Читать книгу Pocket Pantheon - Alain Badiou - Страница 8

We will celebrate here, in the ancient manner, the celebration of dead masters by living masters. In doing so, we twice break the rule of our rapid societies, which worship what is supposedly a studied casualness. We forget our dead as quickly as we can because we are in a hurry to outlive them in our flabbiness, and we mock the masters who rejected journalism and sloganizing – ‘anti-elitist’ – representations of intellectual democracy.

Georges Canguilhem was – and therefore still is, for there can be no appeal against such an inscription – the strong and discreet master of my philosophical generation. Why did this specialist in the history of the life sciences exert an academic authority that could not have been further removed from his infinitely precise thought? Probably because his conception of intellectual rigour extended, on the one hand, to a minutely detailed account of the history of concepts and, on the other, to the pure logic of commitment. As a result, Canguilhem, a believer in the conception of a perennial liberal university, who was more inclined than anyone else to tell the difference between what is valid and mere semblance, extended his attention far beyond the specialist areas of knowledge in which he excelled, with an almost forgotten excellence, to everything that combines the articulated meaning of history with the ethics of action.

The sort of elective hold he had therefore made Georges Canguilhem the master of a host of disparate young philosophers whose destiny took them far away both from themselves and from him, especially when May ’68 destroyed for ever the university edifice that communicated the kind of authority to which, as was only right, he insisted on remaining loyal.

We can assume two things:

First, that Canguilhem is already a great classic, and is designated as such in his works,¹ all of which are constructed around sequences of crucial articles that extend – or complete – the great national tradition of an epistemology supported by the historical examination of the genealogy of concepts, of breaks between the fields in which they operate, of conflicts of interpretations and of the reshaping of domains. Canguilhem is therefore to the life sciences what Koyré and Bachelard are to physics. And what Jean Cavaillès and Albert Lautman, Resistance fighters killed by the Nazis, were beginning to be for mathematics.

But there is also something that cannot be transmitted, except in the particularity of its objects, namely the subjective function of authority that Canguilhem represented. As a result, the life and work of the master went on, thank God, and the conditions, both institutional and intellectual, that related that function to our multiple eagerness for knowledge between 1950 and 1967 remained intact.

Or, I am thinking of the little book entitled Vie et mort de Jean Cavaillès,² precisely because it was not written in a scholarly register and attempts, but with a harsh simplicity, to pay homage to a murdered philosopher–resistance fighter, and because it can communicate to those of a different age something of the lost secret of the masters.

This little book brings together three texts that belong to a genre whose obsolescence will lead astray only those who consent in advance to being destroyed by the barbarism of our times: the official ceremony in honour of a great man who has died.

Mao Zedong did not go in for modern ironies and held that ‘When anyone in our ranks who has done some useful work dies, be he soldier or cook, we should have a funeral ceremony and a memorial meeting in his honour.’³

We have here the inauguration of the Amphithéâtre Jean-Cavaillès in Strasbourg (1967), a commemoration on Radiodiffusion-télévision française (1969) and a commemoration at the Sorbonne (1974). In them, Canguilhem sums up the life of Jean Cavaillès: philosopher and mathematician, teacher of logic, cofounder of the ‘Libération-Sud’ liberation movement, founder of the ‘Cohors’ military action network, arrested in 1942, escaped, arrested again in 1943, tortured and shot. Found in a common grave in a corner of the citadel in Arras, and immediately baptized ‘Unknown Man 5’.⁴

But what Canguilhem is trying to reconstruct goes beyond the obvious naming of a hero (‘A philosopher-mathematician carrying explosives, lucid and rash, resolute but without any optimism. If that is not a hero, what is a hero?’). Faithful, basically, to his methodology of seeking coherence, Canguilhem is trying to decipher the link between the philosophy of Cavaillès, his commitment, and his death.

It is true that it appears to be an enigma, as Cavaillès had nothing to do with the political theory of committed existentialism; Cavaillès worked on pure mathematics. What is more, he thought that the philosophy of mathematics must rid itself of all reference to a constituent mathematical subject, and should examine the internal necessity of mathematical notions. The final sentence in his essay ‘Sur la logique et la théorie de la science’ (written when he was first imprisoned in the camp at St-Paul d’Eygaux on the orders of the Pétainist State), which has become famous, argues that the philosophy of consciousness must be replaced by the dialectic of concepts. To that extent, Cavaillès anticipated by twenty years what the philosophers of the 1960s were trying to do.

And it is precisely in that demand for rigour, in this educated cult of necessity, that Canguilhem sees the unity between Cavaillès’s commitment and his practice as a logician. Because, having learned from Spinoza, Cavaillès wanted to de-subjectify knowledge and because he also regarded resistance as an unavoidable necessity that no reference to the Ego could circumvent. In 1943, he therefore declared: ‘I am a follower of Spinoza, and I think that we can see necessity everywhere. The logical deductions of mathematicians are necessary. The stages of mathematical science are necessary. And the struggle we are waging is necessary’.

Unburdened of any reference to himself, Cavaillès therefore practised extreme forms of resistance, going so far as to enter the Kriegsmarine’s submarine base in Lorient dressed in a workman’s overalls, in the same way that one does science with an understated tenacity. Death is no more than one possible and neutral conclusion because, as Spinoza states, ‘A free man thinks of nothing less than death, and his wisdom is a meditation on life, not on death.’⁵

As Canguilhem says: ‘Cavaillès was a resistance fighter for reasons of logic.’ And that assertion is all the stronger in that we can assume that Canguilhem, who remains silent about this point, was, despite himself, as we know, also active in the Resistance for more or less the same reasons. As a result, he can legitimately mock those who, although they philosophize about the personality, ethics or consciousness, ‘talk so much about themselves only because only they can talk about their resistance, given that it was so discreet’.

We probably have a clear enough idea of why Georges Canguilhem is in a position to point out to us what philosophical authenticity is. It is not about politics, and our differences would probably have become obvious, but about what makes politics a universal possibility: being able to attach so little importance to oneself even though an undeniable historic cause demands our devotion. If we do not meet that demand, we sacrifice not only our dignity, but all ethics and, ultimately, all logic and therefore all thought.

The order of thought means nothing without the irrepressible demand that founds its subjective consistency. The lesson is not pointless at a time when Polish workers are themselves giving a name to their resistance and when war is once more stalking the world.

It is therefore right, and opportune, to pay tribute to Canguilhem as he pays tribute to Cavaillès, and, of course, to be thankful to both of them, given that, to cite Spinoza once more, ‘Only free men are very thankful to one another.’⁶