Hatred and Forgiveness

PART 1

WORLD(S)

1

THINKING ABOUT LIBERTY IN DARK TIMES

First of all I would like to thank the Holberg Prize Jury for their generosity in awarding me this first Holberg prize for research in the field of the human and social sciences, law, and theology. I would also like to thank you for your presence at this conference, for the interest you have shown in my work, and for your participation in detailed and gracious discussions of my ideas, which I regard as both an honor and highly stimulating. Finally, I would like to thank you for giving me this opportunity to talk about the intellectual quest which has brought me here today, and how I relate it to the present moment in history.

You have in front of you today a European citizen, of Bulgarian origin and French nationality, who considers herself a cosmopolitan intellectual; this last quality alone would have been enough to merit persecution in the Bulgaria of my childhood. Much has changed since then, and although my country of origin is still struggling with various economic and political problems, the way is now open, not only for Bulgaria to become a member of NATO, but also for her to join the European Union as a full member. All of this would have been impossible to imagine thirty-nine years ago, in 1965. That was the year I left Bulgaria to continue my studies in Paris, thanks to a grant furnished under the policy of that visionary leader, Charles de Gaulle, who had already foreseen a Europe stretching from the Atlantic to the Urals.

Now, in 2004, I still think of that time, in the not-so-distant past, and of all the efforts, sometimes discreet, but sometimes quite risky, made by many intellectuals and others during the communist era. Thanks to such courageous individuals, Bulgaria is today a member of the community of democratic countries. This fact may seem miraculous, until one remembers the suffering, the never-failing hopes and the constant underground work of so many members of the thinking professions, which slowly ate away at the foundations of totalitarianism.

It is customary on occasions such as this to evoke the memory of one’s parents, and indeed I think of my father, Stoyan Kristev. This educated member of the Orthodox Church wanted me to learn French from an early age and duly registered me at a primary school run by French nuns, so that I could absorb some of the critical spirit and taste for freedom for which France is rightly famous. I also think of my mother, Christine Kristeva, who combined a sharp scientific mind and a strong sense of duty with a gentle nature and passed on to me the kind of rigor that is such a necessary part of one’s development, especially for a woman, and even more so for a woman in exile. This is my family background, which was reinforced by the respect for culture and education that had developed in Bulgaria during the course of its turbulent history; it is the foundation on which I subsequently placed what French civilization had to offer me. I have a strong sense of indebtedness to France, and feel proud, in the globalized world in which we live today, to bear the colors of the French Republic in the various countries and continents which I have occasion to visit.

There is a line in my book Strangers to Ourselves that I hope you won’t mind me taking the liberty to repeat here. I wrote that one may feel more of a foreigner in France than in any other country, but at the same time one is better as a foreigner in France than in any other country. The reason is that, although its universalism may be ambiguous, the French tradition of critical questioning, the importance given to political debate, and the role of intellectuals—exemplified by the Enlightenment philosophers who are so emblematic of French culture—are factors that continually revivify public debate, and maintain it at a very high level. This is a real antidote to national depression, and to its manic manifestation in nationalism. I would therefore like to pay tribute to my adoptive culture, which is never more French than when it is engaged in self-criticism. To the degree that it is able to laugh about itself—and what vitality there is in this laughter!—it is able to forge links with other cultures. I have absorbed this French language and this French culture so thoroughly that I am almost taken in by those Americans who welcome me as a French writer and intellectual.

The Holberg Prize rewards my work, which it calls innovative, and devoted to exploring themes at the frontiers of language, culture and literature, and which you consider to be of capital importance in the numerous disciplines of the human and social sciences, as well as in feminist theory. Indeed, since I first arrived in France at Christmas 1965, just when the feminist movement was gaining new momentum, I have never stopped thinking about the contribution that women have made to contemporary thought, and this work has crystallized in my recent trilogy on Feminine Genius: Hannah Arendt, Melanie Klein, and Colette. You might wonder what the connection is between this trilogy and my origins.

Well, I could speak to you at length about the intelligence and the endurance of the women of my country of origin, many of whom have distinguished themselves in literature, and many others in various struggles for liberation. Nevertheless, I did not devote my work on female genius to them, because I wanted to use examples that were known and accepted everywhere. My aim was to address the following question: Is there a specifically feminine form of genius? This question is not a new one, but it still retains much of its mystery. I will return to Hannah Arendt, Melanie Klein, and Colette. But first I would like to reveal to you something that is not in these books.

My research on this topic led me to the discovery that the first female intellectual—and as such, necessarily a European—was neither a saint like Hildegarde of Bingen (1098–1179) or Angela of Foligno (1248–1309), nor even a writer (the writers came later) such as Mme de Sévigné (1626–1696) or Mme de Staël (1766–1817) who, as a theoretician, writer, and political thinker, has always been considered the first female intellectual in the strict sense of the word. I discovered that the first female intellectual was in fact a Byzantine, a woman from my native region. Her name was Anne Comnena, and she was the author of a superb history of the crusades and of the reign of her father, the Emperor Alexis I. This was the monumental Alexiade, in fifteen volumes. Born in 1083, Anne Comnena began writing this work in 1138 at the age of fifty-five, and completed it ten years later; as the first female historian, she offers us an interpretation of this period that is very different from those of western chroniclers such as William of Tyre or Foucher de Chartres. This devotee of what would later be called orthodox Christianity was nevertheless raised on the Greek classics and was a fervent reader of Homer and Plato. She was sensitive, melancholy, and indeed romantic, a girl who was proud of her father; she was a philosopher and a politician, and her writing shows an awareness of the need for European unity, which was such an important issue at that time.

Since I am convinced that a wider Europe will only really come into being if there is a genuine dialogue between the eastern and western churches, and if a bridge can be built across the abyss which still, unfortunately, separates the Orthodox and Catholic churches in particular, I strongly believe that the exceptional work of Anne Comnena, among others, will be essential for thinking about our future Europe. That is why I made her one of the main characters in the novel that I have just published in France! I didn’t do this for chauvinistic reasons, since Anne Comnena wasn’t Bulgarian, but a Byzantine princess, although her grandmother was a member of the Bulgarian nobility, and there were many marriages between Bulgarian sovereigns and the royal families of the new states that were constantly testing the borders of the Empire. In this region, wars and peace treaties followed each other in rapid succession, making this part of the world famous for its conflicts, but also for the ability of its inhabitants to find ways of coexisting. All of this was present, and prescient, in the work of Anne Comnena, a female genius whom the future Europe would do well to rediscover. Coming as I do from the Balkans, I am pleased to have contributed to this rediscovery. I would therefore like to invite you to read Anne Comnena, in addition to Arendt, Klein, and Colette. Europe still has many surprises in store for us.

Nevertheless, without isolating women’s experience as a separate object of study, I would like to place this experience in the context of the various political, philosophical, and literary debates which have nourished women’s—and men’s—liberation in recent times. In other words, I only accept the feminist label on the condition that my thinking on the themes of writing and feminine sexuality is seen within the general framework indicated by the title of my presentation today: Thinking about liberty in dark times. With hindsight, I think that this title could apply more generally to what, outside France, is often referred to as French Theory. This expression was coined in American universities, and my name is often associated with it. If I emphasize the American reception of my work today, here in Norway, it is because I believe that without the English translations of my books, and without the recognition that I have received in the United States, my work would not have been accessible to readers in your country and all over the world, and it is in this context that my work has been recognized and honored by the Holberg Prize. I hope, in what follows, to be able to place my own work in the context of this French Theory movement, and further, to shed light on the difficult, and sometimes conflictual, dialogue between two different conceptions of liberty at work today.

When I arrived in Paris, the war in Vietnam was at its climax, and we often protested against the American bombing. It was then that René Girard, having attended one of my first presentations of Bakhtine in Roland Barthes’ seminar, invited me to teach at the University of Baltimore. I could not see myself collaborating with the world’s policeman, as we used to say at that time and, in spite of the dialectical advice that I was given by my professor, Lucien Goldmann, who used to say, My dear, American imperialism has to be conquered from the inside, I honestly did not feel that I had the strength for such a challenge. So I remained in France. It was 1966. Several years later, in 1972, I met Professor Leon Roudiez from the University of Columbia, at the Cérisy conference on Artaud and Bataille. That is how I made my first trip to New York in 1973, and ever since I have been a Visiting Professor at the Department of French at Columbia, which, without improving the quality of my English, has at least helped me make many friends and find accomplices in the very unique context of American Academia. At present, I have the honor of teaching in the Graduate Faculty of the New School for Social Research—the university that welcomed Levi-Strauss, Roman Jakobson, and Hannah Arendt during and after the Second World War.

Of all these experiences, which I cannot summarize here tonight, and which I wrote about in my first book, Les Samourais (Fayard, 1990), I would simply like to mention two symbolic images that have become inseparable from my psyche and which, I hope, may give you a sense of what my attachment to the United States means.

The first one is a tiny amateur photograph, in black and white, that Leon Roudiez took of me, and which shows me with my long student hair, on the ferry that took me to the skyscrapers of Manhattan. Since I do not have a picture of my arrival in Paris, this one is the only and best proof of my renaissance in the free world. You can see this picture in Kristeva Interviews, a book published by Columbia University Press. I would like once again to take this opportunity to express my gratitude to my collaborators at Columbia University Press for their loyalty and friendship. It is thanks to their efforts that my work has become accessible to an English-speaking public all over the world, as I have already said.

The second image that I have in mind is that of my apartment on Morningside Drive, which overlooks Harlem Park, close to Edward Said’s apartment and to the flat where Arendt used to live. It is where I usually stay when I teach at Columbia, a place flooded with that unusual American light, dazzling and inviting at the same time. Here I wrote pages that are dear to me from Histoires d’amour/Tales of Love (1983) and Soleil Noir/Black Sun (1987) as well as the books on Female Genius, a place that remains, in my personal mythology, a space of happy solitude.

Many people were surprised when Philippe Sollers and I decided to devote a whole issue of Tel Quel (71/73, Fall 1977) to New York. What came across in that issue was praise of American democracy, as opposed to French centralization, which seems so hierarchical and Jacobin by contrast. It was actually an acknowledgment of what seems to me to be the most important quality of American civilization, and which also explains my attachment to American academia, namely, its hospitality. To be precise, in the designation American, I should include the USA’s neighbors to the North: Canada and Canadian universities.

By hospitality I mean the ability that some people have to offer a home to those who do not have one or temporarily lack one. Fleeing communism to go to France, I did not encounter that kind of hospitality, although France has given me my French nationality, for which I will always be grateful. My adoptive country is grounded in its administrative and cultural history, although it is also famous for the radically innovative spirit of many of its citizens, such as the artistic, philosophical, and theoretical avant-gardes that have seduced me, and have ensured its glory abroad. Such innovations often engender violent rejection, if not active hatred. America, on the other hand, seems to me to be a country that welcomes grafts and even encourages them.

It is, however, a profoundly French woman that you are welcoming today, whether you consider me a Gallicized European or the very essence of Frenchness. This often comes as a surprise to the French themselves who obviously do not see me as one of them. Sometimes, after returning from New York, while passionately discussing my work as part of French theory, I am even tempted to take myself for a French intellectual. At other times I actively consider settling abroad for good, all the more so when I feel hurt by the xenophobia of that old country that France is.

In this modern world of ours, in this New World Order, we seem to lack a positive definition of humanity (not in the sense of the human species but rather the quality of being human). We sometimes have to ask ourselves what humanity or humanism is all about when we confront crimes against humanity. My own experience, though, makes me think that the minimal definition of humanity, the zero degree of humanity, to borrow an expression from Barthes, is precisely hospitality. The Greeks were right when they chose the word ethos to designate the most radically human capacity, which from then on is referred to as the ethical capacity and which consists of the ability to make choices, the choice between good and evil—and all the other possible choices. It is interesting to note that the word ethos originally meant a regular sleeping place or animal shelter. By derivation it came to mean habit and character and what is characteristic of an individual and a social group.

I found this sense of hospitality in the United States, which, despite the numerous faults of the American way of life, for many still represents a future in which we will live in a globalized society, where foreigners share their lives with other foreigners.

This hospitality, which I am so happy to experience again today, here in Norway, was first and foremost hospitality toward my ideas and my work. When I travel I take with me a French and European cultural heritage, in which there is a mixture of German, Russian and French traditions: Hegel and Freud, Russian formalism, French structuralism, the avant-gardes of the nouveau roman, and Tel Quel. I hope that Americans, and now you here in Bergen, will feel that my migrant personality is less French in the sense of being somewhat arrogant and haughty. As a foreigner, I have managed to appropriate this culture and I hope that the elements of this French and old European culture, so often inaccessible and jealous of its own purity, which I will present to you today, will be accessible to you as English-speaking foreigners. Certainly part of my work has resonated in a special way in American universities and has further developed in a direction that I am most pleased with, and which encouraged me to continue. Sometimes, however, I am surprised by the images of myself and my work that are reflected back to me, and I have difficulty recognizing myself. I have never had and will never acquire a taste for polemics, partly because I am convinced of at least one thing: either these interpretations go against me in a useless way, and consequently exhaust themselves in the process (for example, certain militant and politically correct comments), or they are part of a more personal quest of original and innovative American men and women who assimilate my work into theirs at their own risk, which may well be, after all, a wonderful way of practicing this hospitality that I have been talking about. Isn’t the whole idea of a transplant or graft meant to generate unexpected consequences, the very opposite of cloning? However, as regards the politically correct interpretations, I have never had the impression that they were widespread in European universities, whether of Latin, Germanic, English, or Scandinavian language, no doubt because these institutions are more attuned to the European sensibility which underlies my work, and to which I will return in a moment.

Some Themes of Our Interface

I will now revisit some of the main themes of my work that have given rise to much discussion. They are: intertextuality, the distinction between the semiotic and the symbolic, the concepts of the abject and abjection, and my emphasis on the themes of the foreigner and foreignness.

1. The concept of intertextuality has enjoyed a certain degree of success internationally. This idea, which I developed from Bakhtine, invites the reader to interpret a text as a crossing of texts. Very often, in formalist or structuralist approaches this has been perceived as a return to quotations or to sources. For me it is principally a way of introducing history into structuralism: the texts that Mallarmé and Proust read, and which nourish the Coup de Dés and A la Recherche du temps perdu allow us to introduce history into the laboratory of writing. Mallarmé’s interest in anarchism, for example, and Proust’s interest in Zohar’s Jewish mysticism and the Dreyfus Affair are useful materials in this kind of approach. Also, by showing the extent to which the internal dimension of the text is connected to the external context, such interpretations can reveal the inauthenticity of the writing subject. The writer becomes le sujet en procès: this French expression means both a subject in process and a subject on trial. As such, the speaking subject is a carnival, a polyphony, forever contradictory and rebellious. The post-structuralist theme of intertextuality also gave birth to an idea that I have been trying to work on ever since, especially in my books from 1996 and 1997, namely that of the connection between culture and revolt.

2. The distinction that I have established between the semiotic and the symbolic has no political or feminist connotation. It is simply an attempt to think of meaning not only as structure but also as process or trial in the sense I have already mentioned, by looking at the same time at syntax, logic, and what transgresses them, or the trans-verbal. I refer to this other side of meaning as trans-verbal because calling it pre-verbal could give rise to certain difficulties. The semiotic is not independent of language, but underpins language and, under the control of language, it articulates other aspects of meaning which are more than mere significations, such as rhythmical and melodic inflections. Under the influence of Freudian distinctions between the representations of things and the representations of words, I try to take into consideration this dual nature of the human mind, and especially the constraints of biology and the instinctual drives that sustain and influence meaning and signification. This is because we may indeed affirm that in the beginning was the word, but before the beginning there was the unconscious with its repressed content.

I am personally convinced that the future of psychoanalysis lies in this direction, that is, between the translinguistic logic of the unconscious, and biological and neurobiological constraints. At the Institute for Contemporary Thought at the University of Paris 7, we try to bring biologists and psychoanalysts together in their work. Our basic preoccupation is the opening up of psychoanalysis to biology as well as to a more active involvement in social politics. In this connection I fully support and indeed am actively involved in President Chirac’s campaign for the integration of handicapped citizens into French society. We hope that this approach, along with a close rereading of Freud’s texts, will revitalize contemporary psychoanalysis in the long run.

This semiotic trans-verbal aspect of our research is connected to the archaic relation between mother and child and allows me to investigate certain aspects of the feminine and the maternal in language, what Freud used to call the black continent or Minoan-Mycenaean (after the name of the Greek civilization that preceded the civilization of classical Greece). This other logic of the feminine and the maternal that works against normative representation and opposes phallic representation, both masculine and feminine, is perhaps my own contribution to the endeavor to understand the feminine as connected to the political via the sacred.

I am convinced that this new twenty-first century, which seems to be in such need of religion, is actually in need of the sacred. I understand the sacred as the desire of human beings to think, not in the sense of calculation, but rather in the sense of a need for fundamental questioning, which distinguishes us from other species and, a contrario, brings us closer to them. As a writer, psychoanalyst and semiotician, I believe that the human characteristic that we call the sense of the divine and the sacred arises at the very point of the emergence of language. The semiotic with its maternal ties seems to be the farthest we can reach when we try to imagine and understand the frontiers between nature or physis and meaning. By understanding the semiotic as the emergence of meaning we can overcome the dichotomies of metaphysics (soul/body, physical/psychical). My preoccupation with the sacred is, in fact, anti-metaphysical, and only feminist in a derivative sense. If I am indeed passionately attached to the recognition of women in social, intellectual, and political life, this is only to the extent that women can bring a different attitude to the ideas of power and meaning. This would be an attitude that takes into consideration the need for the survival of our species, and our need for the sacred. Women are positioned at the intersection of these two demands.

3. The abject and abjection are concepts I developed on the basis of my clinical experience when facing the symptoms which I also call New Maladies of the Soul (Columbia University Press), in which the distinction between subject and object is not clear, and in which these two pseudo-entities exhaust themselves in a dialectic of attraction and repulsion. Borderline personalities, as well as some depressive personalities, can be described from this psychical basis, which is also reminiscent of an archaic state, of the communion which exists in the act of maternal holding. The mother object is the first result of the process of expulsion of what is disagreeable in this archaic state. In this process, which I have called abjection, the mother becomes the first abject rather than object. Artists such as Picasso and de Kooning clearly understood something of this process.

Using the concepts of abject and abjection, I first tried to understand the complex universe of the French writer Céline, master of popular fiction, and of Parisian slang, argot, a carrier of exceptional emotion. Instead of taking the cathartic road of abjection as religions do (and I believe any religion is in fact a way of purifying the abject), Céline insists on following imaginary abjections, which he then transfers to political realities. His anti-Semitism and his despicable compromises with Nazi ideology are expressed in his pamphlets, which I attempted to read objectively, as an analyst, without giving in to the feelings that they inevitably arouse.

My adventures in the very dangerous territory of abjection have nevertheless resulted in many alliances. Many artists from all over the world have recognized themselves in the experience of the abject, which is close to the psychotic states that they encounter in the process of artistic creation. But my research has also given rise to a sharp reaction in some academic circles and certain journals, which affirmed that if I chose to analyze Céline, it was only to excuse him, as if trying to understand necessarily means trying to forgive. That was one of the most radical rejections of my work, due to a misreading. I personally perceived it as a form of partisan excommunication that amounted to an attack on thinking itself.

That excommunication now seems to me to be the tragic precursor of a more recent event, more comic than tragic, in which two ambitious academics set out to unmask French impostors (this was the name they gave to French Theorists), by rejecting our pseudo-scientific models, when in fact we never tried to create scientific models, only metaphorical transfers.

4. The concept of strangeness or foreignness, is also, as you may know, close to my heart. Writing my book Strangers to Ourselves, for which I received the Hertz prize from the Academy of Paris, gave me an opportunity to outline a history of foreigners, their actual destiny, and the way in which they are perceived in the West, and also to state my own position in this debate, a position which again seems to be accepted with some difficulty. First of all, I believe that in order to fight the state of national depression that we are experiencing in France (but not only in France) as a result of globalization and the influx of immigrants, and also in order to oppose maniacal reactions to this depression (such as that of the Front National), it is important to restore national confidence. This has to be done in the same way we sometimes have to restore the narcissism or the ideal ego in a depressed patient, before proceeding to the actual analysis, i.e., to the dissolution of his system of defense and resistance.

I am convinced that, in the next century, the cosmopolitan society that we have been dreaming of ever since the Stoics and throughout the Enlightenment, will not be possible in the utopian shape of the melting pot, universalized and standardized by the market, the media and the internet. At most, this will lead to a more or less conflictual cohabitation of nations and of various social groups that will live with and against each other. Combining a certain amount of respect for national identity and support for the idea of the common good (l’intérêt général as Montesquieu called it), this approach will have to replace the excesses of contemporary globalization.

Two Types of Civilization

You will no doubt have identified, as I have outlined these four themes—and I could have chosen others—areas of agreement and disagreement between us. Without going deeper into this research, I would like to take the opportunity that you have granted me to distance myself from this personal research in order to consider the wider cultural and political context in which we work, and in which this collective research has been elaborated.

The collapse of the Berlin Wall in 1989 brought to light the difference between two types of culture, a European culture and a North American culture. In order to avoid any misunderstanding, I want to make it clear from the start that I am referring to two visions of freedom or liberty that all democratic societies without exception have elaborated and of which, unfortunately, we are not sufficiently proud. I am speaking of two visions of freedom, which both rely on the Greek, Jewish, and Christian traditions, and which, in spite of shameful as well as glorious episodes, remain our most important achievement. These two visions of freedom are nevertheless both essential. They are sometimes, as is now the case, opposed. Fundamentally, however, these two versions of freedom are complementary, and indeed I believe they are both present in each of us, whichever side of the Atlantic we find ourselves on. If I continue to oppose them in what follows, this is only for the sake of the clarity of my exposition.

Immanuel Kant, in his Critique of Pure Reason (1781) and his Critique of Practical Reason (1789), defined for the first time something that other people also must have experienced but were unable to articulate, namely the fact that freedom is not, negatively speaking, an absence of constraint, but positively speaking, the possibility of self-beginning, Selbstanfang. Thus, by identifying freedom with the capacity for spontaneously beginning, Kant opens the way for praise of the enterprising individual, for the initiative of the self, if I may transfer his cosmological considerations to a more personal level. At the same time, he subordinates the freedom of Reason, be it pure or practical, to a cause, divine or moral.

I will extrapolate by saying that, in a world increasingly dominated by technology, freedom becomes the capacity to adapt to a cause always outside the self, and which is less and less a moral cause, and more and more an economic one. In an ideal situation the two operate at the same time. In this line of thought, which is favored by Protestantism (I’m referring here to Max Weber’s work on the connection between capitalism and Protestantism), freedom becomes the freedom to adapt to the logic of cause and effect, Hannah Arendt would say to the calculus of consequences, i.e., the logic of production, of science, and of the economy. To be free in this sense would be to profit from adaptations to this logic of causes and effects and to the economic market.

This kind of freedom culminates in the logic of globalization and the unrestrained free-market. The Supreme Cause (God) and the Technical Cause (the Dollar) are its two coexisting variants, which guarantee the functioning of our freedom within this logic of instrumentalization. I am not denying here the benefits of this kind of freedom. It has the advantage of being able to adapt to the logic of causes and effects that culminates in a specific way of thinking, which is thinking-as-calculus and scientific thinking. I believe this vision to be crucial for our access to technology and automation. American society seems to be better adapted to this kind of freedom. I am merely saying that this is not the only kind of freedom.

There is also another vision of freedom that emerged in the Greek world, at the very heart of its philosophy, with the pre-Socratics, and developed in the Socratic dialogue. This fundamental variety of freedom is not subordinate to a cause, which means that it is prior to the concatenation of Aristotelian categories that are a premise for scientific and technical thinking. This fundamental variety of freedom is in Being and, moreover, in the Being of Language Which is Being Delivered/l’Etre de la Parole Qui se Livre, a Being which delivers, gives, or presents itself to itself and to the other, and liberates itself in the process. This liberation of the Language-Being that occurs in the encounter between the Self and the Other, was emphasized in Heidegger’s discussion of Kant (in a 1930 seminar The Essence of Human Freedom, published in 1982). This approach inscribes freedom into the very essence of philosophy, as eternal questioning, before allowing it to become fixed—only subsequently to this original freedom—in the succession of causes and effects and the ability to master them.

Don’t worry, I would like to assure you that I will not go any further in this debate. I have already oversimplified the two conceptions of freedom in Kant and Heidegger. What I am interested in discussing, in the context of the modern world, is this second conception of freedom. This second kind of freedom is very different from the kind of calculating logic that leads to unbridled consumerism; it is a conception that is evident in the Speech-Being, in the Presenting of the Self to the Other.

I hope you understand that it is the psychological and social connotations of this kind of freedom that constitute the essential themes of French Theory. The poet is its main custodian, together with the libertine who defies the conventions of social causes and effects in order to bring out and formulate a desire for dissidence. Not to mention the analyst in the experience of transference and counter-transference. But we mustn’t forget the revolutionary who put the privileges of the individual above all other conventions; this is the foundation of Human Rights, and the slogan of the French Revolution, Liberty-Equality-Fraternity, which at the time reinforced the ideas of English Habeas Corpus. If we are able to hear and interpret these various figures, we will be better equipped to liberate ourselves from a certain vision of the 18th century which has become dominant, and which mistakenly takes the legacy of the Enlightenment to be a kind of abstract universalism.

But I would like to return to our present reality. In spite of all the difficulties, we are on our way toward building a European Community that cannot be ignored. In this often chaotic European assembly, the voice of France, which sometimes has difficulty making itself heard when it calls for the construction of a social Europe, still finds allies in other governments and in the public opinion of various countries. While all of them are deeply attached to their particular cultural traditions, they all implicitly or explicitly share our notion of freedom. We are trying to promote a social model which is not exclusively that of laissez-faire capitalism, often identified as the American model. Our emphasis on this cultural difference is not only due to the fact that we belong to a tradition and possess a memory which may be older, more refined and more sophisticated and so on, because it originates in the Old World. Rather, it is due to the fact that we have a different vision of freedom, namely one that ranks the uniqueness of the individual over economic and scientific factors. When the French government, whether on the left or the Gaullist right, insists on our solidarity in opposition to liberalism in the classic sense of unregulated economic and social competition, this should be understood as nothing other than a defense of this conception of freedom.

We are fully aware, of course, of the risks that may come with such an attitude: those of ignoring contemporary economic realities, submitting to excessive corporatist demands, an inability to take part in international competition, idleness, backwardness. This is why we need to be alert and always remember the new constraints of our technological world, of the domain of causes and effects. At the same time, however, it is not difficult to see the advantages of this other type of freedom, which is supported in many European countries. This is an aspiration rather than a fixed project, driven by a real concern for the uniqueness and fragility of each and every human life, including those of the poor, the disabled, the retired, and those who rely on social benefits. It also requires special attention to gender and ethnic differences, to men and women considered in their unique intimacy rather than as simple groups of consumers.

The basis for this convergence at the European level, then, is that there is another kind of freedom, which needs to be defended; that, in the postmodern era, it is not the best economic and technical performance which is most important from the point of view of human liberation—although this was indeed the case in the previous period of capitalism. From this perspective what matters is the particular, the art of living, taste, leisure, the so-called idle pleasures, grace, pure chance, playfulness, wastefulness, our darker side even, or, to put it in a nutshell, freedom as the essence of Being-in-the-World prior to any Cause. These are the elements that characterize European culture, and, one may hope, offer an alternative to the globalized world in which we live.

I recently tried to describe this aspect of human uniqueness when I discussed Feminine Genius in a trilogy on the life and work of Arendt, Klein, and Colette. The notion of individual feminine genius can take us beyond mass feminism, in which the uniqueness of each woman risks being submerged,