Paul Nizan (1905-1940)
Paul Nizan studied in Paris where he befriended fellow student Jean-Paul Sartre at the Lycée Henri IV. Sartre's friend and sometime rival, Nizan was a prototype of the angry young man. Ideologically a Marxist, politically a Communist, professionally a writer, endowed—Sartre conceded—with a sharper mind and greater literary ability than his own, Nizan diagnosed the ills of French society in the 1930's. His writings, vilified by the Party he left in September 1939 upon hearing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact in 1939. He died in the Battle of Dunkirk, fighting against the German army in World War II.
Note: there is surprisingly little on the web about Mr. Nizan
that is not in French, Italian or German. I guess one could conclude from this
that Nizan is not very well-known in the U.S. or the U.K though Princeton University Press recently published a book-length study of him, Paul Nizan Committed Literature in a Conspiratorial World by W. D. Redfern (2015).
However, about a
dozen of his books have been translated into Japanese so I conclude that he is better known and more appreciated there. Below is an article
of his that I found in English. It seems like a review of something, and a critique
of other philosophers. More of his writings can also be found here: https://www.marxists.org/archive/nizan/index.htm
I am still looking for a complete bio but it appears as though Nizan was
an ally of leftists like Jean-Paul Sartre and Andre Malraux in France who fought
in the underground Resistance against the Nazis. He
died young (35), apparently in the Battle of Dunkirk, 1940. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Nizan)
Below the following brief quote is a sample of Nizan's nonfiction (he wrote a number of novels, too)! What I find in this first quote is that he wants to say something about the function and the value of literature, and how it should do more than just offer us a pleasant "diversion," or an opportunity for enjoyable escape from our troubles. Rather, he is arguing that literature, fiction, should be soimething more: it should be an "instrument of knowledge."
Nizan writes:
Readers are people who, in general, have very bad instincts – much worse than those of novelists – in this that they hope to find in the novel a kind of complicity that will assist them in escaping from their troubles, their petty personal troubles as well as the great collective troubles.....[But] One should not be an accomplice of the readers’ bad instincts.
...The true function of the reader is to want to learn to live and consequently to consider the novel, literature in general, not at all come a diversion in both the vulgar and Pascalian sense of the term, but as an instrument of knowledge....
Everything seems to me to be summed up in a striking formula of Marx. Marx, questioning himself about the function of philosophy – he wasn’t speaking of its mission – summed himself up in this way: We must give people consciousness of themselves. And he adds this small proposition, which appears to me to be decisive and with which I want to end: even if they don’t want it.
Each of us will have to decide whether we think Sputnik Sweetheart--which has been called "a love story, a missing-person story, a detective story—all enveloped in a philosophical mystery—and, finally, a profound meditation on human longing," is more of a "diversion," or an "instrument of knowledge," one that is capable of changing our awareness or our "consciosuness" of ourselves.
And if it is the latter, what kind of knowledge are we talking about? We might remember how early on in Sputnik Sweetheart (p. 16), the narrator and Sumire are discussing literature and how to write a novel. The narrator believes Sumire is hell-bent on writing the 19th-Century "Total Novel," the kind of work that packs in so much it can capture both the "soul and human destiny."
The point is, these characters read and talk about literature all the time and what it can do for us as readers.
Comparing writing to an ancient Chinese ceremony, the narrator says:
People would take carts out to old battlefields and gather the bleached bones that were buried there or that lay scattered about. . . . [T]hey’d construct a huge gate and seal the bones inside. . . . When the gate was finished they’d bring several dogs over to it, slit their throats, and sprinkle their blood on the gate. Only by mixing fresh blood with the dried-out bones would the ancient souls of the dead magically revive. . . .
Writing novels is much the same. You gather up bones and make your gate, but no matter how wonderful the gate might be, that alone doesn’t make it a living, breathing novel. A story is not something of this world. A real story requires a kind of magical baptism to link the world on this side with the world on the other side. (p. 16, italics Murakami’s)
Murakami is saying that the stories we tell ourselves—our memories—are the key to creating a living, breathing human. They are the bleached bones that are essential to our souls. Yet they are no good to us unless they link us with “the other side”: other human minds or our true selves, the invisible parts of our identities that normally remain hidden from us. Yet to create these stories, blood must be shed. There must be a sacrifice, pain, a loss. (See http://quarterlyconversation.com/haruki-murakami-sputnik-sweetheart.)
Let's face it, sacrifice, pain, loss--none of these sound particularly easy nor fun. But if, as Nizan suggests, "the true function of the reader is to want to learn to live," then we will have to ask ourselves if Murakami's approach to the novel, if his metaphorical journeys to "the other side," can help us "learn to live." And perhaps even to become better human beings in the process
The Philosopher's Mission
by Paul Nizan
(1905-1940)
****************************
It can be argued that there are two types of philosophy—or
rather that there are two modes of thought which are both conventionally included
under the single term, Philosophy. For the present we must accept this verbal
unity as a fact, without examining the legitimacy or the propriety of the marriage.
There exist two modes of thought because there are two distinct series of questions
confronting the individual whose function it is to supply answers to the most
general inquiry. The first series deals with our knowledge of the world; the
second with the lives of men. One type of philosophy is an extension of, and
a commentary on, science; the other treats those problems arising from the situations
men find themselves in, with respect both to the world and to each other.
The first of these philosophies has a task that, at first glance, is clearly
defined (or which it is possible to regard as clearly defined), although the
exercise of this philosophy gives rise to a host of special problems involving
its function, its tactics, its results, and its very existence. This philosophy
strives to make sense out of the contradictory assertions of the sciences, each
of which tends to go its own way. It seeks to draw up periodic balance sheets
and to define with precision the ideas and techniques that develop as the scientists
proceed with the construction of the edifice of knowledge. And, finally, from
its observations of the practices, the experiments, the positive findings, the
errors and failures, and the triumphs and setbacks of the sciences, it attempts
to draw conclusions concerning the nature and functions of intelligence-in-general.
Admittedly, these investigations into the sciences have a historical legitimacy:
Plato, for example, carried out just such a task when he undertook to resolve
the problems raised by the introduction of the concept of incommensurability.
The value of this philosophical genre, which it would be best to call simply
"general logic," is a matter for debate between the scientists and
the philosophers. The question is purely academic and is not of immediate concern
to the layman. Nor does it directly affect Philosophy, or human wisdom in general.
One cannot say to M. Rey, professional philosopher, that he does not practice
philosophy because he applies his thoughts to theoretical physics and grapples
with the dilemmas of thermodynamics. He would reply—no doubt in a calm,
rational manner—that he practices his profession as he sees fit and that
no one has any right to accuse him of betraying the humanitarian mission of
Philosophy, whatever that may be. Why, M. Rey might add, don’t you accuse
my neighbor, who is a physician, of betraying the mission of medicine because
he has failed to condemn preventive detention? Why don’t you accuse my
other neighbor, who is a cobbler, of betraying the shoemaker’s craft because
he is not protesting against the massacres of Indochinese peasants? And this
would be a reasonable reply, which could be backed up with a number of solid
arguments. M. Meyerson would probably make the same reply. One cannot accuse
M. Rey and M. Meyerson of betraying their philosophical calling just because
they are content to till their own plot of ground. After all, the activity they
are engaged in, the kind of thinking they do, is of a purely technical character;
it must be judged from a purely technical standpoint, and the only possible
verdict would be that they are doing their job well or doing it poorly, just
as one would say of an engineer that he is either doing his job well or doing
it poorly. It may be—nay, it is likely—that M. Rey, philosopher of
science, is doing a poor job: Lenin, for example, found that M. Rey was not
a very good engineer. But this question is not one that has to be resolved at
once. For its resolution, its implications, are of concern to the scientists:
Messrs. Perrin, Langevin, Urbain, and Painlevê will have something to
say on this score. These men may well have a good laugh when they think of the
sorry figure science cuts in a M. Brunschvicg. I myself do not feel obligated
to share their mirth.
It would not be possible to call M. Meyerson to account in the name of a more
human philosophy; the quality and importance of his writings are matters that
he and the scientists must settle. M. Meyerson did not declare at the beginning
of his Déduction relativiste or his Identité et réalité
that human destiny was the ultimate object of his philosophical inquiry. Thus
he could not be accused of deliberately splitting himself in two, which would
constitute a treasonable act; for, if he does present a split personality, this
duality is not inherently contradictory—any more than the split personality
of a chemist who is both a chemist and a Christian would be incompatible with
the essence of chemistry. The questions that one is entitled to ask this chemist
and M. Meyerson were not designed especially for these two men. They are indistinguishable
from the general questions that one feels justified in asking any man-in-general,
any bourgeois-in-general, or any Christian-in-general, regardless of his professional
functions. If a person, as bourgeois or as Christian, is an enemy of mankind,
this does not mean that as highly trained specialist he also, or specifically,
will be an enemy of mankind. Specialists as specialists are in a very secure
position; they are immune to attack. If a chemist invents an explosive, he is
still only a chemist—and probably a good chemist at that. If he recommends
that this explosive be used at once against unfortified towns or striking workers,
he is clearly a traitor to mankind; but he remains a good chemist nonetheless
he has in no way betrayed chemistry. There are really no grounds for opening
a separate file on this chemist or for entering his name in a special list of
traitorous chemists.
On the other hand, the second type of philosophy is at present in a situation
totally inconsistent with its basic character: this philosophy, or mode of thought,
has assigned itself the task of making an assessment of human life. That is
its express purpose, and its practitioners are aware of their goal. Its reason
for being is to find the guiding principle of life on earth. It has been searching
for this principle since time immemorial, and it is still looking. It is never
content to formulate mere existential judgments. It claims that it is expressing
the will of humanity. It decrees what men should want (if they are to fulfill
their destiny), or, at least, what it wants men to achieve. The sciences provide
this philosophy with the limits of the possible; they define the radius of action
of the human will and the possible points at which this will could be put into
operation.
But there is no real continuity, no logically necessary transition, between
science—which never seeks or requires anything but its own continuous progress—and
this philosophy, which is always supposed to desire something or to inform or
to advise, this ambitious philosophy which is forever proclaiming that its task
is to work for the good of man.
But neither M. Rabaud nor M. Perrin nor M. d’Ocagne nor M. Meyerson, has
ever proclaimed that this is his task and his function. When M. Langevin takes
a position on the issue of war, when he speaks of the urgent need to put an
end to war, it would be wrong to say that he is doing so as a physicist or,
to put it more vaguely, as a scholar. He is speaking only as a private citizen.
When Professor Einstein announces that he will refuse to contribute to any war
effort, without even bothering to inquire whether his country is right or wrong,
he is speaking as a man, not as the author of the theory of relativity. It is
naive and truly bourgeois to believe that the protests of M. Langevin and M.
Einstein have more value than the protest of some anonymous individual simply
because the two physicists are in a more delicate position. The fact of the
matter is that the protest of a Langevin or an Einstein is far more offensive
to the bourgeoisie, which does not like to see its greatest men renounce the
values it believes in and holds dear. But the exponents of the second type of
philosophy hold to a certain conception of their particular mission, of the
special mission that goes with the accomplishment of the aims of their speciality.
This conception has a history of its own and a significance for our times, both
of which must be described and evaluated. M. Brunschvicg realizes that, as a philosopher and not as a private citizen, he has a certain obligation to fulfill and that there are certain models he should emulate. As he himself has said: "The heroes of the spiritual life are those who, without referring to obsolete models or anachronistic precedents, have projected lines of intelligence and truth which are destined to create a moral universe, in the same way as they have already created the material universe of gravitation and electricity."
If I understand him correctly, this statement is an expression of pride in,
and consciousness of, a mission. It implies that Philosophy is guiding the world
in the direction of its noblest destiny, and that the common people have every
reason to be grateful to the philosophers, who create universes for them.
Thus, one must judge what the philosophers are now doing in relation to this
conception—which they readily acknowledge and firmly believe in—of
a humanitarian mission that is independent of all geographical and temporal
conditions, as well as of any special interests. By doing so, one will find
out what scholars are really like; one will discover their real intentions and
their obnoxious nature; and one will see why it has at last become both desirable
and possible that they be replaced.
SOURCE: Nizan, Paul. The Watchdogs: Philosophers and the Established Order,
translated by Paul Fittingoff (New York: Monthly
Review Press, 1972), pp. 30-35. Original publication 1960.