The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence. By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life-interest in it.
marți, 30 martie 2010
luni, 29 martie 2010
A light man
April 4, 1857. – I have changed my sky without changing my mind. I resume these old notes in a new world. I hardly know of what use they are; but it’s easier to stick to the habit than to drop it. I have been at home now a week – at home, forsooth! And yet, after all, it is home. I am dejected, I am bored, I am blue. How can a man be more at home than that? Nevertheless, I am the citizen of a great country, and for that matter, of a great city. I walked to-day some ten miles or so along Broadway, and, on the whole, I don’t blush for my native land. We are a capable race and a good-looking withal; and I don’t see why we shouldn’t prosper as well as another. This, by the way, ought to be a very encouraging reflection. A capable fellow and a good-looking withal; I don’t see why he shouldn’t die a millionaire. At all events he must do something. When a man has, at thirty-two, a net income of considerably less than nothing, he can scarcely hope to overtake a fortune before he himself is overtaken by age and philosophy – two deplorable impediments. I am afraid that one of them has already planted itself in my path. What am I? What do I wish? Whither do I tend? What do I believe? I am constantly beset by these impertinent whisperings. Formerly it was enough that I was Maximus Austin; that I was endowed with a cheerful mind and a good digestion; that one day or another, when I had come to the end, I should return to America and begin at the beginning; that, meanwhile, existence was sweet in – in the Rue Tronchet. But now! Has the sweetness really passed out of life? Have I eaten the plums and left nothing but the bread and milk and corn-starch, or whatever the horrible concoction is? – I had it to-day for dinner. Pleasure, at least, I imagine – pleasure pure and simple, pleasure crude, brutal, and vulgar – this poor flimsy delusion has lost all its charm. I shall never again care for certain things – nor indeed for certain persons. Of such things, of such persons, I firmly maintain, however, that I never was an enthusiastic votary. It would be more to my credit, I suppose, if I had been. More would be forgiven me if I had loved a little more, if into all my folly and egotism I had put a little more naïveté and sincerity. Well, I did the best I could; I was at once too bad and too good for it all. At present, it’s far enough off ; I have put the sea between us; I am stranded. I sit high and dry, scanning the horizon for a friendly sail, or waiting for a high tide to set me afloat. The wave of pleasure has deposited me here in the sand. Shall I owe my rescue to the wave of pain? At moments I feel a kind of longing to expiate my stupid little sins. I see, as through a glass, darkly, the beauty of labour and love. Decidedly, I am willing to work. It’s written.
7th. – My sail is in sight; it’s at hand; I have all but boarded the vessel. I received this morning a letter from the best man in the world. Here it is:–
DEAR MAX – I see this very moment, in the old newspaper which had already passed through my hands without yielding up its most precious item, the announcement of your arrival in New York. To think of your having perhaps missed the welcome you had a right to expect from me! Here it is, dear Max – as cordial as you please. When I say I have just read of your arrival, I mean that twenty minutes have elapsed by the clock.
7th. – My sail is in sight; it’s at hand; I have all but boarded the vessel. I received this morning a letter from the best man in the world. Here it is:–
DEAR MAX – I see this very moment, in the old newspaper which had already passed through my hands without yielding up its most precious item, the announcement of your arrival in New York. To think of your having perhaps missed the welcome you had a right to expect from me! Here it is, dear Max – as cordial as you please. When I say I have just read of your arrival, I mean that twenty minutes have elapsed by the clock.
Flowers
- Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, “Musing among the vegetables?”—was that it?—“I prefer men to cauliflowers”—was that it? He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had gone out on to the terrace—Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished—how strange it was!—a few sayings like this about cabbages.
vineri, 26 martie 2010
The Waves
The sun had not yet risen. The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it. Gradually as the sky whitened a dark line lay on the horizon dividing the sea from the sky and the grey cloth became barred with thick strokes moving, one after another, beneath the surface, following each other, pursuing each other, perpetually.
As they neared the shore each bar rose, heaped itself, broke and swept a thin veil of white water across the sand. The wave paused, and then drew out again, sighing like a sleeper whose breath comes and goes unconsciously. Gradually the dark bar on the horizon became clear as if the sediment in an old wine-bottle had sunk and left the glass green. Behind it, too, the sky cleared as if the white sediment there had sunk, or as if the arm of a woman couched beneath the horizon had raised a lamp and flat bars of white, green and yellow spread across the sky like the blades of a fan. Then she raised her lamp higher and the air seemed to become fibrous and to tear away from the green surface flickering and flaming in red and yellow fibres like the smoky fire that roars from a bonfire. Gradually the fibres of the burning bonfire were fused into one haze, one incandescence which lifted the weight of the woollen grey sky on top of it and turned it to a million atoms of soft blue. The surface of the sea slowly became transparent and lay rippling and sparkling until the dark stripes were almost rubbed out. Slowly the arm that held the lamp raised it higher and then higher until a broad flame became visible; an arc of fire burnt on the rim of the horizon, and all round it the sea blazed gold.
As they neared the shore each bar rose, heaped itself, broke and swept a thin veil of white water across the sand. The wave paused, and then drew out again, sighing like a sleeper whose breath comes and goes unconsciously. Gradually the dark bar on the horizon became clear as if the sediment in an old wine-bottle had sunk and left the glass green. Behind it, too, the sky cleared as if the white sediment there had sunk, or as if the arm of a woman couched beneath the horizon had raised a lamp and flat bars of white, green and yellow spread across the sky like the blades of a fan. Then she raised her lamp higher and the air seemed to become fibrous and to tear away from the green surface flickering and flaming in red and yellow fibres like the smoky fire that roars from a bonfire. Gradually the fibres of the burning bonfire were fused into one haze, one incandescence which lifted the weight of the woollen grey sky on top of it and turned it to a million atoms of soft blue. The surface of the sea slowly became transparent and lay rippling and sparkling until the dark stripes were almost rubbed out. Slowly the arm that held the lamp raised it higher and then higher until a broad flame became visible; an arc of fire burnt on the rim of the horizon, and all round it the sea blazed gold.
joi, 25 martie 2010
Hegel in France
Neither Idealism Nor Materialism
Marxists in the 1920s paid tribute to the German dialectician. Among the reasons suggested by Koyré for the lack of interest in Hegel were the obscurity of Hegel's writing, the strength of Cartesian and Kantian philosophical traditions, Hegel's Protestantism, but, above all, the incredulity of the French toward Hegel's "strict identity of logical synthesis and historical becoming." [3] On the contrary for French rationalists, history was separate from reason or logic, which was eternal, outside time. If this was the situation, how can we account for the abrupt turn to Hegel in the 1940s? In the eyes of many converts to Hegel, the catastrophic defeat of France in 1940 had discredited liberal-bourgeois intellectual and political traditions, leaving the nation in a conceptual vacuum. The only moral force left in France, on the eve of the Liberation, came from the Resistance movement, which had been dominated by politically progressive groups. In the estimate of Henri Lefebvre, after the Liberation, there was no longer bourgeois thought calling itself such."[4] The experience of the war and the Resistance "transformed the basic givens of intellectual life in France: the themes of reflection, the problems, concepts, and attitudes."[5] After 1944, there was a longing for basic renewal, social, political, and intellectual. With a combined socialist and Communist vote reaching a majority, intellectuals harbored the dream of imminent and radical social transformation. During the hopeful but finally disillusioning post-war years, the "decisive philosophical event" was the discovery of the Hegelian dialectics There were thus direct links between the collapse of the old bourgeois world, the expectations of socialism, and the emergence of interest in Hegel.
Marxists in the 1920s paid tribute to the German dialectician. Among the reasons suggested by Koyré for the lack of interest in Hegel were the obscurity of Hegel's writing, the strength of Cartesian and Kantian philosophical traditions, Hegel's Protestantism, but, above all, the incredulity of the French toward Hegel's "strict identity of logical synthesis and historical becoming." [3] On the contrary for French rationalists, history was separate from reason or logic, which was eternal, outside time. If this was the situation, how can we account for the abrupt turn to Hegel in the 1940s? In the eyes of many converts to Hegel, the catastrophic defeat of France in 1940 had discredited liberal-bourgeois intellectual and political traditions, leaving the nation in a conceptual vacuum. The only moral force left in France, on the eve of the Liberation, came from the Resistance movement, which had been dominated by politically progressive groups. In the estimate of Henri Lefebvre, after the Liberation, there was no longer bourgeois thought calling itself such."[4] The experience of the war and the Resistance "transformed the basic givens of intellectual life in France: the themes of reflection, the problems, concepts, and attitudes."[5] After 1944, there was a longing for basic renewal, social, political, and intellectual. With a combined socialist and Communist vote reaching a majority, intellectuals harbored the dream of imminent and radical social transformation. During the hopeful but finally disillusioning post-war years, the "decisive philosophical event" was the discovery of the Hegelian dialectics There were thus direct links between the collapse of the old bourgeois world, the expectations of socialism, and the emergence of interest in Hegel.
miercuri, 24 martie 2010
Le Rire
Nous nous mouvons parmi des généralités et des symboles, comme en un champ clos où notre force se mesure utilement avec d'autres forces ; et fascinés par l'action, attirés par elle, pour notre plus grand bien, sur le terrain qu'elle s'est choisi, nous vivons dans une zone mitoyenne entre les choses et nous, extérieurement aux choses, extérieurement aussi à nous‑mêmes. Mais de loin en loin, par distraction, la nature suscite des âmes plus détachées de la vie. Je ne parle pas de ce détachement voulu, raisonné, systématique, qui est oeuvre de réflexion et de philosophie. Je parle d'un détachement naturel, inné à la structure du sens ou de la conscience, et qui se manifeste tout de suite par une manière virginale, en quelque sorte, de voir, d'entendre ou de penser. Si ce détachement était complet, si l'âme n'adhérait plus à l'action par aucune de ses perceptions, elle serait l'âme d'un artiste comme le monde n'en a point vu encore. Elle excellerait dans tous les arts à la fois, ou plutôt elle les fondrait tous en un seul. Elle apercevrait toutes choses dans leur pureté originelle, aussi bien les formes, les couleurs et les sons du monde matériel que les plus subtils mouvements de la vie intérieure. Mais c'est trop demander à la nature. Pour ceux mêmes d'entre nous qu'elle a faits artistes, c'est accidentellement, et d'un seul côté, qu'elle a soulevé le voile. C'est dans une direction seulement qu'elle a oublié d'attacher la perception au besoin. Et comme chaque direction correspond à ce que nous appelons un sens, c'est par un de ses sens, et par ce sens seulement, que l'artiste est ordinairement voué à l'art. De là, à l'origine, la diversité des arts. De là aussi la spécialité des prédispositions. Celui‑là s'attachera aux couleurs et aux formes, et comme il aime la couleur pour la couleur, la forme pour la forme, comme il les perçoit pour elles et non pour lui, c'est la vie intérieure des choses qu'il verra transparaître à travers leurs formes et leurs couleurs. Il la fera entrer peu à peu dans notre perception d'abord déconcertée. Pour un moment au moins, il nous détachera des préjugés de forme et de couleur qui s'interposaient entre notre oeil et la réalité. Et il réalisera ainsi la plus haute...
Des choses que l'on peut révoquer en doute
Supposons donc maintenant que nous sommes endormis, et que toutes ces particularités, à savoir que nous ouvrons les yeux, que nous branlons la tête, que nous étendons les mains, et choses semblables, ne sont que de fausses illusions; et pensons que peut-être nos mains ni tout notre corps ne sont pas tels que nous les voyons. Toutefois il faut au moins avouer que les choses qui nous sont représentées dans le sommeil sont comme des tableaux et des peintures qui ne peuvent être formées qu'à la ressemblance de quelque chose de réel et de véritable, et qu'ainsi, pour le moins, ces choses générales, à savoir des yeux, une tête, des mains et tout un corps, ne sont pas choses imaginaires, mais réelles et existantes. Car de vrai les peintres, lors même qu'ils s'étudient avec le plus d'artifice à représenter des sirènes et des satyres par des figures bizarres et extraordinaires, ne peuvent toutefois leur donner des formes et des natures entièrement nouvelles, mais font seulement un certain mélange et composition des membres de divers animaux; ou bien si peut-être leur imagination est assez extravagante pour inventer quelque chose de si nouveau que jamais on n'ait rien vu de semblable, et qu'ainsi leur ouvrage représente une chose purement feinte et absolument fausse, certes à tout le moins les couleurs dont ils les composent doivent-elles être véritables.
(§6) Et par la même raison, encore que ces choses générales, à savoir un corps, des yeux, une tête, des mains, et autres semblables, pussent être imaginaires,
(§6) Et par la même raison, encore que ces choses générales, à savoir un corps, des yeux, une tête, des mains, et autres semblables, pussent être imaginaires,
marți, 23 martie 2010
(play, 1909)
The hall at Dedborough Park. Entrance at left from the vestibule, main approach to the house, etc. Entrance centre from the terrace, gardens, park itself, etc. Entrance at right from other reception-rooms, ‘saloon’, etc. BANKS, the Butler, comes in from left, ushering LORD JOHN, and a minute afterwards LADY SANDGATE appears, entering from the terrace with a folded telegram in her hand.
BANKS
No, my lord, no stranger has arrived. But I’ll see if anyone has come in – or who has. (Then as he perceives LADY SANDGATE, who has not heard the foregoing.) Lord John, my lady. (Exit BANKS to left.)
LORD JOHN
I luckily find you at least, Lady Sandgate – they tell me Theign’s off somewhere.
LADY SANDGATE
Only in the park: open to-day for a school-feast from Dedborough – as you may have made out from the avenue; giving good advice, at the top of his lungs, to four hundred and fifty children.
LORD JOHN
(Amused.) Oh, he’s so great on such occasions that I’m sorry to be missing it.
LADY SANDGATE
I’ve had to miss it – I’ve just left them. But he had even then been going on for twenty minutes, and I dare say that if you care to take a look you’ll find him still at it.
BANKS
No, my lord, no stranger has arrived. But I’ll see if anyone has come in – or who has. (Then as he perceives LADY SANDGATE, who has not heard the foregoing.) Lord John, my lady. (Exit BANKS to left.)
LORD JOHN
I luckily find you at least, Lady Sandgate – they tell me Theign’s off somewhere.
LADY SANDGATE
Only in the park: open to-day for a school-feast from Dedborough – as you may have made out from the avenue; giving good advice, at the top of his lungs, to four hundred and fifty children.
LORD JOHN
(Amused.) Oh, he’s so great on such occasions that I’m sorry to be missing it.
LADY SANDGATE
I’ve had to miss it – I’ve just left them. But he had even then been going on for twenty minutes, and I dare say that if you care to take a look you’ll find him still at it.
The outcry
“No, my lord,” Banks had replied, “no stranger has yet arrived. But I’ll see if any one has come in – or who has.” As he spoke, however, he observed Lady Sandgate’s approach to the hall by the entrance giving upon the great terrace, and addressed her on her passing the threshold. “Lord John, my lady.” With which, his duty majestically performed, he retired to the quarter – that of the main access to the spacious centre of the house – from which he had ushered the visitor. This personage, facing Lady Sandgate as she paused there a moment framed by the large doorway to the outer expanses, the small pinkish paper of a folded telegram in her hand, had partly before him, as an immediate effect, the high wide interior, still breathing the quiet air and the fair panelled security of the couple of hushed and stored centuries, in which certain of the reputed treasures of Dedborough Place beautifully disposed themselves; and then, through ample apertures and beyond the stately stone outworks of the great seated and supported house – uplifting terrace, balanced, balustraded steps and containing basins where splash and spray were at rest – all the rich composed extension of garden and lawn and park. An ancient, an assured elegance seemed to reign; pictures and preserved ‘pieces’, cabinets and tapestries, spoke, each for itself, of fine selection and high distinction; while the originals of the old portraits, in more or less deserved salience, hung over the happy scene as the sworn members of a great guild might have sat, on the beautiful April day, at one of their annual feasts. Such was the setting confirmed by generous time, but the handsome woman of considerably more than forty whose entrance had all but coincided with that of Lord John either belonged, for the eye, to no such complacent company or enjoyed a relation to it in which the odd twists and turns of history must have been more frequent than any dull avenue or easy sequence. Lady Sandgate was shiningly modern, and perhaps at no point more so than by the effect of her express repudiation of a mundane future certain to be more and more offensive to women of real quality and of formed taste. Clearly, at any rate, in her hands, the clue to the antique confidence had lost itself, and repose, however founded, had given way to curiosity – that is to speculation – however disguised. She might have consented, or even attained, to being but gracefully stupid, but she would presumably have confessed, if put on her trial for restlessness or for intelligence, that she was, after all, almost clever enough to be vulgar. Unmistakably, moreover, she had still, with her fine stature, her disciplined figure, her cherished complexion, her bright important hair, her kind bold eyes and her large constant smile, the degree of beauty that might pretend to put every other question by.
Lord John addressed her as with a significant manner.....
Lord John addressed her as with a significant manner.....
luni, 22 martie 2010
Ieri cu vedere spre Azi
"Fie că vrei lîngă Universitatea „Alexandru Ioan Cuza“ sau în Fundaţie, centrul Iaşiului îţi oferă cu greu un moment de răgaz în zilele noastre. Într-un trafic de cele mai multe ori aglomerat şi cu tineri din ce în ce mai zgomotoşi, istoria acestei zone – mult pomenită prin toate ghidurile turistice – pare mai degrabă să se ascundă printre teii imenşi, de teama agitaţiei şi a trecerii nemiloase a timpului. De îndată ce treci de Spitalul de Urgenţă şi sediul Academiei Române din Iaşi, strada Lascăr Catargi apare ca o adevărată oază de linişte şi istorie ce abia aşteaptă să fie descoperită. Numită pentru prima dată Uliţa Sturdzoaiei, aici se regăsesc numeroase vile şi case vechi aparţinînd clasei de mijloc a sfîrşitului de secol XX. Pînă la apariţia primelor construcţii pe actualul bulevard Carol I (cunoscut mai bine ca bulevardul Copou), această stradă era principalul loc de promenadă pentru ieşenii înstăriţi. Fastul vechii epoci se vede în continuare, Palatul Sturdza (sediul Radio România Iaşi), sediul TVR Iaşi, Institutul European sau clădirea unde a învăţat Emil Racoviţă duc mai departe istoria fostei capitale a Moldovei."..
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The Doctrine of Being
BEING is the notion implicit only : its special forms have the predicate 'is'; when they are distinguished they are each of them an 'other': and the shape which dialectic takes in them, i.e. their further specialisation, is a passing over into another. This further determination, or specialisation, is at once a forth-putting and in that way a disengaging of the notion implicit in being; and at the same time the withdrawing of
being inwards, its sinking deeper into itself. Thus the explication of the notion in the sphere of being does two things: it brings out the totality of being, and it abolishes the immediacy of being, or the form of being as such. 85. ] Being itself and the special sub-categories of it which follow, as well as those of logic in general, may be looked upon as definitions of the Absolute, or metaphysical definitions of God : at least the first and third category in every triad may,—the first, where the thought-form of the triad is formulated in its simplicity, and the third, being the return from differentiation to a simple self-reference. For a metaphysical definition of God is the expression of His nature in thoughts as such: and logic embraces all thoughts so long as they continue in the thought-form. The second sub-category in each triad, where the grade of thought is in its differentiation, gives, on the other hand, a definition of the finite. The objection to the form of definition is that it implies a something in the mind's eye on which these predicates may fasten. Thus even the Absolute (though it pur-ports to express God in the style and character of thought) in comparison with its predicate (which really and distinctly expresses in thought what the subject does not), is as yet only an inchoate pretended thought—the indeterminate subject of predicates yet to come. The thought, which is here the matter of sole importance, is contained only in the predicate : and hence the propositional form, like the said subject, viz. the Absolute, is a mere superfluity (cf. § 31, and below, on the Judgment). Each of the three spheres of the logical idea proves to be a systematic whole of thought-terms, and a phase of the Absolute. This is the case with Being, containing the three grades of quality, quantity, and measure. Quality is, in the first place, the character identical with being: so identical, that a thing ceases to be what it is, if it loses its quality. Quantity, on the contrary, is the character external to being, and does not affect the being at all. Thus e.g. a house remains what it is, whether it be greater or smaller; and red remains red, whether it be brighter or darker. Measure, the third grade of being, which is the unity of the first two, is a qualitative quantity. All things have their measure : i. e. the quantitative terms of their existence, their being so or so great, does not matter within certain limits; but when these limits are exceeded by an additional more or less, the things cease to be what they were. From measure follows the advance to the second sub-division of the idea, Essence.
being inwards, its sinking deeper into itself. Thus the explication of the notion in the sphere of being does two things: it brings out the totality of being, and it abolishes the immediacy of being, or the form of being as such. 85. ] Being itself and the special sub-categories of it which follow, as well as those of logic in general, may be looked upon as definitions of the Absolute, or metaphysical definitions of God : at least the first and third category in every triad may,—the first, where the thought-form of the triad is formulated in its simplicity, and the third, being the return from differentiation to a simple self-reference. For a metaphysical definition of God is the expression of His nature in thoughts as such: and logic embraces all thoughts so long as they continue in the thought-form. The second sub-category in each triad, where the grade of thought is in its differentiation, gives, on the other hand, a definition of the finite. The objection to the form of definition is that it implies a something in the mind's eye on which these predicates may fasten. Thus even the Absolute (though it pur-ports to express God in the style and character of thought) in comparison with its predicate (which really and distinctly expresses in thought what the subject does not), is as yet only an inchoate pretended thought—the indeterminate subject of predicates yet to come. The thought, which is here the matter of sole importance, is contained only in the predicate : and hence the propositional form, like the said subject, viz. the Absolute, is a mere superfluity (cf. § 31, and below, on the Judgment). Each of the three spheres of the logical idea proves to be a systematic whole of thought-terms, and a phase of the Absolute. This is the case with Being, containing the three grades of quality, quantity, and measure. Quality is, in the first place, the character identical with being: so identical, that a thing ceases to be what it is, if it loses its quality. Quantity, on the contrary, is the character external to being, and does not affect the being at all. Thus e.g. a house remains what it is, whether it be greater or smaller; and red remains red, whether it be brighter or darker. Measure, the third grade of being, which is the unity of the first two, is a qualitative quantity. All things have their measure : i. e. the quantitative terms of their existence, their being so or so great, does not matter within certain limits; but when these limits are exceeded by an additional more or less, the things cease to be what they were. From measure follows the advance to the second sub-division of the idea, Essence.
The three forms of being here mentioned, just because they are the first, are also the poorest, i. e. the most abstract. Immediate (sensible) consciousness, in so far as it simultaneously includes an intellectual element, is especially restricted to the abstract categories of quality and quantity.
duminică, 21 martie 2010
Then and Now
[i]
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
[ii]
BIAGIO BUONACCORSI had had a busy day. He was tired, but being a man of methodical habit before going to bed made a note in his diary. It was brief: "The City sent a man to Imola to the Duke." Perhaps because he thought it of no importance he did not mention the man's name: it was Machiavelli. The Duke was Caesar Borgia.
It had been not only a busy day, but a long one, for Biagio had set forth from his house at dawn. With him on a stout pony went his nephew, Piero Giacomini, whom
Machiavelli had consented to take with him. It happened to be Piero's eighteenth birthday, October 6th, 1502, and so was a fitting day for him to go out into the world for the first time. He was a well-set-up youth, tall for his age and of an agreeable aspect. Under his uncle's guidance, for his mother was a widow, he had received a good education; he could write a good hand and turn a comely phrase not only in Italian, but in Latin. On the advice of Machiavelli, who passionately admired the ancient Romans, he had acquired more than a cursory knowledge of their history. Machiavelli cherished the conviction that men are always the same and have the same passions, so that when circumstances are similar the same causes must lead to the same effects; and thus, by bearing in mind how the Romans coped with a given situation men of a later day might conduct themselves with prudence and efficiency.
It was the wish both of Biagio and his sister that Piero should enter the government service in which Biagio held a modest post under his friend Machiavelli.
The mission on which Machiavelli was now going seemed a good opportunity for the boy to learn something of affairs, and Biagio knew that he could not have a better mentor. The matter had been settled on the spur of the moment, for it was only the day before that Machiavelli had been given his letter of credence to the Duke and his safe-conduct. Machiavelli was of an amiable disposition, a friend of his friends, and when Biagio asked him to take Piero with him immediately agreed. But the lad's mother, though she saw that it was a chance that could not be missed, was uneasy. He had never been parted from her before and he was young to go out into a hostile world; he was besides a good boy and she was afraid that Machiavelli would corrupt him, for it was notorious that Machiavelli was a gay fellow and a dissolute. He was, moreover, not in the least ashamed of it and would tell improper stories about
his adventures with women of the town and with maidservants at wayside inns which must bring a blush to a ....-
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
[ii]
BIAGIO BUONACCORSI had had a busy day. He was tired, but being a man of methodical habit before going to bed made a note in his diary. It was brief: "The City sent a man to Imola to the Duke." Perhaps because he thought it of no importance he did not mention the man's name: it was Machiavelli. The Duke was Caesar Borgia.
It had been not only a busy day, but a long one, for Biagio had set forth from his house at dawn. With him on a stout pony went his nephew, Piero Giacomini, whom
Machiavelli had consented to take with him. It happened to be Piero's eighteenth birthday, October 6th, 1502, and so was a fitting day for him to go out into the world for the first time. He was a well-set-up youth, tall for his age and of an agreeable aspect. Under his uncle's guidance, for his mother was a widow, he had received a good education; he could write a good hand and turn a comely phrase not only in Italian, but in Latin. On the advice of Machiavelli, who passionately admired the ancient Romans, he had acquired more than a cursory knowledge of their history. Machiavelli cherished the conviction that men are always the same and have the same passions, so that when circumstances are similar the same causes must lead to the same effects; and thus, by bearing in mind how the Romans coped with a given situation men of a later day might conduct themselves with prudence and efficiency.
It was the wish both of Biagio and his sister that Piero should enter the government service in which Biagio held a modest post under his friend Machiavelli.
The mission on which Machiavelli was now going seemed a good opportunity for the boy to learn something of affairs, and Biagio knew that he could not have a better mentor. The matter had been settled on the spur of the moment, for it was only the day before that Machiavelli had been given his letter of credence to the Duke and his safe-conduct. Machiavelli was of an amiable disposition, a friend of his friends, and when Biagio asked him to take Piero with him immediately agreed. But the lad's mother, though she saw that it was a chance that could not be missed, was uneasy. He had never been parted from her before and he was young to go out into a hostile world; he was besides a good boy and she was afraid that Machiavelli would corrupt him, for it was notorious that Machiavelli was a gay fellow and a dissolute. He was, moreover, not in the least ashamed of it and would tell improper stories about
his adventures with women of the town and with maidservants at wayside inns which must bring a blush to a ....-
sâmbătă, 20 martie 2010
Russell's Paradox
Significance of the paradox
The significance of Russell's paradox can be seen once it is realized that, using classical logic, all sentences follow from a contradiction. For example, assuming both P and ~P, any arbitrary proposition, Q, can be proved as follows: from P we obtain P ∨ Q by the rule of Addition; then from P ∨ Q and ~P we obtain Q by the rule of Disjunctive Syllogism. Because of this, and because set theory underlies all branches of mathematics, many people began to worry that, if set theory was inconsistent, no mathematical proof could be trusted completely. Russell's paradox ultimately stems from the idea that any coherent condition may be used to determine a set. As a result, most attempts at resolving the paradox have concentrated on various ways of restricting the principles governing set existence found within naive set theory, particularly the so-called Comprehension (or Abstraction) axiom. This axiom in effect states that any propositional function, P(x), containing x as a free variable can be used to determine a set. In other words, corresponding to every propositional function, P(x), there will exist a set whose members are exactly those things, x, that have property P.[3] It is now generally, although not universally, agreed that such an axiom must either be abandoned or modified. Russell's own response to the paradox was his aptly named theory of types. Recognizing that self-reference lies at the heart of the paradox, Russell's basic idea is that we can avoid commitment to R (the set of all sets that are not members of themselves) by arranging all sentences (or, equivalently, all propositional functions) into a hierarchy. The lowest level of this hierarchy will consist of sentences about individuals. The next lowest level will consist of sentences about sets of individuals.
The significance of Russell's paradox can be seen once it is realized that, using classical logic, all sentences follow from a contradiction. For example, assuming both P and ~P, any arbitrary proposition, Q, can be proved as follows: from P we obtain P ∨ Q by the rule of Addition; then from P ∨ Q and ~P we obtain Q by the rule of Disjunctive Syllogism. Because of this, and because set theory underlies all branches of mathematics, many people began to worry that, if set theory was inconsistent, no mathematical proof could be trusted completely. Russell's paradox ultimately stems from the idea that any coherent condition may be used to determine a set. As a result, most attempts at resolving the paradox have concentrated on various ways of restricting the principles governing set existence found within naive set theory, particularly the so-called Comprehension (or Abstraction) axiom. This axiom in effect states that any propositional function, P(x), containing x as a free variable can be used to determine a set. In other words, corresponding to every propositional function, P(x), there will exist a set whose members are exactly those things, x, that have property P.[3] It is now generally, although not universally, agreed that such an axiom must either be abandoned or modified. Russell's own response to the paradox was his aptly named theory of types. Recognizing that self-reference lies at the heart of the paradox, Russell's basic idea is that we can avoid commitment to R (the set of all sets that are not members of themselves) by arranging all sentences (or, equivalently, all propositional functions) into a hierarchy. The lowest level of this hierarchy will consist of sentences about individuals. The next lowest level will consist of sentences about sets of individuals.
de la Goya la Picasso
"...Iniţiatorul expoziţiei şi-a dorit să ofere publicului viziunea pe care o au artiştii în privinţa răului, mai precis a crimelor şi a justiţiei. 450 de tablouri, documente şi alte diverse obiecte trasează, în consecinţă, istoria tumultoasă a acestui subiect, care i-a fascinat pe numeroşi pictori, de la Goya la Picasso, de la Théodor Géricault la Edgar Degas, de la Otto Dix la Magritte. Vizitatorii vor putea descoperi tablouri, ilustraţii, afişe şi desene mai puţin cunoscute... Cum ar fi o ilustraţie realizată de Toulouse-Lautrec şi intitulată La piciorul eşafodului, sau o alta realizată de scriitorul Victor Hugo şi care reprezintă un spînzurat. Publicul mai descoperă, de exemplu, că Edgard Degas, despre care credem uneori că a pictat numai suave balerine, este şi autorul unui tablou reprezentînd un viol.. Expoziţia de la Musée d'Orsay este de natură să ne dea frisoane pentru că evocă nu numai barbaria asasinului dar şi, într-un fel, cea a justiţiei... Aflăm, de exemplu, că de la Revoluţia franceză, mai bine zis din 1791, şi pînă în 1939 execuţiile capitale se făceau... în public. A urmat apoi, pînă în 1981, o perioadă mai "discretă", cînd condamnaţilor la moarte li se tăia capul în curtea închisorii, la răsăritul soarelui."
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vineri, 19 martie 2010
De Spinoza (1632-1677)
iv. Causal Parallelism
An obvious question to ask at this point is whether it is possible for finite modes falling under one attribute to act upon and determine finite modes falling under another attribute. Spinoza’s answer is an unambiguous no. Causal relations exist only among modes falling under the same attribute. His explanation for this may be traced back to an axiom set forth at the beginning of Book One:
IA4: The knowledge of an effect depends on, and involves, the knowledge of its cause.
Given this axiom, if a finite mode falling under one attribute were to have God as its cause insofar as he is considered under a different attribute, i.e., if it were to be caused by a finite mode falling under a different attribute, then the knowledge of that mode would involve the knowledge of that other attribute. Since it does not, that mode cannot have God as its cause insofar as he is considered under some other attribute. In other words, it cannot be caused by a finite mode falling under some other attribute. When applied to modes falling under those attributes of which we have knowledge – thought and extension – this has an enormously important consequence. There can be no causal interaction between ideas and bodies. This does not mean that ideas and bodies are unrelated to one another. Indeed, it is one of the best-known theses in the Ethics that the lines of causation that run among them are strictly parallel: IIP7: The order and connection of ideas is the same as the order and connection of things. In the demonstration of this proposition Spinoza says that it is a consequence of IA4 and leaves it at that. Nevertheless, it is apparent that this proposition has deep foundations in his substance monism. As thought and extension are not attributes of distinct substances, so ideas and bodies are not modes of distinct substances. They are “one and the same thing, but expressed two ways” (IIP7S). If ideas and bodies are one and the same thing, however, their order and connection must be the same. The doctrine of substance monism in this way insures that ideas and bodies, though causally independent, are causally parallel.
The Logic of Hegel
PRELIMINARY NOTION.
LOGIC IS THE SCIENCE OF THE PURE IDEA; pure, that is, because the Idea is in the abstract medium of Thought. This definition, and the others which occur in these introductory outlines, are derived from a survey of the whole system, to which accordingly they are subsequent. The same remark applies to all prefatory notion what-ever about philosophy. Logic might have been defined as the science of thought, and of its laws and characteristic forms. But thought, as thought, constitutes only the general medium, or qualifying circumstance, which renders the Idea distinctively logical. If we identify the Idea with thought, thought must not be taken in the sense of a method or form, but in the sense of the self-developing totality of its laws and peculiar terms. These laws are the work of thought itself, and not a fact which it finds and must submit to. From different points of view, Logic is either the hardest or the easiest of the sciences. Logic is hard, because it has to deal not with perceptions, nor, like geometry, with abstract representations of the senses, but with pure abstractions; and because it demands a force and facility of withdrawing into pure thought, of keeping firm hold on it, and of moving in such an element. Logic is easy, because its facts are nothing but our own thought and its familiar forms or terms: and these are the acmè of simplicity, the a b c of everything else. They are also what we are best acquainted with : such as, 'Is' and 'Is not' : quality and magnitude : being potential and being actual : one, many, and so on. But such an acquaintance only adds to the difficulties of the study; for while, on the one hand, we naturally think it is not worth our trouble to occupy ourselves any longer with things so familiar, on the other hand, the problem is to become acquainted with them in a new way, quite opposite to that in which we know them already.
The utility of Logic is a matter which concerns its bearings upon the student, and the training it may give for other purposes. This logical training consists in the exercise in thinking which the student has to go through (this science is the thinking of thinking) : and in the fact that he stores his head with thoughts, in their native unalloyed character. It is true that Logic, being the absolute form of truth, and another name for the very truth itself, is something more than merely useful. Yet if what is noblest, most liberal and most independent is also most useful, Logic has some claim to the latter character. Its utility must then be estimated at another rate than exercise in thought for the sake of the exercise.
(I) The first question is: What is the object of our science ? The simplest and most intelligible answer to this question is that Truth is the object of Logic. Truth is a
noble word, and the thing is nobler still.....
joi, 18 martie 2010
Reviewing
1
IN London there are certain shop windows that always attract a crowd. The attraction is not in the finished article but in the worn-out garments that are having patches inserted in them. The crowd is watching the women at work. There they sit in the shop window putting invisible stitches into moth-eaten trousers. And this familiar sight may serve as illustration to the following paper. So our poets, playwrights and novelists sit in the shop window, doing their work under the curious eyes of reviewers. But the reviewers are not content, like the crowd in the street, to gaze in
silence; they comment aloud upon the size of the holes, upon the skill of the workers, and advise the public which of the goods in the shop window is the best worth buying. The purpose of this paper is to rouse discussion as to the value of the reviewer's office--to the writer, to the public, to the reviewer and to literature. But a reservation must first be made-by "the reviewer "is meant the reviewer of imaginative literature--poetry, drama, fiction; not the reviewer of history, politics, economics. His is a different office, and for reasons not to be discussed here he fulfils it in the main so adequately and indeed admirably that his value is not in question. Has the reviewer, then, of imaginative literature any value at the present time to the writer, to the public, to the reviewer and to literature? And, if so, what? And if not, how could his function be changed, and made profitable? Let us broach these involved and complicated questions by giving one quick glance at the history of reviewing, since it may help to define the nature of a review at the present moment.
Since the review came into existence with the newspaper, that history is a brief one.
Hamlet was not reviewed, nor Paradise Lost. Criticism there was but criticism conveyed by word of mouth, by the audience in the theatre, by fellow writers in taverns and private work-shops. Printed criticism came into existence, presumably in a crude and primitive form, in the seventeenth century.
silence; they comment aloud upon the size of the holes, upon the skill of the workers, and advise the public which of the goods in the shop window is the best worth buying. The purpose of this paper is to rouse discussion as to the value of the reviewer's office--to the writer, to the public, to the reviewer and to literature. But a reservation must first be made-by "the reviewer "is meant the reviewer of imaginative literature--poetry, drama, fiction; not the reviewer of history, politics, economics. His is a different office, and for reasons not to be discussed here he fulfils it in the main so adequately and indeed admirably that his value is not in question. Has the reviewer, then, of imaginative literature any value at the present time to the writer, to the public, to the reviewer and to literature? And, if so, what? And if not, how could his function be changed, and made profitable? Let us broach these involved and complicated questions by giving one quick glance at the history of reviewing, since it may help to define the nature of a review at the present moment.
Since the review came into existence with the newspaper, that history is a brief one.
Hamlet was not reviewed, nor Paradise Lost. Criticism there was but criticism conveyed by word of mouth, by the audience in the theatre, by fellow writers in taverns and private work-shops. Printed criticism came into existence, presumably in a crude and primitive form, in the seventeenth century.
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