Entrevista: libro sobre antisemitismo, novela de Umberto Eco El cementerio de Praga

el cementerio judío de Praga

Una interesante entrevista a Umberto Eco en torno a su novela El cementerio de Praga

FUENTE: http://www.tabletmag.com/jewish-arts-and-culture/books/83737/protocols?all=1

Shorn of his black beard, and having laid his black fedora on the table, the novelist Umberto Eco still carries himself like the heir to a rabbinical dynasty, alternating passages of sly conversation with careful, learned explication and Talmudic pilpul. A creator of characters and stories so original and compelling that they appeal at once to academics and to a global audience of millions of weary Kindle-toting travelers, he takes equal delight in the sleights of hand that make his novels such fun to read and in the scholarly literature that frequently inspires his intricate and fiendishly clever plots.

To say that Eco is as much a historian of ideas as a novelist isn’t a cute way of denigrating the literary quality of his novels, which sometimes sparkle with genius. Rather, it is a way of underlining the scholarly impulse that so frequently animates his compulsive need to entertain. The Name of the Rose was one of the better mysteries of the past 50 years, but it could also profitably be used—and has been used—as a textbook on the scholastic method and medieval hermeneutics. Conversely, the clever meta-fictional devices that Eco enjoys are married to a 19th-century novelist’s open delight in grand flourishes—poisoned books, exploding sewers, and other comic-book-like narrative devices that return the often-tiresome suspension of disbelief fiction requires to the realm of pure childhood pleasure.

Nowhere are Eco’s deep scholarly seriousness and his childlike sense of play more in evidence than in The Prague Cemetery, his sixth novel. A global best-seller that was published in Italian in October 2010 and is now being published in English, it is a weird combination of elements that make sense together only in the universe of Eco: It is a deeply serious narrative argument about the origins of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion and the birth of modern anti-Semitism interspersed with lavish recipes and menus from the best restaurants in 19th-century Paris (he met with a smile my suggestion that he spin off an anti-Semites cookbook), and it is also a perverse and entertaining attempt to write a 21st-century version of a 19th-century French novel along the lines of Alexandre Dumas Père’s Joseph Balsamo, which Eco believes inadvertently provided the literary model for the Protocols forgery.

I met Umberto Eco at Peacock Alley, a wildly expensive restaurant in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York. With its high vaulted ceilings, the lobby of the Waldorf looks like a train station and has similarly bad acoustics. Eco was tired and suffering from a slight cold, on the 11th day of a 14-day book tour that had him in a different city almost every night. Still, he was gracious and warm, looking askance at me only once, when he ordered a gin and tonic before lunch and I ordered orange juice.

The Prague Cemetery explores the trial of fictions and forgeries that gave birth to the Protocols through the fictional character of Simone Simonini, a forger and police spy, and his father, Capt. Simonini, who in the book writes the notorious Simonini letter, the first published sketch of the theory of a global Jewish conspiracy. While Capt. Simonini may or may not have been an invention of a 19th-century forger, the Simonini letter is real—as is, Eco assured me, every major character in the book, aside from the two Simoninis. When I told him that he had created the single most repulsive anti-Semite in the history of the novel, he bowed his head with a craftsman’s pride, while also noting that his main character is an equal-opportunity misanthrope, who hates Jews to the extent that he despises all of humankind.

Talk about anti-Semitism as a plot. You’re a novelist, a maker of plots. And then you have this other kind of plot, this ersatz, false, forged, conspiratorial plot.

It’s the paranoia of the universal plot. This is not strictly linked to anti-Semitism. Karl Popper, the philosopher, has written a beautiful essay on the plot-paranoia syndrome. He said it starts with Homer. Everything that happens at Troy is decided the day before on Olympus with the gods. So, he says, every society in a way elaborates the paranoia of somebody on their shoulders, deciding their fates. First, it’s a way to escape responsibility. It’s not me, it’s not my fault. Second, it’s very useful, especially for dictatorships. All my youth, until the age of 10, I was educated under the fascist dictatorship. And they said there was the demo-pluto-judo-cratic plot—democracies, plutocracies, and the Jews. It was a general plot in the world to humiliate Italy. And until yesterday Berlusconi continued his campaign about the communist plot against Italy. We have no more communists! Not even with a candle can you find them.

Conspiracies do exist. Probably in this moment in New York there is an economic group making a conspiracy in order to buy three banks. But if they succeed, they are immediately discovered. There was a conspiracy to kill Julius Caesar—the Ides of March. We discovered it. The universal conspiracy is more efficient for paranoia because you have no target. It’s a general presence in the world. And so you can always make records of the universal conspiracy without being proven false.

In this sense, the Jews were so useful because they were everywhere. The model for The Prague Cemetery, I tell you in my novel, comes from Alexandre Dumas, the conspiracy of Cagliostro [in Dumas’ novel Joseph Balsamo]. But the pattern is the same. They are coming from all the countries of the world. They present themselves: “I am so and so from Copenhagen.” “I am the master of Honolulu.” In The Prague Cemetery, it is “I am Rabbi Dan from Jerusalem.” You need an entity that is ungraspable. They come from everywhere, so you cannot control them.

How do you understand the connection between this kind of plot-making activity and what a novelist does? The character of Simonini is like a corrupted version of a novelist. There’s money being paid, the documents are forgeries, you have governments involved, buying these plots and setting them up for their own political ends.

There is a simple difference between fiction and lie. In the fiction, I obviously tell something different from truth. I tell you that there is a girl called Little Red Riding Hood. But I pretend that she exists. And you pretend that she exists. And I know that you know that she doesn’t exist. But you are participating in my game. It’s said that during the puppet shows in the old Sicily, people were going to beat the villain because they were unable to distinguish between fiction and reality. But this is a rare case. Usually people understand.

Certainly Simonini could have been a fascinating novelist. He would’ve said, “Everything I say is false, only for entertaining.”

To you as a novelist and critic, there’s something precious about the game between the novelist and the reader and a corresponding need to preserve the space for reason to operate, and to separate fiction from reality. There’s something about a Simonini, the corrupted writer, that aims to collapse the distinctions that make criticism and writing and reading possible.

Literature is a perverse game because it’s too easy to say that the teller pretends that Little Red Riding Hood or Madame Bovary or Anna Karenina is a fiction. Step by step, I want you to lose your critical control and start crying about the fate of Anna Karenina. But then I know that once you finish reading the book, you come back to reality and at the second reading you don’t cry any longer but simply appreciate the way in which I obliged you to cry the first time. That is the perverse literary game. Simonini is more cruel. He wants you to believe. He doesn’t want to show his inner strategy. The writer desires that you discover my strategy. Simonini, no. Every forger wants to be taken seriously.

You wrote a novel, not a tract on anti-Semitism. At the same time, I felt that there was an argument in the book that’s emotionally important to you, which is to make a distinction between modern anti-Semitism—the anti-Semitism of the Dreyfus case and the Protocols of the Elders of Zion—and the anti-Semitism of the medieval church.

It was not an idea of mine. I was for instance inspired by that great book of Hannah Arendt called The Origins of Totalitarianism. She was very clear about what happened: Before the French Revolution, the anti-Semitism was theological. “They killed Jesus.” OK. They were poor people living in ghettos. So, some pogroms, some massacres. Nobody thought that the Jews wanted to conquer the world. They were the fiddler on the roof. With the French Revolution, there is the emancipation. The Jews start entering the banking milieu, the army—the Dreyfus case—literary salons. So, now there is a new kind of non-religious anti-Semitism. I frankly didn’t know the work of [Alphonse] Toussenel. He wrote two volumes—being a socialist, not Marxist—identifying Jews, Englishmen, and capitalists. So, all the Englishmen were Jews and were also capitalists.

This new form of secular anti-Semitism that ends with the idea of world domination came out, as far as I know, with the letter of the old Capt. Simonini. Maybe even the letter was a forgery, but it was there. It was republished the entire century in various forms. And it was the first complete design of the world domination by the Jews. All the arguments used later were already in the letter of the elder Simonini. So, I didn’t invent anything. I tried to give a narrative form.

What psychological function did this idea of Jewish world domination serve for people in a 19th-century world, in which the grand narratives of the Catholic Church, which had lasted for centuries, no longer felt binding?

Listen, you have seen through my story that some models of world domination were attributed to Jesuits, too. Jews probably sold better, so to speak. It’s my idea of racism. We are never racist against somebody who is very far away. I don’t know any racism against the Eskimos. To have a racist feeling there must be an other who is slightly different from us—but is living close to us. If in the 19th century Jews entered social life and began to become politically and financially powerful, that was another reason to start.

[Stops to order a gin martini on the rocks and gestures to the single drink on the table.] I won’t get drunk before the end. [He laughs, takes a sip of his drink, and then continues.] There was an anti-Semitic attitude for instance in Russia, where the Jews were living very closely to the muzhiki. But the muzhiki were illiterate, and the Jews, they were the people of the book. They read. So, they represented a sort of intelligentsia. They spoke another language. They made a strong inbreeding. Anti-Semitism was used to justify some pogroms, but the pogroms were for economic reasons. In the 19th century it becomes different.

The Chmielnicki pogroms in Ukraine killed a third of the Jewish population. In Spain, the entire population was expelled. In medieval England, the entire population was murdered or expelled. The entire Jewish populations of major cities in Germany were exterminated during the Crusades. The technology may have been lacking for global murder, but certainly the spirit was strong.

They were not accused of conquering the world. They were different and they were disturbing and they were speaking another language. They refused to be converted. Everybody who wouldn’t be converted had to be killed. Fine. But I think Hitler couldn’t have his elaborate vision on the grounds simply of religious anti-Semitism. He needed secular anti-Semitism. That’s the Protocols—exactly that. Because the Protocols are not so naïve to say that the Jews kill babies for God. They are dominating the banks, the newspapers. It’s a different view.

One of the things that’s always darkly funny to me, as a Jew, about anti-Semitism—and it comes out in the novel too—is that you can find people on opposing sides of every political spectrum who are united by Jew-hatred. Voltaire was a terrible anti-Semite. At the same time, the Roman Catholic Church he despised was also anti-Semitic. The Jews should be eliminated either for religious or for secular and anti-religious reasons. The Jews live too long. The Jews are physically weak. Jews are wealthy and dominate everything. The Jews are poor vermin and pose a danger to public health.

I have been always fascinated by that, maybe because according to some of my friends I have a Talmudic spirit.

The Name of the Rose was an exceptionally Talmudic novel.

My grandfather was a foundling. So, I always said, maybe he was. But my grandmother was clearly a goy, so I am not Jewish. But I remember when I met the wife of Elie Wiesel in Paris. She said, “Comment allez-vous?” [He switches into French to explain that he answered Wiesel’s wife by complaining that he had a cold, rather than answering that he was happy and well, to which she responded by saying that he was clearly Jewish.]

Novelists are generally very sensitive at whatever level in their own psyches to whatever is going on in the worlds around them. So, why did you write this book now?

There can be many reasons. One is that I was interested in forgeries and then in Protocols. Since the Foucault’s Pendulum I have written many, many essays on that. At a certain moment, as it happens when you have finished a previous book and you are looking around—oh, why not? I was a devotee of popular novels of the 19th century. The literature on the Protocols is enormous. And there are some excellent books, historical books, like Norman Cohn’s Warrant for Genocide. But being old, academic books they were not as accessible, and the Protocols are still believed. So, maybe I wrote my novel to give it a narrative form, to explain, through narrative, how such a concoction is possible. Maybe it can reach a larger number of people than the academic literature can.

But in the beginning I was not convinced because the material was dirty, it was stinky. I felt a certain embarrassment. To jump over my nose-reaction and to give a punch to the stomach of my reader with the first pages, I used all the existing clichés. The anti-Jewish part is Céline, Bagatelles Pour un Massacre. The anti-German is half Nietzsche and half a book written by a Frenchman at the beginning of the First World War, the one in which the Germans produced more fecal matter than other people.

Within the Jewish community one of the historical reactions to the moment that you write about, to the Dreyfus case, was Zionism. You have Theodore Herzl, a Viennese journalist, who is sitting in Paris at the same time as your Simonini is.

I stop at that point.

Why?

Herzl was like Disraeli. Disraeli, being a Jew, wanted to demonstrate how Jews are smart and produced half of the anti-Semitic clichés of the period. And in fact, Toussanel was using Disraeli to say that, it is true, there is a Jewish conspiracy. “Do you know the prime minister in Russia is a Jew? Do you know that this one is a Jew?” He was offering arguments for the Jewish conspiracy while his intention was to show how Jews were smart and intelligent. And this being a narrative, you can’t ask, why didn’t you speak of that, of that, or of that?

But still: It’s rare now in Paris or London or Madrid to find people who say that a conspiracy of Jewish rabbis controls the world. It’s no longer “the Jews” who are controlling the world, but “the Zionists”—who also happen to be Jews involved in a global conspiracy that controls governments, the banks, and the press.

The moment that there’s a Jewish state, once again the whole story changes. There are people who are not anti-Semites by nature but leftists. Being with the Arabs and becoming anti-Israeli, they automatically become anti-Semitic. I had to open a critical discussion with the boycotters, especially in England, in the journal Translation, a very good journal. There were two Tel Aviv scholars, notoriously critical of their government, who were expelled, which is obviously another form of racism. Because you are not responsible for what Netanyahu is doing in this moment, as I am not responsible for the deeds of Berlusconi even though he and I are both Italians. The shifting from anti-Israel-ism to anti-Semitism is pretty natural.

I love the novels of the late José Saramago, and I remember listening to him talk about the Israeli Nazis and this and that. And I’m listening, and I think, here’s this extremely talented novelist who understands human psychology in a deep way and writes great books. And here he’s spouting this crude insanity.

You know, Saramago was against every religion. He had a very anarchist spirit. I don’t remember his remarks, but I remember he was an old communist. He was a nice person.

You feel you know a person through his books. You can feel the spirit of a person. And then to hear this stuff so at odds with the person that I knew very well from my reading was a shock. But the reading wasn’t a mistake, either.

We have always to make a distinction between texts and authors. Take Ezra Pound. He was really a fascist in the political space. But he was simply an anarchist who was against the accumulation of money. And living in Italy at that time, he had the impression that fascism was good. But if you read the poetry of Ezra Pound without knowing what he did, he’s a great poet, and you have to make a sharp distinction. One can be a great poet and be politically stupid. With Céline it is very difficult to make a distinction between he and his work.

I like Céline. I love Journey to the End of Night. I don’t like the anti-Semitic tracts.

He’s a great writer. But some of his texts are really racist. You cannot say he was a racist in his private life and these texts are not—no, no. There is a strict link there. So, you have to be very well-balanced and prudent as a critic to appreciate a writer in spite of his positions. It’s very easy to say that Mein Kampf is badly written. OK. No problem.

Céline is not badly written. And the anti-Semitism really is part of his work. Talk to me about being a child in fascist Italy and growing up in school with this sense of the vast democratic-capitalist-Jewish conspiracy targeting your country, and what that felt like.

First of all, it happened until I was 11 years old.

Well, you know the famous Jesuit saying: “Give me a child until he’s 7, I’ll give you the man”?

I couldn’t escape from the fascist education until the age of 11, when there was the fall of the regime, and then I realized that there were many other perspectives in the world. During the fascist education, like everybody else I wrote texts saying that I wanted to die for my country, for the greatness of Italy. I would say it with a certain cynicism. I remember that one day, I was 9 or 10 years, but I asked, “Do I really love Mussolini? Because they say that kids like me love Mussolini. Is it true? Or I am sick?”

You have not seen my book, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana? It’s the story of that education, in which the texts that opened me to a different world were the American comic books. “Mickey Mouse: Journalist” told me that there was the problem of the freedom of the press. He was fighting for the freedom of the press—a concept that was absolutely nonexistent in fascist Italy. Flash Gordon was fighting against a ruler, for freedom. So, I was educated by fascist schoolbooks obviously, but also by the counter-literature not controlled by the censor, namely, comic books.

Did you know any Jews growing up?

No. Only just on the verge of my 11 years, playing with some friends on the streets. At that time, it was possible to play on the streets of the city because there was a car passing through every 10 minutes. People were very well-dressed, taking away the weeds, cleaning the sidewalks. And one of them talked with me. He said, “You are the young Eco. Tell my best to your father because he knows me. I am Mr. Taverno.” In Italy, instead of picking them and sending them to camps, they humiliated them, obliging them to spend time in manual works. And so at that time, I started to see that there were some people who were Jews. Yes, it could’ve happened that in the family they said of somebody, “They are Jews.” But they said it as they would say, “He’s from Turin. He’s not from Alessandria.” So, no, there was no real perception of the difference. It was only at the end of the war that I understood the whole story.

Did you go to church as a child?

Yes. I was a fervent Catholic, and I belonged to the national organizations, even becoming one of the national leaders, until the age of 21, 22. Then there was a first political collapse, because we were the young Catholics, very left-oriented. Then I was starting to study the Middle Ages, and reading Thomas Aquinas. In this process of education, there was a process of disconnection. OK. But I in a way remained sentimentally linked to that world.

It wasn’t by chance I wrote The Name of the Rose like that, because it was the world of my youth. For the same reasons, when I am with faithful friends of my age, after midnight in the countryside, we start singing the fascist hymns because they were those that we sang in the school. There’s a sort of nostalgia. So, secretly, we remain linked to certain melodies.

It’s a terrible thing, right? Because in the end it’s a childhood song, no matter what else it meant.

We sang the fascist hymns and the Catholic songs. That was our childhood.

When I go to churches now in Europe, like a good American tourist, one of the things that’s most striking is that except for other tourists like me and five old ladies, they’re empty. You belong to the last generation of Europeans to grow up in a Christian Europe.

Once Chesterton said—Chesterton was a Catholic—“When men no longer believe in God, it’s not that they believe in nothing. They believe in everything.” Today there are new sects, New Age, astrology, cyborg mythology. Man is a religious animal. Man cannot accept the idea of dying, so we have to believe in something, to give this sense of survival, of mystery, of something beyond death.

SOBRE LOS JESUITAS Y SU HISTORIA VIDEO Y TRANSCRIPCIÓN


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ENLACE

http://libraries.slu.edu/digital/spiritual-journeys/titles.html
Lecture delivered by Paul Shore at the September 10, 2008 opening of the exhibit, “Spiritual Journeys:
Books Illustrating the First Two Centuries of Contemplation and Action of the Society of Jesus.”
©2008 Paul Shore
Copyright 2009 Pius XII Memorial Library, Saint Louis University.
Site created: 07/15/2009
Last modified: 07/15/2009
http://slulink.slu.edu/special/digital/spiritual-journeys/index.html
Anyone who would study the early history of the Society of Jesus is blessed with an abundance
of riches. Jesuits have left us monuments of architecture, works of music and dance, theological
and philosophical systems, realia in the form of religious objects, tools and mechanical
inventions, letters and reports. But most of all they have left us books, thousands and thousands
of books.
For those of us in the academy, surrounded by and producing books, books created by and for
the early Jesuits might seem like the easiest things to take up and study in order to gain an
understanding of the Society. But it is not as simple as that. After some years spent pondering
Jesuits and their books, I was told by a learned Jesuit that I was “close” to understanding what it
meant to be a Jesuit, but I was not quite there. Why? Because while these written records of the
Jesuits do document the aspirations, the achievements, and sometimes failures of the Society of
Jesus, they do so in the context of an internally experienced spiritual realm whose contours can
only be imperfectly reflected in a book or other written document. The first Jesuits were guided
by and made powerful by the use of words, but words alone cannot convey the totality of their
experiences or the passion of their convictions, nor do words easily render the complex
relationships that existed among Jesuits, or the perhaps even more complex relationships
between Jesuits and non-Jesuits.
Then, too, the Jesuits of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries lived in an intellectual and
political world very unlike our own. Their cosmos swarmed with unseen and dangerous demons,
much as ours is crowded with equally hazardous microbes. Their horizon revealed implacable
and ingenious enemies who sought their destruction. Among their allies were princes and
prelates of absolute power and material splendor. Their notions of causality, the individual,
justice, obedience, and virtue were based on assumptions in many cases unlike today’s, and the
very real Jesuit appreciation of non-European cultures derived from a profoundly different
motivation than our modern ideas of intellectual curiosity and respect for diversity.
In short, the Jesuits were human beings like us, but they understood and expressed their
humanity in ways that would often seem unfamiliar, even bewildering, were they to appear today
on this Jesuit university campus. Books alone cannot unlock this mystery, but they can provide a
clue.
This exhibit consists of only a small handful of the hundreds of titles produced by Jesuit presses
during the first century and a half that followed the founding of the Society in 1540. In these
years the Society grew with stunning speed from a roomful of companions seeking to be
assigned a mission by the Pope, to a vast and largely self-sustaining enterprise of enduring
significance in the history of the world (I often think of it as the first multi-national corporation,
1in some ways). At the same time, the Society developed an understanding of itself that it
expressed in many media, including books.
The books selected for this exhibition were chosen because of the roles they played in defining
the identity of the Jesuits to themselves and to others. This identity emerged in an environment
that we must keep in mind as we view these artifacts. First, the Jesuits were a new Catholic
order: on the day that the Pope approved the formation of the Society, the Benedictines were
already a thousand years old, the Dominicans and Franciscans over three centuries old. Perhaps
more importantly, the Jesuits were a new religious order that came into existence at the same
time that other Catholic orders were also being born: the Theatines, for example, were founded
sixteen years before the Jesuits, the Ursulines five years before. The Society of Jesus, therefore,
once granted its commission and focused on its educating and missionary missions, entered a
field already crowded with other orders competing for resources, recognition, recruits, and a
visible place in the fluid cultural landscape of the day.
While the founder of the Jesuits, Ignatius of Loyola, lived, the identity of the new order was
unmistakably shaped by his own personality: sensitive, energetic, aware of human relations and
social dynamics, yet simultaneously absolutely certain about where he was headed, and
unyielding in matters that he felt might compromise the Society. Yet even before Ignatius’ death
in 1556, tensions were emerging among some of the original Companions over points of
devotional practice and broader policy. After the Founder’s death, the Society underwent the
familiar process in which the thoughts of the creator of the institution become surrounded by an
aura that soon begins to obscure some of its intended meaning. Meanwhile those who carry on
the mission attempt to keep alive the charisma and vision of the founder, whose personality
becomes buried with this very effort.
Ignatius suffered in this way at least as much as most founders of religious movements: his
personality was soon rendered almost inaccessible by pious legends and baroque accretions; the
very rooms that he lived and died in in Rome were loaded with baroque tassels and gilded, obese
putti, obscuring the saint’s personal austerity and his medieval origins.
One of the goals of this exhibit is to put us in mind of this austere man
with medieval roots who founded the Society of Jesus. To this end, the
first book in this exhibit is the Vita Christi of Ludolf of Saxony, a
fourteenth century Carthusian. It is the book, Ignatius tells us, that was
brought to him while he languished in bed for months while recovering
from grave battlefield injuries. This much of the story is well known to us
from Ignatius’s so-called autobiography. Let us consider this story from
three perspectives. First, that of Ludolf, the author, whose unsystematic
(and for this modern reader, sometimes annoying) presentation of learned
citations is counterbalanced by his great gifts of description, gifts that
“hooked” Ignatius, the physically immobilized yet profoundly physical
2reader. Ludolf produced this book to be read aloud, so that the vivid images with which the text
abounds—and the religious truths it was intended to convey—might be absorbed through human
contact and metaphor. In fact, Ludolf wrote towards the end of a great era of European orality
which would fade with the appearance of the printed word and a vast expansion of schools—an
expansion that the Jesuits themselves would play a key role in.
In Ludolf’s day, the fourteenth century, the humanity of the characters of the stories from
Christ’s life was communicated through the human processes of reading and hearing, an
interpersonal transaction. But Ignatius, let us recall, read the Vita Christi alone (although perhaps
not silently), internalizing the drama and integrating it into what he already knew of life. Thus
the second perspective is that of a man of action, a Basque nobleman (though by cannonball
involuntarily made inactive), directing his attention to a new set of actions and motivations that
he previously presumably had not given much thought to. In this instant a new journey is
beginning, one that will soon lead to a geographical pilgrimage (Manresa, Paris, Rome, and
beyond), but which begins with an inward turning (in Latin, conversio), a journey, elements of
which would be repeated by countless Jesuits in the coming years and centuries. We see also the
beginnings of a productive tension among the Jesuits between reflection and action, between the
concrete and the imagined, that will remain an outstanding characteristic of this Jesuit journey.
The third perspective from which to view this event of crucial importance to the history of the
Jesuits, and, I believe, to the history of the entire Catholic Church, is that of Ignatius, now
revered at sixty-three years old (and that’s an old man in the sixteenth century), reflecting on
these events that had led to the founding and expansion of the Jesuits. His initial encounter, years
earlier, with the lengthy, scholastic Latin sentences of Ludolf, he now understands through the
prism of the development of the new institution he had founded and the trials he had seen it
through. Ignatius, reflecting, now sees clearly his own substitution of the Life of Christ for the
chivalric romance that he actually wanted to read, the worldly with the spiritual, the erotic with
the transcendent. His words seek to explain his understanding of this change, the commencement
of the journey, and in doing so, he helps define the evolving Society. A founding narrative is
born.
But what of the book that actually precipitated this
transformation? We don’t have the Castilian version of the
Vita Christi, which Ignatius would have read himself; instead
our exhibit offers a sixteenth-century edition of the original
Latin of Ludolf. Despite its publication date of 1530, this is a
medieval book, one very close in spirit to the volume that
Ignatius would have read himself. Both the format and the
illustrations of our book are redolent of the pre-modern culture in which Ignatius reached
manhood and which characterized much of Europe during his lifetime.
3Let me just briefly show you one of the woodcuts that ornaments
this remarkable volume: Christ and the Tempter in the wilderness.
No baroque accretions or hard-to-understand props here: on a bare
stage, two figures of equal stature executed in simple outline,
facing the viewer. The mood is one of isolation, solitude, and
confrontation. The Tempter in fact is offering Christ the world. It
is a model of many of the encounters that the Jesuits woul
experience as a result of their inward and outward journeys. The
pre-modern Society of Jesus, despite its thousands of members and
well-crafted organization, strikes the modern researcher as a
gathering of individuals bound by vows and common goals, but
frequently operating in remote and isolated settings. The one-on-one debater with opponents or
rivals of Church teachings, the lone missionary passing through the darkening wilderness, the
solitary black-robed figure giving last rites to battlefield slain, the priest on the scaffold
ministering to the condemned criminal, or facing execution himself: each of these images is a
commonplace in later Jesuit writings. And ultimately the Society itself becomes personified, and
would be described by its own writers in terms of the experience of a solitary single person—
being born, growing, suffering, and gaining honor. A single entity that is always confronting a
Tempter who must be overcome, a corporate entity whose journey embodies the journeys of
many solitary men.
d
ginal
onnect this
A century after the establishment of the Society, its writers and artists
produced a baroque masterpiece: the Imago primi saeculi. The pope was
not pleased; much about this massive, ambitious book struck him as
distinctly lacking in humility and restraint. Today we are struck by the
opulence of the object itself, the multiple media employed (poems in
Latin, Greek and even Hebrew, tomb inscriptions quoted at length, prose
history, scores of detailed, complex, emblematic engravings), the cultural
sophistication on every page which both flatters and challenges reader and
viewer, the technical virtuosity and ingenuity of the illustrations. Most
arresting is the motto—one of many presented—which is also featured on
the headpiece of the catalog of this exhibit: Unus non sufficit orbis:
literally, “one world is not enough.” How should we
understand this phrase, which is echoed repeatedly in other
mottos found throughout the Imago? As with other references
in the Imago, the answer is complicated. The line is from the
Silver Age Latin poet Juvenal’s Satires —almost. The ori
line is a bit longer, containing two more words that c
dissatisfaction with merely one world to Alexander the Great.
Plutarch, a contemporary of Juvenal, recorded in his Moralia
the often-repeated tale that Alexander, when he reached India,
4wept because there were no more worlds to conquer. This legend was undoubtedly known to
Juvenal, to many of the readers of the Imago, and certainly to the creator of this image, which
has put India very conspicuously in the right-hand hemisphere.
Several different journeys are implied in this line. The first is Alexander’s, the eternally youthful
conqueror (remember, he died at 33) who reached the Indus River after subduing the oriental
despotism of Persia and conquering much of what was then the known world. Alexander, whose
supposed virtues have since been seriously deconstructed by historians, was viewed in the
seventeenth century as an exponent of European culture par excellence. A student of Aristotle,
an imitator of the mythic heroes such as Achilles, Alexander, at least in his legendary blond,
heroic form, shared many of the virtues of the protagonists of Jesuit school dramas. His
ambitions were put in the best possible light by many of the historians who came after him, who
pointed out his clemency and charity towards the captive members of the Persian court, his love
of literature and culture, his genius, energy, ingenuity, and bravery. Alexander had sought the
Indies—petit Indias—a phrase echoing one used so many times in Jesuit documents that refers to
any Jesuit seeking assignment overseas. But India was also a place with special significance to
the Society.
For it was in India that Xavier, the most widely traveled of the original companions of Ignatius,
had achieved his first great triumph as a missionary. And while “India” could be shorthand for
any distant, exotic destination, it was also the name of a land better known than China or Japan,
and it was synonymous with fabulous wealth. India was another world, and the empires and the
virgin lands of the Americas were new worlds, too. The engraving above the motto unus non
sufficit orbis shows the two hemispheres accompanied by an armed and steady-eyed Eros (this is
no pudgy putto) and the names of the Jesuit missions are emblazoned on the various continents.
Here, “One world is not enough” can be taken to mean: the Old World was not enough; we have
journeyed to new worlds that the antique heroes such as Alexander and Hercules (who is
mentioned in the accompanying poem) could not have imagined. When the Jesuit Manuel de
Nobrega traveled from the Old World to Brazil in the middle of the sixteenth century, he had this
truncated line of Latin sewn into the sails of his ship.
Most of the opponents of the Jesuits (and by 1640, the year the Imago was published, there was
quite a crowd) took this motto in a more broadly geographic sense. The Jesuits, they said, were
not content with the vast world they had taken on as their missionary field; rather they were so
vainglorious that for them the terrestrial globe was not enough. Someone perusing the Imago
may be tempted to accept such an interpretation. The complex allegorical messages of the
emblems, the Latin verses loaded with classical allusions, the presentation of the history of the
Society in a formula that calls to mind the birth, life, and suffering of the Savior himself: all
these elements smack of an organization that is pretty sure of itself and sure of its position and its
importance in a Counter-Reformation then reaching its crest. Failure and setbacks are dealt with
in oblique and unthreatening ways. Here we see arrows shot by fools (one of whom is having
some problems with his pants, looks like); they’re headed to the sun, but the arrows turn and fall
5to earth. Meanwhile the hammer blows of opponents only
make the Society stronger. Neither heady success nor
seeming defeat is enough to stop the progress of the Jesuits.
Yet there is yet another way that we may take the slogan,
“One world is not enough,” and that is that our earthly life
should never be enough for us, that we should aspire to a
better and heavenly one. The message here is of salvation.
The avowed mission of the Jesuits from the very beginning
was cura animarum, the care of souls. In practical terms
this meant the baptism of individuals whenever possible.
Jesuit records of the period are full of statistics on the
number of baptisms, adult conversions, people taking
communion, and apostates reclaimed. The duty of the Jesuit
missionary was to bring souls living on this earth to
salvation in the next. This was yet another spiritual journey,
one for both the Jesuits committed to this undertaking, and
for those whose souls they attempted to save. This mission – and the Spiritual Exercises of
Ignatius, and, as we’ve heard, an early example of which graces this exhibit—provides the
backdrop against which many if not all the Society’s activities from this period can be
understood.
We now come to the Societas Jesu usque ad sanguinis et vitae
profusionem militans…, etc. (It’s a long baroque title including the word
Mahometanos – rather politically incorrect—at about the middle.) This
is perhaps the heart of the exhibit. The year is 1675, and it is a hundred
and thirty-five years since the formation of the Jesuits. The narratives of
thousands of men have become merged with the larger identity of the
Society. As the title of the book suggests, this is the story of the pouring
out of the blood and life of individual Jesuits. But Tanner does not
present the accounts of these martyrdoms (almost every one of which is
accompanied by an engraving) in order to sadden, shock, or alarm us.
Instead, these detailed accounts are intended to demonstrate how the
deaths of these Jesuits accomplished great good, and are in fact worthy of our emulation.
The notion that martyrdom advanced the cause of the Faith of course did not originate in the
baroque Society of Jesus; the primitive Christian Church cherished its martyrdom narratives.
Tanner’s book has two specific purposes, though, that go beyond this earlier goal. First, Tanner
(and other Jesuits who composed the obituary notices that appear in the Society’s archives) seek
to explain the setbacks experienced by Jesuits to which the Imago only alluded indirectly or
allegorically. The great triumphs of the first century of the Society’s undertakings were
6interspersed with profound hardships and tragedies. The Japanese mission, which began with
such promise, was brutally suppressed. Jesuit endeavors in Transylvania, the Philippines,
Americas, and England experienced tragic setbacks, while, closer to home, plague claimed the
lives of many Jesuits ministering to the stricken throughout Europe.
What did these
misfortunes mean?
The Societas Jesu
usque ad sanguinis is
unsparing in
answering this
question on a frankly
concrete level; ove
one hundred
engravings show
Jesuits being murdered
in fiendish and frankly
appalling ways:
beheading; drowning;
an early modern
favorite, drawing and
quartering; a Japanese
specialty, being
hanged upside down;
submersion in freezing
water (notice the
snowflakes—a nice touch by the engraver); and scalding by boiling water. But there’s a deeper
lesson than just the sacrifices as physical events. Each of these sacrifices is carrying forward the
success of the Society and the
triumph of the Faith, for, as one
allegorical engraving in this book
proclaims, “The blood of the marty
is the seed of the Christians” –
sanguis martyrum semen
christianorum. (And here, a detail from the same engraving, we actually
see an angel with a watering can watering the Christian garden with the
fluid marked with the monogram often used by the Jesuits.) Now this
much is predictable, but Jesuit-generated records from this period tell us
that individual Jesuits—in fact, whole communities—experienced
frustration, sadness, and even despair when their enterprises failed to bear fruit. Nor were these
sentiments kept a complete secret, since the reports in which they appear were intended to be
r
rs
7read by other Jesuits (if not by a wider public who might rea
the other travel narratives that you will see in this exhibit). The
men who undertook these journeys were compelled by these
misfortunes to examine their own consciences, the
environments in which they worked, the people whom the
encountered, and finally their own obedience to God’s word.
The tension between the em
d
y
otions documented in Jesuit
r
ost
er
community histories and the faithful sacrifices that Tanne
reports was, I believe, an important element in the internal
spiritual journey of these Jesuits. And Tanner’s volume, alm
as massive a work as the Imago, was written both to inspire and
to impress laity and to bolster the courage and commitment of other Jesuits experiencing these
tensions. Where the Imago employs sophisticated language and emblematic imagery to
communicate the mission of the Society, Tanner’s work assures his confreres that even in the
darkest moments of the Jesuit journey, the Divine plan is still in place, and that their own
sacrifices were likewise evidence, not of failure, but of success. In doing so, the Societas Jesu
usque ad sanguinis becomes as important a document of Jesuit self-definition as the bett
known Imago.
But that is not all that the illustrations, and in some cases, the texts of this book accomplish. In
the retelling of the tales of Jesuit martyrdom and triumph, Tanner draws a chiaroscuro picture of
the struggle to save souls whose villains are as vivid as its hero martyrs. In Ludolf’s Vita Christi,
Christ and the Tempter stand ready to contend over matters of power and truth in a fashion that
seems surprisingly civil. By contrast, Tanner’s book gives us the opponents of the Jesuits often
as barely human wretches, distinguished from the Fathers whom they torment by their costume,
facial expression and gesture. These tormentors are the Other whose inhumanity portrayed here
demonstrates the limits of early modern Jesuit tolerance towards differing religious beliefs and
cultures, while simultaneously casting the virtue of the Jesuits to shine forth even more brightly.
The drawing of this line between light and
dark is most striking when the Other is not a
turbaned Turk or a native without clothing, but
a European Christian. The Calvinist soldiers
who cast these Jesuits from this tiny boat into
the South Atlantic; the sadistic English
executioners (and Tanner seems to really like
sadistic English people—I don’t know why—
also brutish English people), but we see here
the execution of Fathers Southwell and Garnet;
or perhaps even more dramatically, the
exotically yet somehow effeminately garbed Transylvanian Calvinist who torments Stephanus
8Pongracz and his companions: all drive home the nearness and
omnipresence of the Other in this particular strand of Jesuit narrative.
The journeying Jesuit expected to meet the prospective convert. In
Jesuit reports these converts come in several standard varieties,
among them the repentant libertine (sometimes a repentant libertine
even becomes a Jesuit), the girl fleeing a non-Catholic marriage, the
Jewish wife seeking escape from her brutish, if learned husband, and
there are others. But in addition to these prospective converts, we also
meet in these narratives the adversary, who might strike down a Jesuit
with an edged weapon, or perhaps, even more deviously, poison him.
Some of the most haunting illustrations in Tanner’s work depict the
victims of poisoning holding an envenomed cup, which, as you can see,
contains a diminutive serpent. With such unseen risks, sacrifice might
be demanded of any Jesuit at any moment.
Interwoven with this fatalistic yet optimistic view of the Jesuit journey
are understandings of the function of the body, the purpose of
knowledge, and the proof of virtue that are quite alien to ones that we
are used to today. The body in baroque Catholic Europe was a potent
receptacle of power: witness the worldwide cult of relics that flourished
in these centuries. At the same time the body was the source of danger
in a world that did not yet understand the germ theory of disease, and
the body seemed far more fragile and probably much more mysterious
than our own bodies seem today.
Feeble in many ways, a Jesuit’s body did have one great potentiality: it could be broken. The
breaking of a Jesuit’s body was on one level an act in imitatione Christi (in imitation of Christ);
it was also a realization of part of the journey that a Jesuit might undertake, a culminating step in
the process that began with the commitments called forth in undertaking the Spiritual Exercises,
at which point, it was hoped, any fear or hesitation in facing such a sacrifice was abandoned
(although it’s worth remembering that the Spiritual Exercises could take men and women in
other paths: the artist Bernini undertook them as well).
Jesuit martyrdoms were also acts of witness to the knowledge that each Jesuit possessed as the
product of his intellectual training, spiritual formation, and life experiences. Books such as
Tanner’s likewise were witnesses to this knowledge, organized and expanded into a narrative
embracing the many missions of the Society. Interwoven with both of these ideas was an
understanding of the virtues of fortitude and self-denial, called by some modern Jesuit
commentators “self-annihilation,” which were understood as among the highest levels of
Christian virtue. (And yet, we must ask, did a sort of desire for personal glory lurk behind the
overtly expressed commitment of a martyr to die for the “greater glory of God”? Books cannot
really tell us the answer to that.)
9Books not only documented these events but contributed to the creation of a narrative to which
Jesuits in future centuries would refer as they sought self definition. Added to the edifying Latin
literature to which the Ratio held the key, and the challenges posed by the Spiritual Exercises,
Jesuit book culture of the seventeenth century created a landscape of language, symbol, and
illustration that future Jesuits might move through towards new goals.
As we gaze at these demonstrations of baroque virtue across a chasm of over three hundred
years, we might be put off by the repeated graphic displays of violence and the objectification of
its perpetrators. The pre-Enlightenment presentation of religious devotion as the ultimate human
motivator might further alienate us, living as we do in a world of suicide bombers motivated by
devotion to their religious truth. The motivations and cultural assumptions of these European
men who ventured into new worlds to spread what they believed to be the Truth can be
understood in ways far different from how they themselves saw their journeys. But no
investigation of the Society of Jesus—and here I include the modern Society as well—can avoid
an examination of the motivation of these men and of the culture that fostered their hopes,
beliefs, and visions.
First, it must be said that while the gestures and language found in the world of Tanner’s Jesuits
may seem inaccessible to us, the modern Society of Jesus is by no means completely divorced
from things resembling the spiritual journeys of these early Jesuits. The martyrdom of the five
Jesuits in El Salvador in 1985 is only one instance of the spirit of self-sacrifice manifesting itself
in recent times. The early Jesuits believed fervently that the written word was a powerful means
of communicating the message of how elevation of the life of the spirit was the goal towards
which more earthly undertakings were directed. Even centuries later, it’s not so difficult to see
that relationship.
Less easily grasped today are the contours of the spiritual journey as the writers of the Ratio, the
Spiritual Exercises, the Imago and Jesuit travel narratives understood them. The early Jesuits
deliberately moved towards denial and even dissolution of the self; our modern Jesuit institutions
offer the prospect of personal fulfillment and success defined in the terms of the larger culture.
The early Jesuits strove to serve in the physical world, while continually keeping sight of the
potential destruction of their own physicality. Contemporary Jesuit education does not always
call attention to physical loss, let alone destruction. The sixteenth and seventeenth century
Society, while prepared to engage other cultures, remained at an institutional level unwilling to
acknowledge the legitimacy of other religious traditions (the artists who were active in the
Societas Jesu usque ad sanguinis portray the objects of devotion in Asian societies in the ugliest
possible way, it has to be said). By contrast, modern day Jesuit higher education in our country
goes to considerable lengths to embrace and understand many religious traditions. The morally
focused and rigorously hierarchical curricular theory of the Ratio has been replaced by a
kaleidoscope of disciplinary offerings whose common cause with a Jesuit identity is sometimes
so difficult to locate that we must hold conferences and symposia to discover the connection. The
culture of obedience that suffuses Jesuit books of this period (and which provides some of the
10most arresting symbols found in the Imago) is not so much challenged by today’s American
Jesuit university students; rather it is scarcely known to most of them.
Yet it would be simplistic to diagnose this transformation as merely a case
of a rigorous pre-modern institution broadening as it moves into the
modern and postmodern worlds. Nor are some of the critics of the Society
correct when they accuse Jesuits of watering down or softening up their
curriculum in order to accommodate changing times. We can see this in
another book that Matthias Tanner wrote and which was published shortly
after his death: Societas Jesu apostolorum imitatrix (Society of Jesus, an
imitator of the apostles). The same Society which set before its members
explicit images of their physical dissolution could at the same time
celebrate human connections and lovingly depict beauty in the physical
world. This volume is concerned with those acts of individual Jesuits that
imitated the deeds of the original apostles, not all of whom of course became martyrs.
Among the illustrations that grace this volume is a representation of the
“bonfire of vanities” set up by Rodericus Ninno de Guzman, which
burned in the streets of seventeenth-century Toledo. Although the
intent of the Jesuit father is to suppress unwholesome forms of
attachment to the material world, look at the details in this engravi
Ninno de Guzman is accompanied in his good work by two finely
dressed gentlemen who toss playing cards on a tidy pyre while the
black-robed father stands to the side expostulating. While the su
the engraving is of course Father Guzman’s apostolic work, the center
of the composition is actually one of the hidalgos, gracefully posed,
sword on his hip, practicing virtue at the Jesuit’s behest, but is n
compromised in his own personal elegance, nor apparently being called upon to do so.
ng.
bject of
either
Engagement with the Other and acknowledgement of the possibilities
of the physical world is even more evident in this engraving, a favorite
of mine, of Father Hieronymus Lopez pausing in the nocturnal semidarkness of a Spanish street. The pre-Suppression Society was one of
the most prolific producers of drama in the history of the world, and
almost any public activity of the Jesuits in this era can legitimately be
considered theatre of some sort. As with the scene in Toledo, framed
by the city wall, here there is a performance, this time with performers,
producer and audience. Three figures sum up a procession that is being
watched by residents standing in lighted upper floor windows. Again,
laypersons are the focal point of this composition. Two well dressed
boys and another gentleman move along the flagstones while Father Lopez reads and rings a bell.
Encased torches add warmth and mystery to the scene, and the gentleman turns towards the
11Jesuit just as his vestment almost brushes the head of one of the boys. It is a scene both theatrical
and intimate, and free of terror, hatred, or misfortune.
So while the Society set forth an ideal that in its realization in the Ratio was intellectually
demanding, and in the Imago refined and even haughty, and in the Societas Jesu usque ad
sanguinis tragic and shocking, the image of the gesture of Father Lopez, human in scale, sensory
in intent, shows us that these sides of the Jesuit experience also existed. The ringing of this small
bell, echoed in the choral pieces composed for Jesuit churches and the chanted recitations of
young performers in Jesuit dramas, is a small counterpoint to much of what I briefly touched on
here. And it is more than this; it suggests an inherent and arguably productive tension in the
journeys of these early Jesuits, a tension from the start between denial of the world and
acknowledgment of it, and on a different plane, between the inward, spiritual journey and the
outwardly manifested, physical one. Evidence of both are found in the volumes that you will be
seeing in a few minutes, as well as hints to what lay ahead for the Society, as both these journeys
continued in the coming century, towards the landmarks of suppression, restoration, and
transformation.
Thank you very much.

definición de cultura (en versión jesuita católica) y versión desde el Materialismo filosófico


versión jesuita-católica de cultura http://issuu.com/filosopher/docs/arrupe__carta_y_documento_incultura
ENLACE A INTERESANTE LIBRO SOBRE JESUITAS

versión filosófico materialista de cultura
Diario 16 FUENTE http://www.fgbueno.es/hem/1992b08.htm
Madrid, sábado 8 de febrero de 1992 Culturas, nº 336
páginas I y III
Gustavo Bueno
¿Qué queremos decir cuando hablamos de Cultura?

1. La palabra «Cultura» es, acaso, una de las palabras que gozan de mayor prestigio en nuestro vocabulario cotidiano. El significado que encarna parece estar impulsado por una fuerza pregnante y vigorosa –por una «ldea-fuerza», dirá algún afrancesado– en virtud de la cual se hace capaz de incorporar a su movimiento a las ceremonias, formas o instituciones más heterogéneas, que recibirán, sin embargo, de esa incorporación su «justificación» precisa. No hace mucho tiempo tuve ocasión de presenciar la rueda de prensa en la que un alcalde trataba de defenderse del acoso de los periodistas que le preguntaban por los motivos que le habían llevado a gastar una cantidad, al parecer excesiva, del presupuesto municipal para traer a una orquesta sinfónica extranjera a las fiestas de la ciudad. Después de unos minutos de respuestas titubeantes, al alcalde se le ocurrió la siguiente y definitiva salida: «Porque el concierto sinfónico que hemos escuchado es una forma de cultura», y añadió, rematando a fortiori: «Acaso una de las formas más altas de la cultura.» Lo sorprendente del caso no fue tanto la ocurrencia del alcalde melómano, cuanto el efecto que su respuesta produjo en los periodistas de la rueda. Se apaciguaron, se tranquilizaron, se callaron, como si estuvieran rumiando esta reflexión: «No habíamos caído en la cuenta.» La costosa ceremonia sinfónica había quedado indudablemente justificada a través de la Idea de Cultura.

La Idea de Cultura, en efecto, como todas las ideas vigorosas, actúa como si fuese un vendaval que arrastra e incorpora en su remolino a los materiales más heterogéneos –ramas, piedras, agua, polvo–, comunicándoles movimiento y «vida»; por este movimiento, el remolino adquiere forma y figura, no fija, sino cambiante, puesto que, en gran medida, esta forma y figura se moldean por la acción de los mismos materiales que van integrándose en su curso. En esta imagen o alegoría la figura del remolino corresponde a la connotación de la Idea; los materiales que al remolino van incorporándose corresponden a su denotación (o, si se prefiere, a su extensión).

2. La connotación de la Idea de Cultura es, desde luego, muy imprecisa, oscura y confusa: parece que tiene algo que ver con la Idea de «libertad» («la cultura –y no el dinero– nos hace libres»), con la Idea de «dignidad» («la cultura nos hace hombres»: la mayor parte de nuestros antropólogos definen al hombre como «animal cultural») y hasta con las funciones de expresión o revelación de «la propia identidad». Lo más interesante del caso es que la Idea de Cultura, a pesar de la oscuridad de su connotación, actúa precisamente a través de ésa su forma connotativa; su prestigio, a pesar de su oscuridad, es tan notorio que no necesita de precisiones denotativas. En el artículo 44 de nuestra Constitución de 1978 se dice: «Los poderes públicos promoverán y tutelarán el acceso a la cultura, a la que todos tienen derecho.» Los Padres de la Patria que redactaron este artículo sabían, sin duda, lo que decían; pero alguno de sus humildes hijos nos atrevemos a preguntar: ¿A qué «cultura» se refiere el artículo 44 de la Constitución? ¿A la cultura tartesia? ¿Acaso a la cultura valenciana? ¿A la cultura maya? O bien, adoptando un punto de vista más analítico que sintético: ¿A la cultura del disco labial de los botocudos, puesto que estamos en el Quinto Centenario? ¿A la cultura de las tarjetas de crédito?

En efecto, las mayores dificultades que nos plantea la Idea de Cultura, en cuanto Idea-fuerza, proceden, en la práctica, del lado de su denotación. Es ésta tan amplia, al decir de los antropólogos, que abarca la integridad de las partes de ese «todo complejo» que constituye el contenido mismo del hombre, en cuanto se distingue de los animales. Entre esas partes se cuentan, desde luego, de derecho, las tecnologías, los conocimientos, la moral, el arte, las religiones… Sin embargo, lo cierto es que nuestro uso de «cultura» como Idea-fuerza, restringe de hecho la denotación universal del término, tal como lo entienden los antropólogos: solemos reservar el nombre de «cultura» para designar a la música (¿a toda música? –pues es frecuente la fórmula «música culta»–), al ballet, al teatro, al cine, a la literatura. Una denotación cuyo círculo se superpone, más o menos, con el círculo denotativo de aquello que Hegel llamó «Espíritu absoluto». Y aun cuando Snow, en su famosa conferencia, inició una cruzada para que se incluyeran, al lado de los contenidos de esta «primera cultura», los contenidos de la otra cultura (la cultura que él asociaba a la «revolución científica e industrial»), la cultura que, además, representaría la vanguardia de la humanidad –un tren de alta velocidad, un ordenador, el segundo principio de la termodinámica son formas no «futuristas», o «postmodernas», sino formas actuales de la más alta cultura–; sin embargo, lo cierto es que los Ministerios, Departamentos o Consejerías de Cultura no cuentan, entre los asuntos de su competencia, ni a la política científica, ni a la política industrial, ni a la política de obras públicas. Las líneas divisorias obedecen a criterios tan misteriosos que algunas veces nos vemos inclinados a sospechar si no estaremos, en realidad, ante un simple «rótulo», de alcance meramente pragmático (a efectos de la división del trabajo administrativo) semejante al que seguramente corresponde al rótulo «Deportes», en cuanto sirve para acotar, sin mayores escrúpulos, dentro de un mismo recinto administrativo, tanto al fútbol como a los toros, tanto al esquí como al ajedrez.

3. Pero un simple rótulo no es suficiente para explicar la unidad de la Idea de Cultura como Idea-fuerza. Una Idea que, en cualquier caso, en cuanto Idea dotada de una fuerza relativamente independiente de cualquier denotación rígida e invariable, es una Idea moderna. Y no por casualidad. Ni en la antigüedad, ni en la Edad Media europea, pudo haberse configurado la Idea actual de «Cultura», en su sentido axiológico, como Idea-fuerza. Lo que los antiguos designaban como cultura animi tenía un significado subjetivo (como Paideia, como Bildung). Pero «Cultura», como sustantivo exento (el de nuestra Constitución, no el que marcha inserto en expresiones genitivas, como cultura animi) sólo aparece en los mediados del siglo de la Ilustración. La nueva Idea, la Idea de Cultura supraindividual y moldeadora de los hombres, madurará en las Universidades alemanas: Herder y Hegel, Windelband y Rickert, Ostwald, Frobenius o Spengler. Allí perderá su intención meramente descriptiva (que se mantendrá, más o menos, en algunas escuelas etnológicas) y allí adquirirá su intención axiológica, en virtud de la cual la «Cultura» tiene que ver con lo que es más valioso (sólo de vez en cuando la cultura adquirirá la condición de un contravalor, de un valor negativo para el hombre), con lo más noble y espiritual: con un «Reino de la Cultura», por el que es preciso luchar, para defenderlo de las constantes amenazas procedentes del «Reino de la Naturaleza», de las fuerzas instintivas y oscurantistas actuantes en el curso mismo del mundo de los hombres. Esta Idea de Cultura, como Idea-fuerza, se hace presente por primera vez, en el terreno político, hace poco más de un siglo, con el Kultur-kampf de Bismarck (aunque la fórmula fue acuñada por Virchow). ¿De dónde pudo salir una Idea tan original? Nada sale de la nada. ¿Por qué no se originó antes? Mi tesis es ésta: si la Idea moderna de «Cultura» no se configuró antes fue debido a que el terreno que ella ocupa hoy estaba ya ocupado por alguna otra Idea precursora: la Idea teológica (cristiana) de «Reino de la Gracia».

También el «Reino de la Gracia» constituía un orden superior (sobrenatural) al orden constituido por el «Reino de la Naturaleza». Un orden que, aunque venía de lo alto, como un don, había que merecerlo, había que luchar por él (al menos, según la doctrina católica). La Gracia santificante, don del Espíritu Santo, en cuanto «gracia medicinal» curaba el hombre de su estado de pecaminosidad; también lo elevaba sobre su estado natural de animalidad (racional), como «gracia elevante» y, sobre todo, lo justificaba en su existencia y daba a su vida un sentido preciso. Asimismo, constatamos que la denotación más característica del Reino de la Gracia, y en especial del culto que él comporta, se intersecta muy ampliamente con la denotación axiológica del «Reino de la Cultura»: lenguaje, escritura, escultura y arquitectura, música, pintura, teatro, moral… Mi tesis podría completarse de este modo: el proceso de evolución de la cristiandad europea determinó, tras la Reforma protestante, el «eclipse» del Espíritu Santo y del Reino de la Gracia. Dejó de soplar aquél a través de la Iglesia romana, del Pueblo de Dios, y comenzó a soplar a través de todos los pueblos, como «Espíritu de los Pueblos» (Völkergeist); la Gracia, en resumen, se transformó en Cultura. Lo que significa que la Idea axiológica de Cultura es una idea teológica (secularizada); por ello, sus funciones serán análogas a las que definieron al Reino de la Gracia. La cultura remediará el estado meramente natural al que estaría «condenado» el hombre como primate (cuando este hombre-primate se entienda además como un «mono malnacido», fetal, el remedio será equiparable a una prótesis, a un aparato ortopédico: el remedio, dirá Alsberg, es peor que la enfermedad); la cultura elevará a los hombres a su condición de seres espirituales y libres; los «días de la cultura» –del museo, del concierto– sustituirán a los domingos o «días del Señor»; la cultura, sobre todo, justificará al pueblo, que habrá de luchar por alcanzar «su identidad, dándose a sí mismo la forma de un Estado, con lengua propia».

Se comprende que el sistema de problemas y soluciones que los teólogos tuvieron que ensayar para tratar de entender las relaciones entre el Reino de la Gracia y el Reino de la Naturaleza tenga sus paralelos –de otro modo asombrosos– en el sistema de problemas y soluciones que los zoólogos, antropólogos y filósofos tienen que ensayar para tratar de establecer las relaciones entre el Reino de la Cultura y el Reino de la Naturaleza. Los historiadores de la Teología distinguen las corrientes naturalistas y las corrientes sobrenaturalistas; y subdistinguen, en cada una de estas corrientes, una versión radical y una versión moderada. Estas posiciones teológicas tienen puntuales correspondencias en las teorías de los zoólogos, antropólogos y filósofos de nuestros días. Así, la teoría de la cultura de Konrad Lorenz podría ponerse en correspondencia con la teoría de la Gracia asociada a los monjes Pelagio y Celestio; al «semipelagianismo» del abad Casiano corresponderían las concepciones de Eibesfeldt, el «abad Casiano» de la teoría de la cultura. Otros teólogos, en cambio, subrayaron el carácter de la Gracia, en cuanto irreductible a la Naturaleza; pues la Gracia es un don sobrenatural y las formas sobrenaturales –para decirlo con Domingo de Soto– no pueden contenerse en ninguno de los diez predicamentos en los cuales se divide el ser natural ni el conjunto de ellos; la Gracia –enseñará Calvino– se impone a la Naturaleza pecaminosa, reprimiéndola; como la Cultura –según enseñanza de Freud, de Klages– sólo podrá imponerse a la Naturaleza reprimiéndola también.

4. Una Idea, de estirpe teológica, tan ambigua y oscura como la Idea de Cultura no podrá por menos de estar expuesta a líneas de evolución muy ambiguas y poco convergentes. Por un lado, la Idea de Cultura, en cuanto se utiliza para definir al hombre como especie «superior» (respecto de las especies animales) evolucionará, siguiendo la misma regla, buscando adaptarse como definición de los pueblos más «elevados» (más «cultos») respecto de los pueblos «naturales», y dando un paso más buscará adaptarse como definición de las élites, más agraciadas que pueden formarse en esas democracias que son propias de las «Altas Culturas»: las secciones femeninas de estas élites, al asistir, enfundadas en sus abrigos de visón-hembra, al concierto invernal de Rostropovich, se sentirán curadas de la vulgaridad y justificadas por la participación en la misa de la Cultura suprema.

Por otro lado, y simultáneamente a esta evolución elitista, la Idea de Cultura desarrollará también sus gérmenes populistas o etnológicos, en sus versiones más heterogéneas. Las de mayor actualidad, una vez pasados los tiempos del proletkult, y los de las «fuerzas democráticas de la cultura», son las versiones que tienen que ver con las culturas étnicas, nacionales o autonómicas, que buscan su propia identidad a través del desarrollo de una lengua propia, «voz del pueblo, voz de Dios» (de hecho, la gran mayoría de los líderes nacionalistas o autonómicos-históricos, ya sean eslavos, ya sean ibéricos, han sido proyectos de clérigo, y, a veces, clérigos notables). Y como Dios no puede contradecirse consigo mismo, tampoco las culturas de los diversos pueblos tienen por qué contradecirse entre sí. Lo dice la UNESCO: todas las culturas son igualmente respetables y el disco botocudo deberá ser considerado patrimonio de la humanidad, como las tarjetas de crédito.

5. ¿Qué queremos decir, entonces, cuando hablamos de «Cultura» en el sentido consabido? Yo creo que nada, y no tanto por vacuidad, cuanto por superabundancia de denotación, y por oscuridad cuasi metafísica de connotación. Y el espectáculo, ante nuestras narices, de la renovación continua del vigor y del prestigio de una Idea tan metafísica como la Idea de Cultura, como Idea-fuerza capaz de dar cobijo a las iniciativas más heterogéneas y aun a los despilfarros más absurdos, ¿cómo podría dejar de ser para muchos fuente continua de asombro? Acaso nuestro asombro podrá cambiar de signo cuando advirtamos que la Idea de Cultura no maniobra sola en el escenario. Delante de nuestras narices evolucionan también otras ideas, que no tienen nada que envidiar, en cuanto Ideas-fuerza, a la de «Cultura»: «Sociedad civil», «Libertad», «Racionalidad», «Principio antrópico», «Etica», «Democracia», «Aleluya», «Europa»…

la inculturación jesuita, según un texto del padre Arrupe SJ

VER DOCUMENTO http://issuu.com/filosopher/docs/arrupe__carta_y_documento_incultura

 

http://issuu.com/filosopher/docs/arrupe__carta_y_documento_incultura

video sobre la historia de los jesuitas

<iframe src=”http://player.vimeo.com/video/19358050?autoplay=1&amp;loop=1&#8243; width=”400″ height=”304″ frameborder=”0″></iframe><p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/19358050″>La Historia de los Jesuitas</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/user1866622″>Maximiliano Utis</a> on <a href=”http://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p><p></p>

<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/19358050″>La Historia de los Jesuitas</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/user1866622″>Maximiliano Utis</a> on <a href=”http://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

¿Qué significa el concepto de jesuitismo?

jesuita

 Fragmento del libro ¿Quiénes son lo jesuitas? del reverendo padre Ravignan publicado a fines del siglo XIX

El jesuitismo es un poder oculto, formidable invisible2, es uno de los poderes del estado3.

Son los pueblos sublevados, las tropas removidas, los ejércitos en marcha, los gobiernos derribados, los países esclavizados4.

El jesuitismo es la dominación universal: es una red de beatería, de absoluciones, de intrigas y de infamia que enlaza las familias, los individuos, las naciones5.

Es juntamente la moderación de los sentimientos, la energía secreta e implacable de la reacción, el cosmopolitismo sin entrañas6.

El jesuitismo es el imperio de las mujeres, el embrutecimiento de los niños; es la moral relajada, la piedad fervorosa, la complacencia inicua; es el tiranicidio mandado, el adulterio excusado7, la mentira, el robo, la blasfemia, etc., etc.8

Es también la política odiosa, es la influencia clerical: es la restauración, es su duración, es su caída: es la revolución de 1830, son las ordenanzas de julio9.

El jesuitismo es el hombre religioso, el católico fiel: es ir a misa, es tomar agua bendita; es confesarse, es el celibato de los sacerdotes, es el ultrasmontanismo10; es el espíritu de muerte11, es el autómata-cristiano12.

El jesuitismo son todas las pastorales de los obispos13,   —VII→   todos los actos del papado14, todas las reclamaciones de la libertad, todos los escritos opuestos a la universidad; es toda la prensa religiosa15.

El jesuitismo es todo lo que no se quiere, todo lo que se aborrece; es lo que hay de más infame y de más vil, de más fuerte y de más santo; es la Iglesia entera16.

¿El misterio está explicado? No.

¿Los que escriben estas cosas las creen? No.

Saben que carecen absolutamente de fundamento, y aunque son imposibles: no importa.

Pero gritan al jesuitismo, y esto les basta. Con el auxilio de este nombre evocan todos los espantos verdaderos o simulados de la muchedumbre ignorante o instruida: su objeto se ha logrado.

Y sin embargo, algunos hombres estimables se dejan arrastrar por estos clamores; sufren el yugo de las preocupaciones, y aumenta, aun a costa de lo que respeta, el concierto que se levanta de todas partes contra la verdad y la justicia.

Esto no hace sino aumentar el misterio.

El rústico de Atenas condenaba porque estaba cansado de oír siempre hablar del mismo hombre con entusiasmo por los unos, con desprecio por los otros.

Hoy cuántos hombres hay a quienes si se preguntase acerca de su oposición contra los jesuitas deberían responder: se dice de ellos tanto malo, se mete tanto ruido; yo quisiera no oír hablar más de ellos.

Pero yo preguntaré siempre con asombró y con tristeza, ¿cuál es, pues, ese increíble poder de un solo nombre?

De esta manera se da al mundo un espectáculo aflictivo: el reinado de lo falso. Un estado violento   —VIII→   y ficticio, un lenguaje que no significa la realidad, un nombre que ha llegado a ser la expresión del crimen y se aplica, lo diré sin temor, a la virtud; clamores ciegos; un arrebatamiento apasionado, ¡grandes palabras de adhesión a la Iglesia y a la libertad, y la Iglesia y la libertad pisoteadas! ¿qué más diré? todos los instintos de la impiedad, todos los impudentes ardores del cinismo dispertados al son de las protestas de respeto y amor a la religión: he ahí lo que vemos, lo que oímos, pero lo que ningún hombre serlo puede jactarse de comprender y explicar bien, como no sea verdad decir, que según las ideas y el fin de ciertos hombres, el jesuita del siglo XIX es el infame del XVIII.

¿Hay, pues, siempre un poder enemigo levantado contra la Iglesia y su creencia, y que para combatir necesite en ciertas épocas de un nombre inventado para infamar, de un grito engañoso para ultrajar, de un furor ciego para atacar todo lo que se quiere destruir?

Y cuando de la esfera de todas estas lamentables cosas revuelvo los ojos sobre mí mismo y mi conciencia, yo, religioso de la Compañía de Jesús, no puedo ya comprenderme: soy también un misterio.

En vano me examino, no comprendo mi existencia.

Yo no soy extranjero que haya pasado la frontera y venido a sentarme al hogar de la familia para esclavizarla y oprimirla; soy el hijo de la tierra que habito y que amo. He creído en la libertad religiosa de mi país: francés, he pensado que podía en la Francia católica, mi patria, lo que siendo inglés hubiera podido en Inglaterra, americano en los Estados Unidos; y aun holandés en Holanda; me he hecho jesuita.

Mis hermanos de los Estados Unidos, de Inglaterra y de Holanda viven libres y tranquilos; ¿por qué no lo estoy yo?

¿Cuál es la razón? Su país es libre; el nuestro no lo es. ¿Y por qué?

¡Todavía misterio!

Bernard Lonergan,filósofo jesuita canadiense,alguno de sus fragmentos sobre la filosofía

La filosofía y su papel en el presente, según lo entiende la orden de los Jesuitas, por medio del jesuita canadiense Bernard Lonbergan

http://www.lasalle.org.ar/sap/lonergan/Lasituacionactualdelafilosofia.htm

Fagmento de una serie de respuestas de Lonergan a  El cuestionario al que respondió Lonergan se les distribuyó a varios profesores jesuitas de todo el mundo, como preparación para un Simposio en Filosofía que tuvo lugar finalmente en Villa Cavalletti, cerca de Roma, del 8 al 18 de septiembre de 1977. Lonergan no estuvo presente en el Simposio (ed.)

3.2 ¿Piensa que los estudios filosóficos para los cristianos y/o especialmente para los candidatos al sacerdocio deban ser diferentes de los estudios filosóficos ‘sin más’, y en caso afirmativo, por qué?

Tal vez tenga que mencionar lo que he escrito sobre este asunto en mi libro Filosofía de Dios, y Teología, y en un escrito sobre La Filosofía y la Teología. [9]

Brevemente diré que me parece que el principio básico es que el desarrollo humano ocurre de dos modos diferentes. Si se me permite usar una metáfora espacial, se mueve (1) de abajo hacia arriba y (2) de arriba hacia abajo.

Se mueve de abajo hacia arriba en la medida en que empiece desde la experiencia personal de uno mismo, avance a través de una intelección más plena y un juicio más equilibrado, y así alcance el ejercicio responsable de la libertad personal.

Se mueve de arriba hacia abajo en la medida en que uno pertenezca a una jerarquía grupal y así uno le deba fidelidad al propio hogar, al propio país, a la propia religión. Uno se socializa, se incultura, se educa mediante las tradiciones del grupo, para llegar a ser a su tiempo o (1) un miembro de la tribu o clan, o (2) un heredero del clasicismo de la antigua Grecia y Roma, o (3) un participante en la modernidad que está familiarizado con la variedad de culturas y literaturas humanas, con los logros de las matemáticas y de las ciencias modernas, con la competencia del exegeta e historiador contemporáneo, y con las reflexiones de los filósofos y teólogos.

Estos dos modos de desarrollo son interdependientes. Ambos empiezan desde la infancia. Pero, sólo a través del segundo, el primero lo lleva a uno más allá de las más primitivas etapas prehistóricas del desarrollo humano. Sólo a través del primero hay alguna asimilación y apropiación real del segundo.

Tal interdependencia, así como supone una distinción, también se opone a la separación. En la filosofía (y particularmente en su fase básica de teoría del conocimiento, epistemología, metafísica y ética existencial) el énfasis abrumador se pone en la apropiación personal del propio ser inteligente, racional y responsable de uno mismo. En la teología (y particularmente respecto a los misterios de la fe, que Aquino no vio cómo tratar en los primeros tres libros y por ello los relegó a un cuarto libro en su Contra Gentiles) el énfasis mayor {11} se pone en la tradición cristiana. Sin embargo, las diferencias en énfasis son una cosa y la separación sistemática es otra; y, según pienso, es menos un producto de la sabiduría o prudencia cristiana que de la duda universal cartesiana y de la identificación (propia de la Ilustración del siglo XVIII) de la tradición con el prejuicio y el abuso.

Sumariamente, pues, el desplazamiento teórico se da desde la filosofía tal como la hubieran desarrollado unos hombres en estado de naturaleza pura hasta una filosofía que, junto con la ciencia moderna, no se interesa en los universales abstractos sino en las realidades concretas.

Prácticamente parecería que el desarrollo de quienes no tengan que estudiar teología se enriquecería, tal vez, con alguna teología filosófica, o más probablemente con una ‘extensión’ o curso popular de teología. Por otra parte, quienes tengan que estudiar teología tienen poco que ganar con abstraerse artificialmente del mundo cristiano en el que nacieron y se educaron.