book, which shall be quoted in full, Levinas states this: A book is interrupted discourse catching up with its own breaks. But books have their fate; they belong to a world they do not include, but recognize by being written and printed, and by being prefaced and getting themselves preceded with forewords. They are interrupted, and call for other books and in the end are interpreted in a saying distinct from the said. (OB 171/217) The last sentence connects most immediately with our previous deliberations. Hermeneutics, which was suggested as an alternative response to Plato, is precisely the art of interpretation. Interpretation, Levinas suggests, is a saying rather than a said (even though it may be manifested once again in a said). Interpretation establishes connections, between books and between people; thereby, it interrupts the said. Interruption is very important for Levinas since it disturbs and shakes up self-enclosure. Everything that has a tendency to be static, fi xed, and hermetically closed off needs to be interrupted—be it politics, a book, or philosophy. If a saying enters into the said, such an interruption occurs. In the chapter from which the previous passage is taken, Levinas investigates in particular the possibilities of interrupting philosophy. The chapter can be read as an indirect response to Derrida’s “Violence and Metaphysics” or to anybody who would ask whether a Levinasian philosophy is possible. Is it possible to write a book about philosophy’s totalizing tendencies without this book being itself totalizing? Is it coherent to philosophize about the saying, which means to emphasize the necessity of going back to an original saying, yet do so in a written text? Levinas says that it is possible to write a book that accomplishes these tasks because the book will be interrupted. Such an interruption occurs as the book is interpreted. It also happens because someone reads the book and listens to what is said in it. “This reference to an interlocutor permanently breaks through the text” because of the fact that the interlocutor “is situated outside the said that the discourse says” (OB 170/216 f.).

The Critique of Writing 161 While it is plausible that the text is transformed by its interpretations as well as by its readers—since they come to the text from a different place—at least two important objections immediately arise. Firstly, what about the possibility of misunderstanding, which Levinas, following the Phaedrus, is so concerned about when discussing the publicity of works in Totality and Infinity?28 Secondly, does it not follow from Levinas’s argumentation that all books are always interrupted, already by being read, so that we do not need to be concerned about philosophy’s inclination toward closure and totalization? A response to the fi rst question needs to take into account the shift from Totality and Infinity to Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence concerning the role of works. While Levinas does not explicitly alter his earlier position, it is striking that he no longer warns us about the dangers induced by the absence of the work’s author. Furthermore, references to the Phaedrus in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence usually focus on a different aspect—namely, on the irrelevance of the speaker’s origin. When Phaedrus ridicules Socrates’ recounting of the myth of Theuth on account of its Egyptian (and hence possibly unreliable) origin, Socrates reprimands Phaedrus for focusing on “who is speaking and where he comes from” rather than “whether what he says is right or wrong” (Phaedr. 275c). Just as Socrates, before telling the myth of Theuth, had already emphasized that it is not writing as such which is good or shameful, he now reminds us that it should not matter who the speaker is and where he comes from but whether the statements are true or not. This should hold for any logos; especially in the case of the written speech, where we might be unclear or mistaken about the author and where he comes from, the question about the truth of what is being said is the only significant factor. We are thus receiving a reminder to read carefully and examine what we are being told and to determine whether it strikes us as right or convincing. 29 Levinas supports Socrates’ reproach since it would be unethical to confi ne the Other to a certain category. The plausibility of the Other’s statement (or call) must not depend on where he or she is coming from.30 However, this shift concerning the role of the myth of Theuth in Levinas’s work still does not explain why Levinas appears no longer worried about the dangers of misunderstanding. We may speculate that it could be a response to the inconsistency of proposing a radical critique of writing in a (written) book. Plato, so it seems, deals with such an inconsistency by evaluating writing differently at various points of the Phaedrus, leaving it up to us to interpret and connect these statements. Levinas addresses the issue with the help of the distinction between saying and said, which allows him to give a more subtle account than the writing/speech distinction. In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Levinas might not necessarily deny the dangers of misunderstanding; perhaps he deems it more helpful to thematize these by discussing the risks of a fi xed and rigorous said. The said needs to be shaken out of its predisposition to harden up or encrust, if

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such metaphors are permissible. And this interruption is possible, especially through interpretation. Such considerations even reinforce the second concern. Has Levinas not shown that every book is interrupted? If anything, he has shown that every book can be interrupted—not that it will be. Just as Heidegger has shown that (and how) philosophers like Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Hegel, and Nietzsche can be subjected to a “destructive” reading (in the constructive sense), which traces what remains unthought in their philosophies (cf. BT, Section 6), so Levinas examines the philosophical tradition regarding its totalizing tendencies as well as its potential to disrupt the philosophical discourse. 31 Is there anything special about Levinas’s books? Is it plausible to say that they invite interruption more than traditional books, even though this may sound strange? The unique features of Levinas’s writings, which many readers fi nd peculiar—repetitions, numerous references to philosophy and literature, cross-references within the texts—could be unraveled as such openings for interruption. Maybe what some readers perceive as Levinas’s rhetorical style, despite all his criticism of rhetoric, is in the fi nal analysis an attempt to engage the reader and solicit interpretation. After all, the fact that Plato writes dialogues rather than treatises is not irrelevant for Levinas’s appreciation of Plato’s philosophy. If the diagnosis of the ambiguity of writing is convincing, we can now also reconsider the status of the Platonic dialogues in light of the critique of writing. Instead of the two extreme interpretations by the Tübingen School and dialogue hermeneutics, we can conclude that the Platonic dialogues bring out the ambiguity of writing more explicitly than other texts (e.g., through the different voices, settings, myths, and the explicit discussion of writing). Drew Hyland, although not explicitly concluding that writing has an ambiguous character, makes a very helpful suggestion by stating that “Plato thought he had discovered in the dialogue form a mode of writing that would enable him to take the risk of writing, despite the qualified efficacy of the objections against it.”32 ‘Taking the risk’ is a very apt description because it shows that the risk cannot be ruled out or resolved; it is merely possible to take certain measures when facing the risk. However, the expression ‘risk’ makes it difficult to see the strength or capacities of the written text; ‘ambiguity’ is therefore the preferable expression for the interpretation given here. We can thus conclude that the written Platonic dialogues, which even thematize the phenomenon of writing, are not just able to face the ambiguity of writing but to disclose this very ambiguity. ∗

∗

∗

In this chapter, possible ways of interpreting the issue of writing in Plato’s Phaedrus have been examined. When considering the dialogue as a whole, it appears that writing is not to be rejected as such but rather it opens up certain problems. The myth of Theuth presents writing as a new invention,

The Critique of Writing 163 hence opening up the possibility of employing the new art well or badly. Socrates discusses the danger of misunderstanding; yet various conclusions could be drawn from such a diagnosis. Derrida’s interpretation alerts us to the fact that the relationship between speech and writing is more intricate than Socrates makes it seem. Writing is interwoven with speech rather than simply being derived from it. Heidegger complicates this picture further by pointing out that any logos, spoken or written, is dependent upon something showing or revealing itself. On Heidegger’s reading, Plato does not reject writing as such but rejects a “free-floating” logos, detached from its subject matter. Taking into account the entire dialogue rather than just the myth of Theuth, it seems that writing is in danger of becoming detached in this fashion, but there is also a possibility, perhaps more removed, of oral speech becoming free-floating. Rather than rejecting writing, the task would then be to examine and revive the written text. The relationship between writing and speech can then be used to examine Levinas’s distinction between the “saying” and the “said,” which bears a structural similarity to the former relation. Writing appears as the most fi xed manifestation of the said, or as the said par excellence. The saying is the relationship with the Other, which makes all language possible. While the saying in some sense precedes the distinction between saying and said, it also arises from the distinction as the element complementing the said. Similarly, there seems to be an order of original speech that makes the distinction between oral and written speech possible. Such original speech is not oral as opposed to written; it is an original address and at the same time already the response to a prior revelation. In sum, the distinction between writing and speech has turned out to be more complicated and multifaceted than it fi rst seemed. While Plato’s concern would be for logos to stay in touch with its subject matter, the situation is different for Levinas since his emphasis lies not so much on the subject matter (or that which the logos is about) as on the importance of my not losing contact with the Other (as the one who addresses me and to whom I respond). Yet for both of them, the danger lies in logos becoming disconnected or detached. A possible conclusion to Plato’s critique would be a demand to interpret and revive the written text (rather than rejecting it). Levinas, in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, explores this option by suggesting that the said in a book can be interrupted and is interrupted by the reader. We have seen how the Platonic dialogues and Levinas’s texts expose the very ambiguity of writing. The next chapter moves on to discuss works in relation to art, which are closely related to written works. Both Plato and Levinas assume an analogy between written texts and paintings—in particular, what is at issue is art’s relationship to truth.

10 The Ambiguity of the Aesthetic Socrates: “[I]sn’t it just that such poetry should return from exile when it has successfully defended itself [ . . . ]? Then we’ll allow its defenders, who aren’t poets themselves but lovers of poetry, to speak in prose on its behalf and to show it not only gives pleasure but is beneficial both to constitutions and to human life. Indeed, we’ll listen to them graciously, for we’d certainly profit if poetry were shown to be not only pleasant but also beneficial.” Plato (Rep. 607d)

According to Levinas, art is an ambiguous phenomenon. He shares this assessment with Plato and bases his views on Platonic arguments. Central is the Platonic critique of writing in the Phaedrus, which Levinas uses to argue that all works, especially works of art, are susceptible to misunderstandings and misinterpretations. Art lacks the immediacy of the ethical encounter with the Other. By way of its sensible character, it diverts us from our ethical responsibility, and by way of its multiple meanings and layers, it provides a possibility for evasion. The ambiguity of art will be investigated in this chapter in order to show that the diagnosis of ambiguity is persuasive yet does not necessarily lead to a rejection of art. Levinas criticizes art and artworks in several texts, such as Totality and Infinity and the essay, “Reality and its Shadow.” At the same time, there are several essays, especially in the collection Proper Names, where Levinas turns to authors like Celan or Proust and detects a proximity to his own thought. Interpreters then face the difficult task of giving more weight either to Levinas’s criticism of art or to his positive interpretation of art.1 The diagnosis of an ambiguity inherent in art which Levinas proposes in his essay, “Reality and its Shadow” has the advantage that it allows us to acknowledge both sides of Levinas’s conception of art rather than declaring one of them to be insignificant. A similar situation arises in Plato’s philosophy since interpreters also confront the alternative of declaring either the Platonic critique of the poets in the Republic or the appreciative remarks on poetry and the muses in the Phaedrus and the Ion to be Plato’s final position.2 I will examine the ambiguity of art to identify these seeming contradictions as two sides of an ambiguous phenomenon. In this chapter, the main focus will be on visual art, even though most considerations hold for art in general. Visual art is most vehemently criticized by Levinas, and while he often talks about “works” in general, he also makes it clear that a piece of plastic art or a statue is the paradigmatic work for him.3 Plato often treats painting as parallel to writing, as we have seen in the previous chapter.

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a) IMAGES AND SHADOWS In 1948, Levinas published the essay “Reality and its Shadow” in Les Temps Modernes.4 This text is important for us in a number of respects. In it, Levinas develops his theory of art more explicitly and in more detail than in his main works. Even though we are dealing with an early text, his principal theses will remain valid throughout his life; “Reality and its Shadow” prepares the (more critical) view that Levinas proposes in Totality and Infinity, and Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence refers back to the early article in a supportive fashion (OB 199n.21/192n.). Moreover, “Reality and its Shadow” explicitly diagnoses the ambiguity of art. Levinas points to several dangers inherent to art, but at the very moment when we have identified him as a prototypical Platonist, he complicates his claims, pointing out that art actually responds to certain ambiguities in reality itself and does justice to these more than any other human enterprise. In order to elucidate the ambiguity of art, some suitable themes from the text will be selected and related to Plato as well as to Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty. While Levinas does not think that art reveals a truth, Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty describe art as accomplishing exactly this. For Plato, the painted bed is an image of the bed as an object, which in turn is an image of the Form of the bed. In Book X of the Republic, Plato describes the relation between art and truth as follows: “All poetic imitators, beginning with Homer, imitate images of virtue and all the other things they write about and have no grasp of the truth” (Rep. 600e). Despite the fact that myths and poetry play a significant role in his dialogues, here Plato chooses to reject all art. The rejection can be explained by Plato’s conviction that art is mimetic—that is, it produces mere images. In his essay, “The Origin of the Work of Art,” Heidegger shows how art sets truth to work. The essence of a work of art is to disclose the very Being of an object, which means to disclose what that object really is. What happens in a work of art is thus truth in the sense of unconcealment. This disclosure of truth takes place in a twofold movement: “setting up a world” and “setting forth the earth.” “Setting forth the earth” is Heidegger’s attempt to conceive of the traditional creation of a work of art from its material. In the work, the material does not vanish but comes forth as if for the fi rst time. The massiveness and heaviness of the stone, the brightness of color, and the sound of the tone appear as such. Both aspects of the artwork will be explicated at appropriate points in what follows. Heidegger emphasizes that “truth is not present in itself beforehand, somewhere among the stars, so, as then, later on, to fi nd accommodation among beings” (OWA 36). This statement might be directed at Plato, who, even though he does not claim that the Forms are to be found among the stars, assumes that they exist “beforehand” and that their existence is not dependent on a setting-to-work.5 When Levinas strives to determine the nature of art, he refers to Platonic Forms in order to contrast them with art

166 Plato and Levinas and situate art elsewhere. Art is usually described as a disengagement from the world, Levinas recounts; but disengagement does not need to mean “to go beyond [au delà], toward the region of Platonic ideas.” Instead, there is a disengagement on the “hither side [en deçà]” (RS 2 f./126), where hither side, as we saw before, connotes the sphere of sensibility. So far, the contrast that Levinas sets up clearly resembles certain Platonic distinctions, where the Form of the bed is situated on one side, the image of the bed on the other side of the actual, wooden bed. For Levinas, art does not lead us beyond but to the hither side of Being. This means that art does not present truth. Cognition provides truth, by way of concepts that ‘grasp’ reality. It is a rare occurrence to hear Levinas talk about the power of cognition and concepts. On the basis of Levinas’s suspicion regarding cognition in later texts, we may refrain from regarding art as inferior on account of its inability to disclose the truth. Yet two things need to be kept in mind before proceeding to the more affi rmative determination of art: for Levinas, “art does not belong to the order of revelation” nor does it belong “to that of creation” (RS 3/127). Art is not a revelation, for it does not reveal the truth. But why is art not creation? As it will turn out, art does not create anything but only brings to the fore what is already latent in reality. Art does not create but resembles. For Levinas, even modern and contemporary art are based on resemblance, forming images of reality; even abstract art still takes its departure from reality. However, there are important differences between classic and modern art that Levinas acknowledges, as we will see. If art is neither revelation nor creation, what is it? It is exotic and outside of the world (RS 2/126); there is a certain strangeness at work in it. Heidegger had also emphasized the peculiar relationship of an artwork to the world. The world in phenomenological terms is a nexus of references, where one thing points to the next (the pillow points to the bed, the bed to the bedroom, etc.). The artwork does not fit this nexus of implications; it is not “in” the world but “sets up” a world. There is an entire world opened up in an artwork, and this world might make me aware that we are generally moving in worlds without being aware of it. It is part of the revelatory power of art to provide this awareness. Levinas describes the relation between art and reality (or the “normal world”) differently. He also realizes that art alienates us and interrupts the usual course of things, and he also describes this interruption by way of a doubling, but this “double” has a Platonic form: it is a shadow. Shadows, in the allegory of the cave, are the lowest form of reality. The prisoners in the cave, who have not yet undergone the process of education and elucidation, see nothing but shadows; and once someone has been freed up and dragged out of the cave into the sunlight, he will fi rst only be able to see shadows, even before seeing images of things in the water (Rep. 516b). At the same time, the shadow belongs to the object and helps us to access it. Whenever we see anything at all, there will also be a shadow.

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Levinas’s point is that art focuses on shadows, but by doing so, it brings to the fore what is already present in reality itself: “Reality would be not only what it is, what it is disclosed to be in truth, but would be its double, its shadow, its image” (RS 6/133). There is a duality within reality itself; reality is “what it is and it is a stranger to itself, and there is a relationship between these two moments” (RS 6/133). What is this strangeness within reality, and how can the claim that reality always produces its own shadow or image be made plausible? Levinas does not give us a straightforward interpretation, which is not surprising since a shadow can only be approached indirectly. However, he provides important clues: within reality, there is a withdrawal, a delay, a tendency to escape; this withdrawal creates a doubling. Reality is not fully accessible to us but flees from us. While it may be desirable to give a unitary account of this withdrawal, I believe that the withdrawal has several facets, all of which point to a still deeper withdrawal. On the one hand, the withdrawal might have a temporal sense. Everything is constantly in flow, and I will always arrive a little bit too late. There is always the object as it is now and the object as it has just been. Art enters into this doubling and tries to freeze the moment, attempts to capture the smile of the Mona Lisa, in Levinas’s example, and preserve it forever. By doing so, however, it will only get hold of the past and not of reality in its actuality and presence. On the other hand, there are experiences of withdrawal that are not as immediately temporal. I may have the impression that something in the object eludes my examination, even if I turn the object over and view it on all sides; there is a resistance in the object itself. Heidegger thematizes this withdrawal under the heading of ‘earth,’ where earth bears certain similarities to the elemental in Levinas’s philosophy. The earth shatters every attempt to penetrate it, for instance, by measuring it—and yet earth can appear, in the work of art. When I try to scrutinize a piece of rock by breaking it up, by describing it in terms of weight, color, consistency, etc., I will nevertheless have the impression that something in the whole rock escapes me and that it escapes me all the more the harder I try to put my fi nger on it (OWA 24 f.). There is the rock that is accessible and measurable, and there is a shadow of the rock, inaccessible and withdrawn, yet nevertheless essential to what the rock is. Other phenomena of strangeness and withdrawal within reality can be found; while every philosopher describes these in slightly different terms, the underlying realization is the same: in a given phenomenon, not everything comes to appearance, and that which does not come to appearance can only be described indirectly, if at all. This withdrawal can be understood in temporal or material terms, or as a combination of these, or maybe even as something that resists such categorization. In order to give any precise description of it, one would have to drag it out of the shadow into the light, as it were, and such a shadow is no longer a shadow.6 However, art manages to show this shadow to us, to present the duality within reality, and it even manages to problematize the relationship between

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reality and the stranger within it. It does so by focusing on materiality in a specific way, where materiality is closely tied to the withdrawal. When we deal with normal, everyday things, their materiality usually remains hidden while art emphasizes materiality as such. If art succeeds in showing something that is intrinsic to reality, but normally remains out of sight, might we not conclude that art has some revelatory power for Levinas after all? It seems that art indeed reveals something about reality; but it does so in a more obscure fashion than through concepts. In light of Levinas’s later philosophy, it becomes easier to see that the problem for art is not ultimately its lack of concepts but its detachment from ethics. Even if art reveals that there is a strangeness within reality, does this really present a major concern for us compared to the stranger who is calling upon us? Does not art, like traditional philosophy, focus on ontology rather than ethics? Its ethical aspect—or, rather, its lack thereof—is indeed the most precarious aspect of art for Levinas. He thematizes this problem when he considers the ambiguity of the aesthetic.

b) THE IRRESPONSIBILITY OF ART A few years after the publication of “Reality and its Shadow,” Theodor W. Adorno maintained that writing a poem after Auschwitz was barbaric.7 Adorno’s dictum expresses the same spirit as Levinas’s statement that during certain times, one can only be “ashamed” of artistic enjoyment, “as of feasting during a plague” (RS 12/146). Even though he does not explicitly state it, we may assume that Levinas also has the Holocaust in mind, as well as other historical events. On the most general level, such a rejection of art is motivated by two concerns. The most obvious is that there are times when something else is called for, whether straightforward action or political reflection, rather than artistic contemplation. Secondly, art has a tendency to make the horror appear less horrible, to aestheticize it and turn it into something beautiful. This assumption, however, can and has been questioned.8 While art does not present a historical event in its immediate horror, it might well be able to capture something that no newspaper report, no historical account, and not even the testimony of a witness could capture. A work of art might draw us into it to then reveal something that we would not have been willing to approach and acknowledge otherwise. Paul Celan’s “Death Fugue” (Todesfuge) might be described as beautiful but certainly not in any harmless, unreflective fashion. For Levinas, the face or the call of a victim reveals more than a painting or poem, which is, admittedly, open to misunderstanding. But this leads us to the very center of the problem: How shall we memorize the horror if nothing other than the present expression of a living person, coming to the

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aid of his or her own speech, counts? The most important danger in Levinas’s skepticism concerning art and history is that it limits the possibilities of commemoration. Before we turn to this problem and also consider Levinas’s suggestion for a solution, we need finally to explicate the ambiguity of art. Levinas describes the ambiguity as follows: Its [i.e., art’s] value then is ambiguous—unique because it is impossible to go beyond it, because, being unable to end, it cannot go toward the better. It does not have the quality of the living instant which is open to the salvation of becoming, in which it can end and be surpassed. The value of this instant is thus made of its misfortune. This sad value is indeed the beautiful of modern art, opposed to the happy beauty of classical art. On the other hand, art, essentially disengaged, constitutes, in a world of initiative and responsibility, a dimension of evasion [d’évasion]. (RS 12/145) Levinas here connects the ambiguity of art to its strange temporal character: on the one hand, art seems fi xed, locked up in the moment, without a future. The work of art is complete, no improvement is possible.9 On the other hand, art provides a dimension of irresponsibility; it allows us to flee from the world, and in that sense, it opens up a future: a future of irresponsibility in the literal sense. Levinas claims that art frees us by inviting us to the silence of non-reflection. The ambiguity of art is thus connected to the issue of time as well as to that of beauty. Levinas is skeptical of art because it freezes the moment and does not have a future. In particular, it does not have a future in the Levinasian sense, where the future connotes surprise and the possibility of absolute newness. A work of art repeats itself, and it will always repeat itself in the same fashion. It would actually be possible to defi ne art through its inherent repetition. Art is not necessarily immobile, for a movie or a video installation can be a work of art. Some moment in the fi lm may actually surprise me—but it will do so only once. Even though a work of art may involve movement, the course of things will not change but will repeat itself when I approach the work again.10 Hence Levinas attributes to art a “lifeless life [une vie sans vie]” (RS 9/139). Modern art recognizes the sadness of the frozen moment, whereas classical art celebrates “happy beauty.” What distinguishes modern art is predominantly its attitude toward beauty. Classical art, for Levinas, is guilty of idolatry: it takes beautiful images, which are inevitably idols, and admires them, whereby they acquire a higher status than reality. The beauty of classical art covers the shadow up (RS 8/137). Such idolatry, if Levinas’s description were right, would indeed invite the spectator to be irresponsible and to turn away from real life. “Modern literature, disparaged for its intellectualism (which, nonetheless goes back to Shakespeare, the Molière

170 Plato and Levinas of Don Juan, Goethe, Dostoyevsky) certainly manifests a more and more clear awareness of this fundamental insufficiency of artistic idolatry” (RS 13/148). This passage makes it obvious that modern literature in Levinas’s sense does not have to stem from a specific historical era. Modern art is an art that reflects back on itself and questions its own tasks and procedures. It is an art that entails irony. Modern artworks are not beautiful in any straightforward sense. If they are beautiful, they reflect on it and possibly employ beauty to invoke shock and alienation (as in Andy Warhol’s aesthetically pleasing electrical chairs). Due to this self-reflective attitude, modern art could be described as philosophical art (which leads to the charge of intellectualism), though not necessarily in Levinas’s sense of philosophy. The kind of art that Levinas is weary of is an art that entails the message “Do not speak, do not reflect” (RS 12/146). Even though it is questionable whether any work of art really delivers this message—given that art, if it is true art, invites interpretation, despite the fact that it may block off any simple attempt at it—Levinas’s distinction between a more self-reflective and a less self-reflective art is plausible. Yet Levinas seems to assume that there is an art that serves pure enjoyment, and it becomes obvious in his other works that he connects such art with rhetoric. Works that serve political propaganda and merely appeal to our sense of enjoyment should not be called art, I believe, but propaganda or flattery. However, Levinas is right to point out that the delimitation of art against kitsch, rhetoric, propaganda, or flattery is not at all easy and that a clear line can hardly be drawn. Art is thus ambiguous because it invites irresponsibility and escape while also being able to capture the misfortune and sadness of the moment. In light of our previous considerations, we can describe another dimension of art’s ambiguity: art discloses something about reality—namely, the shadow of strangeness within it; but by alerting us to ontological questions, art may distract us from the importance of ethics. Art in itself is not ethical, as Plato emphasized all along. In order to emphasize the irresponsible side of art, it is helpful to recall some of Plato’s arguments from the Republic. In Books II and III, Plato discusses music and poetry as part of the education for those who shall grow up to protect and guard the polis. The assumption is that music and tales are the fi rst stage in this education, since already the youngest children appreciate these. At the same time, they have a strong impact on the soul, and young souls are particularly influenced by musical performances. Since it will shape their personality from early on, Plato deems it necessary to restrict the content of such educational tales. Most importantly, God should be presented as good rather than evil. Furthermore, it is important not to scare the guardians with horrible stories about punishments in the afterlife, for otherwise they might become afraid of death. Even if this kind of censoring fi rst strikes us as bizarre, we would probably easily admit of the need to protect the youngest children from overly cruel stories.

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While the need to have some criteria for selecting “school literature” might be understandable upon closer consideration, Book X of the Republic is more provocative since it talks about poetry in general—and not just for educational purposes. It is here that Plato makes the claim that Homer would never have written poetry if he had actually been able to produce the objects he talked about (Rep. 599b). This is a severe offense, an insult, and Plato knows it. Would anyone care nowadays about Homer if he merely produced beds? Obviously, Homer’s productions would no longer even exist if they were of that order. However, Socrates says that art will have its ban rescinded if it fi nds a way to defend itself against the current charges (Rep. 607d). Does Socrates himself indicate a contrary direction, when he, in the allegory of the sun, offers an image (eikōn) of the Good rather than the Good itself, admitting that there are certain themes that can only be approached indirectly? Or does the discussion of divine madness in the Phaedrus, exemplified by the muses, serve as a belated Socratic defense? In order for art to be defended against the charges, the connection between art and truth would need to be revisited. The critique of artworks in the Republic depends on the particular concept of truth in play. This concept, so Heidegger claims in “Plato’s Doctrine of Truth,” runs counter to Plato’s original intentions. While the allegory of the cave fi rst seems to present truth as something’s coming to show itself in the way in which it really is, the fi nal interpretation of this allegory turns truth into a process of comparison where an object is measured against a Form. Truth is then linked to my cognition as I accomplish such a comparison, and it can best be described in terms of correctness. This is unfortunate, according to Heidegger’s reading, as the allegory of the cave fi rst describes the process of things coming to appearance and coming to appear with different degrees of clarity. This process of appearing is then narrowed down to a cognitive comparison that might, in subtle ways, already foreshadow the modern principle of subjectivity. As Plato inscribes these levels of clarity into a fi xed scheme and defi nes truth as a progression through this scheme, art acquires its distinct place on the lowest part of the divided line. While Heidegger maintains that Plato sets out to think truth as disclosure or unconcealment and then betrays his own promising beginning by thinking truth in terms of correctness, Levinas would criticize this very starting point itself. For Levinas, disclosure is not the primordial dimension of speech. If Plato’s account thus ends up being problematic and restrictive, this would, for Levinas, be a consequence of the initial approach itself. “To put speech at the origin of truth is to abandon the thesis that disclosure, which implies the solitude of vision, is the fi rst work of truth” (TI 99/72). Yet Heidegger does not claim that disclosure precedes language such that an object would first come to appearance and then subsequently be named by me in language.11 The most significant difference between Heidegger’s and Levinas’s accounts of language seems to consist in the fact that, for Heidegger, language makes conversations possible (and in some sense

172 Plato and Levinas language, while needing man, precedes us) whereas Levinas emphasizes that all speech presupposes an interlocutor (TI 92/65). Yet both Heidegger and Levinas consider the allegories in the Republic to be problematic, despite the valuable results that are gained with regard to the Good beyond Being. For Heidegger, the allegories fail as they link truth to correctness and comparison; for Levinas, they fail because they link truth to vision. This insight could lead Levinas to abandon the Platonic result that art moves away from truth (as it is heavily dependent on the account of truth in the Republic), but Levinas fi nds a more compelling account, leading to similar conclusions, in the Phaedrus. The account of truth and of the Forms in the Phaedrus, despite various obvious similarities to the allegories in the Republic, offers more flexibility. If Eros means to recognize a trace of beauty itself in the beautiful loved one, an analogous account of artistic madness might be possible. The madness of the muses might then consist in remembering beauty and being able to see traces of it in the world such that the creation of beautiful artworks becomes possible. The account of beauty in the Phaedrus provides more leeway than the systematic allegories of the line and the cave since there could, in principle, be a beautiful work of art that would remind me of beauty in itself without the intermediate element of the “real object” being more beautiful or closer to the truth. In the end, Plato’s critique of the poets remains a controversial issue, especially if we consider the extent to which he integrates myths and poetic sayings into his dialogues. However, Socrates usually thematizes the necessity of employing a myth as if to apologize for it. For example, he presents it as a shortcut12 (even though philosophers are supposed to have time or leisure, in contrast to everybody else) or as the only possibility of approaching an incredibly difficult issue such as the nature of the Good.13 At times, Socrates also prefaces what turns out to be quite obviously a myth by saying that it is “not a mere tale [mythos],” but an “account [logos]” (Gorg. 523a) or a “likely story [eikōs logos]” (Tim. 48d). Socrates thus does not take the employment of myths for granted but thematizes their use; yet his sometimes apologetic attitude toward them should not detract from the fact that they often play a central role in his elaborations, especially in the Phaedrus.14 It cannot be our goal here to discuss the extensive theme of the relation between mythos and logos in Plato nor to provide a solution to the tension between the critique of mythos, on the one hand, and the employment of myths, on the other. Let it suffice to say that Plato’s proximity to the beginnings of Western philosophy and the resulting proximity to mythos made it particularly important for him to delimit logos from mythos: he needed to explicate and justify the newly emerged way of thinking. The need to defi ne philosophy (even if a precise defi nition might not be possible) is also a need to distinguish it from what is so close to it that the two might be confused: mythos.15

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When Socrates justifies his myths, as outlined previously, he alerts us to some interesting aspects of them. Firstly, myths are essentially human, related to our limited intellectual capacities. When we cannot give a fully reliable, necessarily true account, we would rather approach the matter in some other way and possibly speculate about different options than dismiss the topic altogether,16 especially if it is a topic of special significance to humans, such as the Good or the soul. Nowadays, we would refer such topics to art in general rather than to myths in particular. Secondly, Socrates argues that his myths are more reliable than other myths. Even though it may strike us as exaggerated to call them logoi or to deny that they are myths at all, it seems plausible that they are more than mere stories. How are they more? They arise in the context of a specific question and are meant to account for something, even if they themselves are not logical accounts. And Socrates always interprets his myths, integrating them into the philosophical framework. However, their status as the basis for philosophical arguments remains rather questionable, and Socrates does not always call attention to this. In his famous essay “Plato and the Poets,” Gadamer stresses that the ontological rejection of art is a secondary concern for Plato, and overcoming traditional education seems to be his main purpose. It seems quite obvious that the critique of art in Book III is tied to educational concerns. In Book X, this connection is less apparent. Yet if we think of something like Bildung, i.e., a concept of education that is not limited to childhood but stresses how our personality and character are shaped (bilden) throughout our lives, Gadamer’s interpretation gains more plausibility. If we extend this line of interpretation a little further, it links in with our previous considerations about the difficult demarcation of art from kitsch. Perhaps the most important insight to be derived from Plato’s reflections on art is the need to distinguish between art for propaganda purposes and true art. Plato recognized the dangers of rhetoric, and he clearly pointed out how susceptible our soul is to musical influences in the broadest sense. The difficulty consists in drawing the line between art and kitsch, literature and rhetoric, etc. Plato attempts to give clear criteria and establish strict rules (about rhythm, musical instruments, etc.), and it is inevitable that those sound ridiculous, just like certain of his meticulous stipulations for the ideal polis. However, it is impossible to tell whether he is not in fact just ridiculing our supposed demand for such unambiguous rules. Both Plato and Levinas attribute a significant (namely, ethical) role to certain “distinguished” works and forms of art while denying it to others. One might think that both of them would embrace rather unexciting pieces of art with a clear moral message. Yet Edith Wyschograd correctly points out that this is not at all the case for Levinas: “In sum, Levinas is charged with a Platonic aesthetic: [ . . . ] If art is ‘legitimate,’ it is so only as the handmaiden of ethics and requires augmentation by criticism. On this view, Levinas could be seen as endorsing straightforwardly didactic tales

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or Socialist Realism as the highest type of art; such is far from being the case, however, as Levinas shows in his sympathetic and nuanced analyses of complex contemporary writers.”17 And Plato does not endorse didactic tales either, at least if we believe the passage from the Phaedrus that discusses the madness of the Muses as the third kind of divine madness.18 Socrates points out here that madness is indispensable for creating poetry, and whoever aspires to become a poet merely by acquiring the expertise, but without the necessary element of madness, will defi nitely fail (245a). Merely learning a certain technique makes a craftsman but not a poet. Both Plato and Levinas rely in practice (or as they practice philosophical writing) on literature and myths to a large extent—and not just for illustration19 — yet they refuse to give a significant role to art in their philosophical theories. The diagnosis of an ambiguity at the core of art explains this apparent contradiction. 20 Unlike Plato, Levinas does not offer criteria to distinguish between true art and questionable versions of art. The only distinction he draws is between classical and modern art, where modern art can be recognized by its reflective, intellectualist approach. But even modern art, to the extent that it relies on images (which, as Levinas shows, literature also does), falls prey to the Levinasian criticism of inviting irresponsibility and offering repetition rather than a future. Artworks have these features because they are works, where the artist stands back, leaves the work to its own devices and does not come to its living support—just as Socrates describes the situation of a written work in the Phaedrus. Yet Levinas offers a solution to this dilemma: criticism. The critics of art, like Maurice Blanchot in the case of literature, “revive” art, as it were. Criticism “integrates the inhuman work of the artist into the human world,” and even manages to detach it “from its irresponsibility by envisaging its technique” (RS 12/147). The solution is convincing in its simplicity—at least to a certain extent. Art criticism offers a future to the artwork because the criticism as such is not predictable; it is an open dialogue that is instigated by the work. The critical dialogue as such is certainly reflective. It is far removed from pure enjoyment, and every attempt at irresponsibility (and pure aestheticism) is open to being questioned and critiqued. Art and art criticism belong together, criticism redeems some of art’s “silence,” and we, as we attempt to listen to the work, should also listen to the critic. However, the question arises as to whether we want to and whether we should leave art to the art critics? Is Levinas trying to say that the work’s susceptibility to misunderstanding calls for an educated critic who has learned to “read” the work? His remarks about the way that criticism focuses on techniques and on the figure of the artist point in this direction. However, at the beginning of the essay, Levinas indicates that criticism should not be confi ned to a group of specialists: “Criticism as a distinct function of literary life, expert and professional criticism, appearing as an item in newspapers and journals and in books, can indeed seem suspect and pointless.

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But it has its source in the mind of the listener, spectator or reader; criticism exists as a public’s mode of comportment” (RS 1/124). This line of thought, which Levinas unfortunately does not take up again at the end of the essay, would make it possible to rehabilitate art, as it were, if it is considered in tandem with criticism—where criticism connotes a general mode of comportment toward art. The suggestion seems in principle similar, though not as fully developed, as his remarks in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence regarding the book that is interrupted by the reader (as discussed in the previous chapter). It may be helpful to hear “criticism” literally as “critique” or “crinein,” as cutting and distinguishing and, in that sense, as interrupting. Critique does not strive to put anyone or anything down, but to consider a work from a differentiating perspective. Levinas thus offers a solution that is in principle convincing, although he does not develop it far enough. Firstly, it would be helpful to elaborate on criticism as a general mode rather than as an occupation for specialists. Secondly, Levinas fails to reconsider his remarks on the artwork as inviting silence in light of his fi nal suggestion. If criticism is a natural and general attitude toward art, it cannot be true that art also gives the message: “Do not speak, do not reflect.” Rather, certain derivative forms such as kitsch and rhetoric are different from art precisely because they invite silent enjoyment instead of reflection. This is, to be sure, not a sufficient criterion to distinguish between art and propaganda. But it is a difference that invites further exploration. Thirdly, Levinas gives too little credit to the work of art itself; all the power to open up dialogue and give a future to the work seems to come from the critics, not from the work. For Levinas, the work is helpless without those who come to its support—and since the artists choose to let the work appear by itself, this support can only be accomplished by the critics. It would be unfair as well as impossible to undertake an overall comparison of Levinas’s philosophy of art with those of Heidegger or MerleauPonty, yet there are some characteristics of the work of art that Levinas neglects and which the other two highlight. Since Levinas’s inclination to dismiss the artwork for its work character becomes even stronger after “Reality and its Shadow,” especially in Totality and Infinity, it appears worthwhile to sketch briefly some of the work’s characteristics.

c) THE WORK AND TYRANNY Levinas claims that the work “does not give itself out as the beginning of a dialogue,” despite the “social or material causes that interrupt it” (RS 2/126). A major determination of the work is its completeness, and due to this wholeness, it cannot instigate any beginning. It seems as if the work itself would not make any significant contribution to the dialogue of the critics, which would be a disquieting idea if Levinas indeed meant it

176 Plato and Levinas (since criticism would then appear disconnected and potentially arbitrary). Rather, the work itself needs to contain the potential for instigating the dialogue about it and thus also the potential to sustain its own future. Merleau-Ponty says that works of art “have almost their entire lives before them.”21 It seems that Levinas’s blindness concerning the power of artworks to extend into the future is connected to his dismissal of the ability of an artwork to rest in itself, without pointing back to the artist—a dimension of the artwork that is very important for Heidegger. While Levinas acknowledges the ability of the work to stand by itself, he does not see anything positive in it. Rather, he dismisses this dimension by saying that “the will withdraws from its work, delivering it over to its fate” (TI 297/274). In fact, what enables the painted image to extend into the future in relative independence is its material side. Granted, this material side needs to be reconsidered and described in a new way, as Heidegger attempts to do under the heading of “earth”; but Levinas, in his early work, forecloses such reconsideration, accusing Heidegger of a “faint materialism” (TI 299/275). 22 In opposition to the traditional emphasis on vision and the panoramic view of the world as spread out and accessible—an emphasis that Levinas also fi nds in Heidegger—Levinas emphasizes the importance of speech and expression. While one might expect artworks to count as expressions, Levinas writes: “From the work I am only deduced and am already ill-understood, betrayed rather than expressed” (TI 176/151). Why does Levinas discard works so vehemently? For him, there is a direct line that leads from works to politics and, more specifically, to tyranny. Works are the medium of the state; they provide the objectivity that is requested in the political realm. They can stand in themselves in the open, public space, while the one who brought forth the work is absent and does not have to take responsibility. “The State which realizes its essence in works slips toward tyranny and thus attests my absence from those works” (TI 176/151). When Levinas considers the case of politics left to itself, we are encountering a situation similar to that of the work of art as left to itself and therefore as prone to misunderstanding. Levinas maintains that works in the political realm conceal and hide rather than showing anything. This sounds surprising at fi rst. When works are being openly exhibited, they are accessible to everyone. How can this process be conceived as one of hiding rather than display? For Levinas, display and hiding are not opposed to each other. Something might well be placed entirely on display while that which is essential in it remains hidden. Whether a work of art speaks to us does not depend on its accessibility; the question is rather whether a work of art will be revived or not. In “Reality and its Shadow,” Levinas suggests that criticism can accomplish this revival. In Totality and Infinity, he states “[t]he word alone—but disengaged from its density as a linguistic product—can put an end to this absence” (TI 177/151). But this option, presented in a single sentence in

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the midst of a passionate critique of all works, remains rather weak and obscure. It certainly evokes the same questions that I raised regarding the suggestion that criticism is a solution: Would it not be necessary to admit that the work itself has more than a random connection to such dialogue? In the text “The Trace of the Other,” published two years after Totality and Infinity, Levinas describes the work in terms of radical generosity: “A work conceived radically is a movement of the same unto the other which never returns to the same” (Trace 348). Linking this movement of non-return to the story of Abraham, who forbids his servant even to return his son to the point of departure, Levinas writes: “A work conceived in its ultimate nature requires a radical generosity of the same, which in the work goes unto the other” (ibid.). This is also a consequence of the myth of Theuth: taking the work seriously in its nature means that an act of absolute generosity is required of the one who set the work out into the open, delivering it over to the other. It lies in the nature of the work that it cannot be taken back, cannot be modified, cannot be renounced. One might wonder at this point whether Levinas changes his attitude toward art when he gives more space to the past as well as to politics, namely, in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. If we consider the development of Levinas’s position regarding artworks for a moment, it becomes obvious that his standpoint in Totality and Infi nity is the most critical one. Totality and Infinity rejects visual art due to the arguments brought forth against vision and against works. In “Reality and its Shadow,” Levinas is in two minds as he emphasizes the ambiguity of art. Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence does not take a clear stance, and in that sense, returns to the ambiguity of art again without thematizing it as such. In this late work, there are only a few remarks about art overall, and art does not seem to play a role in the line of reasoning or the structure of Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. Yet art has a unique ability in relation to language; it helps to remind us of the verbal character of language, of language as happening or occurrence. “And the search for new forms, from which all art lives, keeps awake everywhere the verbs that are on the verge of lapsing into substantives” (OB 40/52). Levinas continues with ideas that can be read as a belated acknowledgment of Heideggerian insights: “In painting, red reddens and green greens [ . . . ]. In music sounds resound; in poems vocables, material of the said, no longer yield before what they evoke” (ibid.). These formulations are so similar to the description of the earth in Heidegger’s “The Origin of the Work of Art”23 that there seems to be an implicit re-evaluation of Levinas’s previous distancing of himself from Heidegger’s alleged materialism. Art, although located in the realm of the said, can alert us to the distinction between saying and said because it exposes the said as a said. Levinas’s most serious reservation regarding art concerns its questionable ethical impact or, rather, its ethical irresponsibility, along with the bond between art and politics. I will conclude the chapter by considering

178 Plato and Levinas briefly just one example, among hundreds of possible others, that might elucidate the ethical significance of visual art. This example is the fi fteenpainting cycle “October 18, 1977” by German artist Gerhard Richter. 24 This work of art is truly “modern” in Levinas’s sense: it is cold and disturbing rather than beautiful (though it would be possible to ascribe a certain beauty to it), and it is certainly intellectual and reflective. In fact, the work has been criticized for being entirely inaccessible if not supplemented by the necessary information about its background. The title refers to the night in which three members of the Red Army Faction (Rote Armee Fraktion), a left-wing terrorist group that was active in Germany especially during the 1970s, died in their prison cells in Stammheim. The paintings extend from a youthful portrait of Ulrike Meinhof to the arrest, the confrontation in prison, the dead bodies, and fi nally, the funeral. In the context of Levinas’s philosophy, an important question would be: What do these paintings accomplish that could not have been achieved just as well or even more successfully by a newspaper article or a philosophical treatise? I believe that the paintings reveal precisely the ethical rather than the political relevance of the events. Any discussion of the incidents tends to focus on the bigger picture: these people were disrupting the peace and inner security of the state; there is—from that perspective—no doubt that imprisonment, even under the most severe conditions, was the right response. 25 Yet in the paintings are human beings in their most acute vulnerability. The paintings give an impression of what it might mean to be an individual and to have the entire power of the state concentrated against oneself. The uniqueness and fragility of the Other comes to the fore. Richter’s paintings show a feature that they share with other works of visual art: they tell a story. However, this storytelling is distinctly different from a linguistic one. It would be a weak and misleading assumption to claim that visual art could ‘also,’ and ‘almost’ accomplish what literature accomplishes. Rather, paintings and literature can work together in this respect. Works of visual art have a special relation to their context or world. They isolate things, take them out of their world, and by doing so, present an entire new world within the work. In the transition between smaller and larger communities, they play a special role by alerting us to the existence of worlds as well as to the interplay between them. ∗

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We have seen how Levinas approaches art from a Platonic perspective by locating it on the “hither side,” and describing it as neither revelatory nor creative. Art is concerned with shadows. Yet these shadows, rather than being copies of reality, are something that essentially belongs to reality as a resistance or evasion within it. Because art brings this latent shadow to

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the fore, it seems that Levinas could describe art as truthful: it discloses the nature of reality as harboring a withdrawal. However, two further characteristics of art prevent Levinas from attributing revelatory power to it, and these characteristics constitute the ambiguity of art. Firstly, artworks are necessarily complete in some sense; even if they call for artistic or critical responses, there has to be an element of completion in order for us to talk about a work. This is problematic since such completion seems to prevent the work from having a future dimension. Yet Levinas himself offers a solution to this problem—namely, criticism. Criticism does not have to be limited to a group of specialists, and in that sense, it resembles his thoughts about interrupting books through interpretation in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence as discussed in the previous chapter. The second problem is more intractable, even though it also concerns the temporal character of art. As art opens a dimension of evasion or disengagement, it leads us away from ethical concerns and ultimately appears irresponsible. Instead of reflection and dialogue, it invites pure enjoyment. However, it seems that Levinas’s analysis here might be less appropriate for art and more appropriate for those dimensions that could be called rhetoric, propaganda, or kitsch. To the extent that a line between art and those different, but related, forms cannot be drawn, Levinas’s suspicions that he shares with Plato seem justified. Yet rather than extending the justified concerns to all works, it would appear plausible to examine the (ambiguous) difference between art and rhetoric. Concerning the problematic character of works, a shift occurs in Levinas’s work. In Totality and Infinity, works appear precarious as they are related both to vision (with its emphasis on control) and to politics (in its tendency to manage the public). In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, art and artworks are not considered in any detail, yet there are a few passages that indicate art might expose the “said” as such by bringing color to shine and music to sound. It then even seems possible that visual art itself has the potential to problematize vision, its privilege, and its apparent omnipotency. Plato and Levinas are right to alert us to the possibility of abusing art for propaganda purposes. But just as politics is not ‘bad’ in itself, so art should not be rejected altogether. Philosophy puts itself at danger if it denies the importance of art. Art defi nes our cultural world; it shapes our cultural identity. Works not only instigate criticism; they also have a commemorative role. In the next chapter, history and remembering will be considered in order to elucidate the problems and possibilities of examining historical– cultural worlds.

11 History and Culture Has anyone ever noticed? Although the word is neither frequently used nor emphasized within it, Totality and Infi nity bequeaths to us an immense treatise of hospitality. Derrida, “A Word of Welcome,” 21

“In history—the history of States—the human being appears as the sum of his works” (TI 298/274), Levinas writes. History and works are intimately connected for him; if the inner life of human beings was not manifested in works, there would be no history. Levinas is concerned with a past that has never been a present—as he describes it, a past that cannot be recollected or narrated. Levinas has good reasons to claim that this irretrievable dimension of history has been neglected; yet for our theme, it is important to ask why Levinas deems memory less significant and what might get lost in his philosophy as a consequence. In the end, so I maintain, Levinas does not neglect the significance of history but of memory. By maintaining that Levinas neglected memory rather than history, I diverge somewhat from the emphasis on history which determines Derrida’s rich and insightful essay “Violence and Metaphysics,” which is too complex to be treated here. However, the dialogue among Hegel, Husserl, Heidegger, and Levinas which Derrida instigates in “Violence and Metaphysics” remains in the background of this chapter. History is closely related to culture; thus both will be treated in the current chapter. The fi rst section examines whether Levinas’s concept of time can be related to a phenomenological notion of historicity such that Levinas can be said to provide an implicit concept of historicity (as nonlinear and discontinuous). Moving from history to culture, Levinas’s thoughts on the stranger will be examined in the second section. Despite Levinas’s insistence on considering the Other without his or her world, some affi nities between the same/Other relation and the home/alien relation will come to appear. In the last section, the Platonic concept of the stranger will be examined in its different aspects. Especially relevant for our question is the discussion of the cultural stranger in the Laws.

a) BETWEEN PAST AND FUTURE Most of Levinas’s critical remarks about history are aimed at Hegel’s concept of history as a teleological development that can be completed and is,

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in that sense, a totality. But why does Levinas not consider an alternative concept of history? He also harbors suspicions about Heidegger’s idea of history, particularly the history of Being in Heidegger’s late philosophy. But would Levinas really want to dismiss Hegel’s and Heidegger’s basic insights concerning the significance of history and the historicity of existence? I wish to show that Levinas does not neglect the historicity of existence but does not treat it under this title, and even less under the title of “history.” Rather, Levinas’s considerations on time give us an impression of what his concept of historicity might have looked like, had he developed one.1 Some of the difficulties that can arise from a focus on history and memory become apparent already on the level of common sense. Firstly, reference to history can be (ab-)used to justify indifference concerning certain acts of injustice: “You need to face up to reality; if you look at history, you will see that humans have always killed each other” would be one possible expression of such misplaced reliance on history. The underlying assumption is that the course of history shows matters to have always been this way; any attempt to change this course would be based on hubris and denial. Secondly, there is a temptation to explore fi rst causes and origins, which can lead to a rejection of responsibility: “Let us undertake an investigation to see who started the fight.” Who has the older rights, and who is guilty of the fi rst documented violation of these rights? What seems to be a fair and objective kind of procedure may turn into a process of infi nitely blaming the other party. Possibilities of compromise or forgiveness are foreclosed when the only focus concerns the archē of the conflict. Levinas’s insistence on situating the Good outside of history can be read as a response to these two everyday impasses. In Totality and Infinity, he emphasizes that not even history can claim to accomplish a totalization of same and other. “The absolutely other [ . . . ] maintains his transcendence in the midst of history” (TI 40/10). The Other ruptures history and tears me out of it. These are Levinas’s most general comments about the precariousness of history, and it is here that Derrida’s critique in “Violence and Metaphysics” comes in. While Levinas maintains that the encounter with the Other ruptures history and is, in that sense, outside of history, Derrida states: “One wonders whether history itself does not begin with this relationship to the other which Levinas places beyond history” (VM 94). According to Derrida, there cannot be history prior to and outside of the relation to the Other; this also means that an ahistorical relation with the Other would be impossible. However, the positive concept of historicity, which Levinas hints at, is certainly based exactly on my encounter with the Other. At the same time, the Other ruptures history understood in the Hegelian fashion. Yet as Derrida also reminds us, anti-Hegelianism is only pursued consistently if historicity is thought in a new way rather than being rejected. A mere turn against history still remains determined by that which it so vehemently rejects.

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Since Levinas criticizes not just the Hegelian but also the phenomenological concept of history, it is helpful to see how the phenomenological approach emerges from a critique of historiography. Historiography, in its most general and unrefi ned form, focuses on facts and regards history as linear as well as unitary. The more unambiguous, accessible, and objective certain facts are, the better they serve historiography. Yet often in our experience those events that are ambiguous and require interpretation have a stronger impact on our life and our future. Furthermore, the linearity of history is a helpful and convincing image when we visualize history along a timeline of dates; but from a phenomenological perspective, there are several indications that a circularity is in play here. The past determines the present while at the same time the present indirectly determines the past because the past can only be retrieved in and through the present. Our phenomenological experience of history seems to be captured best if we conceive of history as the history of a particular culture: as a cultural world (or, as Husserl describes it, a homeworld). A cultural world is formed through its history, and a different culture is alien to us because we do not share its history. Does this mean, then, that there is no unitary history but just different histories of different people? It seems plausible to conceive of ‘the’ history as an abstraction or a mere idea. A unitary history cannot really be experienced, but we conceptualize it as we realize that the different histories are interconnected and influence each other. Levinas would admit that our conceptual thinking inevitably results in such unities, be they the ‘one’ world, ‘one’ history, etc. Yet ethical thinking can do and must do without such totalities. Hence the clash between history and ethics, from a Levinasian perspective. History has an external character; it presupposes manifestation of the inner will in a work, and it presupposes completion. Only when something has come to closure can I look back and describe it in a coherent and exhaustive fashion. Closure means that I can know all the details; nothing will escape me, and nothing will change that could surprise me. But as we saw previously in relation to works of art, it is questionable whether such a point of closure is ever reached unless the work is so dead and stale that it is of no interest anyway. There is no such thing as an entirely inner history, Levinas points out. A will that does not manifest itself in a work does not form a history. History presupposes distance, which makes the description possible, and the more tangible the distance, the better for the historiographer: “The historical distance which makes this historiography, this violence, this subjection possible is proportionate to the time necessary for the will to lose its work completely” (TI 228/204). Such a critique of historiography unites Levinas with those philosophers of history with whom he would not necessarily want to be associated. For example, Hegel criticized historiography for focusing on facts only, accumulating those as a matter of erudition instead of considering developments and connections. 2 Heidegger reveals historiography to exhibit a vulgar understanding of history, where history

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is a history of objects rather than a history of the world. Historicity, in contrast, describes our way of existence as determined by that which we did not bring about, or, as Heidegger puts it, it appears that “everything ‘good’ is a heritage” (BT 435/383). The new and creative are not ruled out by this approach but turn out to be a response to this heritage (even if it is a radical departure). Heritage, a term which Heidegger embraces to designate that which we owe to the past, to our ancestors, and to the world, is renounced by Levinas. History, which approaches man “objectively in his work or his heritage,” recognizes only the dead man (TI 182/158). Goodness does not stem from heritage but from the living and their expression. Levinas’s claim that goodness is expression (TI 183/158) appears like an indirect response to Heidegger’s statement about the inherited goodness. At the same time, it is difficult to determine whether Levinas is indeed renouncing phenomenological insights since the kind of history that Levinas rejects does not coincide with the phenomenological concept of history. Levinas is opposed to history as externalization and manifestation, and he connects history with the existence of a ground (TI 55/26) whereas history for Heidegger is precisely groundless (not just grundlos, but even abgründig: abyssal). In that sense, Levinas would perhaps be able to accept historicity in the phenomenological sense as connoting my debt to the past and to others. But how does history relate to time, which is so important to Levinas’s consideration? Heidegger struggles to determine the relation between temporality and historicity, where temporality seems to refer to the time of “Dasein” or of my individual existence while historicity is the time of a people and its world, i.e., intersubjective time. When Heidegger turns toward historicity, he fi rst tries to understand historicity on the basis of temporality: as a “more concrete working out of temporality” (BT 434/382). Yet in the process of his elaboration, Heidegger realizes that this order cannot be maintained. If there is a foundational structure at stake here at all, it seems that historicity grounds temporality since history turns out to be world history, and Dasein is Being-in-the-world (BT 439 f./387 f.). If the Heideggerian suggestion that historicity founds temporality is plausible, it is particularly surprising that Levinas, the philosopher of alterity, refuses to develop a positive concept of history despite assigning a central position to time. Could it be the case that Levinas is reversing terms, using the word “time” to describe what Heidegger, among others, called historicity? To some extent, this holds true, for we will see that under the heading of time, Levinas discusses certain characteristics of what is usually called historicity. At the same time, Levinas is deeply suspicious of any kind of intersubjective time that would unite me and others in the same temporal frame—despite the fact that time, for Levinas, starts with the Other. As we learn from the conclusion of the chapter “Commerce, the Historical Relation, and the Face” in Totality and Infinity, Levinas considers time to be “the mode of existence and reality of a separated being that has

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entered in relation with the Other,” and “[t]his space of time has to be taken as the point of departure” (TI 232/208). This space of time, this dimension, this leeway that is opened up between me and the Other, is initiated by the entry of the Other. Such temporality plays a most significant role in Levinas’s philosophy; he could call it historicity yet refuses to do so in order to distinguish it from the history of economic relations, the history of victors, the history of historiographers. Again, the kind of historicity that Levinas considers—without using the term—is not a historicity that I share with others, a historicity that would unite us into a higher consciousness. Neither is it an individualized time. Rather, it is a space of time that opens up between us and is, in that sense, dependent on both me and the Other. Even though there is hardly any positive word about history in either of Levinas’s two main texts, he intimates in other works that he considers history significant. Let me give just two examples. In his early text The Theory of Intuition in Husserl’s Phenomenology, Levinas criticizes Husserl for neglecting the historical situation of the human being and creating a philosophy which “tries to consider everything sub specie aeternitatis” (TIH 155 f.). It is, of course, not our concern here to examine the correctness of Levinas’s claim; what is important is that he considers it a deficiency in Husserl’s philosophy to have neglected historicity.3 The second instance stems from the Preface to Proper Names, where Levinas draws connections between historical events of the twentieth century and the literature as well as the philosophy of the time. To be sure, it is difficult if not impossible for philosophy and literature to own up to this weight and responsibility. But at the same time, the writings of the twentieth century can only be understood if one takes into consideration that “at no other time has historical experience weighed so heavily upon ideas,” or at least at no other time have the members of a generation “been more aware of that weight” (PN 3 f.). By no means would Levinas want to deny this weight where his own philosophy is concerned. It thus appears that Levinas wants to consider the dimension, which other phenomenologists have named historicity, but deems it necessary to distance himself from their approaches in several ways. Husserl and Heidegger have, against Hegel, emphasized the importance of considering the future (and not just past and present) in order to do justice to our experience of history. But Levinas claims that they failed to give an appropriate account of the future since both of them conceived the future based on past and present. Levinas, in contrast, sees the future as absolute surprise, as a complete failure of all my expectations (TO 82 f.; TI 124/97). While Levinas acknowledges the attempt to make the future an object of phenomenological research, he maintains that Husserl and Heidegger did not carry this attempt far enough. According to Levinas, they failed to describe what characterizes the future in such a way that it cannot be captured by projections, protentions, or teleologies. Even though one might try to defend Husserl, for example, by pointing out that I can only experience surprise

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as a failure of my expectations because I had certain expectations in the fi rst place, a close analysis of this issue would show that Husserl indeed has difficulties accounting for the unpredictable character of the future as that which overcomes us. But what can Levinas say about the future as absolute surprise? Levinas portrays the future—in a fashion that could well be called phenomenological—when he discusses fecundity, as we will see. The future is a temporal dimension that has, according to Levinas, mostly been neglected by philosophy in favor of the past and the present. However, this does not mean that Levinas agrees with the traditional account of the past. His critique of the treatment of the past resembles his critique regarding accounts of the future: too much attention is given to accessibility and control. Concerning the future, the desire for control shows in the emphasis placed on expectations and projections. Regarding the past, there is a corresponding focus on retrieving the past, making it accessible to the present. Instead, Levinas wants us to consider an anarchical past, a past that cannot be recollected. In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Levinas speaks of an anarchical time, of a “time before the beginning” (OB 88/111). Such a time is contrasted with history and recollection, where the latter two are retrievable and in that sense accessible. Anarchical time is a past that “has never been present.”4 It is by defi nition impossible to describe this past in detail or with precision. Yet in order not to remain entirely vague or obscure, Levinas gives the example of the Other, who has been there prior to my remembering him or her (OB 88/112). At times, Levinas calls it not “a past that has never been present” but rather “a past that has never been my present.”5 At fi rst glance, this formulation makes the idea much less obscure: the past of my ancestors and of previous generations has, obviously, never been my present, but it has been their present.6 While Levinas is ultimately concerned with a past that has never been present to anybody, the time of our ancestors still poses severe problems of access—problems that cannot be fully resolved even by the most careful hermeneutics. The most important question is: What counts as the historical past? Who decides on the history that is preserved? That which is presented as the past should always make us suspicious. Is it not usually the history of the survivors, the history of the victors, the history of the strongest? Levinas’s reservations are justified. Already with regard to the present, we notice that it is presented according to certain interpretations; the past can be reinterpreted and even rewritten more freely. These connections show the power of rhetoric and propaganda in another area of life; it is not just literature and art that are always on the verge of being affected by a rhetoric that is difficult to uncover: so are historical reports and writings as well. History is mostly accessible to us by way of stories, and even reports that would be characterized as “nonfictional” have essential similarities with literature—except that they are even more usable for propaganda purposes since they are taken to represent “facts.”

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At the same time, the significance of memory becomes obvious; there is an ethical demand to remember. There is no guarantee that we will learn from history, but there is hope that we might. Making sure that certain historical events do not repeat themselves has sometimes been defined as the main goal of education.7 Why, then, is Levinas so skeptical regarding the power of memory? On the one hand, Levinas wants to emphasize that I never have unrestricted access to the past but always only to an interpretation of it. On the other hand, memory as a structure is deceitful, already when it comes to my own recollection. Memory creates an impression of the past that does not do justice to the actual experience of time. Levinas explains that memory enables me to “ground myself after the event, retroactively” (TI 56/27). While time is in principle groundless or anarchical, memory gives the illusion that there was a ground, that I can give reasons and accounts for all my actions. Moreover, memory tempts me to neglect my passivity; memory “assumes the passivity of the past and masters it” (ibid.). Passivity is reinterpreted, mastered, and retroactively turned into an activity as I make myself believe that I could have done differently, or that I had good reasons for acting exactly as I did. Finally, epistemological as well as phenomenological explanations of memory have reverted to a continuous model of time. How would I access the past if not on the basis of its continuous link to the present? Husserl’s image of the “comet’s tail”8 of retentions that extends into the past is a case in point; it is the continuity of retentions that allows me to access the past. Levinas, in contrast, opts for a discontinuous model to account for our experience of time, which includes loss as well as unforeseeable surprises. His example that illustrates this discontinuity is fecundity. Levinas’s emphasis on fecundity gives further reason to believe that he is indeed discussing historicity rather than temporality. According to Husserlian phenomenology, time and history are not just to be distinguished in terms of intersubjectivity but, more specifically, in terms of generativity. The focus on generations and generativity, i.e., the move beyond a community of contemporaries, designates history in the emphatic sense. While Husserl describes generativity in terms of an interplay of homeworlds and alienworlds (as we will see in the following section of the current chapter), Levinas offers a more thorough, but also a more problematic, account of generativity as fecundity, fatherhood, and motherhood. Children present a very special kind of alterity because my child has something of my own while at the same time being absolutely other. I cannot anticipate what my child is going to be like, no matter how carefully I may have planned their conception and education. While Levinas indeed provides a conscientious phenomenological analysis of parenthood, he has been criticized from various sides—feminist and others—for his seeming biologism as well as for placing too much emphasis on parenthood. Levinas rushes to clarify this misunderstanding, pointing out that his analyses are not limited to biological fecundity but concern the relationship between generations

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(EI, 70). While his analyses in Totality and Infinity took their departure precisely from the parent–child relation, the notion of motherhood in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence is much broader, signifying vulnerability as well as the idea of “having the other in oneself.” Fecundity allows us to think time as discontinuous and cyclical rather than as a continuous linearity. Since it is not limited to my individual time but essentially involves the Other, it points in the direction of historicity.9 However, in order for a fruitful concept of historicity to emerge from these ideas, it is necessary to move beyond the family and take Levinas’s comments about generativity seriously: ‘teaching’ extends well beyond families and other defi nite entities. Such an extended notion would, despite Levinas’s worries, need to involve works—artworks, cultural products, writings of various kinds—which can be passed on to the next generation. If Levinas’s remarks about the interruption of works in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence are taken into account (as discussed in Chapter 9), such an involvement indeed seems possible for Levinas’s project. But is a culture really predominantly determined by works? The theme of the stranger, relevant for Plato as well as Levinas, should have implications for an understanding of culture.

b) LEVINAS AND THE STRANGER Strangeness disrupts our normal way of being, making us stumble. It may inspire trauma as well as wonder or, as Levinas puts it, the “traumatism of astonishment,” which stems from “the experience of something absolutely strange” (TI 73/46). A rare point of agreement between Plato and Aristotle concerns wonder (thaumazein) as the beginning of philosophy10; yet neither of them elaborates on this wonder that cuts across our everyday life and leads us into philosophy. The Greek sense of wonder concerning the fact that there is something rather than nothing and that the whole is a beautiful order (kosmos) needs to be distinguished from the wonder that Levinas is talking about. Wonder in the Levinasian sense is not ontological but ethical; it is brought about by the traumatizing proximity of the Other or the stranger. Let me briefly introduce some classical phenomenological ideas about strangeness in order to relate them to Levinas’s philosophy. What makes the stranger a stranger is, on the most general level, the fact that he or she stems from an alien context or world. “World” is taken here in the phenomenological sense, as a context of references where one thing points to the next, one event refers to another. For a person from the English culture, a piece of cake would more than likely point to a cup of tea, whereas a German person might rather associate it with a cup of coffee. Such examples obviously diverge much more when it comes to radically different cultures. I might encounter an object that is entirely alien to me such that I cannot guess its purpose. For me, it does not belong to any context of references

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since it does not point to any other objects or to any task. However, I will usually still realize that it stems from some context, a context incomprehensible to me but familiar to some other, indeterminate people. The object points to an alienworld. In this fashion, I become aware that objects belong to worlds. For Husserl, the community of which I am always already a member is my homeworld. The homeworld is the world familiar to us, the world in which we are at home in the broadest sense of the term. As a world that is historically generated and steadily becoming, the homeworld can only be grasped through a historical approach. A homeworld is constituted in and through various practices such as rituals, traditions, and narrative. In being generated, our homeworld acquires its “historical face,” as Husserl calls it, or its “cultural face”; the same holds for the homeworld of an alien people.11 Instead of focusing on alienworlds, Levinas wants to focus on the stranger; especially in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, he strives to leave the world of the stranger entirely undetermined.12 Yet Husserl— unlike the anthropologist, ethnographer, or sociologist13 —is also not interested in the specificities of a particular alienworld. Rather, he investigates the structure of alienworlds and the relation between home and alien. This relation, if taken seriously, resembles the relation between the self and the Other. Despite its differences from Levinas, this resemblance might even be utilized for illustrating the asymmetrical, irreducible relationship between me and the Other. The difference between homeworld and alienworld can precisely not be eliminated by creating a higher unity that would encompass both. In that sense, the relation is irreducible. Moreover, the perspective of home and alien is irreversible and asymmetrical; I can only respond to the stranger from within my own homeworld, and the two worlds never exist on the same symmetrical plane.14 Homeworld and alienworld undergo modifications; my homeworld can become bigger, and I may become at home in the alienworld. Yet the contrast between home and alien as such is never eliminated; rather, it belongs to the structure of every world (Husserliana XV 431). In spite of the fact that limits shift and move all the time, it will never be possible to extend the limits of the homeworld such that there would be only one world. The prospect of a possible single world can with good reasons be called imperialistic—for we always have to start from our homeworld and can, at most, extend its limits; we cannot leap over all existing limits and gain a homogeneous world in this way. The example of homeworlds and alienworlds might be helpful for explicating Levinas’s philosophy since it is sometimes easier to comprehend how a cultural world in its historical density would not be capable of reversing perspectives with a different world, whereas in the case of a particular individual, it is more tempting to assume that I could take the perspective of the Other. To be sure, Levinas reminds us that the face-to-face encounter with the Other happens before we begin to reflect on historical and cultural worlds. However, the world as the larger

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entity might exhibit certain features more clearly, just as the investigation of the polis, according to Socrates, helps us to gain insight into the soul. In Totality and Infinity, Levinas draws a distinction between the Other and the stranger. In order to explain the nature of desire, Levinas refers to the distinction between home and alien, emphasizing that desire is directed at the unfamiliar, the unexpected. Desire is not focused on that which I already have, nor is it focused on that which complements me—such would be need. The stranger is a perfect instance of unpredictability and even, to a certain extent, incomprehensibility. But who is the stranger? The “absence of a common homeland turns the Other into a stranger” (TI 39/9).15 Such a person questions and disturbs my freedom; this rupture brings about the “trauma of wonder” (ibid.). Levinas does not elaborate on his remark about the alien homeland, but the idea sounds somewhat similar to Husserl’s reflections on homeworlds. May we then, on the basis of Levinas’s emphasis on absolute otherness, conclude that an increase of strangeness in the Other yields more trauma and more wonder? Does the encounter with someone from the other side of the earth (literally or figuratively speaking) teach me the most? This sounds unlikely. In fact, some minimal commonality is required in order for me to truly experience the strangeness of the stranger. If we do not share a language or cannot at least communicate by way of mimicry and gestures, very little of the stranger’s alienness is revealed. I need to have some access to the other person’s thought and history to realize just how different and unexpected they are. Though Levinas emphasizes that there is no common ground on which myself and the Other can safely rest, he also acknowledges the necessity to have some minimal commonality. It is quite obvious that sharing a language by no means eliminates the alterity and unpredictability of the Other and that the possibility of some form of communication is in fact necessary to become aware of this otherness. Levinas acknowledges the need for a minimal commonality or community even in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. This acknowledgment comes in the form of a mere footnote—but the footnotes in which Levinas interprets Plato’s Gorgias have proven quite significant for our question.16 Levinas writes: But, quite remarkably, if the absence of any “community” between the judge and the judged is maintained in Minos, neither Asiatic nor European, and master of arbitration, the necessity of a “certain community” in justice between the judge and the judged is expressed in Aeacus, a European who judges the Europeans, and in Rhadamanthus, an Asiatic who judges the Asiatics. (OB 199fn.25/205n.) The myth in the Gorgias thus expresses both “the absence of any ‘community’” and the “necessity of a ‘certain community.’” Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus are brothers, sons of Zeus. In the Platonic myth, Minos is actually said to be from Asia just like Rhadamanthus (Gorg. 523e), and

190 Plato and Levinas in that sense, Levinas’s account is not quite exact. But Minos’s task, despite his Asiatic origin, is to be neutral to these cultural specificities and pass a fi nal judgment “if the other two are at all perplexed” (524a). This procedure remains enigmatic, and Plato does not give us any further clues except by mentioning at the very end of the myth that Minos “oversees” the other two, holding the “golden scepter” (526d). Since Aeacus and Rhadamanthus are not concerned with the same cases, being perplexed does not mean a disagreement between the two. Rather, each of them might encounter particularly difficult cases, and they would pass these cases on to Minos. Should we interpret this myth to say that Minos is simply the more talented one among the three judges and, therefore, the one who is given the complex cases? The fact that he alone holds the golden scepter points in this direction.17 But what does this mean for the question of cultural identity? Does the difference between being European and being Asiatic perhaps only matter for the easier cases, whereas for the complex cases, cultural identity is overruled? Plato does not inform us what kinds of cases these “perplexing” ones might be. But to the extent that Minos indeed has a higher stance than the other two judges, we may assume that he has more insight into the Good—and the Good in itself, this much is clear, can never hold any cultural specificity. Yet if the Good is beyond Being and beyond cultural difference, why does Plato arrange for a division of tasks between Aeacus and Rhadamanthus at all? This question is of utmost significance since the very same question, in a different formulation, is the concern of Levinas’s most explicit essay about culture: “Meaning and Sense.”18 In this essay, Levinas argues with Merleau-Ponty, in particular, whose philosophical approach he characterizes as “lateral.” This expression does justice to Merleau-Ponty’s procedure yet acquires a particular drift in the Levinasian context. “Lateral” connotes horizontality, whereas Levinas (very much in line with Plato) stresses the importance of the vertical dimension; the Other comes from the height. The distinction between verticality and horizontality indeed becomes quite relevant when discussing cultural worlds. From a Merleau-Pontian perspective, different cultures are on the same plane, and a lateral movement between them is possible (as exemplified by the possibility of translation [MS, 88]). Levinas emphasizes that the relation with the Other cuts across such lateral relations and makes them possible. In the case of learning a foreign language, the lateral transition into another culture is indeed possible but presupposes an earlier motivation to which we respond by going to a language school. Levinas calls this the “orientation which leads the Frenchman to take up learning Chinese instead of declaring it to be barbarian” (MS 88). What would this orientation be? It would be an encounter with the Other, an encounter that compels me to go out of my way and devote myself to learning a foreign language. But why Chinese?19 Since Levinas claims that the face of the Other signifies “outside of every order, every world” (96), which languages I would learn

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and what foreign culture would intrigue me, if any, seems arbitrary. Does it follow that the encounter with a Chinese person might compel me to learn Italian, if this person truly came without a world? Obviously, we need to distinguish between different levels or orders of Being. The face as an overarching structure signifies outside of any world. The face of the Other is not the empirical face, neither the Chinese nor the Italian face. Yet the Other becomes manifest in encounters here and now. Levinas calls the face “abstract” (102), whereas I always encounter concrete others. However, my encounters with concrete, specific others are based on the relation to the Other, who does not appear as such. Such a way of distinguishing between levels of primordiality is also helpful when it comes to the question of culture. The fact that Levinas is critical of Merleau-Ponty’s lateral approach to cultures does not necessarily mean that Levinas rejects cultural differences altogether. Levinas explicitly states the following: “We will say, to conclude, that before culture and aesthetics, meaning is situated in the ethical, presupposed by all culture and all meaning. Morality does not belong to culture: it enables one to judge it” (MS 100). In the same context, Levinas speaks of the “antecedence” of sense to cultural signs and expressions. Levinas is explicating a certain foundational order rather than dismissing the importance of culture or history. Such a reading is confi rmed when Levinas explains his general procedure and goal in this essay, which “measures the limits of the historical understanding of the world, and marks a return to Greek wisdom, even though mediated by all the development of contemporary philosophy” (MS 101). Levinas thus remains somewhat true to the Hegelian legacy in two related respects. Firstly, he does not dismiss the Hegelian and post-Hegelian insights into the importance of culture and history but takes into account contemporary philosophy. Secondly, he recognizes the importance of mediation; it would be naïve to believe that we could return to “Greek wisdom” or to Platonism in any immediate fashion. How are we to imagine a philosophy that would attend to cultural worlds while still being aware that there is a realm of meaning “before culture”? Levinas teaches us a lot about the vertical sense that cuts through all lateral cultural relativism. But there are, as we have seen previously, very few remarks about strangers from alienworlds. Here, we might turn to Husserl for advice, as long as we keep in mind that this advice has to be kept within limits. Levinas calls Husserl a Platonist, and he then says: “We are not obliged to follow him down the way he took to rejoin this Platonism, and we think we have found the straightforwardness of meaning by another method” (MS 101). We are not obliged—but we are probably also not prohibited from considering some Husserlian clues. The problem lies in the fact that Husserl’s method is a different one indeed, and we cannot “mix” insights from both philosophers. Yet we have seen previously that Husserl, the Platonist, does examine homeworlds and alienworlds in such a way that certain conclusions about their irreducible relationship can be drawn. It

192 Plato and Levinas would be possible to develop Husserl’s analysis further and investigate the relation between home and alien in its full asymmetry. Such an asymmetry between cultures is not at all equivalent to presuming a hierarchy between cultures. If there were any hierarchy then the other world would be higher, and infi nitely higher, than my own world—not because it has reached a higher level of civilization but because it obliges me ethically. We have seen that it might be possible to extend Levinas’s thought and undertake reflections on the homeworld and alienworld on the basis of his philosophy, always bearing in mind that the one-to-one encounter is fundamental to all other relations. Not only could such an expansion take the essay “Meaning and Sense” as its point of departure but it could be described as treating Hegelianism in a way similar to Levinas’s analysis of Platonism. Just as Levinas points out that contemporary philosophy, in its anti-Platonism, relies on some basic Platonic moves, so Levinas’s philosophy, in its anti-Hegelianism, might have gaps that can only be fi lled by importing certain vaguely Hegelian insights. When Levinas, in “Meaning and Sense,” suggests a return to Greek wisdom, “mediated” by the results of contemporary philosophy, this is a somewhat Hegelian move. Reflecting on the historical and cultural specificity of communities and worlds as indicated in this chapter could be called a Hegelian move as well; basing this move on Levinas’s ethics of the face-to-face prevents us from arriving at Hegel’s concept of history. If Levinas argues that all ethics in the emphatic sense has to take Platonism seriously, then perhaps all philosophy that is concerned with the relation between ethics and politics has to take Hegelianism seriously. Levinas is concerned about the specter of cultural relativism, but such relativism does not need to emerge, especially if a certain Platonic orientation is kept up. Since Levinas refers us to Platonism in order to balance contemporary philosophy, it appears justified to consider Plato’s account of the stranger. It will turn out that there are various senses of the stranger and of strangeness at play in the Platonic dialogues—just as there is also a broad concept of strangeness in Levinas. Plato offers more considerations on strangeness in the narrow sense than Levinas, and his thoughts can help to expand Levinas’s philosophy.

c) PHILOSOPHERS AND STRANGERS IN PLATO Plato approaches the theme of the stranger (xenos) from various perspectives. We cannot investigate the theme of strangeness in Plato’s philosophy in detail here but will briefly consider the different senses of the stranger, guided by the following questions: Does Plato consider cultural identities to be significant? How, if at all, does he relate them to the Good? There appear to be at least four senses of the stranger in the Platonic dialogues, uncovered from four different perspectives. The fi rst three will

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be mentioned only briefly here since the fourth is the most relevant for the theme of culture. Firstly, Socrates at times calls himself a stranger or is designated in this way by others. Secondly, philosophy is described as a movement of estrangement and alienation (e.g., in the allegory of the cave). Thirdly, there is a Stranger who appears in the late dialogues as a philosopher of sorts. The fourth, most explicit, and most pertinent sense concerns the stranger as an actual subject of dialogues. How shall we treat strangers? More specifically, how would an ideal state treat strangers? In the Laws, Socrates considers this question in some detail. The best example for strangeness in the fi rst sense can be found at the beginning of the Apology. Socrates introduces himself to his jury—which consists of 501 fellow Athenians—as a stranger: “this is my fi rst appearance in a law court, at the age of seventy; I am therefore simply a stranger to the manner of speaking here” (Apol. 17d). The strangeness that Socrates is alluding to concerns, at least on the fi rst level, not his national identity as an Athenian but the situation of the courtroom. As a philosopher, Socrates is a stranger to the courtroom situation. In order to explain this strangeness, he compares his situation to that of a cultural stranger who can be recognized through his accent. Both ways of strangeness come to the fore by means of the “manner of speaking” (Apol. 17d). The languages that are used in court and in philosophy are different from each other, even though they are not foreign languages in the usual sense; the way or mode of speaking is different. Socrates uses the case of the foreign language for comparison and illustration. He himself is not a cultural stranger in Athens but he is estranged from the Athenian people. They fi nd his philosophical questioning nonsensical if not dangerous, whereas he believes that Athens in fact needs him. Socrates is a stranger like all philosophers, namely, a stranger to the familiar and normal course of life. But this strangeness also plays out in a special way in relation to Athens. Socrates acknowledges Athens to be his home, and he explicitly argues that he is accepting the judicial verdict because one has to obey the laws of one’s home country, the country in which one has received nurture and education (Crit. 50d). Nevertheless he is a stranger in Athens, as becomes most obvious in the Athenians’ reaction to him but also in his self-description of himself as a stranger and a gadfly. Socrates’ portrayal of himself as a stranger in the Apology presents an interesting counterpart to Phaedrus’s designation of Socrates as a stranger in the Phaedrus. In the Apology, Socrates is a stranger to the city; in the Phaedrus, he leaves the city and reveals himself to be a stranger to the countryside. Phaedrus notices that Socrates seems “to need a guide, not to be one of the locals” (Phaedr. 230d). Socrates replies that the reason why he has never left the city walls is that the landscape does not teach him anything, whereas the people in the city do. It seems that from this perspective, Socrates would not be a stranger within Athens at all but only outside of the city walls. Yet as someone who is willing to be taught, and to

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be taught in the most radical sense of questioning everything, Socrates can never truly be at home anywhere. This realization is closely connected to the second sense of strangeness, where philosophy is described as a movement of estrangement or alienation. Those who want to enter into philosophy have to undergo the process of alienation, guided by the philosopher stranger. The allegory of the cave describes this movement as turning around (periagogē), away from the shadows, toward the fi re; this movement initiates the process of leaving the cave (Rep. 515c). As Socrates describes the journey out of the cave, four moments are emphasized. Firstly, the process is painful—since the eyes of the prisoner are not used to the light. Secondly, it takes time to accomplish this development. Thirdly, the former prisoner who has seen the world outside of the cave will feel compelled to enter the cave again and share his insights with the others. And fourthly, those in the cave will not want to hear what the returning person has to say; they might even try to kill him. In addition to all obvious parallels between these descriptions—Plato’s conception of philosophy, in general and the life of Socrates, in particular— these features show how philosophy has the character of estrangement. The process resembles a journey to a foreign land—a land so foreign that all familiar conceptions fail to help us understand. The foreign is attractive and compelling, but losing the home and encountering the uncanniness of the foreign is painful. Furthermore, the process of philosophizing differs from a regular journey in that the home changes during the process. It is possible to go back into the cave, but after the alienation process, this is not a return home; the home has also become alien. 20 The third sense of the stranger again concerns a person in the dialogues, but not Socrates himself. In the Sophist and the Statesman, the conversation is mainly carried out by “the Stranger.” Who is this Stranger, and how does he relate to Socrates? Some interpreters have claimed that the figure of the Stranger signifies Plato’s wanting to distance himself from Socrates, expressing his own philosophy through the Stranger rather than through Socrates. 21 Although such interpretations might well be correct, it is philosophically more interesting in this context to focus on the connection between strangeness and philosophy rather than on the relation between Plato and Socrates. There is clearly an affi nity between the figure of the stranger and that of the philosopher. In the beginning of the Sophist, Theodorus introduces the Stranger as “very much a philosopher” (Soph. 216a), an impression that is strengthened as Socrates wonders whether the Stranger might not even be a god.22 Theodorus explains that the Stranger does not seem to be a god although “he is divine—but then I call all philosophers that” (216c). The Stranger is truly a stranger to Athens (in contrast to Socrates, who both is and is not a stranger to the Athenian context); we learn that he comes from Elea. Insofar as we get to know his origin, he is not a complete stranger; as he is a descendent of the Eleatics, we have a certain, limited knowledge

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of him. This Platonic move could be interpreted as saying that there is no such thing as a complete stranger—since we all grow up in some world— and yet, the term “stranger” is appropriate for this person. The Platonic Stranger reminds us that everybody is a stranger, in the sense that we all grow up in a world that has existed before we enter it and will continue to exist, and we are confronted with a heritage that we can never completely come to grips with. What, then, distinguishes the philosopher as a stranger from all of us as strangers? Perhaps the fact that the philosopher knows that he is ultimately not at home in any world, whereas the nonphilosopher harbors an illusion of being at home. While all previous instances of the stranger concerned an affinity between the stranger and the philosopher, the Laws discusses strangers in a fourth sense—namely, the cultural sense—and asks how they should be treated in a polis. It will turn out that the role of strangers in the polis also has implications for philosophy. When the Athenian discusses how we ought to relate to strangers, two cases are distinguished. The fi rst case or scenario regards the treatment of strangers; it is implied here that we are concerned with strangers who move from their world into our world. The second case considers the reverse direction and discusses how to undertake journeys into foreign lands. As we turn to these two scenarios, Plato’s ‘defi nition’ of a home community should be kept in mind, which is not altogether different from the Husserlian idea of a homeworld: “When a single people speaks the same language and observes the same laws you get a certain feeling of community, because everyone shares the same religious rites and so forth” (Laws 708c). Speaking the same language is constitutive for a home, but this has to be complemented by certain laws, customs, and rituals—or, as phenomenologists would put it, there has to be a shared history which constitutes the shared world. An encounter with strangers can then happen in two ways. The debate about the fi rst case, i.e., strangers coming into our home, emerges as the treatment of various different people and institutions is examined: parents, personal goods, the state, friends, and strangers or foreigners (xenoi). Foreigners are discussed last and carry a specific weight since one should regard agreements or compacts made with foreigners as “particularly sacrosanct (symbolaia)” (729e). An agreement (homologion) with a stranger is particularly difficult to accomplish because there is no shared logos; once such a difficult agreement has been achieved, it shall be cherished. The case of strangers is a ‘symbolic’ case; they are particularly vulnerable, as we might describe it following Levinas. Not vulnerable in any physical sense, to be sure but rather, “the foreigner is not surrounded by friends and companions,” thereby stirring “the compassion of gods and men that much more” (729e). The foreigner is deprived of his or her context, of the people he or she can rely on. This loneliness makes the foreigner naked, as it were. Strangers thus need special consideration and protection. Is it advisable, in light of this vulnerability, to send citizens abroad? The Athenian claims

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that it is not just advisable but in fact essential to do so. Even though special measures must be taken in order not to send those abroad who are already vulnerable due to their young age, it is instructive to get to know foreign cultures. Not only are there various personal gains but also benefits for the polis as a whole. Most importantly, travelers learn to approach the law in a new way. Rather than taking laws for granted, as a matter of mere habit or custom (ēthos), travelers learn to develop a critical approach toward the law and accept it through judgment or knowledge (gnōmē) (Laws 851b). How does this happen? By getting to know foreign countries and cultures, the traveler—in this case, a Magnesian—realizes that each culture has different laws. Laws can thus no longer be taken for granted but become a matter of comparison, investigation, and critique. However, there is a danger that the traveler would suggest various reformations to the home state, and Plato accounts for this danger by demanding that the returning traveler would report back to an assembly composed of the wisest men in matters of theology and education. This assembly will decide whether the suggestions should be implemented into the existing orders of law and education, and they will also decide whether the traveler has become a better or worse person. If his character has become worse, the traveler must stay away from those whom he could influence adversely (952c). Plato points out that without such journeys and exploration, a state could not improve, and even a perfect state would, without such observation, “never stay at the peak of perfection” (951c). This is an interesting claim since it shows that Plato does not consider mere theoretical reflection sufficient for ruling a good state. Philosophers and politicians are asked to turn to the existing world rather than away from it. The confrontation with different laws and constitutions has a philosophical aspect that goes beyond mere comparison. That which has been taken for granted—namely, laws and customs—will no longer be taken for granted but examined and questioned. Philosophy emerges where things are not taken for granted anymore. The aforementioned passage is also remarkable on the level of ethics and morality since Plato here anticipates a move that was undertaken, though in a much more systematic fashion, in the modern era. Inspired by Hegel, we tend to associate Greek morality with the habitualization of customs and laws while modernity emphasizes the need for a given rule to be accepted by a subject (and, following Kant, for the subject to pass an a priori test in the form of the categorical imperative). When tracing laws to judgment rather than habit, Plato points in the direction of the modern move. Such an anticipation is not surprising, given that with the emergence of philosophy, there necessarily also emerges the critique of laws and customs from the standpoint of ethics. With the appearance of philosophy, laws no longer simply are (as Hegel presents it, in a very preliminary fashion, when introducing ancient ethical life). 23 Considering the myth from the Gorgias discussed in the previous section of this chapter, Plato’s conclusion might be that we indeed need both:

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a “certain community” between judge and judged to assure an understanding of the judged’s life history (symbolized in Aeacus and Rhadamanthus), and a guard of eternal, universal truth who takes his ultimate orientation from the Good beyond Being, or from that which is sufficiently close to it (symbolized in Minos). The Laws also contain intimations of such a tripartite structure, as for instance when Zeus, as the God of Boundaries, takes the form of two apparitions, as the God of Kin and as the Protector of Foreigners (Laws 843a). By indicating that laws should not be accepted as a mere matter of habit, Plato reminds us that there are ethical principles which supersede local customs. In that sense, Plato is indeed a universalist, and Levinas is justified in invoking Plato’s universalism. When he introduces laws pertaining to strangers, Plato says that the laws themselves explain what duties are owed to fellow citizens “as well as the service heaven demands we render to foreigners” (718a). It is the laws that tell us how to treat foreigners, and foreigners coming to a specific country have to accept these laws—to an extent. The laws that hold for them are somewhat modified (partly because of their special vulnerability, as mentioned before), and in order to know how we are supposed to treat foreigners, we need to try and accept help from heaven, from the gods, or direct ourselves toward the idea of the Good. But does such a triadic structure work? Can a highest principle be split up into two (or more) principles that carry more specificity? As the highest and unified principle comes to appearance in this world (or in various worlds), it has to do so in specific manifestations, be they cultural worlds, or laws, or other criteria. However, we are mistaken if we assume that guidelines for action could be derived from this structure (such as the respect for local customs). The only conclusions that can be drawn concern certain features of the structures themselves, such as the irreducibility of the home/alien division. Only the gods can pass universal judgments, as Plato reminds us; nevertheless, we have to try and abstract ourselves from our specific situations if we want to pass fair judgments. The possibility of such abstraction will allow us to also consider the particular world we are in. ∗

∗

∗

We have seen that Levinas strives to develop a concept of discontinuous, nonlinear time, with an emphasis on the future (and specifically, the future as radical surprise). Fecundity serves as the model for understanding such an idea of time. Yet especially as Levinas argues that fecundity is not limited to biological parenthood, it appears that he is concerned with a time extending across generations, which usually comes under the heading of historicity. It seems impossible to think nonbiological fecundity or generativity without involving works, writings, and narratives, and specifically without involving their memorial powers. Such works are constitutive of a culture.

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Levinas’s essay “Meaning and Sense” criticizes the contemporary emphasis on culture and reveals a latent Platonism in post-Hegelian philosophy. However, the essay can also be read as demonstrating an openness toward cultural considerations—if culture is not considered to be primary and if relativism can be countered by an element of Platonism. Plato’s reflections on strangeness and strangers testify to this possibility. Plato’s Laws discusses the case of strangers in the narrow sense of cultural strangers. Although Plato’s considerations here appear very specific and pragmatic, some wider implications emerge. Despite the special vulnerability that emerges from being a stranger in a foreign land, trips abroad are necessary because they help one to develop a critical approach toward the laws of one’s home, to question that which has been taken for granted. In fact, Plato considers such trips and examinations crucial for any state, implying that mere consideration of the “Good beyond Being” does not suffice (or is not possible). The considerations in this chapter could benefit Levinas’s philosophy in two ways. Our starting point was the question of how to move from the original dyad to larger communities, and even though Levinas tends to move immediately to humanity as a whole, we suggested that considering cultural groups as intermediate worlds helps to clarify the relations in question. We have seen that Levinas’s philosophy does not foreclose such a possibility. Secondly, Plato’s analysis shows how strangeness sheds light on philosophy. Encountering alienworlds makes us aware of the distinction between different laws and customs but also of unified ethical principles, even if we cannot access these in any direct fashion. The encounter with a stranger may alert us to an additional dimension of the Other’s vulnerability, which is not only based on corporeality but on the vulnerable position of strangers. Such vulnerability concerns all of us, but it shines forth especially vividly in the encounter with a stranger in the emphatic sense.

12 Concluding Remarks on Ethics and Ambiguity Transcendence, the beyond essence which is also being-in-the-world, requires ambiguity, a blinking of meaning which is not only a chance certainty, but a frontier both ineffaceable and fi ner than the tracing of an ideal line. Levinas (OB 152/189)

In this concluding chapter, the ambiguity that we found in the erotic, artistic, and political domains will be examined further by examining connections among the three occurrences of ambiguity and by asking after their joint basis. In the fi rst section, we will see how Levinas’s claim that the ethical encounter is at its most fundamental level unequivocal can be made plausible. Secondly, the concept of ambiguity in Levinas will be brought to the fore in a preliminary fashion by relating it to the work of Simone de Beauvoir and Maurice Merleau-Ponty, who give a prominent role to ambiguity in their philosophies. The third section attempts a genealogy of ambiguity by tracing it back to the realm of interiority and corporeality before seeing how each of the three ambiguous dimensions is based on some fundamental corporeality or materiality. Fourthly, Plato’s contribution to the topic of ambiguity will be investigated, especially with respect to the role of law and of beauty. The fi nal section explores the relation between ethics and ambiguity with the help of the concept of the trace, which provides a connection between universality and singularity.

a) A UNIVOCAL ETHICS? Throughout this study, we have seen that ethics, for Levinas, can never mean being told what one ought to do in a given situation. Any criticism of Levinas’s philosophy that, no matter how indirectly, accuses him of not providing guidelines or criteria for action misses the point of what Levinas is trying to achieve. However, it is also important to keep in mind that there are only very few ethical theories from which particular instructions can be derived; a basic utilitarianism is perhaps the most prominent example of such a straightforward theory. We shall once again consider briefly certain of the main features of Levinasian ethics before attending to the question of its nonambiguity.

200 Plato and Levinas Levinas defi nes ethics as my being called into question by the Other (TI 43/13), being called to respond, being called to responsibility. While such a concept of ethics might at fi rst seem quite removed from our normal ethical and moral concerns, the preceding examinations have shown how it reflects those concerns, although it operates at a deeper level. Overall, Levinas understands ethics as an exploration of what it means to be human.1 “Ethics as fi rst philosophy” is not just directed against traditional philosophy and its emphasis on ontology or epistemology; the phrase also expresses Levinas’s understanding of ethics as concerned with the most fundamental questions, including such questions as, “Who am I?” and “What can I know about that which it is most difficult to know, namely, the Other, and what meaning can ‘know’ even have in this context?” To be human means to be vulnerable. Phenomenologists have already pointed out that we can only understand humans as embodied and situated beings, and Levinas extends such explorations of corporeality to show that the most basic level of the lived-body is vulnerability and exposure. The capacity to suffer (and enjoy) is not equivalent to a designation of humans as mortals, although vulnerability and finitude are related. Vulnerability emphasizes that not only will we die eventually but we can be killed; suffering is a broader dimension than anxiety before death. In what sense and with what justification does Levinas describe ethics as unequivocal? The following passage from Totality and Infinity proves crucial in this context: The ethical relation, the face to face, also cuts across every relation one could call mystical, where events other than that of the presentation of the original being come to overwhelm or sublimate the pure sincerity of this presentation, where intoxicating equivocations come to enrich the primordial univocity [l’univocité originelle] of expression, where discourse becomes incantation as prayer becomes rite and liturgy. (TI 202/177) The ethical relation is described here as univocal and sincere. There is no ambiguity in the primordial expression of the face. Ambiguity is the realm where we become bewitched, as it were. Such bewitchment is exemplified here by the shift from discourse to incantation and from prayer to rite or liturgy. It seems that rhythm plays a role in this shift, perhaps because our souls respond to rhythm in a way that we cannot fully control. 2 The ambiguity in play here already points to the ambiguity of art to which we shall return later. According to Levinas, paradigm examples for artworks are statues, on the one hand, and rhythmical music, on the other. This latter connection appears particularly Platonic, reminiscent of music’s strong influence on the soul as discussed in the Republic. Yet in what sense can the call of the Other be described as unambiguous? When continuing the discussion of a supposed nonambiguity in the

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ethical realm, it might be helpful to bear in mind that Levinas seems to revise his standpoint concerning this question, particularly in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. Already in Totality and Infi nity, we fi nd statements that complicate the picture given previously because “the saying, and not only the said, is equivocal” (TI 260/238). In what sense, then, is the ethical encounter unequivocal, and in what sense is there already an ambiguity within it? Concerning the univocity and sincerity of expression, it seems that our infi nite responsibility might become limited if there was an original ambiguity in the call of the Other. If the call were ambiguous, I might perceive it as my task to attend to this ambiguity and interpret the call rather than respond to it; yet this would be unethical. Moreover, diagnosing an original ambiguity might seem to justify my being suspicious of the Other, being doubtful as to whether the Other is telling the truth or telling lies. On the basis of such suspicions, I could always renounce my responsibility or make it secondary to a concern about sincerity. For these reasons, it seems that Levinas needs to begin from a primordial univocity. However, merely positing or assuming a univocity would not be satisfying from a philosophical perspective. As his ethical philosophy is located on the margins of phenomenology, we expect Levinas to give us a description of the call and its univocity, which we can assess, even though the call of the Other is by no means a straightforward perceptual phenomenon. The core of Levinas’s quasi-phenomenological description of the call is concerned with a coincidence. This coincidence makes the Other’s expression a very peculiar phenomenon, a phenomenon that, according to Levinas, cannot bear the name “phenomenon” unless we redefi ne phenomenology. A phenomenon usually exhibits two sides; within a phenomenology of perception, the relation between an intention and its disappointment or fulfillment exemplifies this double structure. Yet the call of the Other is “a coinciding of the expressed with him who expresses” (TI 66/37). On the very fi rst, primordial level, on the level of proximity and saying, there is no distinction between a person and his or her statements; there is not yet a person (with a character, a background, a history) who makes defi nite statements that could be contradictory or sincere. On the very fi rst level, there is just a being that expresses himself or herself to me, an immediate presence, and I have neither the right nor the grounds to doubt this expression. Levinas discusses the possibility of lying and dissimulation in a series of difficult remarks. “The eyes break through the mask—the language of the eyes, impossible to dissemble. [ . . . ] The alternative of truth and lying, of sincerity and dissimulation, is the prerogative of him who abides in the relation of absolute frankness which cannot hide itself” (TI 66/38). Just as Levinas admitted of the justified desire to protect myself (which includes protecting myself from the Other) but pointed out that vulnerability and exposure necessarily precede such a desire for protection, so he also explains that there is an absolute frankness that precedes the alternative between sincerity and dissimulation. The eyes break through the mask,

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univocal speech cuts through ambiguous statements—such talk does not mean that there are no masks, lies, and ambiguities but that these depend on something more original which they can cover and conceal: an absolute frankness. The call of the Other “breaks through” and “cuts through” since it reveals this more primordial dimension that Levinas designates as vertical, and hence diametrically opposed to the horizon of panorama where concealment and unconcealment happen. Is Levinas then expecting us to act as if the Other did not lie, despite the fact that we know very well about the possibility of lies? Yes—but this request stems from the realization that there is a deeper level on which the Other is exposure, vulnerability, and frankness, and my responsibility means to respond to this level rather than responding to any empirical statements or concerns. To that extent, Levinas’s diagnosis of the ethical encounter as univocal or unambiguous is justified. Problems arise, however, as we turn to the areas that are found to be ambiguous. In particular, any attempts to get rid of ambiguity, as in a quest for love without Eros, seem misplaced. While it appears precarious and indeed impossible to try and diminish ambiguity, an exploration of ambiguity is advisable. If there is a univocity at the core of the ethical encounter, and if Eros, for example, is indeed ambiguous, the question arises as to when and how ambiguity evolves. It is not only in Eros, art, and politics that we find ambiguity but also in any actual, empirical encounter with the Other. The original, unambiguous level of the encounter is a dimension of depth that shines through to greater or lesser degrees, often going entirely unnoticed.3 If I were constantly aware of my infi nite responsibility and of the fact that the Other radically calls me into question, everyday action would not even be possible. Two main points about ambiguity are essential before continuing our discussion. Firstly, it is not possible to determine a point at which ambiguity begins or ends. Secondly, an investigation of ambiguity is nevertheless helpful. In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, a few lines before announcing the well-known formula that philosophy is “the wisdom of love at the service of love,” Levinas states that “philosophy is called upon to conceive ambivalence” (OB 162/206 f.). It is the task of philosophy to turn toward ambiguity rather than away from it and to explore it rather than abolish it. The very same chapter which speaks of the wisdom of desire also contains intriguing reflections on the way in which transcendence needs and relies upon ambiguity. As Levinas tries to explicate the Good beyond Being and the ways in which it announces itself to us, he writes: “The statement of the Good beyond Being [ . . . ] benefits from an ambiguity or an enigma, which is not the effect of an inattention, a relaxation of thought, but of an extreme proximity of the neighbor” (OB 156/199).4 Encountering an ambiguity does not mean that we have failed to try hard enough, that we gave up before being able to fi nd a univocal principle. Rather, it turns out that the

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beyond of Being “resists the univocity of an originary or a principle” (ibid.). What lies beyond Being can only reveal itself in an ambiguous fashion, not in any pure shape or form, and in this context, it does not even make sense to ask whether there is a purity at the core that gets lost as the Good reveals itself to us. Does Levinas, in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, revise his earlier comments about the univocity of the ethical encounter? He neither repeats nor renounces them. While the connection between ethics and ambiguity is not explicitly taken up (except for the remarks about the ambiguity of the Good beyond Being previously quoted), Levinas does return to the topic of truth and lies: [W]e suppose that there is in the transcendence involved in language a relationship that is not empirical speech, but responsibility. This relationship is also a resignation (prior to any decision, in passivity) at the risk of misunderstanding (like in love, where unless one does not love with love, one has to resign oneself to not being loved), at the risk of a lack of and refusal of communication. (OB 120/153) The risk of misunderstanding can never be ruled out. It is interesting that Levinas, in this passage, draws on the risks involved in loving to elucidate his thoughts on responsibility. Would not the quest for a love without concupiscence, which he proposes elsewhere, be like a search for love without ambiguity, without risk, and hence an undoing of love? Levinas does not provide more detailed reflections on love and Eros at this point. He discusses communication and ethical language, and he asserts several times that there is a necessary uncertainty involved here, a risk, a dangerous life. Unlike Descartes’s quest for certainty, philosophy as ethics involves an essential uncertainty “before any truth and any certainty” (OB 120/154). If a simplified comparison between Levinas’s two main works may be permitted here, it seems that Totality and Infinity provides extensive analyses of those domains that turn out to be ambiguous, but in this work, Levinas does not yet develop his concept of ambiguity far enough to avoid misunderstandings on our part about the implications of ambiguity. In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, a turning toward and discussion of ambiguity is recognized as philosophy’s task, yet due to Levinas’s transformed method and his distance from phenomenology, we no longer fi nd detailed analyses of ambiguous phenomena. Reading the two works (and other essays) in relation to each other enables us to discuss further what implications arise from identifying ambiguities in various domains. Specifically, a question about the deeper level of such ambiguity arises. In order to approach these issues, it appears helpful to investigate the concept of ambiguity by relating Levinas’s thought to those philosophers whose investigations of ambiguity are by now quite well-known: Simone de Beauvoir and Maurice Merleau-Ponty.

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b) AMBIGUITY IN DE BEAUVOIR, MERLEAU-PONTY, AND LEVINAS In her book The Ethics of Ambiguity, Simone de Beauvoir develops the implications of existentialism for an ethical theory. She relies heavily on Sartre’s philosophy and makes this connection obvious by quoting from his texts at several points. Like Sartre, she argues that an emphasis on radical freedom does not result in ethical irresponsibility or arbitrariness but makes ethical responsibility possible in the fi rst place. Where does ambiguity enter into these considerations about freedom and ethics? And—for our purposes even more importantly—what is meant by ambiguity? De Beauvoir introduces the idea of ambiguity after rehearsing how a human being is a subject in the world as well as an object for other humans. This twofold nature is one dimension of our ambiguous condition, and it can be mapped onto the distinction between mind and matter. We can never fi nally determine whether we are subject or object, mind or matter—we are both, yet since these two sides do not allow for a synthesis, we remain an ambiguity. One may feel reminded here of Nietzsche’s remark that a human being is “das nicht festgestellte Tier,”5 the animal that has not yet been determined. Nietzsche utilizes the double meaning of the term “feststellen,” which means “to determine” or “to recognize” but also “to fi xate,” when read literally as “fest-stellen.” A human being is a subject as well as an object, but it is not really subject and object; it cannot be fi xated as subject or as object nor as a mixture of both. Simone de Beauvoir claims that we have a natural tendency to conceal ambiguity, which also plays out in philosophy. For the most part, philosophy has emphasized one aspect of man’s ambiguous nature, thus reducing or absorbing the other one. Another option, predominantly exercised by Hegel, consists in striving for a reconciliatory synthesis that eliminates ambiguity. Ethics in particular has tried to eliminate this ambiguity by regarding human beings as “pure inwardness or pure externality,” thereby providing the alternative of “yielding to eternity or enclosing oneself in the pure moment” (EoA 8). Her explanations are not very detailed; yet it is worth pausing here for a moment to consider this alternative, given that Levinas also fi nds himself confronted with the problem of fi nding a third way in the face of two unacceptable ethical paradigms. What is the ethical theory that corresponds best to a conception of the human as pure inwardness? Pure inwardness implies a focus on mind rather than matter, therefore calling for a judge on ethical matters who would be as far as possible removed from the material realm. This could be God or, alternatively, an agency like conscience. Pure externality, in turn, entails a focus on matter and sensibility. De Beauvoir brings up the possibility of “enclosing oneself in the pure moment,” which would be the standpoint of hedonist morality. The task, then, is to develop an ethical theory that does not deny the ambiguity of mind and matter but accounts for our spiritual as well as our

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material sides. Drawing on Simone de Beauvoir’s reflections, such an ethics would involve and presuppose an analysis of our bodily nature (given that the lived-body is itself an enactment of this basic ambiguity) and the essential role of sensibility but also a consideration of our economic conditions in the broadest sense. An analysis of Levinas’s ethics would show that he fulfi lls these requirements, even though his economic ideas are rather unusual and not clearly integrated into his ethical theory.6 What is de Beauvoir’s suggestion regarding an “ethics of ambiguity”? Firstly, she proposes not to deny ambiguity, not to be blind to it: such denial will miscarry anyway. Secondly, we should try to fi nd a proper balance between fi nitude and infi nity. A sculptor’s attitude toward his work provides “an example of how man must, in any event, assume his fi niteness: not by treating his existence as transitory or relative but by reflecting the infi nite within it, that is, by treating it as absolute” (EoA 130). Treating existence as absolute, striving for infi nity even though we can always only accomplish fi nite acts and deeds—this proposal may work for an ethics,7 but it is difficult to see how it really responds to the structural ambiguity at the heart of man. Moreover, the suggestion that we treat fi nite existence as absolute may itself strike the critic as a barely concealed attempt to mask ambiguity. In sum, de Beauvoir considers ambiguity as an essential feature of human nature, which philosophy is trying to conceal. On a more general or structural level, she defi nes an ambiguous phenomenon as that which requires us to constantly win its meaning without ever being able to fi x it. How we are to respond to this dilemma is not entirely clear; on the ethical level, she seems to suggest a response such as “but nevertheless, we need to act [ . . . ] .” Are we perhaps confronted with the general dilemma of either diagnosing and describing the ambiguity without resolving it or arriving at an ethics that necessarily leaps over some aspects of the ambiguity, assuming more clarity than is truly attainable? Since our interest lies with de Beauvoir’s concept of ambiguity rather than with the question whether her project of basing an ethics on it is successful, we shall leave this question open and turn to Merleau-Ponty. Merleau-Ponty also asks how we can position ourselves in relation to ambiguity and how we can respond to it. In this context, he arrives at the helpful but itself shifting distinction between a good and a bad ambiguity.8 Bad ambiguity occurs, for Merleau-Ponty, when the diagnosis of ambiguity is used as a reason or rather an excuse to abandon further inquiry. Merleau-Ponty’s example for “bad ambiguity” concerns “an analysis of perception,” which “mixes fi nitude and universality, interiority and exteriority, etc.” (Prosp. 11). This statement should not be read as disqualifying all analysis of perception and thus the entire Phenomenology of Perception. Such a disqualifying statement would appear strange not just in light of the consistency of Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy but also because his example for good ambiguity—namely, expression—plays such a crucial role in the

206 Plato and Levinas book. Merleau-Ponty describes expression as a form of good ambiguity because it involves “a spontaneity which combines the apparently impossible,” ultimately joining “monads into a nexus of past and present, nature and culture” (ibid.). The tenor of these enigmatic statements seems to be that mere mixture is problematic whereas a combination still retains the tension between the combined elements. Expression proves a particularly interesting phenomenon because a paradox emerges here; expression does not translate a previous thought, and yet it does not emerge out of nowhere.9 Furthermore, the phenomenon of expression brings up certain questions regarding the ‘how’ and the ‘why,’ that is, about genealogy, and ultimately about history and culture. Although Merleau-Ponty does not explicate these thoughts, it seems to follow that a phenomenological analysis of ambiguity must be as ‘concrete’ as possible, asking why and how perceptual phenomena are ambiguous. Within the realm of “good ambiguity,” a further distinction arises. There is an unproblematic kind of good ambiguity and a problematic kind that Merleau-Ponty later on seems to consider as a more complex version of bad ambiguity. Good ambiguity is a descriptive category that concerns certain ambiguous phenomena. Such ambiguity arises in the domains of action, history, the erotic, and so on.10 For example, an essential ambiguity within the erotic realm concerns the impossibility of delimiting this domain. Merleau-Ponty speaks of the erotic as an “ambiguous atmosphere” that arises and determines our life (PhP 169).11 He rejects attempts to clearly delimit this realm, but he is also dubious about certain psychoanalytic tendencies to conceive of existence and sexuality as coextensive. Merleau-Ponty emphasizes that “ambiguity is of the essence of human existence” (ibid.). The main task concerning ambiguous phenomena, such as the erotic, thus consists in diagnosing the ambiguity as an essential one that is at the core of the phenomenon. This diagnosis should not prevent further exploration but rather invite a more thorough study of the various dimensions of the phenomenon. Yet where does this exploration lead? It becomes tempting to go beyond a mere “neither-nor” and to attempt a more positive determination. These attempts lead to the second, problematic kind of good ambiguity mentioned previously—the kind of ambiguity that Merleau-Ponty later criticizes as another bad ambiguity. It might be called a conceptual ambiguity, designating the endeavor to capture the ambiguity in (nonambiguous) concepts. This enterprise moves the discussion away from the phenomenon to a higher level. Phenomenal ambiguity may also be described as an ambiguity in perception, in contrast to conceptual ambiguity. Even though the intention to grasp the phenomenal ambiguity in a conceptual way may itself be admirable, it usually results in the idea of mixture—a mixture of inner and outer, fi nite and infi nite. Such a mixture turns the “neither-nor” into a “bothand” without being able to clarify how this “both-and” is to be thought. As

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Plato’s Philebus reminds us, the decisive moment of any mixture concerns the right measure or proportion (Phil. 64a f.). Yet Merleau-Ponty’s analyses show precisely that the phenomena in question make it impossible to determine such a measure or proportion and thus elude mixture. Interpreters of Merleau-Ponty’s work have suggested that his late philosophy avoids the pitfalls of moving from a phenomenal ambiguity to a conceptual ambiguity by giving more and more significance to the idea of structure.12 Already in his essay, “Indirect Language and the Voices of Silence,” Merleau-Ponty returns to Ferdinand de Saussure to explain how meaning arises from the differences between signifiers. A satisfying account of language thus cannot take its departure from isolated words nor from a mere accumulation of words. It must focus on language as a structural whole and on the relation between words. In his late philosophy, as expressed in such works as The Visible and the Invisible, MerleauPonty describes not only language but experience and perception in terms of structure. Experience arises from a field that becomes increasingly organized and meaningful. Structures are formed by way of differences and relations. The quest for an original reality prior to all expression can only be futile; expression is not an externalization of a primordial or inner reality. As a consequence, ambiguity cannot be explained through a unifying account of mixture. Ambiguity cannot be resolved but only analyzed. This may appear frustrating, but in fact, any other ambiguity would not truly be an ambiguity; it would rather be an intermediary stage in a process of clarification. Merleau-Ponty has thus provided a distinction among three forms of ambiguity: (a) a bad ambiguity where the tension between incompatible elements is resolved by way of a mixture such that philosophical questioning comes to an end; (b) a good ambiguity, which means a phenomenal ambiguity that is essential to the phenomenon in question; and (c) a problematic ambiguity, which consists in the ultimately dissatisfying attempt to resolve phenomenal ambiguity by way of conceptual ambiguity. If we try to situate Levinas within the framework provided by de Beauvoir and Merleau-Ponty, a number of characteristics come to the fore. First and foremost, Levinas’s position differs from that of de Beauvoir with regard to the relationship between ambiguity and ethics. For de Beauvoir, ethics has to be built upon the primordial ambiguity of the human condition; it arises from and responds to this ambiguity. For Levinas, ambiguity comes into play as we turn to phenomena that are situated on the margins of the ethical realm. While Levinas does not describe this ambiguity in terms of ‘good’ and ‘bad,’ it is almost impossible to read his analyses without distinguishing the ethical side of a given ambiguous phenomenon from its problematic, ‘irresponsible’ side. It is tempting—to some extent even justified—to conceive of these phenomena on the margins of ethics as phenomena that partly belong to the ethical realm and partly extend beyond it. Levinas’s descriptions of ambiguity would then be an attempt to clarify

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this marginal position without ever being able to draw a clear line and, furthermore, to try and ground ambiguous phenomena in the ethical domain as far as possible. Levinas’s quest for a “love without Eros” or a “love in which the ethical aspect dominates the passionate aspect” is an expression of this tendency. At the same time, Levinas is certainly aware that it is impossible to sever that part of love that seems to stretch out beyond the ethical domain. We need to bear in mind that Levinas discusses Eros under the heading, “Beyond the Face.” The preposition “beyond,” while pointing to the marginal position of Eros, prevents us from imagining a straightforward spatial picture. “Beyond” implies that limits are involved, but “beyond the face” is not simply “outside of the face.” Going beyond something can also mean an elevation, a progress to a better place; yet it is rather obvious from the setup and content of the section “Beyond the Face” that Levinas does not intend this meaning. The three ambiguous phenomena in question here are all in some sense beyond the face, even though not all of them are explicitly situated in that part of Totality and Infinity, which is entitled, “Beyond the Face.” If we look more closely and bracket these obvious, but ultimately misleading, remarks that seem to call for a purely ethical love, art, and politics, it seems that Levinas first and foremost wants to make us aware of the consequences that arise when these areas of life are cut off from ethics and left to themselves. Moreover, he detects a propensity of these dimensions to close themselves off and bring about exactly this disconnection. Love has a tendency to turn away from the world and establish a “dual egoism.” Art is predisposed to self-indulgence, to aestheticizing the world and concealing the ugly parts. Politics has an inclination toward tyranny, toward an accumulation of power for power’s own sake. Levinas wants to make us aware that these tendencies exist, and he also wants to alert us to an alternative. On the most general level, the alternative to such self-enclosure consists in rupture or openness. This openness would be an openness to alterity in the broadest sense, and more specifically, an openness to being questioned (just as ethics, for Levinas, predominantly means being called into question). Questions, criticism, and interruption would break open the self-enclosure operative in love, art, and politics. Ambiguity, for Levinas, leads outside of the ethical realm because it designates an inherent tendency toward self-enclosure. To the extent that love, art, and politics have this tendency, they seem to ultimately strive for nonambiguity, i.e, for a self-enclosed existence. This nonambiguity would be the exact opposite of the Other’s unambiguous call. But the essential ambiguity of these areas also means that they are vulnerable to the imposition of ethical responsibility. Love is not just dual egoism but also a desire that is open to the realization of the Other’s surplus that eludes me. Art offers its unique possibilities for experiencing alterity, exemplified for Levinas by certain forms of poetry and literature. Politics, fi nally, always involves moments of conflict that point to ethical concerns and to the relation between ethics

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and politics. Ethics cuts across all these domains, as it were; and this is not only because of the inclination on the part of ethics to put everything into question but also due to the nature of love, art, and politics—all of which are concerned with otherness in various forms. After discussing the sense in which Levinas’s talk of ambiguity fi rst seems to involve a categorization in terms of good and bad, which may, however, better be described in terms of self-enclosure, we will now briefly return to Merleau-Ponty and his notions of good and bad ambiguity. A bad ambiguity, in Merleau-Ponty’s sense, is an ambiguity that closes itself off—either in the beginning, by foreclosing further inquiry, or in the end, by suggesting a solution through mixture. A good ambiguity, by contrast, has to remain open, exposed to further analysis and further complication. In that sense, a certain parallel between Merleau-Ponty’s concept of ambiguity and that of Levinas exists, even though Merleau-Ponty does not investigate ambiguity in relation to the Other and not explicitly in relation to ethical questions. Having quickly indicated how Merleau-Ponty’s distinctions appear in a Levinasian light, let me turn the tables, as it were, and look at Levinas’s ideas from a Merleau-Pontian standpoint. Does Levinas fall prey to a bad ambiguity that preempts philosophical investigations? Certainly not, given that Levinas turns to ambiguities, making them the object of detailed studies (and usually returning to them in several of his works). Are we to conclude that he focuses on the good ambiguity in Merleau-Ponty’s sense, examining ambiguities that are essential to the phenomena? Yes, but we will have to see whether he really engages in these analyses to the fullest extent. Our focus in the current study, while examining Levinas’s treatment of ambiguity, is similar to Merleau-Ponty’s warning against a bad ambiguity. While Levinas himself offers the resources to think beyond bad ambiguity, he might, at times, fall back behind his own insights. When considering Levinas’s concept of ambiguity and also taking into account the connections to and parallels with de Beauvoir’s and MerleauPonty’s thoughts, two requirements emerge. Firstly, a ‘conclusion’ to these thoughts must not strive to resolve the ambiguity or ambiguities in play here. Such an attempt is not only illusionary but even precarious since it would conceal ambiguity, as it is so often experienced in and outside of philosophy. Secondly, the ‘conclusion’ cannot mean to turn away from ambiguity toward ethics or, even stronger, to ‘cleanse’ ethics of ambiguity. As we will see, it cannot even mean to let ambiguity be. Ambiguity should not be the end of questioning but the beginning. Otherwise, the tendency to self-enclosure has the final word.

c) ATTEMPTING A GENEALOGY OF AMBIGUITY Ambiguity, for Levinas, thus designates a precarious position in relation to ethics; this position can better be understood through a phenomenon’s

210 Plato and Levinas tendency toward self-enclosure. This tendency will now be examined further by asking how the tendency plays itself out in the three domains of Eros, art, and politics; how these three areas are related to one another; and fi nally, how ambiguity appears to come about. Such an attempt at a genealogy of ambiguity will be somewhat speculative since Levinas himself does not attend to this issue. In order to see developments and connections in Levinas’s philosophy more clearly, Plato will play a smaller role in this review than in the preceding chapters. We will return to Plato after our discussion of ambiguity in Levinas. Yet before turning to the three areas already identified, which each emerged in Parts II, III, and IV of this study, we need to ask whether any kind of ambiguity has emerged in Part I, in the realm of interiority. It will turn out that a deeper level of ambiguity, which will connect the other fi ndings, can only be discovered if we take the fi rst part into consideration. Ambiguity emerges at the very core of the self, if we bear in mind that ambiguity, for Levinas, designates a tendency toward self-enclosure. Since our human condition is the situation of Gyges, the possibility of selfenclosure—of turning away, hiding, secrecy—lies at the core of interiority. Not only is it a noncontradictory possibility of the self but it is even a tempting option, since egoistic enjoyment necessarily involves an aspect of self-absorption. Furthermore, the attraction of hedonism, although neither a fi nal human goal nor a permanent option, must be taken into account. The ambiguous alternative of enjoyment and suffering is based on the most passive sensibility that characterizes me as a corporeal being. It is within this most basic corporeality that the fundamental ambiguity occurs. The same receptivity and passivity that allow me to open up the world and take pleasure in it also expose me to suffering. To be sure, not all suffering is physical suffering, and not all enjoyment is bodily enjoyment. Yet if corporeality is considered in its full sense, it becomes obvious that all suffering and all enjoyment only occur to us because we are beings situated in the world, in the midst of the elements and in the midst of other people. Even though our human condition is sufficiently analogous to the ring of Gyges to allow us to be invisible and to ignore the Other, it does not allow us to disappear completely such that we would no longer be exposed to the world at all. We will return to these considerations after exploring how ambiguity exists in the three areas identified and how corporeality and materiality are also instrumental for this ambiguity. The three dimensions of Eros, art, and politics will now be considered one by one before examining the connections among them. At fi rst glance, they appear quite different, and whenever they are mentioned in one and the same sentence (as has often been the case in the present study), this incongruence becomes quite obvious. It will not be possible to establish any simple and obvious connection among the three domains here; rather, each of them offers a unique contribution that complements the others.

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I.) The erotic relationship is the most ambiguous relationship possible between me and the Other, according to Levinas. It has an element of need or enjoyment that leads me to objectify the Other but also a dimension of desire in which I acknowledge the unlimited depth of my beloved. There are certainly other possible ways of objectifying others, even to the point of instrumentalizing them; yet those would not qualify as ambiguous since they operate on the level of pure needs and egoism. Eros is ambiguous because of the essential combination (which is not a mixture) of need and desire, and because it responds to the frailty of the Other, yet in an erotic rather than an ethical fashion. In Eros, the tendency toward self-enclosure becomes obvious in two respects. Firstly, Eros has an element of need, thus leading back from the Other to myself as I complete the full circle of enjoyment. Secondly, the loving couple has a propensity to close itself off from others. Let us briefly return to Plato to examine both of these elements. According to the Symposium, erotic desire strives to possess that which it does not have; once this desire has been fulfilled, it is anxious not to lose the beloved again. Levinas says that nothing is further from Eros than possession—an outright opposition to Plato? It seems that Levinas could not deny the erotic tendency toward possession that, however, always fails. Even those lovers who have realized that they cannot possess each other (since the erotic domain involves secrecy and the withdrawal of the beloved) will still strive for this impossible possession; such is the nature of erotic desire. Plato, on the other hand, does not claim that Eros’s drive for possession will be fulfilled. On the metaphysical level, it seems that we never truly reach the fi nal object of our desire, beauty itself, as long as we are humans. And even on the mundane level, my impression that I ‘have’ the beloved, in a relationship for example, is always countered by the fear of losing him or her again, thus making me aware that no true possession can be achieved. The fact that erotic desire strives for a possession that it essentially cannot attain constitutes a paradoxical moment at the core of Eros. This element is related to the paradoxical role of corporeality in Eros. If we follow Plato’s account of Eros in the Phaedrus, our bodily nature is that which makes erotic love possible (since erotic love is inspired by our noticing a trace of beauty in the Other), but it is also that which makes an ultimate fulfillment of erotic desire impossible (since, as incarnate beings, we do not reach beauty itself). Similarly for Levinas, erotic desire presupposes that we are embodied beings, yet our desire reaches beyond corporeality. The caress is not directed at the shoulder, hand, or cheek as such, but there is also no pure soul-to-soul caress. Erotic desire aims at the Other in his or her frailty, which is brought about by our bodily nature. On the one hand, our bodily nature as needy and partly hedonistic beings endows love with its precarious position between need and desire, thus making pure love impossible. On the other hand, erotic love is only possible for an incarnate being, that is, for an essentially vulnerable being.

212 Plato and Levinas The second aspect of Eros’s tendency toward self-enclosure concerns the “dual egoism” of the couple. This tendency is very much reflected in Plato when he mentions that lovers tend to neglect friends and relatives. Those passages in Plato’s texts that warn us about the ‘unethical’ aspects of Eros are usually interpreted as Plato’s provisional account of love, which is then overcome in and through philosophical love. Yet it is rather dissatisfying to think that Socrates’ fi rst speech in the Phaedrus only serves as a misinterpretation to be corrected through the second speech. Given the affi nities between this fi rst speech and Plato’s remarks about Eros in the Republic, it appears more fruitful to say that there is indeed an inherent ambiguity in Eros that allows for different kinds of Eros, human and divine, to be played out. In his political dialogues, Plato likes to establish a connection between Eros and tyrannical personalities; it is precisely the tendency toward tyranny that makes the political realm ambiguous, as we will see shortly. Although there are certain inherent predispositions toward self-enclosure, Plato suggests that Eros in its best form leads us toward a more philosophical life, inspiring us to strive for beauty and goodness. We have seen that such a possibility might also be latent in Levinas’s philosophy if erotic desire teaches us about the excessive alterity of the Other, which is immediately connected to his or her vulnerability. Inherent in love is the possibility of being led beyond the particular beloved, opening us up to humanity as whole. At the same time—and this is part of Eros’s ambiguity—love is concerned with a very specific loved one in all of his or her singularity, that is, with an individual incarnate human being. In return, it is due to my own fragility that I feel whole and complete when I find my love to be reciprocated, as if I had found my other half. Levinas correctly points out that erotic desire is not nostalgic; but he also points out that one part of Eros, namely, the needful part, justifies the myth of Aristophanes. The ambiguous nature of Eros as located between need and desire thus reflects our existence as embodied and yet transcendent. II.) Within the political realm, ambiguity again involves a tendency toward self-enclosure that can, in the worst case, lead to tyranny. In order to run efficiently, politics cannot embrace criticism and change. The interruption of politics, which breaks open its hermetic structure, has to come from outside of the political realm. Yet why does politics have this tendency to shut itself off? What aspects of human life do politics and the development of laws respond to? It appears that politics and laws respond to our vulnerability, yet in a way quite different from ethics. Politics tries to secure our survival not by accepting infi nite responsibility but, rather, by trying to create conditions that are minimally necessary for our survival, taking a quantitative approach to human vulnerability. Plato explains these essential features of politics very aptly when he, in the Republic, gives a genealogy of the polis. Socrates says that the city “comes to be because none of us is self-sufficient, but we all need many things” (Rep. 369b). The most important needs are mentioned: food,

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shelter, clothes. So politics is concerned with human vulnerability but in a way that is very different from the ethical response (and also different from the erotic encounter). The main difference consists in the fact that politics means to give a minimal and measured response to those needs. The call of the Other cannot be taken as a call toward infinite responsibility; it cannot really be heard as a call at all in the political realm. Instead, politics will already have assumed what a human being can need. The singularity of the Other gets compromised. The concept of measure and, more precisely, quantitative measure, is crucial for politics, as we have seen previously (see Chapter 8). It follows that politics, for Levinas, is very closely related to and perhaps even identical with economics.13 Levinas’s discussion of the “ambiguity of money” in “The Ego and the Totality” is pertinent in this context. The ambiguity of money consists in the fact that “the personal is maintained while being quantified” (ET 45). As persons enter economic relations and exchange money, they still remain persons. This is the case because money only makes sense in the context of commerce, of exchanging goods or commodities, and these commodities acquire their value from the persons involved in the exchange. If this connection were severed, money would stop being money; it would lose its value. Levinas concludes the text by pointing out that it is “shocking”—but, so the implication goes, necessary—“to see in the quantification of man one of the essential conditions for justice” (ET 45). Justice is not possible without its connection to the political realm, to economics, and to quantification. We are encountering another version of the already familiar paradox: that which makes politics possible it also that which constrains it. It is our corporeal nature in its dependence on suitable material conditions that calls for the state and for politics but that also causes politics always to be insufficient since it cannot truly treat its citizens as singular beings. Levinas suggests that the response to this ambiguity has to be the interruption of politics by ethics but also an attempt to criticize politics from the standpoint of the ethical. We have been concerned with the nature of such criticism, and with the question of whether it might not require us to attend to the historical–cultural world. Plato offers us some help when he, for example, proposes a distinction between different kinds of laws where certain laws would apply to appearances or more easily quantifiable entities, others to more basic, ethical issues. The fi rst group of laws would be the one where the link to the physical aspects of corporeality becomes particularly apparent. As Plato emphasizes repeatedly, the care for the body needs to be supplemented by the care for the soul. Politics tends to focus on the body, and there is a certain justification for doing so; minimal needs have to be met. Yet politics should not forget about the soul, and it should not assume that body and soul can be separated in any clear-cut fashion. Hence the ambiguity of politics as it attends to bodily needs, which always point beyond themselves.

214 Plato and Levinas III.) The ambiguous domain of art is connected to the political through its public nature and to Eros through its relation to the beautiful. The ambiguity in the work of art is linked to its materiality, which corresponds to corporeality in the erotic relation. In the case of art, that which enables an artwork to exist, is at the same time that which limits it. A work of art is not a pure idea; it has a body. What Plato says about every logos—namely, that it has a body—holds for every work in general. It is more difficult to see this in the case of music; yet here as well, we are dealing not merely with a conceptual idea but with a structure or nexus of sounds. Although he does not explicitly say that artworks have a body, Levinas appears justified when he points out that statues or sculptures are the paradigmatic artworks. While it seems more accurate to speak about the materiality of a work of art rather than its ‘body,’ the term “body” captures two essential features of the work of art. The work has a capacity to rest in itself, and it speaks to our senses. These two characteristics constitute the work as a work (rather than as, for example, a philosophical idea), and at the same time, they impose limitations on the work. The work’s independence or ability to rest in itself provides it with the peculiar power to ‘speak’ in the absence of its creator, or more precisely, without even pointing to a creator. Yet this same feature also allows for misuse. Plato and Levinas are right to point to this danger that cannot be eradicated. While some artworks that are generally appealing lend themselves to abuse more easily than others, it cannot be excluded that such abuse would be inflicted upon any work. This is the kind of ambiguity that needs to be endured and examined rather than eliminated. To say, secondly, that the work speaks to our senses is a somewhat problematic formulation since it might relate the artwork too closely to the recipient and could easily be mistaken for an empiricist account of art. The Levinasian term “enjoyment” captures more accurately what is at stake here. Despite the fact that we do not enjoy art in the same reductive (and consumptive) fashion that we enjoy food, there is a hedonistic moment to art that makes it richer or more multi-faceted than, say, logical formulas. The artwork has a body, and it speaks to us as embodied beings. We see, hear, or touch the work of art whereas we only ‘see’ a philosophical idea in a metaphorical sense. The crucial feature of art that is linked to the senses but cannot be captured by physicalist accounts is often described as the work’s beauty. Plato helps us to see that beauty is not superficial but profound. Although a work of art does not attract us in the same way that we fall in love with a beautiful human being, there seems to be the same general pattern of recognizing a trace of beauty in the work of art. The fact that a work of art has a body allows for a trace of beauty to shine forth in it. While its bodily nature lends these special capacities to the work of art, it also restricts art’s powers. Art is fragile; it can be destroyed. In a certain sense, artworks are fi nite like human beings. At the same time, works are potentially infi nite; they

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are not mortal like ourselves. A temple can exist for several thousand years, and a piece of music can be performed again and again. But both can also be undone in a moment, through an earthquake or a fire that would destroy all trace of the temple and burn the last copy of the musical script.14 When Levinas says that criticism “integrates the inhuman work of the artist into the human world” (RS 12/147), he seems to refer to the peculiar moment at which art becomes fi nite, as a part of our human world, and simultaneously infi nite, inspiring endless criticism and discussion. It is in this sense that artworks have a future, despite being complete. It is interesting that Levinas emphasizes how, through criticism, an artwork is integrated into a world, a human world, since we are particularly concerned with the way in which art constitutes worlds or gives them cultural and historical specificity.15 On the basis of these reflections, it appears that ambiguity is rooted in and emerges from the corporeal or material dimension involved in these phenomena—a dimension that makes these phenomena possible, but also limits them, as they are all in some sense fragile or destructible. Further questions arise from this attempt at a genealogy of ambiguity (in Levinas’s sense): How is this bodily dimension of ambiguity connected to the tendency toward self-enclosure, and how does it relate to the ethical side of ambiguity? In the case of works, we can see provisionally how the completeness of a work is the other side of its fragility. The work is complete, meaning that the artist’s work is fi nished; yet at the same time, possibilities for the appropriation, abuse, or destruction of the work have been opened up. A work’s tendency toward self-enclosure is an expression of its completion but also an expression of the need for protection, in order to preserve the work’s integrity. This tendency is only problematic, so it seems, when it becomes excessive, preventing questions and criticism. In the context of propaganda and rhetoric, the hermetic tendency of the work can either be utilized to manipulate an audience or, in the case of kitsch, to open a dimension of evasion, an alternative, less complex world that allows us to forget about the actual world. Yet in the case of art, the ‘antidote’ to selfenclosure is present in the form of criticism, and in some sense, the work actually invites this criticism and dialogue. The line from ambiguity to self-enclosure traced out here with respect to erotic, political, and artistic phenomena will now be examined a little more closely by returning to the ambiguity of corporeality, which emerged in the fi rst part of this study. Corporeality forms the basis of these three ambiguous dimensions because, as Bernasconi puts it, “as embodied, we live in a world dominated by the said, need, eros, economics and so on.”16 Corporeality in the widest sense confronts us again with a paradox. Having a body means to be open to the world and to be able to have a world, but it also means to be vulnerable and to take a precarious stand as a fragile entity within the world. When formulated in this way, the paradox becomes immediately reminiscent of ambiguity in de Beauvoir’s (and

216 Plato and Levinas Sartre’s) sense: I am a subject that has a world but also an object within this world. The very basic alternative of my constituting a world as well as being an object in the world can already be found in Husserl, and he even calls it a paradox.17 Levinas’s descriptions of my corporeal existence place a different emphasis. Unlike Husserl, Levinas emphasizes the relationship between myself and the Other rather than simply that between myself and the world.18 Only in relation to the Other—namely, by turning away from and ignoring the Other—can the egoistic enjoyment of worldly elements take place. Contrary to de Beauvoir, Levinas would point out that a description in terms of subject and object is too neutral, leaving out what is crucial in this paradox—namely, vulnerability.19 While these alternative phenomenological reflections indirectly confi rm Levinas’s fi ndings of a paradoxical alternative at the core of corporeality, their point of orientation is thus quite distinct from Levinas’s. How does a tendency toward self-enclosure emerge at the core of interiority? Vulnerability as the most passive passivity, prior to enjoyment or suffering, also immediately evokes the desire for protection. To be sure, such protection emerges from vulnerability and is thus secondary to it; yet it is an inevitable predisposition. As we are exposed in radical and unsettling ways, we have to learn how to avoid being exposed completely at all times, that is, to learn how to play the game of Gyges. Once I realize that the Other is already under my skin, the game of Gyges becomes increasingly difficult; yet the possibility of egoistic enjoyment shows that the game is still an option. Ambiguity, as the struggle between self-enclosure and openness to the Other, thus emerges at the core of who I am. If ethics, for Levinas, involves an exploration of what it means to be human, it follows from our considerations that ambiguity cannot be eliminated, no matter how tempting that might be. Several questions are still open, most importantly questions regarding the relation between ethics and ambiguity, but also regarding the connection among the three dimensions in which Levinas fi nds ambiguity. Yet before attending to these issues, we need to turn to Plato for support.

d) PLATO’S CONTRIBUTION It might seem peculiar for us to turn to Plato at this point, at the very moment when corporeality turns out to play a crucial role in the emergence of ambiguity. Is it not Levinas’s Platonism, his closeness to a Platonic critique of writing and artworks, that causes problems for his account, motivating the critical statements about the erotic, artistic, and political realms? It seems unlikely that Plato, infamous for his critique of the body and for his metaphysical dualism, would be of any help at this juncture. Yet we have seen that the situation of the body in Plato’s philosophy is more complicated

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than is implied by the simple formula of the “soul’s prison.” Furthermore, several Platonic insights have emerged in our discussions that run counter to the traditional image of Platonism as radical dualism. Let me summarize the most important moments that have emerged in this study: the necessity of law and the distinction between different kinds of laws according to Statesman and Laws (Chapter 8), the relevance of a “certain community” between judge and judged in the Gorgias (Chapter 11), the importance of encountering strangers and strangeness in the Laws (Chapter 11), and the significance of beauty for Eros, for the muses, and ultimately for philosophy, in the Phaedrus and the Symposium (Chapters 5 & 10). These moments shall briefly be recapitulated here in order to dwell on the last one, beauty, a little longer. What these moments share is the fact that they complicate the dualistic sense of Platonic philosophy and reveal a Plato who focuses on our life in this world. This has been emphasized by several interpreters, most notably by Gadamer. 20 Yet we have seen that Levinas’s philosophy diverges from hermeneutic approaches such as Gadamer’s, and it is thus important to refrain from simply adopting a hermeneutic frame. Instead, we will stay as close as possible to Plato himself, bearing Gadamer’s insights in mind without simply embracing them. Following the list given previously, the political and legal realm will be our fi rst point of focus. It has turned out that laws are necessary for a state, even though they are inevitably imperfect. They cannot do full justice to the changing circumstances, individual persons, and specific situations. Establishing and modifying laws means having to attend precisely to the historical and cultural circumstances; despite his emphasis on the Good beyond Being as the ultimate point of orientation, Plato does not deny this. An awareness of these problems makes it possible to distinguish between different kinds of laws, some more stable and closely related to the ethical realm, others more flexible, and more strictly related to the political and economic realm. ‘Political laws’ can thus be distinguished from what I have suggested calling ‘quasi-ethical laws’—and this distinction allows us to investigate them differently in terms of their motivation and changeability. The second instance, the need for a certain community between judge and judged, seems to emphasize that fairer judgments are passed if there is a common background—history, language, culture, etc.—that the judge shares with the person being judged. On the other hand, Minos is said to have a special role by judging all those cases that Aeacus and Rhadamanthus fi nd particularly perplexing. There appear to be cases where the shared community does not play a role. On the basis of the distinctions between different kinds of laws, we can now say that the cases which are transferred to Minos are likely to correspond to issues that are more strictly ethical (rather than belonging to the other group of laws that are more dependent on the historical, economic, and political situation). Thirdly, Plato points out in the Laws that a state is dependent on encounters with other cultures. Otherwise, the state cannot improve, and even a

218 Plato and Levinas perfect state needs such encounters in order to stay perfect. In order for a state to have good laws and customs, it is necessary to compare these with the laws of other states rather than taking habitualized laws for granted. Once again, we are dealing with a philosophical rather than merely practical issue; philosophizing means to stop taking matters for granted. Also, general implications for ethics emerge from these reflections since it becomes obvious that the element of questioning is crucial. Of course, it does not help the state if laws are changed with too much ease and even less so if an impression arises that everything that works abroad can immediately be adopted at home. The fact that the Stranger also mentions regulations for controlling the impact of foreign ideas is thus not surprising. The fi nal and most important instance that I would like to recall from the preceding chapters concerns the role of beauty. The beautiful has surfaced in the contexts of Eros and art. In relation to Eros, beauty emerged not only as an explanation of how we fall in love but also as something that is excessive in its very nature. This kind of excess serves as a point of orientation for human beings, as a substitute for the Good beyond Being, which, as Socrates points out every so often, would shatter us if we even caught a glimpse of it. The connection of art with the beautiful is less obvious in Plato. In the Phaedrus, beautiful people and objects emerge as reminiscent of beauty itself, and the madness of the muses is introduced as a kind of divine gift alongside Eros. It thus appears plausible that artistic madness is inspired by traces of beauty as well. Similarly, the possibility of falling in love with “beautiful works” is a prominent option in the Symposium, superior even to the love inspired by beautiful bodies. The idea of the beautiful, which points to the excessive nature of beauty itself, is of particular interest here since it is closely connected with Levinas’s reflections on the trace. Moreover, what makes the notion of trace fascinating is the fact that it overcomes the problematic model of original and copy. 21 This model leads Plato to compare writing with painting, and Levinas’s suspicions regarding works are ultimately based on this particular facet of Platonism. In his discussions of art, Levinas does not simply replicate the Platonic model of painting but claims that art captures a shadow that is inherent in reality itself. Yet the formulation that art leads us to the “hither side,” to the side of enjoyment, certainly points to the Platonic account of art. Moreover, the critique of writing from the Phaedrus underlies Levinas’s overall attitude regarding works. Levinas builds not on the idea of copying but rather on the relation of presence and absence or the fact that the “father” of the written speech does not come to its assistance—whereas the face of the Other speaks in an immediate fashion, remaining with and attending to his or her word. However, we have seen that the Platonic critique of writing is more subtle than the short passage quoted by Levinas makes it seem (Chapter 9). In order to appreciate the account of beauty in the Phaedrus, let us remember once again the classical Platonic critique of painting. Socrates’

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remarks about painting in Book X of the Republic appear strange for several reasons: because it is by no means obvious that there would be a Form of the bed and other such objects of everyday usage22; because it would be strange to exclude that the painter has an insight into the Form of the bed while the carpenter does; and because it remains unclear what kind of insight into the Form of the bed the carpenter has (which once again evokes doubts about the plausibility of a Form of the bed). These questions do not even touch on the general complications of the doctrine of Forms and the problem that it is not clear whether such a doctrine even exists in Plato’s work. Yet if the model of a trace of beauty is more convincing and less imbued with problems than the model of original and copy, we arrive at a version of Plato’s philosophy, which can attribute a significant role to art, as we indeed fi nd it in dialogues like the Phaedrus and the Symposium. It is not surprising that these are the same dialogues which discuss Eros as love for the beautiful. While a trace might fi rst seem to be just another kind of copy, it turns out to undermine this model altogether. A trace of beauty is not a copy of beauty, especially given that I do not have access to beauty itself. A beautiful person reminds me of beauty neither because of any accomplishment on my part nor because of an accomplishment on the part of the beautiful person (as if the beautiful person ‘painted’ himself or herself as a copy of beauty) but because beauty overflows and leaves its traces. Even the most mundane traces, like footprints in the snow, show that we are not dealing with a simple kind of copying here. The discussion of art in the Phaedrus indicates that any straightforward model of art as copying is misplaced. When Socrates says that the person who is not inspired by the muses but just acquires “expert knowledge of the subject” will inevitably fail as an artist (Phaedr. 245a), we can deduce that the artist does not copy. Even a more complicated theory of the artist as fi rst thinking about beauty and then realizing the thought in a beautiful work of art can never capture the nature of art; thus Socrates has to invoke madness. The name for our directedness toward the beautiful is ‘desire’—another theme on which Plato and Levinas converge. Desire is also a kind of madness—namely, the madness inspired by seeing a trace of beauty. It lies in the nature of desire that it goes toward the excessive. Taking its cue from the mundane, desire opens a dimension of depth that turns out to be an abyss: I will never get to the bottom of who the desired Other is; nor will I ever fi nd a safe ground on which my encounter with the Other can take place. Beauty is the name for this wonderful and traumatizing mystery, and we have hardly any control over our entering into it. What do these Platonic reflections on beauty, trace, and desire contribute to our topic of ambiguity? The topic of beauty is connected to selfenclosure and corporeality as the main themes that have emerged in our reflections on ambiguity. Beautiful works are destructible and fragile due to their specific corporeality. A work of art has a body, even though this is not

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in the same sense as a human being does. The beauty of a beautiful work is related to this fragility. To be sure, not everything fragile and perishable is beautiful. But in the case of beautiful works, their fragility contributes to and strengthens their beauty. We are dealing with a material, fleeting trace of beauty. This impression also evokes a sense of the work’s distance or selfenclosure, as if the work itself demanded that it be handled with care. 23 We have learned from Levinas how frailty is crucial to the experience of erotic encounters with beauty, evoking as it does my desire for a beautiful body. The tendency toward self-enclosure is then also exhibited as secrecy or withdrawal, tied in with the strange discovery that my desire seems to aim at the Other’s body yet goes beyond it toward some “ultramateriality.” The example of the erotic encounter reminds us immediately that Levinas would be skeptical about a relationship to the Other in which beauty plays a fundamental role. An expanded concept of beauty as linked to fragility might have a greater potential in this respect. It is therefore important to remember the main features that beauty has for Plato: the concept is far from superficial or merely aesthetic. Beauty is closely tied to and appears at times synonymous with the Good beyond Being (although on closer consideration, the beautiful stands in for the Good, as it were). The beautiful inspires and directs our desire, and it is a mysterious, undefi nable power that comes to appearance by way of its traces. It is important to keep in mind that a definition of beauty is not and cannot be provided in Plato’s dialogues. Our everyday concept gives us a mistaken impression of beauty as something that can be described and determined: a beautiful face with big eyes, a beautiful vase with intricate decoration. Yet such descriptions are uninteresting and misguided. When I desire something or someone beautiful, I cannot give reasons; this is one of the lessons to be learned from the Symposium and the Phaedrus. Even an artist cannot ‘learn’ how to create a beautiful work of art unless he or she is inspired by the muses. According to the Philebus, beauty manifests itself as measure and proportion (Chapter 8). This connection is helpful when we come to consider the political dimension we are interested in and also for the relationship between ethics and politics: the Good takes refuge in an alliance with the beautiful, and the beautiful comes to manifest itself as measure and proportion. Hence, measure and proportion appear to be the ways in which the Good reveals itself in this world. It becomes obvious right away that we are not dealing here with a merely quantitative notion of measure. Perhaps these ideas could be reconciled with a Levinasian standpoint by suggesting that the Good can orient and inspire the ethical encounter in a more immediate fashion, yet if we look for manifestations of the Good in this world, we have to include the political dimension in the widest sense and thus become concerned with measure, proportion, and laws. The Platonic concept of beauty and its distinctions between different kinds of laws, customs, and judgments could then be helpful not so much for improving our understanding of Levinas’s ethics but for understanding

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the relationship between ethics and politics as well as the role of the other ambiguous dimensions: Eros and art. Beauty comes to manifest itself in the world not through copies but through traces. The nondualistic model of the trace helps us to see the significance of beautiful objects in the widest sense and demonstrates the link between ambiguity and self-enclosure or a fragile corporeality. Furthermore, Plato encourages us to make distinctions, especially in ambiguous areas like Eros, art, and politics. These would not be the kinds of distinctions proposed in the Republic concerning the number of marriages or the appropriate rhythms and instruments for poets and musicians; such distinctions seem to reflect Socratic irony in the face of our ridiculous need for clear-cut criteria. The distinctions that are relevant for our theme occur at the philosophical rather than the merely empirical level, like the distinctions between different kinds of laws. Similarly, it is an interesting task to investigate good and bad writing, better and worse speeches, or the nature of poetic madness as a prerequisite for true art. In the realm of Eros, the difference between human and divine Eros, read in a nonsuperficial way, would be important. All such distinctions, approached from a Levinasian perspective, involve the dimension of need or enjoyment. While enjoyment is not a ‘bad’ thing (as Levinas shows very well), it might be plausible to argue that a piece of art that is nothing but pleasant, an erotic relationship based on enjoyment only, or a political regulation that is just made to be appealing are problematic instances of their kind because they seem to miss out on a deeper level of their respective domains. A few further remarks are in place with regard to the reading of Plato proposed here. We should acknowledge Levinas’s contributions to our ability to read Plato; without him, the Platonic suggestions discussed here might not have come to the fore. Levinas alerts us to the significance of orienting philosophy toward ethics, and he reminds us that there was a time when philosophy already existed as philosophy but was not yet divided into subdisciplines. He also makes us aware that the Platonic dialogue form is so significant not because it is more appealing and accessible but because it reveals the orientation toward the Other. For these and many others reasons, we should take Plato seriously, after and beyond the contemporary warnings about Platonism, and ask after the resources that his philosophy still has to offer. Furthermore, Levinas brings certain of the Platonic myths down to earth. Levinas’s response to the old conundrum about the relation between mythos and logos would then not just involve a questioning of this seemingly straightforward opposition but a move beyond previous ways of interpreting myths. Understanding myth would no longer mean to move between two levels, the literal and the metaphorical or the real and the imaginary, but to read myths as describing our human condition in ways that might turn out to be more rigorous and sincere than traditional philosophical inquiries. When Levinas, bringing the myth from the Gorgias into our life, talks about the Other as being under my skin, he is not speaking metaphorically. The Other can only approach

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me from the ‘outside’ because he or she is already in me. Just as our soul is not imprisoned in the body, it is also not protected and hidden away in the body, beneath the skin. Levinas thus helps us to read Plato seriously and carefully, and the results that this produces shed in turn a new light on Levinas’s philosophy. Furthermore, the concept of ambiguity, as it is introduced by Levinas, enables us to interpret seemingly contradictory statements in Plato—which occur especially with regard to art and Eros and to a certain extent also regarding politics and the state—as expressions of a phenomenal ambiguity that resists a one-sided resolution. Such a reading of Plato has been attempted in several of the preceding chapters. Plato’s way of dealing with ambiguity consists in returning to the same phenomenon—in different dialogues, through different interlocutors, in different speeches. But if such a reading is convincing, that is, if Plato indeed shows that Eros, art, and politics are intrinsically ambiguous, would he not have said so himself? Why would the different facets of these phenomena be discussed in different dialogues and speeches? One argument for such a presentation lies in our lived experience. In certain experiences a phenomenon is revealed only in a partial or one-sided fashion. An erotic relationship can appear amazing or disastrous to a given person at a given time, just as a certain dialogue, or a speech within a dialogue, or an interlocutor’s position reveals it. So the one-sided presentation reflects our experience, and it might then turn out—as happens to Socrates after he has given his fi rst speech in the Phaedrus—that the account needs to be revised and complemented because it has not told the full story. The Platonic dialogues then appear as a singularly appropriate way of exploring ambiguity, and Plato turns out to be far from a Platonist in the usual sense who would turn away from this world and toward the Forms for a more stable kind of existence.

e) ETHICS AND AMBIGUITY If exploring ambiguity is the task of philosophy for Levinas, and if this means to turn towards ambiguous phenomena rather than turning away from them, this still does not give us an answer regarding the relation between ambiguity and ethics. This question can now be approached by asking: How does the ethical encounter with the Other differ from other dimensions of life? Specifically, what makes the ethical encounter unique if other dimensions like Eros, art, and politics also involve corporeality and vulnerability, though presumably in a different form? In order to turn back to ethics at this point, we have to keep in mind, as always, that ethics for Levinas means my being called into question by the Other, and this implies owning up to my infinite responsibility, which emerges from the vulnerability of the Other. While other dimensions of existence also involve forms of vulnerability, ethics turns out to be the

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only relation that owns up to the Other’s vulnerability in its full force and precariousness. Ethics responds to the deepest level of vulnerability. There is no attempt, in ethics, to aestheticize fi nitude and vulnerability, as art does, or forget about it in an erotic moment of enjoyment, or figure out a political solution that would meet minimal requirements. If vulnerability is revealed in its full impact, it becomes obvious how such an encounter indeed strikes me to the core. I realize that all my defenses fail because the Other is already in me, obsessing me, talking to me from the inside rather than from the outside. Yet sometimes we may need or just find ourselves in a more ambiguous relation to the Other. Ambiguity thus corresponds to certain needs that emerge from our human nature. As humans, we inevitably try to protect ourselves without owning up to the feebleness and failure of such attempts. The realization that ethics owns up to vulnerability to its full extent does not mean that the more ambiguous approaches to vulnerability cannot teach us anything. What can they teach us? With their help, we can learn more about what it means to be human; we can learn about vulnerability and about our efforts to protect ourselves. If ethics is an exploration of what it means to be human, there has to be at least an indirect ethical aspect to these dimensions, and Levinas does not deny this, as becomes obvious in his “Phenomenology of Eros” and in his essays about art and literature. It seems that the three ambiguous dimensions explored here are all ways of encountering the Other. Certainly, they are not ethical encounters as such, but we can learn from them about the Other as radically different, excessive, fragile, mortal, etc. It also becomes more obvious now how these three dimensions are related: they describe different, complementary forms of such encounters. A further reason for attending to the artistic, erotic, and political dimensions lies in the fact that they are essential for our life on the everyday level (and they strike us, on the everyday level, as somehow related to ethical concerns). According to Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, investigations of ambiguity are an important task of philosophy. Detailed analyses of art, Eros, and politics, although in certain ways called for by the project of Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, with its emphasis on ambiguity, cannot be pursued by Levinas in this work due to the fact that he has abandoned the phenomenological methodology. Yet if the phenomenological analyses in Totality and Infinity are read in light of the more developed approach to ethics and ambiguity to be found in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, a deeper examination of ambiguity is possible, as became obvious in several chapters of this study. Such an interpretation benefits from exploring the links between Plato and Levinas, specifically those Platonic resources which combine universalism with a close attention to ambiguity and specificity. The tension between universalism and singularity determines Plato’s and Levinas’s works overall, and it cannot be dissolved or synthesized. The difficulty of allowing a role for the universal, radical transcendence, or that

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which makes us transgress the “here and now”24 may evoke the impression of a striving for ‘purity.’ Both Plato and Levinas have often been said to exhibit a ‘purism’ or a tendency toward ‘purity’ in their philosophies. 25 These diagnoses will not be debated here; several examples can be given, especially in the very realms that have been discussed in this study: Eros, art, and politics. How does the concept of ambiguity traced out here relate to this accusation of purism? It confi rms the critique in a certain sense. If a given phenomenon is ambiguous in the Levinasian sense, it has a propensity toward self-enclosure. A genealogical examination might then prove that the apparent purism is a response to the tendency on the part of the phenomenon to close itself off, especially if one considers that the extreme case of such self-enclosure would make the phenomenon unavailable to all questioning. In addition to the possibility of exploring the genealogy of purism, the concept of ambiguity allows us to examine the phenomena more fully and deeply. While the fi nding of a certain purism makes it tempting to turn to a different philosopher for advice (such as Derrida, in Levinas’s case, or Aristotle, in Plato’s) or to conclude that Plato and Levinas are simply not helpful where the erotic, artistic, or political dimensions are concerned, the interpretation suggested here demands that we explore the resources that Plato and Levinas offer for examining these dimensions of ambiguity. One such resource is the concept of the trace, which has been used in this study to describe the experience of ‘being reminded’ of beauty in Plato’s Phaedrus and which plays a very significant role in Levinas. In fact, its significance is so complex that we can only focus on very few aspects of it here. 26 The trace emerges at the end of “Meaning and Sense” as Levinas attempts to fi nd a way of reviving Platonism. In similar and often even identical formulations, the trace is discussed in “The Trace of the Other,” where Levinas states that he will start with a phenomenological approach despite the need to go beyond phenomenology (Trace 345). The motivation for introducing the trace arises from the difficulty of describing an experience of withdrawal and absence. That which withdraws leaves a trace, yet the trace cannot be used to track down what has become absent. The trace is inscribed into a certain kind of materiality but not in a straightforward sense like the sign. Levinas contrasts the trace with the sign, and yet he comes to admit that traces can also be signs or function as signs. The question to which Levinas seeks a response at the end of the essay “Meaning and Sense” concerns the nature of the “beyond from which a face comes” (MS 102). Where is this ‘beyond’ located? In light of the Platonism to which Levinas confesses in this essay, the suspicion arises that this ‘beyond’ might lead into a world behind our world. Levinas thus asks explicitly: “Have we been attentive enough to the interdiction against seeking the beyond as a world behind our world?” (MS 103). This interdiction evokes associations to Nietzsche and the reminder of Zarathustra: “I beseech you, my brothers, remain faithful to the earth.” A similar interdiction also emerges from a phenomenological perspective since the world,

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phenomenologically speaking, is the totality of a context of references that becomes manifest in alienworlds and homeworlds yet does not allow for any world behind the world (German: Hinterwelt, a ‘nether-world’). In any case, it becomes obvious that Levinas does not subscribe to any unreflected Platonism (as his remarks about the need for a mediated Platonism also show). But how does Levinas remain true to this interdiction? This is where the concept of the trace comes into play, for “the beyond from which a face comes signifies as a trace” (MS 103). The trace is not a sign: a sign points in a straightforward fashion to a specific absent object that could be brought to givenness. The trace, by contrast, does not allow us to pursue it in any straight line; it points to a past that has never been present. However, sign and trace prove to be more closely related since traces can also function as signs, and signs are also a kind of trace. Levinas refers to the traces that detectives and hunters pursue and states that traces in the strict sense are those that are left by somebody who commits the perfect crime: “He who left traces in wiping out his traces did not mean to say or do anything by the traces he left” (MS 104). This also holds for the trace of the Other because this always points to an excess that cannot be retrieved or exhausted. The concept of the trace has implications beyond the text of “Meaning and Sense.” Taken in a phenomenological sense, which Levinas includes by way of his examples of detective and hunter, the trace is a sensual or material manifestation of that which transcends the sensual or of an absent thing in presence. The trace does not just point to the animal but also to the—fast or slow—gait of the animal, its search for food, and so on. The trace of the Other thus points to his or her corporeality, albeit not in a superficial sense. Although only an embodied being can leave traces in the phenomenological sense, Levinas is in the final part of his essay especially also concerned with the trace of God. Yet the traces of the human Other are traces of a being who, as embodied, resides in the world but whose existence is not exhausted in such residing: “Only a being that transcends the world, an ab-solute being, can leave a trace” (MS 105). Are not artworks and other cultural products also traces of the Other, albeit in a less immediate and thus more precarious fashion? Both Plato and Levinas point out correctly that such works can be abused for the purpose of propaganda. Certainly, the concern about the artwork or written text’s being ‘abandoned’ also has a political dimension. What follows for our original question about the relation between ethics and politics? I have claimed that Levinas’s philosophy would benefit from a closer consideration of cultural and historical worlds. If the pitfalls of such a discussion can be avoided (see Chapter 11), a consideration of these worlds will aid a consideration of the political realm and its relation to ethics since cultural and historical worlds are for the most part the location where politics occurs. Location is taken here in the rich and emphatic sense not as an empty and insignificant spatial determination (as a modern concept of space would

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have it)27 but as the significant place or region for political occurrences. Such worlds are dense locations imbued with materiality. 28 Plato, especially in his Laws and Statesman, is aware that politics happens in such worlds and that discussions of strangeness are necessary and helpful. Levinas conflates two important moves—namely, the move from the dyad to universality and the move from the dyad to the political dimension (see Part III), and as a result he creates difficulties for his own discussions of the political. Thinking the political requires thinking the transition from the one-to-one to a larger community, that is, a cultural and historical world. To be sure, the universal dimension of humanity as a whole can also play a role in the political domain, especially where ‘human rights’ or ‘crimes against humanity’ are concerned. 29 It seems safe to say that there are some events that all human beings should reject as immoral, such as genocides.30 In that sense, a certain universalism, which Levinas derives from Plato, is justified not only in ethical but also in political matters. However, universalism cannot and must not replace considerations of specific communities.31 Instead, both dimensions must be thought through, as Plato urges us (the example of Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, and Minos can once again serve as an illustration here). Making distinctions becomes an important philosophical task, especially concerning questions of politics and laws but ultimately regarding all ambiguous dimensions. Levinas admits the possibility of expanding an ethical philosophy to include cultural considerations—not unlike Socrates who proposes that the poets should be welcomed if somebody could show that the polis would benefit from such admittance. However, the question of how the political can “be checked and criticized starting from the ethical” (EI 80) is still open. Our reflections imply the significance of attending to the political realm as well as to the cultural and historical worlds in which the political takes place, which means the attempt to understand as well as question the political from a philosophical perspective. Yet an awareness of the tendency toward self-enclosure and even of certain reasons for this tendency (which are rooted in vulnerability) still does not mean that there are possibilities within politics, which can overcome this propensity. Rather, the conclusion seems to be that this tendency is so essential to the political realm that it can only be interrupted from without not from within. The request that politics would “be checked and criticized starting from the ethical” cannot mean that a direct line would lead from ethics to politics, that politics would be deduced from the ethical, or that ethical elements could be integrated into the political. Rather, we have to take Levinas literally: the ethical has the function of criticism; checking the political means disturbing it rather than confirming it. But does Levinas’s project not lose its radicality and uniqueness if it is expanded in this fashion? If a philosopher is shown to be dependent upon the tradition from which he or she emerges—in this case, the Platonic as well as the phenomenological tradition—some radicality is necessarily lost; yet such a loss might be fruitful in the end. It is important to note, fi rstly,

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that we have never abandoned Levinas’s starting point but have tried to understand what Levinas means by ethics, what it entails to understand ethics as fi rst philosophy, and how infi nite responsibility comes about. This starting point gains force and credibility from Levinas’s avowed debt to Plato and the Good beyond Being. The most radical and unique aspect of Levinas’s philosophy lies in his account of ethics; but when this unique contribution is combined with his critique of self-enclosure, it follows that other dimensions of existence need not be dismissed or cut off from analysis. Cultural worlds reflect our embodied existence as vulnerable and needy beings; at the same time, they show that human existence radically transcends this material dimension. We arrive at the importance of returning to Plato’s dialogues and Levinas’s writings and of returning to Plato’s dialogues in order to understand Levinas’s writings. Let me thus close with the citation from Rimbaud, which opens Totality and Infinity: “True life is absent.”32 Levinas continues: “But we are in the world”—and that is not simply a misfortune.

Postscript Derrida on Hospitality We have not yet left Plato. Will we ever leave him? Derrida, Rogues, 137

I owe you the truth in painting, and I will tell it to you. Cezanne, quoted in Derrida, The Truth in Painting

It could be claimed that Jacques Derrida, in at least some of his late texts, carries out the project described in the previous chapter. The project would consist in extending Levinas’s philosophy toward reflections on ambiguous dimensions such as cultural and historical worlds, with the result that it becomes possible to explore the political and its relation to ethics more fully.1 To be sure, Derrida would not have described his philosophy in such terms. Nevertheless, we could take this description as a working hypothesis and turn, in the form of a postscript, to one of Derrida’s texts that is concerned with a version of the question posed in this volume. We thus start from the beginning once again and ask the same question, but from another perspective—namely, the perspective provided by Derrida’s short text Of Hospitality. 2 This text broaches the topic in a way that runs parallel to our study: it turns to Plato and Levinas (and others, including Kant); it relates the Greek beginning to contemporary thought; it employs a mixture of methods that could be called hermeneutical–phenomenological (although again, Derrida would not be happy about this designation); and it identifies a paradox at the core of the problem. 3 We will turn to the text and identify some crucial moments. Although defying the usual order of reading, let me begin by reading the last two sentences of the text: “The relationship to the foreigner is regulated by law, by the becoming-law of justice. This step would take us back to Greece, close to Socrates and Oedipus, if it wasn’t already too late” (Hosp. 73). The “becoming-law of justice” designates the transition from ethics to politics, but it is a more helpful description—despite a certain awkwardness—since it names what happens in this transition: justice becomes law. Justice would then need to be read in the original, ethical sense—the sense that Plato gives to it (and which Levinas uses in Totality and Infinity). The transformation of justice into law is also a Platonic topic, and this might be the reason why Derrida claims that we need to turn to Greece in order to understand it—“if it wasn’t too late.” Too late, in the double sense that the seminar

Postscript 229 about hospitality is over, and that we are too far removed from the Greek world to hope for clarification there. And yet, Derrida invites us to re-read the Greek texts, without providing an extended interpretation. Derrida does not try to ease the transitions, and he gives only a little guidance for our journey back to the Greeks. He does not want us to forget that more than two thousand years have passed and that our only approach to the Greek world will be to listen to the texts we have. This is a task we can only accomplish by ourselves. It is not even entirely clear from Derrida’s text why he chooses these particular instances. Why Oedipus and not Antigone? Why Plato’s early and late dialogues but not the Republic? Why the Statesman and the Sophist, but not the Laws? The choices are not arbitrary, and a more detailed interpretation than the one undertaken here could shed much light on them. At the same time, they are not the only possible choices; in the preceding chapters, certain other routes have been pursued. However, Derrida does explicitly lay out the problem at the core of his journeys through the history of Western philosophy and literature. It is the original paradox of hospitality, “a paradox or a contradiction” that emerges from a person’s name or descent: “this right to hospitality offered to a foreigner ‘as a family,’ represented and protected by his or her family name, is at once what makes hospitality possible [ . . . ] but by the same token what limits and prohibits it” (Hosp, 23 f.). Hospitality in the usual sense harbors this paradox since it asks about the origin of the foreigner. Absolute or unconditional hospitality, so Derrida explains, demands that names and descents be irrelevant, and in that sense, unconditional hospitality “presupposes a break with hospitality in the ordinary sense” (Hosp. 25). This is the problem, and several other questions emerge from it: What is the status of such unconditional hospitality, and how is it related to conditional hospitality? Is Derrida’s understanding of hospitality at all different from that of Levinas’s, given that Derrida here seems to embrace a Levinasian concept of absolute welcome? With these questions in mind, I suggest we explore briefly four themes that emerge from the text and are related to our topic: the turn to the Greeks (and Plato specifically); the connection between strangeness and questioning; the issue of blindness and the unconscious; and fi nally, the question of secrecy and lies. I.) A return to the Greeks, to Socrates and Plato but also to Oedipus can be motivated in several ways. Levinas did not feel the need to justify his references to Plato since the closeness between Plato and Levinas makes such a justification superfluous, although not uninteresting. The best explanations we receive from Levinas are found in the significance of the Good beyond Being as a unique idea in the history of philosophy, and in the deconstructive turn of “Meaning and Sense” where Levinas investigates the impossibility of escaping Platonism. Heidegger, who is in general more critical of Plato’s philosophy and its effects, gives a different reason for turning to Plato: when we ask what philosophy is, we are asking a Greek question.4 We are not just asking about a Greek term, but rather we are posing the

230 Plato and Levinas question in a Greek way, as a “what is ( . . . )” question, i.e., as a question about the nature or essence of philosophy. Therefore, we need to explore the history of this question, including its significant Platonic history. Derrida’s most explicit motivation for turning to Plato is related to these suggestions of Levinas and Heidegger. Derrida proposes that we go “back to places we think are familiar”—namely, the Platonic dialogues (Hosp. 5). When starting from that which seems familiar, there are two reasons in play: seeking the familiar because of its attractive familiarity, and looking at it in a new way, perhaps to realize that it is not so familiar after all. Of course, familiarity also arises here as the antonym to strangeness. The familiar might tell us something about the strange and the stranger or the familiar might turn into something strange, thereby teaching us that strangeness is much closer to home than we thought. The Greeks are both strange and familiar to us; we are following in the same history, but we are more than two thousand years removed from Plato. By quoting the Platonic texts (amongst others) without much introduction, explanation, or commentary, Derrida points to this continuity and this rupture. If Derrida were to thematize the gap, he would make it both narrower (by bridging it) and wider (by alerting us to it). Instead, it is our task to position ourselves in relation to this discontinuous continuity and strange familiarity. Implicitly, there are other reasons for turning to Plato, specifically regarding the political context. As Derrida talks about the Greek polis, it becomes obvious that certain problems can be understood better on such a smaller scale (and we would thus need to supplement Socrates’ statement from the Republic about the visibility of that which is larger, the polis rather than the soul, by pointing out that something grown too large, like our contemporary state, results in diminished visibility once again). Moreover, the Greek context helps us to see the beginning of the state. Irrespective of whether democracy is necessarily the best constitution or not, democracy allows looking at a community that defi nes itself as a state, and it involves the possibility of posing questions about its legitimacy. We thus find the fi rst precursors of social contract theories in Plato’s Crito and Republic. With the emergence of the self-conscious state, the question of foreigners emerges for the Greeks. It turns out that three themes that are crucial for Derrida—namely, the state, sovereignty, and hospitality are all Platonic. II.) Not only are such questions also Plato’s questions but Plato teaches us something about the nature of questioning as his dialogues consist of and deal with questions. The issue of the question is the second topic we shall address with regard to Of Hospitality. Strictly speaking, the seminar is named “Foreigner Question: Coming from Abroad / from the Foreigner” (Question d’étranger: venue de l’étranger), and Derrida explains the manifold meanings that the question of the foreigner entails. It can be a question about the foreigner, to the foreigner, or from the foreigner. Since Derrida points out that the stranger is the questioner par excellence (particularly in the Platonic dialogues, as it turns out), it appears that the question from

Postscript 231 the foreigner is the most important of the three meanings. Specifically, any question about the foreigner has to take into account the fact that the foreigner is the one who questions. Already at this early point, Derrida engages with Levinas5 and the “situation of the third person and of justice, which Levinas analyzes as ‘the birth of the question’” (Hosp. 5). This is a peculiar reference to Levinas since it starts with the topic that Levinas would never raise fi rst. For Levinas, this topic arises only after the issue of the Other, and similarly, justice arises only after ethics. As the term “the third” already indicates, it is difficult to see the relevance of the third prior to the original dyad. By taking this unusual approach, Derrida may be suggesting two things. Firstly, he appears to think of his readers and listeners as those who are already familiar with Levinas’s approach and its questions or problems.6 Secondly, it is implied—although this implication is less obvious and more questionable—that the topic of the third party is more important and occurs at an earlier moment than Levinas seems to admit. Perhaps Derrida’s philosophy, or at least his writings on the issues of justice, hospitality, and sovereignty, can be read as an elaboration of the issue of the third, which Levinas discusses so sparingly.7 It is indeed noteworthy that Levinas talks of the third party as the “birth of the question” (Peace 186). Since ethics, for Levinas, means my being called into question by the Other, one may start to wonder whether it follows that the third, as the birth of the question, is a condition for the possibility of ethics. But it seems that at best, there could be a codependence between ethics and the third in this respect. Moreover, the third party might not be the birth of ethical questioning so much as it is the birth of the question as question, that is, as thematized, which means having turned the saying (or posing) of the question into a said (or posed) question. This would be the Levinasian perspective, which Derrida appears to support as well as to problematize. Derrida himself is interested not so much in the birth of the question as in the “question of the question” (Hosp. 5) and, later on, the “law of the law.” Such formulations stress that Derrida does not want to subscribe to a specific methodology, thus undertaking a phenomenology, hermeneutics, ethics, or deconstruction of the question. Instead, he wants to ask about the question of the question, exploring how far the question itself takes us. It takes us to the distinction between questions about, to, and from the foreigner, and it takes us to the foreigner as the paradigmatic questioner. The foreigner is a foreigner predominantly because of his or her foreign language. Interesting problems emerge from the passage at the beginning of the Apology, where Socrates describes himself as a stranger to the court (and its language). As we have seen (Chapter 11), it is important to realize that all of us are to some extent strangers since we grow into a context or a world that precedes us; this is a world determined through language, narratives, art, etc. The foreigner who has already learned our language thus

232 Plato and Levinas still remains a foreigner, especially to the local courts and laws. And even the one who is as closely connected to his home polis as possible—namely, Socrates—feels a stranger to the context of the court, which he questions, albeit without success. The topic of strangeness is thus significant for an understanding of what a question is, and Derrida, much more so than Levinas, moves us toward this topic. At the same time, our usual preconceptions about a clear-cut distinction between the home and the alien are raised to a higher level of complication. The theme of strangeness can help us to understand other issues. We indicated before (Chapter 11) that the relation between a homeworld or nation and an alienworld or nation might bring out certain features of the relation between me and the Other more clearly, including its irreducibility and asymmetry. Derrida’s text repeatedly draws parallels between the self and the city (e.g., Hosp. 15, 51). ‘Xenophobia’ thus becomes a widespread phenomenon that emerges from the fear that the “home,” in the widest sense, might be violated (Hosp. 53). My wish to protect myself is a certain form of xenophobia, and xenophobia on one level might help me to see it on a different level. This would not be a justification for xenophobia, to be sure, but a reason to question it. III.) The parallel between self and city is taken to an extreme level when Derrida explores the idea of a political unconscious, which is our third topic: blindness and the unconscious. Blindness is a fascinating issue in the legal realm: Justitia is traditionally supposed to be blindfolded in order to pass fair judgments, not unlike the encounter between souls in Plato’s Gorgias. At the same time, a blindness in the person to be judged may make that person less responsible for his or her deeds—and thus less guilty. Derrida brings up Oedipus as the classic example. Since he himself was ignorant of his deeds, Oedipus pleads not guilty, accusing in turn the city of Thebes and its laws. Is such a move possible? Can the laws of a city bear responsibility? Derrida says that there is a certain way in which the laws act, as it were, by creating their own outside and their own outlaws. Yet “there is nothing surprising in that, ultimately” (Hosp. 39). This form of bearing responsibility is unsurprising; it is part of the process of forming totalities. More interesting is the fact that the laws, upon closer scrutiny, themselves turn out to be partly ignorant or unconscious, such that the original problem replicates itself on a higher level. The parallel between the self and the city thus applies to both dimensions: responsibility as well as blindness. Both the individual person and the state are responsible in an ambiguous fashion, as interspersed with ignorance (rather than full transparency). In fact, responsibility is not opposed to but shot through with blindness; this was already Hegel’s response to Kant when pointing out that we need to act despite not knowing all the consequences of such an act. For Levinas as well as Derrida, such an insight does not mean a diminishing of my responsibility but belongs to the very essence of responsibility, ultimately even increasing it. Derrida points out

Postscript 233 that the blind person might well be super-seeing, thus symbolizing a certain kind of madman. The fact that Derrida fi nds a level of blindness and the unconscious both in the person and on the level of the city strengthens the parallel between self and state, which we have sought to explore. This parallel continues into the private/public distinction, which corresponds to the self/Other distinction; in both cases, we fi nd that the two dimensions are always already intertwined. IV.) Even though there is neither a purely private, nor a purely public sphere, it is important not to eliminate one in favor of the other. In particular, hospitality presupposes some level of privacy since I cannot offer my hospitality to the guest or foreigner if I have nothing to give. Derrida elaborates on this problem with the help of Kant’s text, “On a supposed right to lie out of philanthropy”; the issue of lying shall be our fourth and fi nal theme. Kant argues for unconditional honesty on the basis of internal contradictions that result from lies since we could no longer trust each other’s word if everybody was permitted to lie when it became necessary to do so. Derrida examines Kant’s demand for unconditional honesty by first focusing on the nature of speech acts. Every speech act promises the truth; “I can always lie, of course [ . . . ], but that will signify quite simply that therefore I’m not speaking to someone else, end of story” (Hosp. 67). According to Derrida, lying ultimately means playing the game of Gyges, that is, to shut myself off from others. But is the story not more complicated, given that I do involve others when I lie, possibly misleading and manipulating them? So far, Derrida is simply following Kant’s logic in his own words, pointing out that lying involves a failure to treat the Other as Other. Derrida’s remarks on Kant, which form the concluding section of the text on hospitality, are very difficult to interpret. While it seems obvious enough that Derrida is criticizing Kant, it is less clear what the criticism consists in and what alternative suggestion, if any, Derrida is proposing. We are concerned with Derrida’s reproach to Kant since our interest lies with Levinas, and it seems likely that Derrida’s critique of Kant’s position also affects Levinas’s position. Derrida points out that Kant destroys “any right of keeping something to oneself” and, as a consequence, any right to “the internal hearth, to the home” (Hosp. 69). It seems that Levinas would equally renounce my “right” to keep something to myself. I am capable of doing so, and my egoistic enjoyment even depends on this possibility, but that does not give me the right to do so; it is not ethical to play the game of Gyges. Derrida’s presentation immediately reveals the problem of this position in the context of hospitality, and he chooses Kant’s text “On a supposed right to lie out of philanthropy” because the example at stake indeed concerns hospitality or the issue of betraying the person who is staying in my house. Being honest to the assassin at my door obviously makes me an awful host, and furthermore, it becomes obvious that a person who is denied privacy, any home or hearth, cannot by defi nition be a good host since such a

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person has nothing to give to the guest, no home to share. Would Derrida thus conclude that Levinas’s ethics of unconditional welcome is contradictory? Perhaps, but contradiction as such cannot be a counterargument in the realm of paradoxes. Derrida does not dismiss the concept of unconditional hospitality as useless; on the contrary, he builds his own text on hospitality around it. The critique of Kant’s philosophy does not seem to concern unconditionality as such but, rather, a conflation of different realms at the core of Kant’s text. Derrida asks whether the Kantian host “treats the one who is staying with him as a foreigner,” and the answer is: “Yes and no. He treats him as a human being, but he sets up his relationship to the one who is in his house as a matter of the law” (Hosp. 71). In Levinasian terms, the Kantian host fails to treat the Other as Other and instead treats him as a “third party,” subject to laws, legality, politics. He fails to see the Other as a unique Other and as a vulnerable guest, in need of protection in the house of the host. Instead, the guest is treated like anybody else, in light of the question: What would happen to the concept of honesty if everybody was free to lie out of humanity? Kant takes as his starting point all human subjects in their equality rather than the unique Other who needs my help. It follows that Kantian unconditionality is not unconditional in the Levinasian and Derridian senses. Kant subjects unconditional hospitality to the realm of laws and transparency. But if it is subjected to this realm, unconditional hospitality cannot emerge as such, and the confl ict between the unconditional and conditional realm does not surface either since the unconditional is already subject to the conditional. Yet is it really possible to claim that Kant, the philosopher of unconditional laws and demands, did not truly think the unconditional? It seems that Kant thinks a different concept of the unconditional. Kant is concerned with an unconditional that does not depend on conditions in the realm of laws and hypotheses whereas Derrida, following Levinas, thinks unconditional hospitality as a level prior to all conditions, a level at which one is called upon by the Other, and a level from which all conditions derive their meaning. Unconditional hospitality is thus not free from (preexisting) conditions but belongs to a different level to such conditions.8 Derrida frequently uses terms like “singular” and “incalculable” in relation to the unconditional, thereby emphasizing its connection to the singularity of the Other. In a different text, Derrida describes the “aporia of responsibility” in terms that appear to be a continuation of the dialogue with Kant which concludes Of Hospitality: Such is the aporia of responsibility: one always risks not managing to accede to the concept of responsibility in the process of forming it. For responsibility (we would no longer dare speak of “the universal concept of responsibility”) demands on the one hand an accounting, a general answering-for-oneself with respect to the general, and hence the idea of substitution; and, on the other hand, uniqueness, absolute

Postscript 235 singularity, hence nonsubstitution, nonrepetition, silence and secrecy. (The Gift of Death, p. 61) Some level of secrecy is necessary for responsibility and for hospitality. If I do not have a home, I cannot offer it to the Other. To what extent does the Derridean critique of Kant concern Levinas? When Derrida shows how hospitality presupposes the possession of a home, having something of one’s own, this seems compatible with Levinas’s ethics as an ethics of absolute welcome and openness. To the extent that there are different realms in question here, Levinas could point out that despite already having the Other in me, there is a secondary level on which I do have a home, a home of enjoyment, to which I can welcome the Other. In the end, everything hinges on the relation between these two realms or between the conditional and the unconditional. The most important question concerning the concept of hospitality and the relation between Levinas and Derrida can thus be stated as follows: What is the relationship between unconditional hospitality and conditional hospitality? Firstly and most obviously, Derrida emphasizes that the two cannot be combined, integrated, or synthesized. The tension between them has to remain; the paradox cannot be resolved. The best Derridean term to describe their relation would be “irreducibility” (Forg. 44), indicating that we are confronted with the general kind of relation that exists between me and the Other, according to Levinas. Derrida examines the relation in more depth and arrives at an interesting problem: conditional hospitality cannot be grounded in unconditional hospitality (due to the irreducibility of the one to the other), yet conditional hospitality would have “no meaning” without unconditional hospitality.9 To say that a grounding in unconditional hospitality is impossible might fi rst appear to evade questions about the practice of such a grounding; it is indeed true that such a question could not be answered. But it is more than an evasion strategy. Irreducibility and heterogeneity reveal the character of unconditional hospitality as an abyss rather than a ground and emphasize that the relation between unconditional and conditional hospitality—and, in turn, the relation between ethics and politics—has to be a relation of interruption rather than grounding. Levinas’s request that politics should be traced back to ethics, which has been our concern in this study, does not imply that politics could or should be grounded in ethics. Nevertheless, mundane hospitality would have no meaning without unconditional hospitality. Does it follow that politics would have no meaning without ethics? Yes, if ethics is taken in the Levinasian sense, as pure ethics, infi nite responsibility. Derrida seems to distance himself from this concept of ethics in his late book Rogues, which returns him again to the unconditional. He states that “unconditional hospitality, as impossible” is “heterogeneous to the political, the juridical, and even the ethical” (Rogues 172, fn. 12). Instead, Derrida proposes a “hyperethics”

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(and a “hyperpolitics”) (152). Yet to the extent that unconditional hospitality belongs to the level of hyperethics, Derrida does not seem to distance himself from Levinas so much as suggest a terminological clarification to point out that Levinas’s term “ethics” could be mistaken for ethics in the common sense. As we have reached a point at which the differences between Levinas and Derrida become increasingly difficult to discern, it might be helpful to turn back to Plato. One crucial difference between Levinas and Derrida seems to emerge from the divergent roles they attribute to Plato, where Derrida sees continuity from Plato through the entire history of Western philosophy while Levinas observes discontinuity regarding most aspects of Plato’s philosophy.10 Derrida stresses Plato’s unconditional rationalism, a rationalism that one would expect Levinas to also be concerned about— especially given the famous Socratic formula “To know the Good is to do the Good,” which runs counter to the Levinasian primacy of ethics over epistemology. Interestingly, Derrida is not opposed to Plato’s rationalism as such (which he also fi nds in Kant and Husserl) but criticizes Plato (and others) for not taking this rationalism far enough. Derrida describes deconstruction as an “unconditional rationalism [ . . . ] of criticizing unconditionally all conditionalities” (Rogues 142). While he admits (in a gesture that once again resembles Levinas) that Plato’s idea of the Good beyond Being constitutes the “fi rst figure of the ‘unconditional’” (Rogues 138 f.), Plato appears to fall short of a radically unconditional rationalism in two respects. Firstly, Plato links his rationalism to the state, turning it into a “state rationalism” (139)—and Derrida points out that “state power is originally excessive and abusive” (156) or, as Levinas would put it, tyrannical. Plato’s rationalism thus falls short of questioning and problematizing the link between reason and the state.11 Secondly, Plato’s rationalism does not recognize the following: “A ‘responsibility’ or a ‘decision’ cannot be founded on or justified by any knowledge as such, that is, without a leap between two discontinuous and radically heterogeneous orders” (Rogues 145). While Plato in general helps us to think radically heterogeneous orders and provides us with the fi rst figure of the unconditional, his philosophy of knowing the Good as doing the Good seems to forget this original insight. Perhaps it could be said that Levinas and Derrida come out on different sides of certain essential ambiguities in Plato’s philosophy—and, in that sense, fail to see these ambiguities as such. Derrida stresses Plato’s rationalism (in the Republic) whereas Levinas emphasizes his irrationalism, Eros, winged or delirious thought, madness (in the Phaedrus). Although less explicitly discussed by Levinas and Derrida, we should also remember their very different responses to Plato’s Phaedrus and the myth of Theuth. Whereas Derrida takes this myth to be a critique of writing12 and points out the dangers and inconsistencies of such a critique, Levinas joins Socrates in emphasizing the need for the speaker to come to the assistance of his or her

Postscript 237 speech. As a consequence, we also do not fi nd the Levinasian and Platonic critique of art and works in Derrida. Interestingly, Derrida’s position regarding the ancient struggle regarding the truth of art neither coincides with nor opposes the Platonic/Levinasian position. Derrida does not claim that art moves us farther away from or closer to the truth. Instead, he complicates the question by showing that the concept of truth is itself questionable.13 In the end, the truth in painting has to remain something owed, a certain debt, something to be desired, yet not to be achieved. We might wonder once again whether the account of trace, beauty, and Eros in the Phaedrus is much more fruitful in this respect than the all-too-familiar model of original and copy. A work of art points beyond itself not to an original but to an excess, which it can never reach and to which it remains so closely tied that it is forever on the way, always indebted, never fi nished. While Levinas prefers the figures of assisted speech and winged thought from the Phaedrus, Derrida’s favorite figure seems to be that of madness, mania.14 Madness can help us to understand forgiveness, according to Derrida, since our task is to grasp the truth that forgiveness belongs to the order of the impossible rather than the possible. Hospitality belongs to the same order, the order of paradox, of the impossible, of madness. In that sense, reflections on the artistic and the erotic will ultimately shed light on hospitality since they illuminate our experience of madness and an excessive alterity beyond our grasp. Ethics means to be open even to the madman; it means that I am put into question to such an extent that I cannot but oscillate between calling myself, the Other, or both of us mad. It is not surprising that reason encounters its limits here, when trying to comprehend the relation between unconditional and conditional hospitality. This irreducible relationship cannot be grasped in any complete fashion; it cannot be reduced to a less paradoxical figure of thought. We can understand it just as little as we understand love. When discussing the paradoxical role of the name in relation to hospitality (as naming makes hospitality both possible and impossible), Derrida points out that we also pose the question about the name to “those we love” (Hosp. 29). And it is not clear whether it is “more just and more loving to question or not to question, to call by the name or without the name” (ibid.). Naming and questioning can be gestures of endearment and acceptance, or gestures of violence and rejection. This ambiguity is also irreducible. Without closing this complicated conversation between Levinas and Derrida (and we have not at all examined the explicit conversation that occurs between them), the most tangible difference probably concerns their awareness of paradoxes and ambiguities. Derrida’s thought is inherently attuned to paradoxes and irreducible ambiguity. He points out that “both calculation and the incalculable are necessary” (Rogues 150). Levinas, although he diagnoses ambiguities, tends to move on or rather to move back to the level of pure ethics and unconditionality, instead of exploring the paradox

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in its duplicity. While Derrida’s awareness of paradoxes and ambiguities as such might appear more balanced, Levinas would perhaps point out that it becomes too tempting to neglect the irreducibility and heterogeneity between the two orders if both are discussed in similar ways and to a similar extent. Since we are already familiar with the order of laws, rights, and conditions and tend to fall back on it, would it not be more important for us to focus on the impossible level of unconditional hospitality? However, the paradox can only emerge as such if both orders and the heterogeneity between them are recognized. Many further questions remain to be explored here, especially now that three and not just two figures are in play. Yet such explorations have to remain a debt owed.

Notes

NOTES TO THE INTRODUCTION 1. See Plato, Apology 17d; Phaedrus 230d. For more detailed references and reflections, see Chapter 11. 2. Consequently, it becomes the most important task of these philosophers as well as their commentators to resolve this inconsistency, as in the case of Immanuel Kant and his ‘postulate of God’s existence.’ 3. Following Levinas’s distinction between “l’autre” and “l’autrui,” I shall reserve the term “Other” with capital “O” for the human other or absolute other, whereas “other” refers to otherness in general. 4. The phenomenological method and Levinas’s relation to it will be discussed briefly in section (e) of this Introduction. 5. See Part IV. 6. Kant plays an essential role in Levinas’s philosophy; along with Plato, he arguably has had the strongest influence on Levinas’s ethics. The categorical imperative is a universal principle that, according to Levinas, succeeds in staying connected to the human: “If one had the right to retain one trait from a philosophical system [ . . . ], we would think here of Kantism, which fi nds a meaning to the human without measuring it by ontology” (OB 129/166). And yet, he also writes: “Kantism is the basis of philosophy, if philosophy is ontology” (OB 179/226). For an insightful discussion of these statements and the concept of “Kantism” in Levinas’s philosophy, see Davies (1998). 7. Hegel criticizes Kant’s practical philosophy for being overly formal and empty. As a philosopher of history, Hegel focuses on the cultural specificity expressed in the spirits of different peoples (German Volksgeister). Whether we agree with the details and conclusions of Hegel’s approach to culture and history or not, he is arguably the one who makes us most aware of the intermediate and mediating role of cultural worlds. Another philosopher among Levinas’s interlocutors who analyzed cultural worlds was Husserl; he calls such worlds “homeworlds” (German Heimwelten) and “alienworlds” (German Fremdwelten). See Chapter 11. 8. The chapters in this study differ somewhat in style, depending on whether they deal with more uncommon, perhaps marginalized topics (such as “apology” or the “stranger”) or with rather large and central topics (ethics, politics, art, etc.). In the case of the latter topics, I attempt to explain how the themes are restricted by the question of this study, and there will naturally also be more engagement with the secondary literature, although this will mostly be limited to endnotes. 9. Cf. Levinas’s interviews in Ethics and Infi nity, Entre Nous, and Is it Righteous to Be? as well as Derrida’s quotation from Joyce at the end of “Violence

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Notes

and Metaphysics”: “Jewgreek is greekjew. Extremes meet.” The task of this study will mostly be to ground Levinas in the tradition of Western philosophy as embodied by Plato, Kant, and Hegel. The Jewish origin is equally important but has been and will continue to be examined by other interpreters, such as Catherine Chalier and Claire Katz. 10. Although this is a controversial issue, it seems to me that Levinas’s Talmudic Writings and political interviews are not philosophical texts as such, according to his own understanding of philosophy, and that it is reasonable to focus predominantly on those theories which he presents in his main philosophical works as well as in his shorter essays. 11. This certainly holds true for Totality and Infi nity; in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Plato’s Parmenides is equally important. 12. See Derrida, “Plato’s Pharmacy.” 13. See Heidegger, Plato’s Sophist. Even though Heidegger’s lecture course focuses mainly on the Sophist, an extended section is devoted to the Phaedrus. This section provides an interesting alternative to Derrida’s interpretation, as I will explore in Chapter 9. 14. Heidegger, Plato’s Sophist, p. 223/321. 15. Here we receive another hint as to the impossibility of separating a speech’s form from its content: the fact that a speech needs to be based on an insight into ‘what it is’ (ti estin) that the speech is about concerns not the form of the speech, but the speech as such. 16. In the Symposium, Eros is described as a spirit, in between humans and gods (Symp. 202a–204a). 17. So Plato argues in the Republic (377d ff.). 18. A fourth argument could be made by pointing out logical inconsistencies in the argument that one should give favors to a nonlover: Why would anybody make this argument if he/she was not in love? Seth Benardete describes this inconsistency very well when he states that “the non-lover was simply the lover in disguise” (Benardete (1991), p. 176). 19. It fi rst seems that the bad horse is at fault when the souls strike and damage one another, but Socrates says explicitly that it is the fault of bad charioteers if this happens (248b). It is the charioteer’s task to pay attention and to keep the chariot on the right track. The horses’ task is to pull the chariot along, and it is clear from the beginning that they will do so in different fashions; the charioteer has to balance the more earthbound horse with the horse that is directed toward the heavens. 20. What Socrates does not explain is how the bad horse is drawn to the loved one’s soul: Has it, after all, caught a little glimpse of beauty and recognizes it in the loved one’s soul? Or does it simply go after everything that the charioteer directs its nose toward? The movement does not appear to be without a direction. If our desire is always instigated by a memory of beauty, if this is indeed the reason and explanation for all desire, then the bad horse has to have some connection to beauty as well. It may not itself participate in beauty, but it seems to be quite capable of desiring it. 21. I am paraphrasing Hegel’s words from the Science of Logic (Log. I, 67). 22. This suggestion does not contradict G. R. F. Ferrari’s warning that we should not struggle to unify the Phaedrus (Ferrari (1987), p. 232). Ferrari is right to point out that the nature of the Phaedrus prevents an entirely unified account of its theme or question; yet if the dialogue deals with the relation between logos and Eros (where both elements of the relation need to be examined further), the dialogue is neither entirely unified, nor does it fall into two disparate parts. 23. See Chapter 9.

Notes

241

24. Levinas’s shorter writings and his early works will also be referred to on occasion. A number of the shorter texts will prove quite pertinent for this study, but due to their limited format, they do not require any prior introduction. The early writings are less relevant since Levinas does not discuss Plato as extensively in those works and since these works do not yet primarily focus on ethics. Interestingly, the early text, Time and the Other even contains several passages in which Levinas is quite critical of Plato (e.g., 86, 92 ff.). Without examining this criticism and the move to Platonism in the middle and late works, I would like to suggest that the shift to Plato goes hand in hand with the turn to ethics. 25. Such circularity would not be vicious, but enriching, in a fashion similar to the hermeneutical circle (see p. 21 f.), although Levinas would not call his procedure hermeneutical. 26. Richard A. Cohen, “Foreword” to the English edition of Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, p. xii. 27. Levinas in Poirié (1996), p. 151. 28. I am aware that these difficulties, along with several others, have been thematized in a much more subtle fashion by Derrida in “Violence and Metaphysics.” However, I choose to give a simplified presentation of the problem at this early point. 29. Classic examples would be waiting at the bus stop for five minutes as opposed to watching an exciting movie for five minutes, etc. 30. Heidegger, Being and Time, p. 20. 31. He develops this approach fi rst in Time and the Other through a critique of Heidegger’s philosophy. Levinas argues that Heidegger essentially restricts his ability to think alterity understood in the guise of “Mitsein” by focusing on Being-toward-death and the corresponding mood, anxiety. 32. Aristotle, Metaphysics, 1028 a. 33. This idea is similar to the insight in the Phaedrus and other dialogues that logos has an ethical dimension from the start. 34. Mattéi (2000), Sandford (1991 & 2001), Peperzak (1997a), Benso (2008), Achtenberg (2008), Gonzalez (2008), Naas (2008). 35. Of particular importance are Drew Hyland’s Questioning Platonism (with chapters on Heidegger, Derrida, Irigaray, Cavarero, and Gadamer) and John Sallis’s Platonic Legacies (focusing mostly on Nietzsche, Heidegger, and Arendt). 36. Peperzak (1997a), p. 120. 37. While the most important interlocutor in Totality and Infi nity, aside from Plato, is Heidegger, it seems that Husserl is on the same level as Plato in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence. 38. Levinas criticizes Plato’s notion of learning as remembrance; see Chapter 4. 39. In this context, Levinas quotes Goethe’s Faust: “Das Schaudern ist der Menschheit bestes Teil” (OB 175/221). 40. For a discussion of this critique, see Chapter 9. 41. Plato mentions “a sort of parricide,” directed against Parmenides, in the Sophist (241d). Derrida discusses the issue of parricide in various texts, in relation to Levinas (“Violence and Metaphysics,” p. 132 f.) and more generally (e.g., Of Hospitality, “Plato’s Pharmacy”). 42. OB 190n.35/64n. & 199n.25/204n. This myth will be discussed in detail in Chapter 6. 43. See Chapter 11. 44. Michael Naas follows this shift in Levinas’s thought from Time and the Other (1946–47) to God, Death, and Time (1975) and describes the development as follows: “But then [after the 1940s and 1950s] begins the progressive

242

45.

46.

47.

48. 49.

50. 51.

52.

53. 54.

Notes rehabilitation of Plato as Levinas turns toward the ethical rather than the ontological and epistemological dimensions of Plato’s thought” (Naas (2008), p. 82). To give just one example: When Levinas states that Plato makes a “world without time” (TO 93), he echoes a traditional understanding of Plato and Platonism (in this case, the doctrine of eternal Forms), but does not seek a fruitful engagement about the relation of world and time. Michael Naas has noted that this sentence is missing in the English translation (Naas (2008), p. 99, fn. 5). Naas also points out that Levinas, when asked about this statement in a 1985 interview printed at the end of In the Time of the Nations, interprets the statement from 1955 contrary to the original context, perhaps misremembering it. It seems that after his increased later engagement with Plato, Levinas mistook his own early critical comment on Plato for a positive one: “I do not reject my attachment to Platonism, because to owe the daring formulation ‘beyond Being’ to Plato is a luck” (TN 178). Günter Figal is right to point out that philosophy’s division into disciplines “cannot and should not be disputed”; nor can it be “forgotten or reversed.” Yet Figal also notes that “the division does not preclude philosophy having a structure made up of different questions that are only really meaningful taken together” and that it is in Plato’s notion of the Good that “we fi nd traces of philosophy’s variegated structure” (Figal (2000), p. 86). It would be worth exploring what assumptions Aristotle’s division is based on, and whether a different kind of division is conceivable, which places the Good beyond Being at the center (or which places ethics as fi rst philosophy). See Chapter 5. The following reflections on phenomenology are deliberately general since it would take the space of an entire volume even to attempt doing justice to the different perspectives, reinterpretations, possible contradictions, deliberate or nondeliberate misinterpretations of phenomenology on Levinas’s part. It would be fascinating, for example, to compare Levinas’s very different, if not diametrically opposed, discussions of “representation” in Totality and Infi nity and “The Ruin of Representation.” Heidegger, Being and Time, p. 34 f. For example, Levinas writes: “I have attempted a ‘phenomenology’ of sociality starting from the face of the other person—from proximity—by understanding in its rectitude a voice that commands before all mimicry and verbal expression, in the mortality of the face, from the bottom of this weakness” (“Diachrony and Representation,” in Time and the Other, p. 109). And also: “I think that, in spite of everything, what I do is phenomenology, even if there is no reduction, here, according to the rules required by Husserl, even if all of the Husserlian methodology is not respected” (GCM 87/140). The full passage runs: “I do not believe that there is a transparency possible in method. Nor that philosophy might be possible as transparency. Those who have worked on methodology all their lives have written many books that replace the more interesting books that they could have written” (GCM 89/143). I am relying here on the concept of hermeneutics as developed by Martin Heidegger and Hans-Georg Gadamer, without entering into the intricacies of their hermeneutical theories. Adriaan Peperzak discusses Levinas’s relation to hermeneutics. He establishes some sympathy in Levinas to several elements of the hermeneutical method but states: “He [Levinas] would not agree, however, with the hermeneutic school insofar as it proclaims the absolute universality of the horizon

Notes

55. 56. 57. 58.

59.

60.

61.

243

and the absolute necessity of contextualization” (Peperzak (1998/2005), p. 349). It can certainly be contested that hermeneutics, at least in the form it takes with Heidegger and Gadamer, does make these proclamations. It might follow that Levinas is even closer to hermeneutics than Peperzak admits; but investigating this relation would lead us too far astray. Heidegger, Being and Time, p. 152 f. Levinas, “The Old and the New” in Time and the Other, p. 121 ff. I have discussed some of these approaches elsewhere, arguing that the esoteric approaches are based on one-sided readings of the critique of writing in the Phaedrus (Staehler (2009)). Let me give just one analytic example from a very well-known piece of Plato literature, Irwin’s Plato’s Ethics. At least three assumptions go into Irwin’s reading, and he shares these with most analytic interpretations of Plato, as far as I can see: (a) There are defi nite theses put forth by Plato which can be distilled from his dialogues. (b) It is possible to differentiate between Socrates and Plato concerning their positions. (c) There is a distinct difference between our current convictions and those of the Greeks, and we can assess this difference. (Irwin (1995), p. 1 f.). All of these strike me as rather problematic, and my reading is determined by the following, much more modest convictions: (a) The dialogue character of Plato’s work is important, and while there are defi nite positions and arguments in the text, these can neither be clearly attributed to Plato nor compared across dialogues in a straightforward fashion. (b) The differentiation between Plato and Socrates is so questionable that we will use ‘Socrates’ simply to designate the dialogue participant in the Platonic dialogues, without considering the ‘historical Socrates.’ (c) History and the historicality of different cultural worlds is a complicated topic which requires philosophical reflection (see Chapter 12). A stronger and more problematic conviction that underlies my reading and which can only be substantiated later is based on certain Platonic and Levinasian arguments about transcendence and universality and can be phrased as follows: there is an essential ambiguity in the phenomena themselves (e.g., Eros, art) which reflects the historicality of the world while also transcending it on some basic level. We can thus understand Plato’s concerns about the ambiguous nature of art and (possibly) fi nd them convincing even though this ambiguity is manifested differently in contemporary artworks. While Drew Hyland presents the traditional approaches and their shortcomings very convincingly, he goes too far, to my mind, when he claims that Socrates presents his ideas about immortality in the Phaedo because he is speaking to the weeping Pythagoreans whom he can most effectively calm down (and thus prepare for dialogue) in this fashion (Hyland (2002), p. 267). It will then also turn out that there are not really “two Platos” in Levinas (Mattéi (2000), p. 79), but that both Plato and Levinas are investigating certain inherently ambiguous phenomena, and Levinas takes up the Platonic inspiration while sometimes introducing a critique or a corrective. Hegel, for example, wrote his Science of Logic to represent the thoughts of God before the creation of the world (Logik 141). Overall, Hegel is a

244 Notes complicated case since his understanding of history (or of truth) does not coincide by any means with that of a radical historicist. 62. See Chapter 11. 63. See Chapter 7. 64. See Chapter 12.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 1. Some translations name Gyges as the main protagonist of the story whereas others ascribe it to an ancestor of Gyges. This divergence is based on the fact that there are in fact two slightly different versions of the Greek text in circulation. Since my concern lies with the general idea of the myth, this difference is immaterial. 2. This myth is referred to and discussed throughout this study, especially in Chapter 9. 3. Merleau-Ponty, “The Philosopher and His Shadow,” p. 178. 4. Herodotus, The Histories 8–13. 5. Cf. TI 150/124: “The whole of this work aims to show a relation with the other not only cutting across the logic of contradiction, where the other of A is the non-A, the negation of A, but also across dialectical logic, where the same dialectically participates in and is reconciled with the other in the Unity of the system.” 6. This potentially controversial claim cannot be argued for here, but it is explored in the last two chapters of Staehler (2003). 7. Especially in Husserl’s case, certain discoveries about an essential evasiveness in the ego seem to occur more or less inadvertently, and he seems genuinely disturbed by these fi ndings. 8. For detailed and subtle accounts of this experience, see Derrida, Speech and Phenomena, and Other Essays on Husserl’s Theory of Signs and Held (1966). 9. We do not need to examine here the extent to which this Hegel interpretation—for which Butler names authors such as Rotenstreich, Nancy, and Malabou (GAO 138, fn. 13)—is adequate or justified. Let me just mention that Butler’s claim about me never returning to myself might clash with the importance of the figure of the circle in Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit, especially in the last chapter. At the same time, this figure of the circle may confl ict internally with the idea of a certain kind of progress or progression implied in his dialectic which has led interpreters to replace the image of a circle with that of a spiral. On the basis of the spiral image, the impossibility of a complete return could more easily be argued. 10. See Chapter 6 and 7. 11. Butler uses the term “mediation” when describing the role of language (GAO 28). 12. Despite the fact that I am proposing a Heideggerian term to describe the role of language in Levinas’s philosophy, I am aware of the major differences between their respective accounts of language. Levinas would, for example, never want to call language the “house of Being.” 13. Cf. Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness. Derrida examines the necessity as well as impossibility of forgiveness; he combines a part of his critique of Levinas (namely, that the Other needs to have some specificity and that we need something to share in order to establish a relationship) with Levinasian insights regarding the impossibility of a ground that would be secure enough to make forgiveness possible.

Notes

245

14. For reasons that are unclear to me, Alphonso Lingis translates “psychisme” as “psyche” in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, thereby obscuring the continuity as well as the shifts in relation to “psychisme” in Totality and Infi nity (where he consistently renders it as “psychism”). In the citations given here from Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, I have used “psychism” rather than Lingis’s “psyche.” 15. In a footnote, Levinas writes: “The soul is the other in me” (OB 191n./86n.). 16. It would lead us too far astray to relate Levinas’s considerations on the soul to Plato’s soul as consisting of rational, appetitive, and spirited parts, in the Republic, or as likened to a chariot with charioteer and two horses in the Phaedrus. Suffice it to say that, for Plato, the appetitive part (or the bad horse, in the Phaedrus) designates an element of otherness in me, causing tension and perhaps confl ict. For Levinas, this Platonic account would be problematic since it cannot fully account for the egoistic and happy aspect of enjoyment that is so crucial for Levinas’s concept of interiority. Their different accounts of enjoyment will be discussed in Chapter 3. 17. Rudi Visker criticizes Levinas—in a way that is not altogether different from Judith Butler’s expansion of a Levinasian approach—precisely for the lack of a concept of recognition in his ethical account (Visker (2004), p. 175 ff.); but I do not see how recognition would have to be or even could be integrated into Levinas’s ethics.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 1. Left out are, for example, Sartre’s analyses. But since the phenomenological accounts only serve as a background for my discussion of corporeality in Plato and Levinas, such an omission appears justified. My main concern is to present a coherent—albeit incomplete—history in which one position emerges from the previous. 2. See Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, p. 90 ff. 3. It has to be kept in mind that this latter statement does not point to a biologistic philosophy in Husserl and Merleau-Ponty but simply serves to emphasize that our body enables as well as inhibits us, and we are not at all free-floating spirits, accessing the world from an immaterial and uninvolved standpoint. Asking what it means to be a human involves an examination of our bodily situatedness, bodily movement, and spatiality. 4. Levinas explicitly acknowledges this: “Merleau-Ponty, among others, and better than others, showed that disincarnate thought thinking speech before speaking it, thought constituting the world of speech [ . . . ] was a myth” (TI 205 f./180f.). For a detailed discussion of the various ways in which corporeality constitutes our access to the world, see Jakub Sirovátka (2006), pp. 41–76. 5. Merleau-Ponty, “Eye and Mind,” p. 167. 6. See Dillon (1983). Dillon explicates Merleau-Ponty’s late philosophy by focusing on its continuity with his early thinking, rather than considering it to constitute a radical break. According to Dillon, double sensations are instrumental for understanding his late notion of “chiasm.” 7. In certain ways, this interaction was already hinted at during the fi rst phase, by Husserl and the early Merleau-Ponty. Husserl explains the allure of the object by letting it speak to us, as it were: “There is still more to see here, turn me so you can see all my sides [ . . . ]” (ACPAS, 41). Yet in Merleau-Ponty’s late philosophy, there is no longer a distinct subject that is being solicited and

246 Notes

8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

can decide to turn toward or away from the object. It goes beyond the scope of this study to discuss how literally his ideas about the body and world being of the same “flesh” should be and could be taken. E.g., Merleau-Ponty, The Prose of the World, p. 52. In a laconic remark, Levinas states: “Dasein in Heidegger is never hungry” (TI 134/108). This lack has been pointed out by others before, and it has been investigated most recently by Ciocan (2008). See Chapter 6 for an exploration of these ethical implications. Levinas claims that aging is the profound form of “passive synthesis” (OB 52/67). This reference to Husserl’s Analyses Concerning Passive and Active Synthesis remains without explicit criticism of Husserl’s observations. It seems that Levinas strives to reach a deeper level of passive synthesis—a bodily one. From a Husserlian perspective, one might wonder whether Levinas attempts something like a synthesis of Husserl’s Ideas II (on the body) and Analyses Concerning Passive and Active Synthesis (where Husserl examines syntheses that occur prior to egoic activity, such as the flow of time consciousness, associations, etc.). See Chapter 5. See Chapter 6. My reading has been inspired in direct and indirect ways by John Sallis’s interpretation of the Phaedrus (in Sallis (1999)) and the ways in which Sallis draws our attention to the bodily and earthly dimensions in Plato’s dialogues. For some preliminary thoughts on the significance of logos, see my Introduction, p. 8–11. Nowadays, we might also have dialogues on the telephone or by writing letters to one another; but here as well, corporeality and materiality are involved. See Sallis (1999), p. 105 ff. For a more detailed account of teaching, see Chapter 4. This becomes manifest both in Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit and in Husserl’s notion of the phenomenological epoché, requiring us to bracket our assumptions. For a more detailed account of hermeneutics and hermeneutical circles, see the Introduction, section (e): “Methodological Remarks.” See the brief presentation of the critique of writing in the Introduction, p. 11. Cf. p. 9.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 1. When it comes to the alternative between enjoyment and suffering, the development of Levinas’s philosophy plays a role as well. For an exploration of enjoyment, the more detailed analyses can be found in Totality and Infi nity; and it is not surprising if we mostly turn toward Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence for a discussion of suffering. But it has to be kept in mind that, clearly, both dimensions are present in both works, and the more detailed analyses should not lead one to assume that there has been a shift from enjoyment to suffering. 2. Perhaps the other capacities are introduced to stay closer to common sense and also in an attempt to include everything which seems linked to knowledge and which the hedonist dismisses or does not want to claim. 3. This passage will be discussed in Chapters 7 and 12.

Notes

247

4. This early refutation of hedonism strikes me as important and convincing. It is based on human nature and the significance of temporality for our existence, and such an argument might well be more convincing than the later argument (Phil. 54e) which claims true pleasures do not have sufficient stability. The later argument can be characterized as a “purely ontological one” (Frede (1992), p. 454). 5. This insight also shines forth in Nietzsche’s philosophy, especially in The Gay Science. 6. The debates in the literature about the question as to why Socrates analyzes false pleasures, given that “if we review our everyday pleasures we will fi nd that few of our pleasures are of the propositional kind” (Frede (1985), p. 177), indirectly confi rm Levinas’s criticism. While it indeed seems plausible to interpret Socrates’ account of false pleasures to imply that some pleasures are not as innocuous as they may seem, but already have ethical implications (p. 178), Levinas would argue that a (phenomenologically) convincing account of pleasures will focus on the level which underlies the ethical interruption of my enjoyment. From a phenomenological perspective, Gosling’s frequent objection that Plato confuses the picture of a pleasure with the pleasure of a picture also seems questionable since it formalizes pleasure even beyond Plato’s own formalization (Gosling (1959), p. 52; Gosling (1975), p. 314 f.). 7. Earlier, less developed instances of Levinas’s criticism along these lines can be found in Time and the Other, where he argues that, “it is not right to judge enjoyment in terms of profits and losses” (TO 64n.), and in Existence and Existents, 30. 8. Although I may be able to close myself off against the call of the Other (as discussed in Chapter 1 with the help of the myth of Gyges), such hiding is not really a remedy. It does not diminish the call as such, nor does it absolve me from my responsibility. 9. Levinas does not pursue any examinations of childhood psychology here; when he talks of more original levels of life, this does not have developmental implications. Nevertheless, it could be interesting to relate MerleauPonty’s reflections on childhood experience to the Levinasian analyses of enjoyment. Merleau-Ponty provides a very good insight into the problem of solipsism, pointing out that the usual understanding of solipsism (and the philosophical “problem of solipsism”) ultimately use this term incorrectly since they already presuppose the existence of others and then abstract from it. True solipsism would require that I do not experience myself as a single self in distinction from other selves, but as the only self. In this case, however, there would not be a self qua self. “We are truly alone only on the condition that we do not know we are; it is this very ignorance which is our solitude” (PS, 174). Such might be the position of a baby, but it is not the position of the philosopher who reflects on the possibilities and dangers of solipsism. 10. We will briefly return to the theme of fecundity in Chapter 5. 11. Prior to giving birth, the child is literally underneath the mother’s skin. Birthgiving itself can be seen as the most intimate combination of proximity, suffering, and responsibility—or, as Levinas puts it: “Is not the restlessness of someone persecuted but a modification of maternity, the groaning of the wounded entrails by those it will bear or has borne? In maternity what signifies is a responsibility for others, to the point of substitution for others and suffering both from the effect of persecution and from the persecuting itself in which the persecutor sinks. Maternity, which is bearing par excellence, bears even responsibility for the persecuting by the persecutor” (OB 75/95).

248

Notes

12. For a detailed discussion of Levinas’s interpretation of penia and poros, see Gonzalez (2008). According to Gonzalez, Levinas shows how “neither need nor desire is a mere lack: the former is finding self-sufficiency and happiness in lacking, while the latter is fi nding this self-sufficiency and happiness to be themselves lacking” (Gonzalez (2008), p. 48). 13. “Suffering is a failing of happiness; it is not correct to say that happiness is an absence of suffering” (TI 115/87). 14. Llewelyn (1995), p. 78. 15. While it should be obvious from my earlier remarks about hermeneutics that I do not believe an entirely “correct” and unambiguous reading of a text can ever be given, there are sufficient indications that Plato, in his interpretation, does not quite follow Parmenides’ text and that Levinas, in turn, chooses a particular emphasis when reading Plato’s Parmenides. 16. A possible objection might consist in the question: How do we know about this most primordial level at all if it cannot be separated off and if it is concretely always experienced as either enjoyment or suffering? Since suffering cannot be described in any satisfactory way as a pure lack of enjoyment, and even less could enjoyment be just a lack of suffering, the one cannot be a ground for the other. However, this does not yet mean that a more primordial level of radically passive sensibility even exists. A possible response could refer to the Levinasian notion of trace, pointing out that traces of pure sensibility shine through in enjoyment as well as suffering. An alternative, less Levinasian response, would involve Husserl’s Analyses Concerning Passive and Active Synthesis to which Levinas refers in indirect ways. The level of passivity which Husserl investigates is different from Levinasian passivity since Levinas links passivity to sensibility; whereas Husserl is concerned with passive layers of consciousness. However, the methodological dilemma is a similar one. Husserl suggests that investigations into passivity are possible because there are pointers into it. For example, associations between certain thoughts happen without my active involvement, but I can trace them retroactively if I want to. In a similar, yet more complex fashion, my enjoyment can be traced to a radical exposure which could just as well turn into a suffering. Without such radical exposure, my happiness would not be what it is; it would not be as precarious and threatened.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 1. Furthermore, engaging with the Apology in some detail will be helpful for later purposes since this dialogue provides important insights both regarding the relation between philosophy and politics (cf. Chapter 8) and regarding the topic of strangeness (cf. Chapter 11). 2. Levinas seems to use the terms “speech” (parole) and “language” (langage), for the most part, interchangeably, yet speech is overall the better term for naming the specific character of Levinas’s conception (since it is the less common notion) whereas language is better suited for naming the general topic of language (including, but not restricted to, questions of linguistics and grammar). 3. Merleau-Ponty’s distinction between speaking language (langage parlant) and spoken language (langage parlé) bears some similarity to the Levinasian distinction between the ‘saying’ and the ‘said,’ which will be discussed in Chapter 9. However, Merleau-Ponty emphasizes the “firstness” of speaking language (by comparing it to the first word or to the child) rather than the appeal to the Other (or proximity, as Levinas calls it). Furthermore, Merleau-Ponty’s

Notes

4. 5. 6.

7.

8. 9.

10. 11. 12.

13.

14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

249

considerations on language cannot be called ethical from the start; where he connects language to ethical issues at all, he appears to take a Hegelian approach (see “Indirect Language and the Voices of Silence,” p. 108 f.). Heidegger, Hölderlins Hymnen “Germanien” und “Der Rhein,” p. 74. Heidegger, On the Way to Language, pp. 12 & 33. This is the case at the stage of Husserl’s Logical Investigations, which Derrida addresses in his Speech and Phenomena and Other Essays on Husserl’s Theory of Signs. Husserl himself moves beyond this view in his late philosophy (cf. Husserl, Husserliana XV & Steinbock (1995), Chapter 12). This holds true especially for Heidegger’s late philosophy. In Being and Time, his position is more complicated. Although Heidegger states that discourse is more original than language, he does not explore the role of Being-with in much detail (BT, § 34). Socrates addresses the Athenians as judges (18a) as well as witnesses (19d). When his case was decided, 281 of the 501 Athenians who acted as judges in the case of Socrates found him guilty. Before turning to these legal charges as brought forth by Meletus, Socrates addresses the “old charges,” which he deems more dangerous since they had been influential for a longer time and since the accusers mostly remain anonymous (aside from Aristophanes), thus being more difficult to confront. True to his philosophical spirit, Socrates thus searches for the origins of the charges rather than simply approaching them in their current format. At several points of his speech, he comes close to the proposition laid out in the Phaedrus, namely, that philosophy is a divine mania, a madness that is at the same time a gift from the gods. We have seen previously (Chapter 2b) that Socrates agrees insofar as he claims that the landscape cannot teach him much but humans in the city do (Phaedr. 230d). This is the position taken by Norman Wirzba, who takes Socrates as the prime example for a conception of teaching in terms of autonomy and hence is directly opposed to Levinas’s notion of heteronomy. Yet the defi nition of autonomy that Wirzba gives certainly does not fit Socratic teaching: “autonomy bespeaks the confident relation I have with the world such that I can appropriate and integrate it in terms comformable and comfortable to myself” (Wirzba (1995), p. 130). For reasons that I spell out in this chapter, it seems to me that Levinas’s view of teaching is in certain fundamental ways quite compatible with Socratic teaching. Anthony Steinbock describes teaching in the Levinasian sense as “way-faring” and “pointing”: “[T]he teacher is a pointer, as it were, where what is functional is not what the teacher is saying, or what the teacher tries to do. In fact, the teacher is not the issue, but a movement to the Infi nite” (Steinbock (2005), p. 126). See Chapter 11. An interesting discussion of these discrepancies can be found in the Theaetetus 173c ff. Thrasymachus in the Republic is a case in point. The allegory of the cave also shows that Levinas’s critique of Plato might not be quite fair: the prisoners are certainly not happy to listen to somebody who returns to the cave and alerts them to their restricted perspective. For a reading of the cave allegory in light of Levinas’s philosophy, see Schroeder (1998). It would be very difficult, if not impossible, to formulate the question of subjectivity as a question of Ancient Greek thought. Davies refers to the teacher–pupil relation with respect to time and asymmetry, observing that “teaching is impossible or at least meaningless if it does

250 Notes not entail the teacher’s taking responsibility, here and now, for a time that will belong to the pupil, a time that necessarily excludes the teacher” (Davies (2005), p. 119). 19. Cf. Chapters 9 and 10. 20. This topic will be discussed in Chapter 7.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 5 1. Sappho, Fragment 130: “Eros once again limb-loosener whirls me//sweetbitter (glukuprikon), impossible to fight off, creature stealing up,” translation by Anne Carson (Carson (1986), p. 3). 2. See Carson (1986), pp. 22 ff. & 31 ff. and Ferrari (1992). 3. Ferrari (1992), p. 262. 4. It is thus all the more surprising that for Ferrari, the bittersweetness of love only arises with Alcibiades’s entry into the Symposium; Ferrari (1992), p. 262. 5. It has been prepared for by the investigation of Eros in Time and the Other in which Levinas briefly touches upon a “phenomenology of voluptuousness and the caress” (TO 89), but—due to its focus on time and the future— moves rather quickly to the topic of fecundity. 6. Robert Bernasconi explains very well how the project of Totality and Infi nity is in fact concerned with exploring the “concretization” (TI 173/148) of the formal structure of transcendence (Bernasconi (2005a), p. 111). 7. In that sense, Levinas’s “Phenomenology of Eros” bears some resemblance with Merleau-Ponty’s chapter on “The Body in its Sexual Being” (PhP 154–73) where Merleau-Ponty shows that empiricism as well as intellectualism fail to capture the erotic. Cf. Levinas’s statements about the failure of physiology, which focuses merely on the “body-thing” (TI 258/235). 8. A consideration of the feminine in the context of an investigation into Eros indeed constitutes an important task for Levinas, as his early criticism of Plato (based on a rather standard reading of Plato’s Republic) shows: “Plato did not grasp the feminine in its specifically erotic notion” (TO 93). Levinas sets out to make up for this shortcoming. 9. EI 68. This statement, given as a response to feminist criticism by Simone de Beauvoir and others, appears somewhat plausible in light of the defi nition of femininity from Totality and Infi nity, which has just been quoted. However, several open questions remain, regarding the nature of masculinity but also regarding the relationship between femininity and womanhood. Even if femininity is a feature of all humans, would Levinas not have to say that women are more feminine than men? If so, the qualification given in this interview does not really resolve the objections raised by feminist critics. Without examining the feminist critique here, let me cite a helpful reminder provided by Bernasconi: “But it would perhaps be possible to argue that by writing of the Other of man as a woman, without exploring what it might mean for the Other of a woman to be a man, Levinas was simply preserving the asymmetry of a relation that necessarily excludes reciprocity” (Bernasconi (2005b), p. 11). 10. Cf. Luce Irigaray’s critique in An Ethics of Sexual Difference, p. 185 ff. In her reading of this critique, Tina Chanter brings out Irigaray’s notion of Eros as situated on the “threshold” of need and desire, and she stresses the ambiguity of Eros: “Halfway between sense and nonsense, between clarity and obscurity, [E]ros evinces not so much a duality as a thoroughgoing ambiguity” (Chanter (1995), p. 215).

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11. This myth is briefly discussed in the Introduction, p. 10. 12. Anne Carson describes how the “wing-growing” character of Eros leads us to the limits of our human understanding: “Eros’ wings mark a critical difference between gods and men, for they defy human expression,” when interpreting these poetic lines from the Phaedrus: “Now mortals call him winged Eros/but immortals call him Pteros, because of the wing-growing necessity” (Phaedr. 252c). We can ask who grows the wings, how they are being grown, and what constitutes the necessity for growing them—but we will not be able to obtain fi nal answers to these interrelated concerns (Carson (1986), p. 163). 13. In that sense, the experience could be likened to following traces in the snow yet never reaching the being that has left them. For an exploration of the way in which various senses of the trace, including rather mundane ones, are interconnected, see Krämer (2007). 14. The concept of the trace plays quite an important role in the Timaeus, as is shown by Sallis (Sallis (2000)). 15. In Levinasian terms, it points to a past that has never been a present. 16. Martha Nussbaum makes Alcibiades’ speech central to her reading of the Symposium; this is an unusual and convincing endeavor (Nussbaum (1986), pp. 166–99). She reaches an interesting conclusion, namely, that the Symposium teaches us just how much the Platonic conception of love and philosophy “requires us to give up” and that “philosophy is not fully human” (p. 198). However, in order to arrive at this conclusion, Nussbaum relies on a rather traditional reading of the doctrine of Forms. Furthermore, it seems to me that she overstates the way in which Alcibiades’ love is directed at Socrates as a particular being when Socrates, as we will see, stands in for the philosopher as well as for Eros. 17. While the individual child is obviously not immortal, but mortal like its parents, generativity itself appears as a structure that can in principle be indefinitely continued. 18. Luce Irigaray criticizes both Plato and Levinas in this respect, pointing out that love does not need to yield a product in order for it to be creative or fecund (ESD 25 ff.). 19. This turn strikes me as problematic not so much because love now strives to give rather than to attain—a feature that R. A. Markus reads as a Christian element in Plato’s thought, moving us from Eros to Agape (Markus (1971), p. 141 f.). The character of excess and overflowing, rather than the fulfi llment of a lack, can still be in line with a (phenomenological) characterization of Eros, as Levinas shows quite well. Problematic, however, is the productivity of this love, which is said to become manifest in defi nite objects. 20. We will briefly return to this ascent and Levinas’s comments on it in Chapter 7. 21. It is important to consider this ending and Alcibiades’ speech, especially to counter those commentaries that focus on the Diotima speech as if the dialogue fi nished there, thus even concluding that “Socrates’s philosophy was a philosophy of life in this world, while Plato’s was centred in another world” (Cornford (1971), p. 126). Whereas Cornford believes that Diotima’s comment about Socrates’ perhaps not being capable of the perfect revelation signifies the distance between Socrates and Plato (p. 125; see also Krüger (1992), p. 176), it seems much more plausible to me that this passage would serve as a reminder of how human nature is not in immediate contact with the beautiful in itself. 22. The claim that Plato is starting from everyday opinions on Eros differs from Ferrari’s claim that both the Symposium and the Phaedrus reflect a cliché about love: “In both cases, Plato takes one of love’s clichés and turns it to

252 Notes

23. 24.

25.

26.

his metaphysical advantage. In the Symposium, the cliché is ‘love promotes virtue.’ In the Phaedrus, it is ‘love is wild’” (Ferrari (1992), p. 268). Ferrari here implies that Plato does not move beyond the clichés and perhaps does not even explain their motivation but merely gives them a metaphysical foundation. Furthermore, the two clichés are certainly too specific; it would be dissatisfying to reduce either dialogue to them. Merleau-Ponty, “The Philosopher and His Shadow,” p. 178. In an interview with R. F. A. Gomez recorded in 1982, Levinas says this: “From the start, the encounter with the Other is my responsibility for him. That is the responsibility for my neighbor, which is, no doubt, the harsh name for what we call love of one’s neighbor; love without Eros, charity, love in which the ethical aspect dominates the passionate aspect, love without concupiscence” (EN 105). In “Diachrony and Representation” (1983), Levinas also speaks of “a love without concupiscence,” which he relates to the “love of the neighbor” (TO 110). In Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Eros plays no role anymore. Levinas himself criticizes the Christian concept of love in his essay “The Ego and the Totality” for its attempt to present love as a foundation of society: “The crisis of religion in contemporary spiritual life is due to the consciousness that society goes beyond the confi nes of love” (ET 32). A love without Eros could thus still not be regarded as the basis for (a more peaceful) society. On the basis of this suggestion, which cannot be developed in detail here, it would then also be possible to criticize Nygren’s thesis, based on a rather superficial reading of Plato, that Eros necessarily leads to an “egocentric” way of life and religion (Nygren (1982), pp. 180–200).

NOTES TO CHAPTER 6 1. In his essay “Who Thinks Abstractly?” Hegel argues that it is the uneducated person who thinks abstractly, not the educated person. This brief text is intriguing because Hegel shows how particularity and specificity, which we take for signs of the concrete, are in fact abstract because they do not allow for making connections. 2. Bernasconi explains this concisely: “[A]lthough his method is transcendental (at least by resemblance), the sense of the fundamental possibility it reveals is given concretely” (Bernasconi (2005c), p. 42, my emphasis). He concludes: “It seems to me that Levinas is using the language of transcendental philosophy and the language of empiricism not in order to draw them together into a transcendental empiricism, but in an effort to fi nd a way between these twin options given to us by the philosophical—and nonphilosophical—language that we have inherited” (ibid.). Accordingly, the two levels of the ethical which I distinguish in this chapter should not be collapsed. 3. Adriaan Peperzak explores the structure of Totality and Infi nity and the central position of “Ethics and the Face” in his “A Key to Totality and Infi nity” (Peperzak (1993a), pp. 120–208). 4. All attempts to weaken the effect that the surprises of the Other may have on me—and on the practical level, there are plenty of those—are ultimately but an acknowledgment of this resistance to the grasp. 5. Elsewhere, Levinas compares this infi nity to the situation described by Descartes where the “I think” tries to conceive of the “idea of infi nity” and realizes that the infi nite necessarily transcends any idea of it. See Totality and Infi nity 48 f./19 as well as “Philosophy and the Idea of Infi nity.”

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6. My schematization of the three kinds of resistance should not imply that there is any kind of Hegelian dialectics in play here, as the coinciding of the fi rst and third kind already shows. 7. In his discussion of ethical resistance, Bernasconi states that it is ultimately impossible for me to kill the Other “because I can never succeed in my project of eradicating him or her” (Bernasconi (1990), p. 6). This position seems compatible with my interpretation and the distinction among three kinds of resistance: it is part of the Other’s unpredictability or resistance to the grasp that I cannot eradicate the Other, which is to say that he or she can come to haunt me. 8. In Totality and Infi nity, Levinas uses the term “metaphysics” in a sense that does not contrast metaphysics with ethics. For example, he analyzes “metaphysical desire” (TI 33f./4). 9. Cf. Llewelyn (1991) on this issue. Llewelyn suggests that one possible way in which the nonhuman animal might infl ict responsibility on me is in an indirect fashion: “We have failed to discover any evidence that Levinas allows that Bobby and I can be face to face such that I could read in his own eyes ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ We must therefore retreat to the question whether in the face-to-face the other man addresses me not only on behalf of himself and other men, but also on behalf of the nonhuman animal; and to the question whether, if what the human face tells me is ‘Thou shalt not murder,’ the legal and quasi-legal connotations of the word ‘murder’ prevent us saying that the commandment includes the nonhuman animal within its scope” (p. 243 f.). We will see in the following chapter how it is that for Levinas, the face-to-face implies all Others. Yet some of the explanations that Levinas brings up in the context of the “third” make it improbable that he would include nonhuman animals here. For example, he points out how the Other is already under obligation to a “third”; but he would not claim that the Other is already under obligation to a nonhuman animal. 10. Just as Bernasconi, in considering “What is the Question to which ‘Substitution’ is the Answer?” concludes that there are several questions to which ‘substitution’ is the answer (Bernasconi (2002), p. 250), so we may have to conclude that there are several answers to the question “Why do I have an infi nite responsibility for the Other?” Obviously, having several answers for one question is not as unusual as having several questions for one answer. But it is also worthy of consideration, especially if the different responses elucidate different aspects of the problem such that the answers need to be taken as a whole rather than as interchangeable options. We fi nd similar cases in Plato, for instance, the different defi nitions of khōra in the Timaeus or the proofs of the soul’s immortality in the Phaedo, which need to be considered in combination rather than as alternatives. 11. Such an image might indeed resemble some of the metaphors used in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence; but even when the Other is given the bread from my mouth, as Levinas describes it, this does not mean that the Other would necessarily affect me in a harmful or detrimental fashion. 12. Bernasconi (2002), p. 235. 13. “We ought to conform to it; consequently we must be able to do so” (Kant, Religion, p. 12). 14. Bernasconi (2002) explicates in a very plausible fashion how Levinas’s analysis of substitution can in fact be regarded as a transcendental or quasi-transcendental analysis, exploring conditions for the possibly of ethics. 15. When asked to give a concrete example for his ethics, Levinas frequently refers to the seemingly insignificant situation of opening the door for the Other, of saying “After you, sir” (e.g., EI 89; IIR 106 & 191).

254 Notes 16. The engaged and prominent debate between Sachs and Demos about the relation between justice in the Platonic sense and justice in the ordinary sense does not convince me since it appears to be the point of philosophy (exemplified in the allegory of the cave) that it does not need to coincide with ordinary views on a given subject, even though there should certainly be some connection to the ordinary view. See Sachs (1963) and Demos (1964). 17. When Levinas speaks about “bad conscience” (e.g., “The human as bad conscience is the Gordian knot of this ambiguity of the idea of the Infi nite, of the Infi nite as idea” (TO 117)), he is already moving beyond our ordinary concept of bad conscience. It would be fruitful, I believe, to examine Levinas’s statements about good and bad conscience in relation to Heidegger’s criticism of our normal understanding of conscience in Being and Time. 18. Antigone provides an interesting case in point. Cf. Chanter (1991). 19. Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence features a very different concept of justice that belongs to the realm of politics rather than ethics. In this chapter, we are only concerned with the ethical relationship. 20. However, Socrates has already declared that he is not interested in convincing the majority (implying that the majority usually would not be convinced by his arguments) and that the judgment of the majority is in no way a proof of the truth. Instead, he is satisfied with convincing one person: his immediate interlocutor. Nickolas Pappas has suggested, in relation to the myth at the end of the Republic, that one may have to think of a different audience for this myth—namely, those who have not yet been convinced and need a cruder reason for living their life well. This would mean that some Platonic myths “teach in concrete language what an unsophisticated audience would otherwise have trouble following” (Pappas (2003), p. 136). Such an explanation sells both Plato and his audience short. Furthermore, the interpretation strikes me as problematic because a person who does not understand Socrates’ more subtle philosophical accounts cannot actually understand what it means to be just—and according to Socrates, I can only reliably be just if I have at least a partial understanding of what justice entails. 21. See Chapter 1. 22. Cf. Bernasconi (1998) & Visker (2004), Chapter 1. 23. OB 199n.25/204n.: “But, quite remarkably, if the absence of any ‘community’ between the judge and the judged is maintained in Minos, neither Asiatic nor European, and master of arbitration, the necessity of a ‘certain community’ in justice between the judge and the judged is expressed in Aeacus, a European who judges the Europeans, and in Rhadamanthus, an Asiatic who judges the Asiatics.” 24. On the distinction between the ‘saying’ and the ‘said,’ see Chapter 9. 25. Bernet (2000), p. 45 ff. 26. Bernet (2000), p. 60 f.

NOTES TO PART III 1. This is the approach taken by Bettina Bergo in her study Levinas Between Ethics and Politics. 2. E.g., Bergo (1999), Critchley (1999a), Bernasconi (1998), Peperzak (1997), Caygill (2002), Waldenfels (1994 & 1995), Delhom (2000), Bedorf (2003). 3. Cf., e.g., Critchley (1999a), p. 220, and Bergo (1999), p. 299 ff. In contrast, Bernasconi (1999), p. 84 f., explicitly discusses fraternity and the universality implied in it, yet does not deem it necessary to draw a strong distinction between fraternity and politics. In response to Bernasconi’s statement:

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“That Levinas lacked a proper recognition of institutions, of politics, of culture and of customs, is a frequently heard objection. If this means that there is no philosophy of institutions and of culture in Levinas, the objection is true but somehow beside the point, because Levinas did not attempt to write an ontology of the social world” (p. 86), I would like to point out that my concern in these chapters is not with specific cultures and institutions, but with the role of historical–cultural communities or worlds as such (and their relation to ethics). It is interesting to read the German translation of Bernasconi’s longer version of the same paper (Bernasconi (1998)) in which he gives a more critical discussion of the relation between ethics and politics in Levinas since he considers the impact of Levinas’s ideas for a philosophy of race. 4. Kant’s reflections on cosmopolitanism as developed in his essay On Eternal Peace are a noteworthy exception which Derrida likes to discuss.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 7 1. This rejection implies another point of divergence between Levinas and Hobbes: Levinas would neither want to think of us as wolves of some higher order nor does he think that the decisive point about society is captured by distinguishing it from a state of nature. 2. Aristotle, Politics, 1262b. 3. Peperzak (1993a), p. 177. 4. The written law will be an important theme in the next chapter. 5. Gorgias 468b & Republic 505e. Cf. Peperzak (1993b), p. 260 ff. 6. Theaetetus 175c; cf. the various discussions about justice in the Republic. 7. Cf. Sallis (1996), p. 398. 8. Cf. Philebus 64e and Chapter 12. 9. Totality and Infi nity, 266/244. Cf. Chapter 5. 10. Cf. Chapter 5. Difficulties of this emphasis will be discussed in Chapter 12. 11. Levinas even explains that placing the Good beyond Being within the doctrine of Forms is misguided (OB 19/23). When the Good beyond Being is considered to be closely related to the Forms, it becomes tempting to suggest that the Good would be something like the order or system of the Form, as Irwin puts it: “However, the Good is not some further being besides the Forms; when we have correctly defi ned them, connected in a teleological system, we have specified the Good, which just is the system” (Irwin (1995), p. 225). Such a reading would ultimately need to deny or ignore the idea that the Good is “beyond Being.” 12. Levinas employs a similar strategy regarding the Cartesian idea of the infi nite. He does not consider the general task and method of the Meditations, nor the proof for the existence of God that follows from the idea, according to Descartes. Here as well, the separation appears quite justifi ed. 13. Cf. Gadamer, Plato’s Dialectical Ethics, p. 208. See also Chapter 8. 14. Sallis (1996), p. 412. 15. See Julia Annas (1981). A different, though related, discussion concerns the question as to whether justice in Plato’s sense coincides in any way with justice in the ordinary sense. This question is interesting in our context because Levinas could be confronted with an equivalent question: How is ethics in the Levinasian sense—namely, my being called into question by the Other, related to traditional ethical questions? Although we are legitimately expecting Levinas to provide responses to traditional ethical

256 Notes

16. 17. 18.

19. 20. 21. 22.

problems (cf. Introduction and Chapter 6 in this volume), it would in fact be disturbing if Levinas’s concept of ethics were to coincide not only with traditional philosophical conceptions of ethics but even with common sense ethics. Sachs (1963) and Demos (1964) started the discussion about the relation between “Platonic justice” and ordinary justice; Annas (1978) sums up the subsequent discussion and argues convincingly that Sachs and Demos misconceive the issue. However, I do not fi nd Annas’s suggestion convincing that Plato “wants to get support from traditional moral views, and at the same time wants radically to revise them” (Annas (1978), p. 448). It seems to me that rather than seeking support from traditional views, Plato wants to present and clarify them, point to inner contradictions and seek motivations for these views. Irwin (1995) and Pappas (2003) have also joined in the debate and seem equally to demand that Plato would accommodate the ordinary concept of justice rather than merely illuminating and explaining it. Cf. Heidegger, The Metaphysical Foundations of Logic, p. 236 ff.; cf. Peperzak (1993b), p. 260. See esp. Heidegger’s “Plato’s Doctrine of Truth.” It is quite common in the history of philosophy to emphasize one dimension or direction in order to counterbalance the predominant, opposed one. Descartes, for example, requested that we negate the existence of the world because our tendency to affi rm its existence is so strong that it could only be balanced by the opposite tendency rather than by a neutral approach. However, as the example of Descartes shows, the strategic stress can be misunderstood as a straightforward advocacy of that position. Cf. Introduction and Chapter 11. Levinas attends especially to Signs, which, however, is not a programmatic text as far as Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy goes. For a more detailed discussion of this topic with references from primary and secondary literature, cf. Staehler (2003), Chapter 3. Cf. Derrida’s discussion of Husserl’s “universal historical a priori” in his Edmund Husserl’s Origin of Geometry: An Introduction. This Husserlian theory has implications for the problem of cultural worlds, which we will discuss later (Chapter 11).

NOTES TO CHAPTER 8 1. It is worth noting—given Levinas’s analyses of the public sphere as determined by works that are open to misunderstandings—that Socrates describes the distinction between philosophy and politics here in terms of the private and the public. This is another instance of Plato and Levinas sharing an apprehension regarding the open public space, favoring the immediate dialogues in which matters of justice can be discussed and questioned. 2. The status of the Good beyond Being and Levinas’s interpretation of it have been discussed in the previous chapter. 3. Already for this reason, Popper’s worries about the totalitarian tendencies in Plato’s account are misplaced. Leo Strauss argues against Popper that the Republic does not show what a city should look like but what it would need to look like in order to accommodate our human needs, including the erotic needs. Since it turns out that a city constructed in this fashion is impossible, Plato allows us instead to see “the essential limits, the nature, of the city” (Strauss (1964), p. 138).

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4. A brief discussion as to the role of the Stranger in the late dialogues can be found in Chapter 11. 5. Stanley Rosen states that “nomos is the least mobile of writings” (Rosen (1997), p. 158). 6. This will be argued, with the help of Levinas’s late writings, in Chapter 9 . 7. These considerations certainly depend on the wise statesman having some insight into the Good, a topic that was treated in the previous chapter. Those skeptics who think that no insights into the Good and the virtues related to it are possible should, according to Plato, not govern a polis. Those who think that such insights are possible but have not been attained yet are advised to engage in philosophical dialogue as much as possible. 8. I am referring here to the Platonic sense of law; for Kant, there is an ethical law: the moral law or categorical imperative. 9. When examining different constitutions, Plato also thematizes such regimes— but he does not really relate them to ideal or almost ideal states, and he does not discuss their mechanisms to an extent that would make it visible how change could be accomplished. 10. See Chapter 11. 11. The relation between the ‘saying’ and the ‘said’ will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 9. 12. See Chapter 6 on quasi-null and infi nite resistance. 13. Gadamer, Plato’s Dialectical Ethics, p. 208 ff. 14. However, there are significant differences between the Ancient Greek concept of measure and the modern idea of a quantification or mathematization of nature. We cannot elaborate on these differences here; let it suffice to say that the Greek fascination with the harmonious order of the cosmos was much less intrusive and comprehensive than the modern idea that all of nature can be described in a quantitative fashion and that such description will ultimately enable us to master the world. Edmund Husserl’s The Crisis of European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology, Sections 8 & 9, provides a very insightful interpretation of the modern mathematization of nature. 15. Rep. 558c. For an interesting discussion of geometric and arithmetic equality, which questions our conviction that arithmetic equality is preferable, see Barbarić (2008). 16. Hegel captures this difference by distinguishing between “state,” referring to the political dimension, and “civil society” (“bürgerliche Gesellschaft”), designating the economic aspect. 17. Tyranny also implies the belief that obeying a command, as was often invoked after the fact to excuse behavior complicit with National Socialism, is presumed to absolve me from taking responsibility and facing the victim. 18. For this and other reasons, it is implausible to claim that, in Levinas, “ethics is ethical for the sake of politics” (Critchley [1999a], p. 223). Critchley states in his “Attempt at Self-Criticism” that he has changed his position in certain ways (p. 248); however, he does not explicate his new position in relation to the previous one. In his Ethics—Politics—Subjectivity, Critchley revises his earlier position and explicates the relation between ethics and politics as a “hiatus,” but he still suggests that politics can “be thought of as the art of response to the singular demand of the other” (Critchley [1999b], p. 276). More recently, Critchley has discussed “Five Problems in Levinas’s View of Politics and a Solution to Them” (2004). The five problems are sorted under the headings of fraternity, monotheism, androcentrism, the family, and Israel. Although in themselves interesting, the five themes are discussed in a rather brief fashion, at times surprisingly unreflective for Critchley’s

258 Notes overall approach. When Critchley comes to conclude that there can be a Derridean solution to the Levinasian problem of politics by stressing the hiatus between ethics and politics, I wonder why this is presented as Derrida’s rather than Levinas’s insight. As discussed in the current chapter, Levinas is indeed sometimes very brief in his comments on the political, yet as Critchley formulates it himself, the ethical constitutes a “disturbance” of the political (Critchley (2004), p. 182). 19. One may wonder whether the lack of such a distinction could not be equally or even more precarious: What about states that feel responsible for inhabitants of other states everywhere else? Yet it seems that in the case of concrete interventions, there is always a distinction made between those closer by and those farther off, regardless of whether this distinction is based on a common history or on economic interests. If there was an institution that truly did not make such a distinction, we would not have to be worried about its interventions, it seems. 20. It is tempting, following Levinas, to search for a politics rooted in ethics, or a “justice interrupted” (Perpich (2005), p. 336); but the tension between ethics and politics makes it impossible to develop a coherent notion of an ethical politics or justice. 21. I agree with Bernasconi ((1999), p. 80) that Levinas does not really want to provide a narrative regarding the relation between the face-to-face and the third party. However, where the emergence of a state is concerned, he seems to counter the prevalent Hobbesian, Hegelian, and other accounts with his own “story”; this story is not a temporal narrative but considers the logical connections between the face-to-face and wider communities.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 9 1. Schleiermacher (1969). 2. Although a proponent of the esoteric approach, Strauss comes to conclude that the “Platonic dialogue, if properly read, reveals itself to possess the flexibility or adaptability of oral communication” (Strauss (1964), p. 53). 3. The most advanced and currently most well-known representative of the Tübingen School, Thomas Alexander Szlezák, develops this approach further precisely by attending to and interpreting those dialogues that remain in the background of the critique of writing. Szlezák provides a brief definition of the esoteric approach as “conveying knowledge in a way which is strictly orientated toward the needs of the addressee [streng an den Bedürfnissen des Adressaten orientierte Art der Erkenntnisvermittlung]” (Szlezák (1985), p. 406). This would indeed be a plausible response to the observation that the written text is vulnerable to misunderstandings because it cannot choose whom it speaks to—but how can a written text convey “knowledge in a way which is strictly orientated toward the needs of the addressee”? Furthermore, Szlezák faces some problems of internal consistency when trying to combine a radical reading of the critique of writing with a focus on the Platonic dialogues. The original Tübingen School position of H. J. Krämer and K. Gaiser has more internal consistency but faces the major problem that, in works from antiquity, there are only brief remarks and veiled hints at an unwritten doctrine (such as Aristotle’s remarks about a Platonic lecture “On the Good” as reported by Aristoxenus, Elementa harmonica II, 30–31). According to Aristoxenus, this lecture contained the statement “Good is One” (which, as such, does not stand in confl ict with the dialogues). For a translation and discussion of Aristoxenus’s text, see Gaiser (1980).

Notes

259

4. Such a conclusion is interesting but questionable because it presumes that Plato was intentionally hiding certain messages (and because most proponents of the esoteric approach claim to be able to retrieve the hidden messages). 5. The claim that esoteric readings are based on a one-sided interpretation of the critique of writing is explained in Staehler (2009). In this article, I also explore some strong aspects of the esoteric approach, especially the consideration of setting, interlocutors, myths, and apparently marginal comments. 6. See Introduction. 7. This claim could be examined with the help of other examples. Reciting a speech might have a larger performative aspect than reading a speech. However, even when we are interested in performance, we prefer the actors to recite the play literally. The case of an improvised play establishes a different emphasis; this would mean to rate performance and spontaneity higher than the logos conveyed. If I go to see a Shakespeare play, I am usually interested in Shakespeare’s words rather than an improvisation on a Shakespearean theme. And even if I happen to prefer Tom Stoppard’s plays to Shakespeare’s original writing, the existence of some script, now written by Stoppard rather than Shakespeare, is still presupposed. 8. The reference to the lawgivers seems to be Benardete’s argument for claiming that Socrates is concerned with written laws rather than written texts in general (Benardete (1991), p. 157); yet Benardete’s conclusion that even the critique of writing would be aimed solely at laws strikes me as rather questionable since Socrates seems to discuss the phenomenon of writing in general. 9. The myth and Socrates’ interpretation of it will be presented here in some detail because these passages have been the subject of various readings and discussions and because Levinas refers to them so frequently. Moreover, we are dealing with a particularly complex passage in Plato’s work. 10. Particularly striking are Thamus’s formulations, which bring up associations with Socrates: the students “will imagine that they have come to know much while for the most part they will know nothing” (275b)—in other words, unlike Socrates, they do not know that they know nothing. 11. Cf. the Seventh Letter: “On this account no sensible man will venture to express his deepest thoughts in words, especially in a form which is unchangeable, as is true of written outlines” (343a). Levinas does not comment on this letter, possibly because he prefers the Platonic dialogues to the letters or because the myth of Theuth is richer, discussing the importance of “attending” to one’s logos. 12. The remainder of Socrates’ exposition consists of a rather questionable analogy between writing and sowing, which is less relevant for our purposes. In the analogy, Socrates calls writing a kind of play. He compares it to sowing seeds in the middle of the summer when the plants grow fast without going through their natural slow cycle. The dialectician, in contrast, would leave time for his plants to grow. Yet it is not clear how writing would have anything to do with speed (unless Socrates is thinking again of Thamus’s remark concerning the artificial erudition brought about through writing and reading). Strange is also the claim that the plant of dialectics can help “itself as well as the man who planted it” (276e) whereas Socrates had explained before that it is the father who has to help and support the logos rather than the other way around. 13. Derrida, “Plato’s Pharmacy,” 99. 14. And yet it is in the Republic that Socrates brings up all sorts of images to clarify what the Good is.

260 Notes 15. A very different reading is given in Heidegger’s “Plato’s Doctrine of Truth;” Heidegger’s general reservations about Plato are mentioned briefly in Chapter 7. 16. Heidegger, Plato’s Sophist, 231/334. 17. Heidegger, Plato’s Sophist, 235/339. 18. Cf. Chapter 4 on Socratic and Levinasian teaching. 19. For example: “Writing encourages a mentality more attuned to the abstract, the conceptual, and the universal rather than the concrete and the particular” (Segal (1995), p. 194). Cf. Vernant (1982), pp. 53–68. 20. These two steps are described by Fabio Ciaramelli, and I borrow them since this formalization appears rather helpful for structuring Levinas’s ideas. See Ciaramelli (1995), p. 88ff. 21. For a helpful discussion, see Waldenfels (2005). 22. For this and other reasons, Waldenfels suggests that we think of a “Saying without the Said (i.e., within and without at once)” (Waldenfels (2005), p. 86). 23. As an example of a saying without a said, a limit case, Waldenfels suggests “the extreme case of crying: crying, when one is in pleasure or pain, in joy or sorrow, has no sense and does not follow any rule” (Waldenfels (2005), p. 89). 24. Cf. OB 152/194; cf. Greisch (1991), p. 76. 25. Hence the special significance of written laws as discussed in Chapter 8. 26. Llewelyn (2002), p. 134. 27. The relationship between Levinas and Derrida is difficult and has been explored in full-length studies such as Simon Critchley’s The Ethics of Deconstruction as well as articles by Robert Bernasconi and others. The situation is complex already because of the number of texts in which they respond to each other and even more so due to the difficulty and density of these texts. As far as the Levinasian critique of writing is concerned, it is peculiar how Derrida tackles Levinas’s texts in a much more careful fashion than those of Plato’s or Hegel’s. Yet Levinas’s more subtle account calls for a more subtle critique, as we fi nd it in “Violence and Metaphysics.” See Naas (2008) for an elucidating discussion of the topic of writing in Derrida, Blanchot, and Levinas, and see the Postscript for some hints concerning the topic of hospitality. 28. See Chapter 10. 29. Concerning the arguments brought forth by Theuth, Thamus, and Socrates, this means that we must not accept Socrates’ arguments for the fi nal conclusion. It is our task to ask which statements are right. In this respect, the “esoteric” Plato interpretations are right to remind us that Socrates’ statements in the dialogues must not be equated with Plato’s philosophy. See especially Strauss (1964), p. 50. 30. Michael Naas is right to point out that Levinas is intrigued by this Socratic statement exactly because it aims at “a naked living presence that would not be unlike the souls being judged in the myth of the final judgment in the Gorgias” (Naas (2008), p. 86), which is treated in Chapters 6 and 9 of the current volume. 31. Unlike Heidegger and Derrida, Levinas does not provide explicit methodological considerations. But this may be a strength rather than a weakness of his approach and follows consistently from the priority he gives to ethics over methodology. 32. Hyland (2008), p. 132.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 10 1. Most authors who discuss art in Levinas exhibit a tendency to focus on his positive remarks. They emphasize his discussion of poetry in Proper Names

Notes

2.

3.

4. 5.

261

and elsewhere to conclude, with the help of some affi rmative statements from other texts, that Levinas appreciates the significance of art in general (e.g., Wyschograd (1991), Robbins (1999), Bruns (2002)). Yet Levinas’s critique of visual art, of works of art, and of the ethical irresponsibility of art is so vehement that it cannot be neglected or denied. Silvia Benso’s article on art in Plato and Levinas appears in many ways sympathetic to the reading I would like to propose in the current chapter. She comes to conclude that “at the core of art is a fundamental ambiguity” that shines forth in the difference between ‘aesthetics’ and the ‘aesth-ethic’: “As we have tried to point out in this intertwining of Platonic and Levinasian themes, couldn’t the other’s language also express itself in the language of art, which from purely aesthetic—subjective sensory perception, emotion, feeling—becomes aesth-ethic, ethical sensation, presence of the other within the work of art, saying that manifests itself as madness, delirium, and unreading (dé-lire) of the literal meaning of all poetic words and works?” (Benso (2008), p. 180). However, Benso does not explore the problematic side of art in detail, especially where the precarious status of works is concerned. Most representative of the difficult engagement with Plato’s philosophy of art is still the 1982 volume Plato on Beauty, Wisdom, and the Arts (eds. Moravcsik & Temko) with contributions by Annas, Moravcsik, Nehamas, Nussbaum, Urmson, and Woodruff. All interpreters agree that it would be dissatisfying to have to dispense either with the critical or appreciative side altogether, yet they mostly try to resolve this issue by differentiating between different kinds of art (poetry versus painting) or different Platonic dialogues (Ion, Republic, Phaedrus). Julia Annas points in the direction taken in the current study—namely, the diagnosis of an ambiguity inherent in art—when she describes a “split” in Plato’s attitude toward art that cannot be reconciled (Annas (1982), p. 13). She comes to conclude that for Plato, “poetry may always conflict with morality” and that Plato’s approach is more truthful to the phenomenon of art than those who believe that such conflict can be ruled out or avoided (p. 23). Julius Moravcsik examines the “self-contained” nature of art, which will be important when we investigate the ambigutiy of art in relation to other ambiguous domains (Chapter 12). However, I do not agree with Moravcsik’s claim that “for Plato a poem has to be either useful for the care of the soul [ . . . ] or be there purely for pleasure” without allowing “for a third possibility” (Moravcsik (1982), p. 30). Such a scheme is too reductive for the presentation of artistic inspiration in the Phaedrus. The concept of ambiguity allows us to examine the sources of these different aspects of art. He says: “every image is in the last analysis plastic,” and “every artwork is in the end a statue” (RS, 8/137). To illustrate this claim, Levinas refers to Proust, who claimed that what holds his attention in Dostoyevsky’s novels is neither psychology nor metaphysics, but “a few images: the house of the crime with its stairway and its dvornik in Crime and Punishment, Grushenka’s silhouette in Brothers Karamazov” (RS 10/139). This journal was edited by Merleau-Ponty, Sartre, and others; in 1959, Merleau-Ponty publishes an article of his own that discusses the topic of shadows: “The Philosopher and his Shadow.” We cannot enter into a discussion here of the interesting differences between Plato’s and Heidegger’s understanding of truth, which Heidegger discusses in “Plato’s Doctrine of Truth.” Heidegger shows how Plato moves from an account of truth as unconcealment to truth as correctness; truth takes on the character of a comparison between the existent Forms and that which comes to appear.

262

Notes

6. Krewani (1992) describes the shadow mostly temporally, while Bruns (2002) interprets it in terms of materiality. According to my interpretation, these possibilities do not exclude each other but present different instances of reality’s withdrawal. 7. Adorno (1951), p. 30. 8. Adorno, for example, later on abandons his own statement. 9. When an artist like Paul Klee cuts up his paintings to put the pieces together in a new way, the idea of a “work” is problematized. 10. Interactive art or installations that involve elements of chance might be exceptions here; but even then, it is questionable whether I may be radically surprised. 11. Cf. On the Way to Language, p. 165/62: “If that hurry, in the sense of the technical maximization of all velocities, in whose time-space modern technology and apparatus can alone be what they are—if that hurry had not bespoken man and ordered him at its call, if that call to such hurry had not challenged him and put him at bay, if the word framing that order and challenge had not spoken: then there would be no sputnik. No thing is where the word is lacking.” 12. Cf. Phaedrus 246a, where Socrates introduces the myth of the souls as chariots. 13. Cf. Republic 506d; cf. Phaedrus 246a, where Socrates supplements the argument about time by pointing out that describing “what the soul actually is” presents “a task for a god in every way.” 14. As stated before (Chapter 6, note 20), it strikes me as unsatisfactory to claim that myths are employed merely for those who have not been convinced by the philosophical arguments. Baracchi (2002) shows convincingly that even the myth of Er in the Republic should by no means be considered a mere appendix. 15. In a similar way, Plato takes pains to distinguish the philosopher from the sophist, given that both deal with logoi. 16. However, there is no agreement on this point as various scientists and even philosophers consider it preferable to dismiss all themes about which logical and reliable accounts cannot be given. 17. Wyschogrod (1995), p. 138. 18. Annas compares Plato to the theories of art provided by Tolstoy and Chernyshevsky, arguing that Plato, unlike the other two, does not believe “art and literature can be harnessed to a moral end while remaining themselves, genuinely creative” (Annas (1982), p. 23). On the basis of the short analyses given here, it seems that the phenomenon of art makes it impossible to subordinate it to moral ends, as we will see more clearly in Chapter 12. 19. As Seán Hand puts it, the references to literature are not a “mere illustration of philosophical concepts or principles” but “the necessary dramatization of ethical being” (Hand (1996), p. 63). 20. Focusing on the ambiguity of the aesthetic means that we can examine Levinas’s analysis of art rather than having to play out his explicit remarks against his own poetic style. It means, in other words, that the ambiguity of art can be examined as a coherent and somewhat unified concept rather than, for example, “attending not just to the constative level of his [i.e., Levinas’s] statements about art, but to their performative dimension as well” (Robbins (2005), p. 356). The project of attending to the performative dimension is further executed in Robbins (1999). 21. Merleau-Ponty, “Eye and Mind,” p. 149. 22. It is worth noting that Levinas not only disagrees with Heidegger concerning art but also concerning technology. As Levinas explains in his article

Notes

263

“Heidegger, Gagarin, and Us” (which is discussed in relation to art in Benso (2008)), we could actually applaud the way in which technology leads us into homogenuous space and detaches us from our rooting in family, race, tribe, etc. (DF, 233). 23. Heidegger writes: “The rock comes to bear and to rest and so fi rst becomes rock; the metal comes to glitter and shimmer, the colors to shine, the sounds to ring, the word to speak” (OWA, 24). 24. The paintings are part of the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art, New York, and can be seen on the MoMA webpage. The series has instigated intense critical dialogue, fi rst in Germany, where the paintings were in general not appreciated, and subsequently in the United States. Some critics have doubted Richter’s talent and genuineness as a painter, given the extent to which he relies on photographic material. Others, however, consider it one of the most important works of art from the second half of the twentieth century. 25. Richter himself feels the need to take a stand and distance himself from the ideology of the Red Army Faction when he is interviewed (Storr & Richter (2000)). But the paintings as such do not take this kind of distance. MerleauPonty writes about the difference between literature, painting, and music: “From the writer and the philosopher, in contrast, we want opinions and advice. We will not allow them to hold the world suspended. We want them to take a stand; they cannot waive the responsibilities of humans who speak. Music, at the other extreme, is too far on the hither side of the world and the designatable to depict anything but certain schemata of Being—its ebb and flow, its growth, its upheavals, its turbulence. Only the painter is entitled to look at everything without being obliged to appraise what he sees” (“Eye and Mind,” 123). Even though it seems that Merleau-Ponty comes quite close to Levinas in his emphasis on the connection between responsibility and speech, he actually considers it a rare advantage to be able to “hold the world suspended.”

NOTES TO CHAPTER 11 1. Historicity (German Geschichtlichkeit) connotes the character of happening or occurrence (German Geschehnischarakter) while history is usually understood in terms of the process as a whole, which makes it more tempting to think of a totality. 2. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Geschichte der Philosophie, vol. I, p. 30. 3. For detailed and thorough discussions of the significance of history in Husserl’s philosophy, see Carr (1974 & 1986) and Steinbock (1995); for my own account, see Chapters 6 and 10 in Staehler (2003). 4. This formulation is fi rst used by Merleau-Ponty, in the Phenomenology of Perception: “an original past, a past that has never been present” (p. 280). 5. For example, in the Postscript to the German translation of Noms Propres, Eigennamen. 6. Cf. Bernet (2002), p. 89: “And as one might have expected, Levinas does not stop at simply acknowledging this presence of the other in my past, he also attempts to establish that the past itself, in its most originary sense, is not my past but the other’s past. [ . . . ] The past, in this way, testifies to the other’s precedence over self-presence.” 7. Adorno has emphasized that education (Bildung) should make sure that Auschwitz will not be repeated (“Erziehung nach Auschwitz,” p. 88). 8. Husserl, Husserliana X, 36 ff.

264

Notes

9. Howard Caygill’s suggestion that we distinguish between two senses of history, such that the criticism of history would concern “universal history,” is intriguing: “Universal history is the history of political ontology, while holy history is that of an ethical mission that began in an act of revelation” (Caygill (2002), p. 160). It seems to me that such a “holy history” is not the only alternative one can envision from Levinas’s texts; fecundity might be a name for a similar alternative, from a more phenomenological perspective. 10. Plato, Theaetetus 155d; Aristotle, Metaphysics 982b. 11. Edmund Husserl, Husserliana XV, 233, fn. 1. The concept of the alienworld is discussed in several manuscripts of Husserliana XV and Husserliana XXIX. These Husserlian ideas have been explicated and developed by Held (1991), Steinbock (1995), and Waldenfels (2004). 12. “The openness of space as an openness of self without a world, without a place [ . . . ] is proximity of the other which is possible only as responsibility for the other, as substitution for him” (OB 182/229). 13. Bernasconi explains Levinas’s position initially by claiming that to identify the stranger as literally a foreigner would mean to have “neglected the disruptive sense of being a stranger and reduced the term to a sociological category” (Bernasconi (2005b), p. 10). But Bernasconi himself points out, in an attempt to “set Levinas against himself,” that “Levinas seems to ignore the possibility that one of the ways in which the Other might challenge my self-sufficiency is for the stranger to put in question my cultural identity” (p. 17). 14. Steinbock explains this asymmetry convincingly (Steinbock (1995), pp. 184 f. & 248 ff.). 15. I give my own translation here since Alphonso Lingis at this point blends two sentences together and omits the part that runs: “Absence de patrie commune qui fait de l’Autre—l’Etranger.” 16. See the detailed discussion of the Gorgias myth in Chapter 6. 17. One might alternatively give a very pragmatic interpretation, saying that Minos has fewer cases to focus on and can therefore pass a more carefully considered judgment. 18. Cf. Introduction and Chapter 7. 19. Bernasconi detects a glorifi cation of the West in Levinas’s formulation that the French learn Chinese, “as if he had forgotten that the Chinese also learn French” (Bernasconi (2005b), p. 23). However, this accusation strikes me as not quite justifi ed: if Levinas had written about the Chinese learning French, a so inclined reader might diagnose a glorifi cation of the West in exactly this statement—as if it was an honor for the Chinese to learn French. 20. One might think here of the kind of journey Nietzsche describes in the Gay Science (Book III, Aphorism 108: “In the Horizon of the Infi nite”) where the traveler has embarked on the ocean and realizes that there is no land to return to: “Woe, when you feel homesick for the land as if it had offered more freedom—and there is no longer any ‘land’!” 21. For example, Rosen writes: “These passages provide us with a textual basis for the suggestion that Plato invents the Eleatic Stranger for the sake of indicating his own refutation or punishment of his former teacher” (Rosen (1995), p. 6). 22. Sallis relates this remark to the trial of Socrates, suggesting that the Stranger as a God would be able to pass a fair judgment on philosophers, unlike the judgment that has been passed by the Athenians (Sallis (1996), p. 458).

Notes

265

23. Phenomenology of Spirit, section 347. In that sense, Plato’s idealism is more ‘modern’ than Aristotle’s philosophy with its emphasis on virtue and character.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 12 1. ‘Human’ is meant here to designate not so much a distinction from other animals as rather an investigation of the ‘human’ in its own right. 2. Rhythm also plays a significant role in “Reality and its Shadow,” which has not been explored in the current study due to the emphasis on visual arts (as analogous to writing). 3. On the mundane level, the way in which the ethical “shines through” can be compared to the fashion in which an erotic relationship is not always pure love but has a variety of other emotions mixed in, including those that appear to be opposed to love. Nevertheless, we are justified in speaking of an erotic relationship here, on the basis of what lies at its core and shines through. 4. Cf. Levinas’s “Phenomenon and Enigma”: “Phenomena open to disturbance, a disturbance letting itself be brought back to order: such is the ambiguity of an enigma” (p. 69). 5. Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, no. 61. 6. Cf. especially “Commerce, the Historical Relation, and the Face” (TI 226–31) and “The Ego and the Totality.” 7. The suggestion is, in fact, in line with a number of philosophers who, starting with Hegel, criticize Kant by pointing out that we need to act even though we do not know all the relevant facts. 8. This distinction is suggested in two short texts, by way of rather difficult remarks: Prospectus, p. 11, and In Praise of Philosophy and Other Essays, p. 5/10. 9. In his essay “Cézanne’s Doubt,” Merleau-Ponty describes this situation as follows: “Before expression, there is nothing but a vague fever, and only the work itself, completed and understood, will prove that there was something rather than nothing to be found there” (p. 69). 10. Different functions of ambiguity in the Phenomenology of Perception are explored in Staehler (2010). 11. Merleau-Ponty usually speaks of “the sexual” rather than “the erotic.” But in his discussions, he sometimes employs the term “erotic” interchangeably with “sexual.” Since the theme of these considerations coincides with the domain that Levinas calls “the erotic” (see Chapter 5), I will use the term “erotic” in order to mark this connection. 12. See Tilliette (1970), pp. 33–49 and Waldenfels (1987), pp. 174 ff. 13. As indicated before (Chapter 8), Hegel would object that Levinas conflates the dimension of civil society (bürgerliche Gesellschaft) with that of politics and the state. Yet it is questionable whether economic and political concerns can be separated. Such a separation appears problematic already for Hegel’s times but even more so nowadays. Levinas’s emphasis on the deep connection between economics and politics seems to capture the situation better, although one may wish that Levinas had explored this connection further. 14. Derrida explores such possibilities in his discussion of Husserl’s ‘ideal objects’ in Edmund Husserl’s Origin of Geometry: An Introduction. 15. The preceding considerations share the intuition expressed in Rudi Visker’s question: “Might it not be that the true nakedness of the Other has less to do with his being disengaged from all culture, all context, all form, and more to do with his being engaged in it in such a way that the engagement

266 Notes

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

24.

25.

26.

27. 28. 29.

never renders its secret to him?” (Visker (1999), p. 142). Yet I believe that the resources to consider this engagement can be found in Levinas. Bernasconi (1990), p. 14. Cf. Husserl, The Crisis of European Sciences, Section 53. Husserl then “solves” the paradox by distinguishing between transcendental and empirical ego, thus giving the paradox a different orientation. Even those interpretations of Husserl’s work that stress the significance of intersubjectivity for having a world (e.g. Zahavi (2001)) will arguably never yield a Levinasian picture of the self/Other relation. In a certain sense, Simone de Beauvoir’s The Coming of Age is more closely related to Levinas’s thought and resembles his claim that age is the temporality of the body (OB 53/69). As well as by many interpreters working in the tradition of Heidegger and Gadamer, like Sallis and Hyland, and, in a different way, by those who work in a more Straussian tradition, like Benardete and Rosen. Derrida is thus quite right when he suggests that the concept of trace should lead Levinas to reconsider the status of writing (VM 102). It is interesting to see how Levinas responds to this comment, if we are allowed to read Otherwise Than Being as just such a response: Levinas complicates the relation between the trace and writing when he suggests that there is a “trace [ . . . ] inscribed in me” (OB 150/192)—a formulation somewhat reminiscent of the Platonic “writing in the soul”—and suggests, on the last page of the book, that the trace is “the unpronounceable inscription” (OB 185/233). Having a Form of everyday objects would lead to a very high number and specificity of Forms, and the examples that Plato usually gives concern virtues and beauty rather than spatiotemporal objects. In the case of kitsch objects where the tendency toward self-enclosure in the way of avoiding critique and questioning is at its strongest, this self-enclosure does not come to the fore as such. There is a concealed self-enclosure at work in kitsch that masks itself as easy accessibility, facilitating rather than resisting my enjoyment. See Kulka (1996), Chapter 1 and Giesz (1971), pp. 38 ff. Even Merleau-Ponty whose anti-Platonism Levinas critiques in “Meaning and Sense” states: “What needs to be understood is that for the same reason I am present here and now, and present elsewhere and always, and also absent from here and from now, and absent from every place and from every time. This ambiguity is not some imperfection of consciousness or existence, but the defi nition of them” (PhP 332). This critique can be phrased in different ways; to give a few examples from prominent interpreters who explicitly use the terms “purity” or “purism” with respect to Levinas’s philosophy: Bernasconi (1990), p. 10, Waldenfels (2005), p. 86, Perpich (2005), p. 332, and with respect to Plato’s philosophy, Nussbaum (1982), p. 118 & (1986), p. 5. Particularly in Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, the concept of the trace emerges repeatedly, yet mostly in very difficult footnotes in which Levinas links the trace to the enigma and to ambiguity, thus confi rming the link proposed here without elaborating on it (e.g., 193n.31/115n.; 194n.4/129n.). Cf. Casey (1998). It would certainly be interesting here to examine the Platonic concept of khōra from the Timaeus, fi lled space, which has proved so important for Derrida. Whether human rights in their current formulation can indeed count as universal is a different issue.

Notes

267

30. Nevertheless, there have always been attempts to rationalize genocides. Bernasconi investigates how such a thing is possible and which philosophical assumptions (e.g., about race) facilitate such rationalization (Bernasconi (2005b)). 31. Perhaps Simon Critchley expresses a similar idea when he concludes his recent monograph on the “ethics of commitment, politics of resistance” with the realization that there is “an ethical demand whose scope is universal and whose evidence is faced in a concrete situation” (Critchley (2007), p. 132). 32. From “Délires: Vierge folle. L’epoux infernal.”

NOTES TO THE POSTSCRIPT 1. It seems that Derrida’s critique of Levinas in “Violence and Metaphysics” to a certain extent mirrors Hegel’s critique of Kant. In both instances, what is criticized is a lack of concreteness and specificity, among other things. 2. Strictly speaking, this text is not so much a text as a response: “Anne Dufourmantelle invites Jacques Derrida to respond.” But the response can be read as a text, and for the purposes of the current postscript, we will avoid the hermeneutical problems arising from this peculiar interview by indeed treating it as a text. 3. It would be possible to give a detailed justification for our focusing primarily on the text Of Hospitality. The main reasons for choosing it have already been given, including most importantly its focus on Plato as well as on Levinas. There are also pragmatic reasons, for instance, the impossibility of turning to a longer and more complex text in the frame of a postscript. The texts in which Derrida addresses Levinas’s philosophy as such, namely, “Violence and Metaphysics,” “Adieu,” and “At this moment in this work here I am,” demand a more detailed discussion of the relation between Levinas and Derrida than can be accomplished here, a discussion that appears particularly difficult due to the apparent lack of thematic focus and unity in these texts. If Derrida is right to claim, in “Adieu,” that the topic of hospitality is at the core of Levinas’s philosophy, at least in Totality and Infi nity, then this should be a suffi cient motivation for selecting Of Hospitality. Michael Naas points out that Of Hospitality was written at about the same time as Adieu and takes up many of the themes that have been central to the dialogue between Levinas and Derrida, including the theme of the question (Naas (2003), p. 112). 4. Heidegger explains in his What Is Philosophy? to what extent it really is a Greek question. 5. In fact, Levinas is the fi rst “proper name” to emerge in the text, prior even to Plato (Hosp. 5). 6. One may start wondering whether this implication or presupposition indeed holds for all of Derrida’s middle and late writings. 7. I am here rendering, although not verbatim, a remark made by Michael Naas in the discussion of his paper “‘One Nation . . . Indivisible’: Jacques Derrida on the Autoimmunity of Democracy and the Sovereignty of God” at the Collegium Phaenomenologicum in Citta di Castello in the summer of 2005, when I asked him about hospitality and the relation between Levinas and Derrida. 8. For Kant, the unconditional categorical imperative also belongs to a prior level—namely, the level of synthetic a priori judgments; yet there is no “Other” whom I could encounter in this Kantian realm.

268

Notes

9. Forg. 44 ff. These formulations are taken from the text On Forgiveness, meaning that Derrida is here describing unconditional forgiveness rather than unconditional hospitality. But a case could easily be made, based on several of Derrida’s statements and footnotes (esp. Rogues 149), that unconditional hospitality and unconditional forgiveness bear the same structure and harbor the same structural paradox. It should be noted, however, that Derrida does not talk about “conditional forgiveness” but about politics, amnesty, etc. to characterize this domain—the same general domain to which conditional hospitality belongs. 10. This difference seems related to their closeness to or distance from Heidegger, where Derrida in a certain way takes up Heidegger’s evaluation of Plato’s role for Western philosophy and Levinas does not. 11. Plato might say in his defense that life in states happens naturally to human beings due to their lack of self-sufficiency such that our task cannot be to separate reason and political matters but only to question political affairs rationally. 12. Chapter 9 of this volume took issue with Derrida, mostly because, in light of the dialogue as a whole and the multiple facets of the myth itself, it seems questionable whether Plato is indeed proposing a critique of writing. 13. In The Truth in Painting, Derrida discusses four different versions of the concept of truth (The Truth in Painting 1–14). 14. For an exploration of madness in Derrida, see Guven (2005).

Bibliography

Throughout the text, primary sources are cited by author and title, while secondary sources are cited by author and year.

WORKS BY PLATO Apol. Gorg. Laws Parm. Phaedr. Phil. Rep. Stat. Symp. Theaet. Tim.

= Apology. Trans. G. Grube. = Gorgias. Trans. D. Zeyl. = Laws. Trans. T. Saunders. = Parmenides. Trans. M. Gill & P. Ryan. = Phaedrus. Trans. A. Nehamas & P. Woodruff. = Philebus. Trans. D. Frede. = Republic. Trans. G. Grube. = Statesman. Trans. C. Rowe. = Symposium. Trans. A. Nehamas & P. Woodruff. = Theaetetus. Trans. M. Levett. = Timaeus. Trans. D. Zeyl.

All in Plato. Complete Works. Ed. J. Cooper. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997. Print.

WORKS BY EMMANUEL LEVINAS CPP DF EE EI EN ET FC GCM

= Collected Philosophical Papers. Trans. A. Lingis. Pittsburgh: Duquesne UP, 1987. Print. = Difficult Freedom: Essays on Judaism. Trans. S. Hand. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1990. Print. = Existence and Existents (1947). Trans. R. Bernasconi & A. Lingis. Pittsburgh: Duquesne UP, 2001. Print. = Ethics and Infi nity. Conversations with Philippe Nemo (1981). Trans. R. A. Cohen. Pittsburgh: Duquesne UP, 1985. Print. = Entre Nous. Trans. M. B. Smith and B. Harshav. New York: Columbia UP, 1998. Print. = “The Ego and the Totality” (1954). CPP. 25–45. Print. = “Freedom and Command” (1953). CPP. 15–23. Print. = Of God Who Comes to Mind. Trans. B. Bergo. Stanford: Stanford UP, 1998. Print.

270 Bibliography IIR MS OB Peace PE PI RR RS TI TIH TN TO Trace

= Is it Righteous to Be? Interviews with Emmanuel Levinas. Ed. Jill Robbins. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2001. Print. = “Meaning and Sense” (1972). CPP. 75–107. Print. = Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence (1974). Pittsburgh: Duquesne UP, 1981. Print. [Autrement qu’être ou au-delà de l’essence. La Haye: Nijhoff, 1974] = “Peace and Proximity.” In Basic Philosophical Writings. Eds. T. Peperzak, S. Critchley, and R. Bernasconi. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1996. 161–70. Print. = “Phenomenon and Enigma” (1957). CPP. 61–73. Print. = “Philosophy and the Idea of Infi nity” (1957). CPP. 47–59. Print. = “The Ruin of Representation” (1959). Discovering Existence with Husserl. Trans. R. A. Cohen and M. B. Smith. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1998. 111–21. = “Reality and its Shadow” (1948). CPP. 1–13. [“La réalité et son ombre.” Les imprévus de l’histoire. Paris: Fata Morgana, 1994. 123–48.] Print. = Totality and Infi nity (1961). Trans. A. Lingis. Pittsburgh: Duquesne UP, 1969. [Totalité et Infini. Essai sur l’extériorité. La Haye: Nijhoff, 1961.] Print. = The Theory of Intuition in Husserl’s Phenomenology. 2nd ed. Trans. A. Orianne. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1995. Print. = In the Time of the Nations. Trans. M. B. Smith. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1994. Print. = Time and the Other (1947). Trans. R. A. Cohen. Pittsburgh: Duquesne UP, 1987. [Le Temps et l’Autre. Montpelier: Fata Morgana, 1979.] Print. = “The Trace of the Other.” Deconstruction in Context. Ed. M. Taylor. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1986. 345–59. Print.

OTHER PRIMARY LITERATURE (CITED BY TITLE OR ABBREVIATED TITLE) Adorno, Theodor W. “Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft” (1951). Gesammelte Schriften, Bd.10. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1998. 30. Print. . “Erziehung nach Auschwitz.” Erziehung zur Mündigkeit. Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1971. 88–104. Print. Aristotle. Politics. Trans. D. Keyt. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1999. Beauvoir, Simone de. The Ethics of Ambiguity. Trans. B. Frechtman. New York: Citadel Press, 1976. Print. [cited as EoA] Butler, Judith. Giving an Account of Oneself. New York: Fordham UP, 2005. [cited as GAO] Derrida, Jacques. Speech and Phenomena, and Other Essays on Husserl’s Theory of Signs. Trans. D. B. Allison. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1973. Print. . “Violence and Metaphysics.” Writing and Difference. Trans. A Bass. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1978. Print. [cited as VM] . “Plato’s Pharmacy.” Disseminations. Trans. B. Johnson. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1981. Print. [cited as PP] . The Truth in Painting. Trans. G. Bennington and I. McLeod. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1987. Print. . Edmund Husserl’s Origin of Geometry: An Introduction. Trans. John P. Leavey. Nebraska: U of Nebraska P, 1989. Print. . The Gift of Death. Trans. D. Wills. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1996. Print.

Bibliography 271 . Of Hospitality. Trans. R. Bowlby. Standford: Stanford UP, 2000. Print. [cited as Hosp.] . On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness. Trans. S. Critchley and R. Kearney. London: Routledge, 2001. Print. [cited as Forgiv.] . Rogues. Two Essays on Reason. Trans. P. A. Brault and M. Naas. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2005. Print. Gadamer, Hans-Georg. “Plato und die Dichter.” Gesammelte Werke, vol. 5. Tübingen: Mohr, 1985. 185–211. Print. . Plato’s Dialectical Ethics: Phenomenological Interpretations Relating to the Philebus. Trans. R. M. Wallace. New Haven: Yale UP, 1991. Print. Hegel, G. W. F. “Who Thinks Abstractly?” In Kaufmann, W., Hegel: Texts and Commentary. Garden City: Anchor Books, 1966. 113–18. Print. . Vorlesungen über die Geschichte der Philosophie I. Werke, vol. 18. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1986. Print. . Phänomenologie des Geistes. Werke, vol. 3. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1986. [cited as PhS] . Wissenschaft der Logik. Werke, vol. 5. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1986. Print. [cited as Logik] Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. Trans. J. Macquarrie and E. Robinson. Oxford: Blackwell, 1978. Print. [cited as BT] . Hölderlins Hymnen “Germanien” und “Der Rhein.” Freiburger Vorlesung Wintersemester 1934/35. Gesamtausgabe Band 39. Frankfurt a. M.: Klostermann, 1980. Print. . On the Way to Language. Trans. P. D. Hertz and J. Stambaugh. New York: Harper and Row, 1982. Print. . The Metaphysical Foundations of Logic. Trans. M. H. Heim. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1984. Print. . “Plato’s Doctrine of Truth.” Pathmarks. Ed. W. McNeill. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998. 155–82. Print. . “The Origin of the Work of Art.” Off the Beaten Track. Trans. J. Young and K. Haynes. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002. 1–56. Print. [cited as OWA] . Plato’s Sophist. Trans. R. Rojcewicz and A. Schuwer. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 2003. Print. Herodotus. The Histories. Trans. A. de Selincourt. London: Penguin, 1996. Print. Husserl, Edmund. The Crisis of European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology. Trans. D. Carr. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1970. Print. . Husserliana XV. Zur Phänomenologie der Intersubjektivität. Texte aus dem Nachlaß. Dritter Teil: 1929–1935. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1973. Print. . Ideas Pertaining to a Pure Phenomenology and to a Phenomenological Philosophy, Second Book. Studies in the Phenomenology of Constitution. Trans. R. Rojcewicz & A. Schuwer. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1989. [cited as Ideas II] . Husserliana X. Zur Phänomenologie des inneren Zeitbewußtseins (1893– 1917). Kluwer: Dordrecht, 1966. Print. (On the Phenomenology of the Consciousness of Internal Time. Trans. J. B. Brough. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1991. Print.) . Husserliana XXIX. Die Krisis der europäischen Wissenschaften und die transzendentale Phänomenologie. Eine Einleitung in die phänomenologische Philosophie. Ergänzungsband: Texte aus dem Nachlaß 1934–1937. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1993. Print. . Logical Investigations. Trans. J.N. Findlay. London: Routledge, 2001. . Analyses Concerning Passive and Active Synthesis. Trans. Anthony J. Steinbock. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 2001. Print. [cited as ACPAS] Irigaray, Luce. An Ethics of Sexual Difference. Trans. C. Burke. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1993. Print. [cited as ESD]

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Kant, Immanuel. Die Religion innerhalb der Grenzen der bloßen Vernunft. Werke vol. 12. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1956. Print. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. “The Philosopher and His Shadow.” Signs. Trans. R. McCleary. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1964. 159–181. Print. [cited as PS] . “An unpublished text by Maurice Merleau-Ponty: A Prospectus of His Work.” The Primacy of Perception. Trans. J. M. Edie. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1964, 3–11. Print. [cited as Prospectus] . The Visible and the Invisible. Trans. A. Lingis. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1968. Print. [cited as VI] . The Prose of the World. Trans. J. O’Neill. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1973. Print. . In Praise of Philosophy and Other Essays. Trans. J. M. Edie, J. Wild, J. O’Neill. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1988. Print. [Eloge de la philosophie et autre essays. Paris: Gallimard, 1989.] . “Cézanne’s Doubt.” The Merleau-Ponty Aesthetics Reader. Ed. G. A. Johnson. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1993. 59–75. Print. . “Indirect Language and the Voices of Silence.“ The Merleau-Ponty Aesthetics Reader. Ed. G. A. Johnson. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1993. 76–120. Print. . “Eye and Mind.” The Merleau-Ponty Aesthetics Reader. Ed. G. A. Johnson. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1993. 121–50. Print. . Phenomenology of Perception. Trans. C. Smith. London: Routledge, 2002. Print. [cited as PhP] Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Gay Science. Trans. J. Nauckhoff, A. Del Caro. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2001. . Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future. Trans. J. Norman. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2001.

SECONDARY AND OTHER LITERATURE (CITED BY AUTHOR AND YEAR) Achtenberg, Deborah. “The Eternal and the New: Socrates and Levinas on Desire and Need.” In Schroeder and Benso (2008) 24–39. Print. Annas, Julia. “Plato and Common Morality.” Classical Quarterly 28 (1978): 437–51. Print. . An Introduction to Plato’s Republic. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1981. Print. . “Plato on the Triviality of Literature.” In Moravcsik and Temko (1982) 1–28. Print. Baracchi, Claudia. Of Myth, Life and War in Plato’s Republic. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 2002. Print. Barbarić, Damir. “Das Maß. Ein Grundbegriff der politischen Philosophie Platons.” Politischer Platonismus. Eds. A. Eckl and C. Kauffmann. Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2008. 7–16. Print. Bedorf, Thomas. Dimensionen des Dritten. Sozialphilosophische Modelle zwischen Ethischem und Politischem. München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2003. Print. Benardete, Seth. The Rhetoric of Morality and Philosophy. Plato’s Gorgias and Phaedrus. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1991. Print. Benso, Silvia. “Aesth-ethics: Plato, Levinas, and Art.” Epoche, vol. 13, Issue 1 (2008): 163–83. Print. Bergo, Bettina. Levinas Between Ethics and Politics: For the Beauty that Adorns the Earth. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1999 (Phaenomenologica 152). Print.

Bibliography 273 Bernasconi, Robert. “The Ethics of Suspicion.” Research in Phenomenology 20 (1990): 3–18. Print. . “Wer ist der Dritte? Überkreuzung von Ethik und Politik bei Levinas.” Der Anspruch des Anderen. Eds. B. Waldenfels and I. Därmann Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1998. 87–110. Print. . “The Third Party. Levinas on the Intersection of the Ethical and the Political.” Journal of the British Society for Phenomenology 30, no. 1 (1999): 76–87. Print. . “What is the Question to which ‘Substitution’ is the Answer?” In Critchley and Bernasconi (2002) 234–51. Print. . “No Exit: Levinas’s Aporetic Account of Transcendence.” Research in Phenomenology, 35 (2005): 101–17. Print. [2005a] . “Who is my Neighbor? Who is the Other?” In Katz (2005), vol. IV, 5–30. Print. [2005b] . “Rereading Totality and Infinity.” In Katz (2005), vol. I, 23–34. Print. [2005c] Bernasconi, Robert, and Simon Critchley, eds. Re-reading Levinas. London: Continuum, 1991. Print. Bernet, Rudolf. “The Encounter with the Stranger: Two Interpretations of the Vulnerability of the Skin.” The Face of the Other and the Trace of God. Essays on the Philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas. Ed. Jeffery Bloechl. New York: Fordham UP, 2000. 43–61. Print. . “Levinas’s Critique of Husserl.” In Critchley and Bernasconi (2002) 82–99. Print. Blanchot, Maurice. The Infi nite Conversation. Trans. S. Hanson. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1992. Print. Bruns, Gerald. “Art and Poetry in Levinas.” In Critchley and Bernasconi (2002) 206–33. Print. Carr, David. Phenomenology and the Problem of History: A Study of Husserl’s Transcendental Philosophy. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1974. Print. . Time, Narrative, History. Indianapolis: Indiana UP, 1986. Print. Carson, Anne. Eros the Bittersweet. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1986. Print. Casey, Edward S. The Fate of Place. A Philosophical History. Berkeley: U of California P, 1998. Print. Caygill, Howard. Levinas and the Political. London: Routledge, 2002. Print. Chanter, Tina. “Antigone’s Dilemma.” In Bernasconi and Critchley (1991) 130–48. Print. . Ethics of Eros. Irigaray’s Rewriting of the Philosophers. London: Routledge, 1995. Print. Ciaramelli, Fabio. “The Riddle of the Pre-original.” In Peperzak (1995) 87–94. Print. Ciocan, Cristian, “The Question of the Living Body in Heidegger’s Analytic of Dasein.” Research in Phenomenology 38, no. 1 (2008): 72–89. Print. Cornford, F.M. “The Doctrine of Eros in Plato’s Symposium.” In Vlastos (1971) 119–31. Critchley, Simon. The Ethics of Deconstruction. Derrida and Levinas. Expanded second edition. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 1999. Print. [1999a] . Ethics—Politics—Subjectivity. Essays on Derrida, Levinas and Contemporary French Thought. London: Verso, 1999. Print. [1999b] . “Five Problems in Levinas’s View of Politics and a Solution to Them.” Political Theory 32, no. 2 (2004): 172–85. Print. . Infi nitely Demanding. Ethics of commitment, politics of resistance. London: Verso, 2007. Print. Critchley, Simon, and Robert Bernasconi, eds. The Cambridge Companion to Levinas. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Print.

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Davies, Paul. “The Face and the Caress: Levinas’s Ethical Alterations of Sensibility.” Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision. Ed. David M. Levin. California: U of California P, 1993. 252–72. Print. . “Sincerity and the End of Theodicy: Three Remarks on Levinas and Kant.” Research in Phenomenology 28 (1998): 126–51. Print. .“Asymmetry and Transcendence: On Scepticism and First Philosophy.” Research in Phenomenology 35 (2005): 118–40. Print. Delhom, Pascal. Der Dritte. Lévinas’ Philosophie zwischen Verantwortung und Gerechtigkeit. München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2000. Print. Demos, R. “A Fallacy in Plato’s Republic?” Philosophical Review 73 (1964): 395–98. Print. Dillon, M.C. “Merleau-Ponty and the Reversibility Thesis.” Man and World 16 (1983): 365–388. Print. Ferrari, Giovanni R. F. Listening to the Cicadas. A Study of Plato’s Phaedrus. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1987. Print. . “Platonic Love” In Kraut (1992) 248–76. Print. Figal, Günter. “The Idea and Mixture of the Good.” In Russon and Sallis (2000) 85–95. Print. Frede, Dorothea. “Rumpelstiltskin’s Pleasures: True and False Pleasures in Plato’s Philebus.” Phronesis 30 (1985): 151–80. Print. . “Disintegration and Restoration: Pleasure and Pain in Plato’s Philebus.” In Kraut (1992) 425–63. Print. Gaiser, Konrad, ed. Das Platonbild. Zehn Beiträge zum Platonverständnis. Hildesheim: Olms, 1969. Print. . “Plato’s Enigmatic Lecture on the Good.” Phronesis 25, no. 1 (1980): 5–37. Print. Giesz, Ludwig. Phänomenologie des Kitsches. Munich: Fink, 1971. Print. Gonzalez, Francisco J. “Levinas Questioning Plato on Eros and Maieutics.” In Schroeder and Benso (2008), 40–61. Print. Gosling, J. C. B. “False Pleasures: Philebus 35c–41b.” Phronesis 4 (1959): 44–54. Print. . Plato: Philebus. Transl. with notes and commentary. Oxford: Clarendon P, 1975. Print. Greisch, Jean. “The Face and Reading: Immediacy and Mediation.” In Bernasconi and Critchley (1991) 67–82. Print. Guven, Ferit. Madness and Death in Philosophy. Albany: SUNY P, 2005. Print. Hand, Seán. ‘Shadowing Ethics: Levinas’s View of Art and Aesthetics.’ Facing the Other: The Ethics of Emmanuel Levinas. Ed. S. Hand. Richmond: Curzon P, 1996, 63–90. Print. Held, Klaus. Lebendige Gegenwart. Die Frage der Seinsweise des transzendentalen Ich bei Edmund Husserl, entwickelt am Leitfaden der Zeitproblematik. The Hague: Kluwer, 1966. Print. . “Heimwelt, Fremdwelt, die eine Welt.” Phänomenologische Forschungen, Vol. 24/25: Perspektiven und Probleme der Husserlschen Phänomenologie, Freiburg: Alber, 1991. 305–337. Print. Hyland, Drew. “Against a Platonic ‘Theory of Forms.’” In Welton, William, Plato’s Forms: Varieties of Interpretation. New York: Lexington Books, 2002. 257–72. Print. . Questioning Platonism: Continental Interpreters of Plato. Albany: SUNY P, 2004. Print. . Plato and the Question of Beauty. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 2008. Print. Irwin, Terence. Plato’s Ethics. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1995. Print. Katz, Claire (ed.). Emmanuel Levinas: Critical Assessments. 4 volumes. London: Routledge, 2005.

Bibliography 275 Krämer, Sybille. “Immanenz und Transzendenz der Spur: Über das epistemologische Doppelleben der Spur.” Die Spur. Spurenlesen als Orientierungstechnik und Wissenskunst. Eds. S. Krämer, W. Kogge, and G. Grube. Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 2007. 155–81. Print. Kraut, Richard. The Cambridge Companion to Plato. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1992. Print. Krewani, Wolfgang N. Emmanuel Levinas. Denker des Anderen. Freiburg: Alber, 1992. Print. Krüger, Gerhard. Einsicht und Leidenschaft: Das Wesen des platonischen Denkens. Frankfurt a.M.: Vittorio Klostermann, 1992. Print. Kulka, Tomas. Kitsch and Art. State College: Pennsylvania State P, 1996. Print. Llewelyn, John. “Am I Obsessed by Bobby? (Humanism of the Other Animal).” In Bernasconi and Critchley (1991) 234–46. Print. . Emmanuel Levinas. The Genealogy of Ethics. London: Routledge, 1995. Print. Markus, R.A. “The Dialectic of Eros in Plato’s Symposium.” In Vlastos (1971) 132–43. Print. Mattéi, Jean-François. “Lévinas et Platon.” Positivité et transcendance. Ed. Jean, Luc Marion. Paris: Gallimard, 2000. Print. Moravcsik, Julius, and Temko, Philip, eds. Plato on Beauty, Wisdom, and the Arts. New Jersey: Rowman & Littlefield, 1982. Print. , “Noetic Aspiration and Artistic Inspiration.” In Moravcsik and Temko (1982) 29–46. Print. Naas, Michael. Taking on the Tradition. Jacques Derrida and the Legacies of Deconstruction. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2003. Print. . “Lending Assistance Always to Itself: Levinas’ Infi nite Conversation with Platonic Dialogue.” In Schroeder and Benso (2008) 79–102. Print. Nelson, Eric Sean, Antje Kapust, and Kent Still, eds. Addressing Levinas. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 2005. Print. Nussbaum, Martha C. “‘This Story Isn’t True’: Poetry, Goodness, and Understanding in Plato’s Phaedrus.” In Moravcsik and Temko (1982) 79–124. Print. . The Fragility of Goodness. Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1986. Print. Nygren, Anders. Agape and Eros. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1982. Print. Pappas, Nickolas. Routledge GuideBook to Plato and the Republic. London: Routledge, 2003. Print. Peperzak, Adriaan T. To the Other: An Introduction to the Philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas. West Lafayette: Purdue UP, 1993. Print. [1993a] . “Heidegger and Plato’s Idea of the Good.” Reading Heidegger: Commemorations. Ed. John Sallis. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1993b. 258–85. Print. [1993b] . (ed.) Ethics as First Philosophy: The Significance of Emmanuel Levinas for Philosophy, Literature and Religion. London: Routledge, 1995. Print. . Platonic Transformations. With and After Hegel, Heidegger, and Levinas. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 1997. Print. [1997a] . Beyond. The Philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1997. Print. [1997b] . “Levinas’ Method.” Research in Phenomenology 28 (1998): 10–25. Reprinted in Katz (2005), vol. I, 337–51. Print. Perpich, Diane. “A Singular Justice. Ethics and Politics between Levinas and Derrida.” In Katz (2005), vol. IV, 325–43. Print. Poirié, François. Emmanuel Levinas: Essai et Entretiens. Arles: Actes Sud, 1996. Print. Rimbaud, Arthur. Œuvres. Lausanne: La Guilde du Livre, 1957. Print.

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Name Index

A Adorno, Theodor W., 168, 262n7–8, 263n7 Annas, Julia, 255n15, 261n2, 262n18 Aristotle, 14, 23, 114, 162, 187, 224, 258n3

B Baracchi, Claudia, 262n14 Barbarić, Damir, 257n15 Beauvoir, Simone de, 7, 199, 203–05, 207, 209, 215–16, 250n9, 266n19 Benso, Silvia, 241n34, 260n1, 262n22 Bernasconi, Robert, 215, 250n6, 250n9, 252n2, 253n7, 253n10, 254n3, 258n21, 264n13, 264n19, 266n25, 267n30 Bernet, Rudolf, 254n24–25, 263n6 Blanchot, Maurice, 151, 174, 260n27 Bruns, Gerald, 260n1, 262n6 Butler, Judith, 31, 39, 41, 244n9, 245n17

C Carson, Anne, 250n1–2, 251n12 Casey, Edward, 266n27 Caygill, Howard, 254n2, 264n9 Chanter, Tina, 250n10, 254n17 Ciaramelli, Fabio, 260n20 Cornford, F.M., 251n21 Critchley, Simon, 254n2–3, 257n18, 260n27, 267n31

D Davies, Paul, 239n6, 249n18 Demos, Raphael, 254n16, 255n15 Derrida, Jacques, 8, 11, 49–50, 54, 154–55, 159–60, 163, 180–81,

224, 228–38, 241n28, 241n41, 244n8, 244n13, 249n6, 256n22, 260n27, 265n14, 266n21, 267n1–3 Dillon, Martin C., 254n6

F Ferrari, Giovanni R.F., 79, 240n22, 250n2–4, 251n22 Figal, Günter, 242n47 Frede, Dorothea, 247n4, 247n6

G Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 113, 121–23, 140, 173, 217, 242n53–54, 266n22 Gaiser, Konrad, 258n3 Gonzalez, Francisco, 241n34, 248n12 Gosling, J.C.B., 247n6

H Hand, Seán, 262n19 Hegel, G.W.F., 5, 14, 24, 31–32, 37–41, 43, 50, 91, 96, 111, 118, 141–43, 162, 180–82, 184, 191–92, 196, 198, 204, 232, 239n7, 243n61, 244n9, 246n20, 252n1, 257n16, 265n7, 265n13, 267n1 Heidegger, Martin, 3, 5, 8, 14, 16, 20–23, 40, 47, 63, 70–71, 77, 80, 113, 123, 153, 155, 160, 162–63, 165–67, 171–72, 175–77, 180–84, 229–30, 240n13, 241n31, 241n37, 242n53, 244n12, 246n9, 254n17, 261n5, 262n22, 268n10 Held, Klaus, 244n8, 264n11

280 Name Index Herodotus, 34 Husserl, Edmund, 5, 14, 20–21, 31–32, 37–38, 43–45, 48, 54, 63, 71, 80, 91, 123–25, 182, 184–86, 188–89, 191–92, 195, 216, 236, 239n7, 241n37, 242n51, 245n7, 246n12, 248n16, 257n14 Hyland, Drew, 162, 241n35, 243n59, 266n20

I Irigaray, Luce, 250n10, 251n18 Irwin, Terence, 243n58, 255n11, 255n15

K Kant, Immanuel, 5, 37, 40–41, 84, 100, 102–03, 106, 132, 162, 196, 228, 232–36, 239n2, 239n6, 255n4, 267n1, 267n8 Krämer, Sybille, 251n13 Krewani, Wolfgang, 262n6

L Llewelyn, John, 248n14, 253n9, 260n26

M Mattéi, Jean-François, 241n34, 243n60 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, 5, 24–25, 37, 44–48, 52, 54, 69–71, 77, 92, 123, 165, 175–76, 190–91, 199, 203–07, 209, 245n7, 247n9, 248n3, 250n7, 261n4, 263n25, 266n24 Moravcsik, Julius, 261n2

N Naas, Michael, 241n44, 242n46, 260n27, 260n30, 267n3

Nietzsche, Friedrich, 162, 204, 224 Nussbaum, Martha, 251n16, 266n25 Nygren, Anders, 252n26

P Pappas, Nickolas, 254n20, 255n15 Peperzak, Adriaan, 16, 116, 241n34, 242n54, 252n3, 255n5, 256n16 Perpich, Diane, 258n20, 266n25

R Richter, Gerhard, 178, 263n24 Rimbaud, Arthur, 227 Robbins, Jill, 260n1, 262n20 Rosen, Stanley, 24, 257n5, 264n21, 266n20

S Sachs, David, 254n16, 255n15 Sallis, John, 241n35, 246n15, 251n14, 264n22, 266n20 Schleiermacher, Friedrich, 11, 152, 258n1 Steinbock, Anthony, 249n6, 249n13, 263n3, 264n11 Strauss, Leo, 24, 152, 256n3, 258n2, 260n29, 266n20 Szlezák, Thomas Alexander, 258n3

V Visker, Rudi, 245n17, 254n22, 265n15

W Waldenfels, Bernhard, 254n2, 260n21–23, 264n11, 265n12, 266n25 Wyschograd, Edith, 173, 260n1

Subject Index

A

D

ambiguity, 6–8, 24, 26, 199–210, 216, 219, 222–24, 237; of art, 44, 147, 154, 164–65, 168–70, 174, 177–79, 214; of Eros, 19, 35, 44, 60, 79–94, 211; of politics, 44, 133, 212–14; as self-enclosure, 26, 133, 208–12, 215–16, 220–21, 224, 226–27; of writing, 154, 157–59, 162–63 antecedence, 25, 191 anteriority, 14, 32, 35, 43 apology, 69–73, 76–78, 129 Apology, 69, 71–73, 75, 129–30, 132, 158, 193, 231, 248n1 art, 5, 7, 19, 22, 149–50, 164–79, 208, 214–15, 218–24, 232, 237 asymmetry, 3, 17, 25, 74, 102, 115, 138, 143, 150, 188, 192

death, 63, 82–83, 85, 105, 108 desire, 9, 17, 20, 54, 61–62, 79–84, 86–89, 92–94, 101–02, 122, 189, 211–12, 219–20 dialogue, 5, 8, 24, 51, 157–58, 162, 175–77, 221–22 discourse, 1, 3–5, 79, 144, 157–58, 160, 200

B beauty, 7, 9, 10, 17, 34, 52, 54, 57, 61, 84, 86–90, 119–22, 127, 140, 168–172, 178, 214, 218–221 beginning, 11, 23, 49–50, 53–54, 119, 123, 175, 187 body, 6, 29, 44–55, 65, 89, 104, 106–07, 109, 119–20, 200, 213–16, 219–20 book, 159–63, 174–75

C caress, 81–82, 94, 211 conscience, 105, 254 culture, 5–7, 25–26, 117, 123–25, 138, 149–50, 179–82, 187–88, 190–93, 195–98, 206, 217, 225–27, 239

E elements, 13–14, 29, 44, 46–48, 55, 59–60, 65, 82–83, 167 enjoyment, 13, 29, 35–36, 43, 47–49, 55–60, 62–63, 65–66, 210, 216, 221, 235; erotic, 81–83, 168, 211; aesthetic, 170, 174–75, 214; egoistic, 31–32, 43, 59–60, 210, 216, 233 Eros, 6–7, 9–13, 19–22, 49, 52–53, 60, 62, 67, 78–94, 119–20, 122, 202–03, 208, 211–12, 218, 221–24, 236–37 esoteric (readings), 24, 152, 258n2–3, 259n4–5, 260n29 ethics, 1–4, 6–9, 13, 15–16, 19, 23, 26, 37–41, 52, 74–75, 93–112, 116–17, 123, 125–26, 128, 139, 145, 168, 178–79, 191–92, 199–209, 212–13, 215–16, 220, 222–23, 225–27; quasi-ethical, 135–36, 146–47, 217 exposure, 29, 45, 48, 52, 55, 66, 200–02, 216 exteriority, 13–14, 31, 36, 48, 76, 92, 117, 205

F face, 1–3, 15, 17, 35, 81, 83–84, 92, 95–97, 100, 105, 109–10, 113,

282 Subject Index 115–16, 121, 137, 139, 142–44, 147, 188, 190–91, 200, 208, 218, 224–25; face-to-face, 4, 6, 26, 67, 93, 108–09, 111, 115–16, 126, 128, 141, 143, 146–47, 188, 192 fecundity, 48, 60, 85, 89, 94, 150, 185–87, 197 Forms (doctrine of), 19, 74, 105, 121–25, 134, 155, 158, 165, 172, 219, 222, 251n16, 255n11 future, 14, 29, 48, 57–60, 65, 84–85, 169, 174–76, 179, 184–85, 197, 215

G God, 9, 17, 21, 71–72, 79, 86–88, 90, 94, 99, 115, 117, 119, 126, 194–95, 197, 225 Good (beyond Being), 5, 16, 18–19, 53, 57, 77, 106, 113, 117–23, 125–27, 130–31, 134, 138, 140, 171–73, 181, 190, 192, 197–98, 202–03, 217–18, 220, 227, 229, 236, 255n11 guilt, 40–41, 105, 232 Gorgias, 5, 8, 18, 67, 95, 103–04, 106–10, 129–30, 172, 189, 217, 221, 232, 255, 260 Gyges (myth of), 31–36, 43, 107–08, 210, 216, 233, 244n1

H happiness, 35, 44, 56, 62–63, 65–66, 103–05, 118 hedonism, 29, 55–61, 63, 65, 82, 104, 210 hermeneutics, 19–24, 53, 64, 67, 88, 154, 160, 162, 185, 217, 228, 231 history, 5, 7, 25, 53, 150–51, 180–86, 191–92, 206

I image, 89, 122, 149, 155, 165–67, 169, 171, 174 immortality, 52, 85, 88–89 interiority, 1, 6, 13–15, 29, 31–36, 42, 44, 48, 57, 60, 80, 92, 104, 199, 205, 210, 216 interruption, 23, 59–60, 128, 130, 140, 144–47, 149, 160–63, 166, 175, 179, 187, 208, 213, 226, 235 irreducibility, 13, 25, 41, 102, 142, 150, 188, 191, 197, 232, 235, 237–38

irresponsibility, 150, 169–70, 174, 177, 179, 204, 207

K knowledge, 1, 57–58, 61, 72, 74, 77, 95, 107, 113, 115, 118–19, 123, 125, 131, 135, 153–54, 196, 219, 236; self-knowledge, 39–40, 75

L language, 15, 18, 25, 39, 69–71, 77–78, 81, 108, 114, 151, 159, 163, 171–72, 177, 189–90, 193, 195, 203, 207, 217, 231, 248n2 law, 4–5, 33, 112–13, 116, 127–28, 131–37, 139–47, 193, 195–98, 212–13, 217–18, 220–21, 232, 234, 238 Laws, 133–34, 193, 195–98, 217, 229 logos, 8–11, 19, 44, 49–50, 54–55, 57, 71–72, 76, 106, 124, 139, 152, 154–55, 159, 161, 163, 172, 195, 214, 221

M madness, 1, 10–12, 17, 42–43, 53–54, 62, 72, 90, 151, 171–72, 174, 218–19, 221, 236–37 materiality, 44, 54, 67, 81, 93, 156–57, 168, 199, 210, 214, 224, 226 maternity, 60, 108, 186–87, 247n11 mortality, 48, 83, 85, 88–89, 94, 223 myth, 165, 172–74; and logos, 19, 124, 172, 221; of Gyges, see Gyges; of the Gorgias, 5, 18, 67, 95, 106–10, 172, 189, 217, 221, 232; of Theuth, 34, 54, 153–54, 156–57, 161–63, 177, 236

N need, 17, 35, 62–63, 79, 81, 83, 88, 92, 94, 221

O ontology, 1–3, 23, 168, 200, 239n6 Other, 3–4, 6, 13, 14–15, 17, 21, 25, 29, 35, 39, 60, 67, 69, 74–75, 97–105, 109, 113, 115, 121, 181, 202, 223

P paradox, 11, 32, 35, 97–99, 130, 145, 206, 211, 213, 215–16, 228–29, 234–35, 237–38

Subject Index Parmenides, 17–18, 29, 56, 64–66, 121, 240n11 passivity, 29, 45, 48, 54, 57, 63, 65–66, 186, 203, 210, 216 Phaedrus, 4, 7–11, 17, 19, 29, 34, 42, 44–45, 49–55, 62, 79, 85–87, 90–92, 105, 120, 132, 151–52, 154–56, 161–62, 171–72, 174, 193, 211–12, 217–20, 222, 224, 236–37 pharmakon, 153–54, 157 phenomenology, 2, 19–24, 26, 35, 38, 40, 44–49, 67, 77, 79–80, 82, 86–89, 92, 94, 96, 108, 124, 156, 166, 180, 182–87, 200–01, 203, 206, 216, 223–26, 228 Philebus, 56–62, 119, 121, 140, 207, 220 philosophers, 1, 10–12, 69, 72, 86, 91, 118, 128–31, 144–46, 193–96 pleasures, 53–59, 61, 63, 65, 88, 90, 91, 104, 140, 164, 210, 247n6 poetry, 72, 150–51, 164–65, 170–74, 208, 221, 226 politics, 4–7, 12, 26, 72, 95, 99, 101, 11–13, 116–18, 126–41, 143–47, 149, 176–79, 192, 208, 212–13, 217, 221–22, 225–26, 228, 230, 234–35 psychism 31, 36, 41–43, 104, 245n14

Q question, 15, 18, 34–35, 71, 73–75, 77, 96, 100–01, 200, 208, 229–31, 237

R reason, 1, 3–4, 8–9, 58, 71–72, 86, 111, 140, 143–44, 158, 236–37 Republic, 1, 4–5, 16, 19, 32–33, 105, 113–14, 118–22, 129–32, 140, 149, 151, 155, 164–66, 170–72, 194, 200, 212, 219, 221, 230, 236 resistance, 36, 43, 67, 95, 97–101, 110, 139, 178 response, 17, 35, 83, 96, 98, 100–02, 163 responsibility, 6, 13, 15, 17, 37, 42, 54, 67, 74, 83, 92, 95–97, 99–103, 105, 108, 110, 114–15, 121,

283

126, 139–40, 142–43, 145, 147, 169, 201–03, 213, 232, 234–36 reversibility, 3, 44, 46, 51, 55

S said, 18, 108, 139, 144, 149, 151, 157–61, 163, 177, 179, 201, 231 saying, 18, 108, 139, 144, 149, 151, 157–61, 163, 177, 201, 231 self, 6, 13, 22, 27, 29, 31, 43, 64, 66, 76, 88, 93, 102, 139, 188, 210, 232–33 separation, 14, 29, 32–33, 35–36, 42–43, 47, 62, 108, 138, 146 shadow, 34, 37, 92, 149–50, 165–67, 169–70, 178, 194, 218 skin, 13, 18, 41–42, 48, 50, 64–65, 67, 95, 98, 102–03, 106–10, 216, 221–22 speech, 3, 5, 8–9, 11, 17–18, 33–34, 40, 49–50, 67, 69–71, 76–78, 100, 114, 143, 149, 151–52, 154, 156, 158–59, 161, 163, 171–72, 176, 202, 218, 233, 248n2 soul, 4, 10, 17, 42, 44, 52, 67, 75, 104–10, 131, 154, 170, 211, 213, 222 Statesman, 128, 131–36, 139, 142, 194, 217, 226 stranger, 1, 52, 74, 85, 131–33, 135, 139, 150, 167–68, 180, 187–89, 192–95, 198, 218, 230–32, 264n13 suffering, 12, 29, 33, 44, 56, 60–61, 63–66, 103, 200, 210, 216 Symposium, 5, 19, 21, 62, 67, 79, 87–92, 94, 118–19, 122, 211, 217–20

T teaching, 15–16, 67, 69, 78, 187 temporality, 14, 48, 57, 59–60, 65, 84, 150, 183–84, 186 Theaetetus, 249n15, 255n6, 264n10 third, the, 108, 115–16, 126, 138–39, 147, 174, 231 Timaeus, 52, 172, 251n14, 253n10 trace, 17, 42, 55, 65, 86–87, 93, 109, 172, 199, 214–15, 218–21, 224–25 transparency, 21, 37–38, 40, 93, 138, 232, 234 translation, 25, 70, 190

284 Subject Index truth, 5, 24–25, 29, 34, 56–57, 59, 65, 72, 82, 123, 153, 157–58, 161, 163, 165–67, 179, 201, 203, 228, 233, 237 tyranny, 128, 130, 135, 137, 142–44, 146–47, 175–76, 208, 212

V vulnerability, 2, 13, 18, 29, 39, 44–45, 48, 52–53, 55, 64–65, 82–83, 94, 99–100, 108–10, 154, 157, 178, 187, 195–98, 200–02, 211–13, 216, 222–23

W wings, 52–53, 85–87, 251n12

work, 137, 156, 164–72, 174–79, 182–83, 214–15, 219–20, 237 world, 29, 31–32, 44–48, 50–51, 54–55, 73, 108, 119, 124, 137, 147, 165, 169, 174, 178, 208, 210, 215–16, 220–22, 224, 227; Other without world, 32, 65, 180, 190–91; historical-cultural worlds, 5–7, 25–26, 149–50, 165–66, 178–79, 182–83, 186–92, 195, 197–98, 213, 225–28, 231–32 writing, 5, 7, 11, 17, 34, 116–17, 132–33, 142, 146, 149, 151–57, 159–63, 174, 218, 225