The Temptation of Saint Anthony 
by 

Gustave Flaubert

 

The Creation of Literary Space

Mahler’s last symphony is about the history of European music - if it is about anything at all. Velasquez’s painting Las Meninas is not primarily about the Infanta princess but about the life of an artist in the royal Spanish court of the 17th century. And Flaubert’s Temptation is only incidentally about the Egyptian saint; it’s real subject is books and the way they affect our human existence. All these works expand what constitutes artistic endeavour. They create new genres by commenting upon and exploiting previous artistic achievements.

Flaubert called the Temptation “the work of my entire life.” That life was devoted to literature. So what else could the book be about than the books he had read, the ones he had intended to read, and even the ones he had never heard of. Books, after all, were his life just as music was Mahler’s and painting Velasquez’s. Temptation is an autobiography masquerading as a religious myth. Not unlike Evelyn Waugh’s novel Helena a century later, Temptation is a masque, that is to say, Flaubert’s most deeply considered persona, his best self-assessment. It took him three decades to write. Perhaps, therefore, the book was his own form of psycho-therapy.

The introduction by Michel Foucault in my edition is really essential to Flaubert’s text. In it, Foucault points out the inspiration for Temptation in Breughel’s eponymous painting. Flaubert’s interpretation of that painting is profoundly insightful. As Anthony sits assiduously reading the Bible in his desert cave, he is surrounded by elegant ladies and grotesque demons. These are obviously hallucinatory embodiments of his temptations and he is apparently warding them off through his bible-study. What is not immediately obvious is that these beings have emerged from his reading, from the Bible itself. Or, perhaps more accurately, these strange creatures erupt from the written word of the holiest of books through Anthony’s imagination. Advancing through his creativity from the Bible, the temptations then fill his world with alluring delights and horrid spectres. Paradoxically, therefore, the comfort Anthony seeks is the precisely the source of his need for comfort.

This interpretation might seem unwarranted at first. The Bible creating distractions from contemplation of the Word of God appears as a contradiction. And it is just that, a contradiction embedded in the Christian doctrine with which Flaubert was very familiar. It is a contradiction articulated explicitly by the chief architect of the Christian religion, St. Paul. Among the many contradictions taught by Paul, that of the inherent danger of Scripture is most disconcerting for the believer. Flaubert clearly took Paul seriously.

In the seventh chapter of his letter to the Romans, Paul says clearly, “If there were no law, sin would not have power.” The law he is referring to of course is that of the Torah, the first five books of the Judaic and Christian Bible in which not only the Ten Commandments but also the other 411 divine ordinances are contained. In Paul’s mind, the Torah didn’t just define evil, it promoted it, in a sense, by publicising it. Flaubert transforms this still-controversial Pauline insight into an equally radical thesis about his own life.

Both St. Paul and Flaubert undermine a common presumption, namely that we as users of words, books, and language in general, have control over words, books and language. Of course, we do not. These things, we like to think, simply inform, inspire, or develop our unique intellects. But their principal function is in fact to shape us, to ensure that we conform to conventional norms, not just of vocabulary and grammar and appropriate usage, but also of the categories and processes by which we think. Our conceits about words, books and language ‘representing’ reality and stating ‘truth,’ about either the world or ourselves, are unfounded. We are created utterly by what we read and hear. We do not choose what we read and hear; it chooses us; and creates the illusion that what we next randomly hear and read is somehow a matter of choice. 

So Flaubert’s Temptation is a unique biography, not of Anthony who is but one of the people, places and things Flaubert has read and heard about. It is a biography composed of books, allusions to which permeate his entire text. These are the books which have influenced him and established his unique personality. They are he. Or rather he is they. Certainly it is his native gifts which have processed these books, and which perhaps promoted his receptivity to them. But it is the books themselves which have filled the space afforded by those gifts. 

For the rest of us, as Foucault says, Flaubert showed us what this new literary space is. The Temptation is a sort of statement of discovery of that space, as significant a discovery as made by any explorer. And we all can participate in it. The Bible never mentions the creation of space by God. Undoubtedly the ancient writers considered it as ‘no-thing.’ Perhaps, on the other hand, this is because this grand creative function was reserved by God for human beings, particularly human beings like Mahler, Velasquez, and Flaubert.

 

Tale of the Anti-Christ by Vladimir Sergeyevich Solovyov
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The Coming Man

All doctrinal religions have the same problem: the Eternal Word of God is indistinguishable from the rather more transient words of Man. Put another, more practical way: if morality is divinely directed, we are all in deep trouble because when morality is derived from doctrine, the devil may well be speaking. If morality isn’t applied to the voices of revelation instead of vice versa, evil appears as good. Morality subservient to revelation provides the opening for The Coming Man, that slick talking, best-selling, inspirational huckster with a self-proclaimed direct link to heaven.

Mystics like Solovyev know this as a fundamental if unspoken principle. They mistrust language, and the responses that language elicits. They understand that language is defective, that it cannot represent reality much less divinity. Whenever language is used to claim ‘truth,’ it is always used falsely. The Coming Man may make a plausible argument; he may touch hearts; he may unify constituencies. But he can only do this through the abuse of language as something more than it is.

The message of the mystic is always simple and simply behavioural: be kind. But even this primitive message is trapped by language. Those who are unkind point out that we don’t know what kindness means in specific circumstances, that we must define and codify its essentials and apply these intelligently to the problems at hand. So as soon as the mystic’s message is discussed rather than acted upon, it is lost. The Coming Man can dispose of him with a glance.

When morality is subject to divine revelation, it quickly degenerates into economics. The Invisible Hand of Adam Smith is a presumption not a conclusion. As Max Weber suggested, it is not accidental that capitalism arose out of Protestant Christianity. If God is beneficent, his will should not be anticipated or impeded by commercial restraints. Each individual has an absolute duty to listen to the voice in his head. God will ensure, as Leibniz theorised, that the voices are coordinated. The result is not just the greatest good for the greatest number; it is the Good tout court. This is what The Coming Man preaches so effectively.

Many read Solovyev’s story as a prediction of forthcoming events in the 20th century, and marvel at his prescience. This is misdirected, if not downright silly. The fact that he is wrong as a seer as often as he is right is conveniently ignored. Like all mystics, he read his times not the future. And he read his times in terms of what he knew of the past. And what he knew of the past was the co-optation of primitive Christianity by the decaying Roman State. His is a tale of what could have been not what would be. What could have been was a Christian religious community not only independent of the state, but even more importantly independent of divisive doctrine.

The Coming Man is an avatar of Constantine the Great (although he could well be confused with Trump). It is he who calls together a Council of the various Christian sects at Jerusalem in Solovyev’s tale. And it is he who decides upon the language by which they will all be unified under his leadership - just as Constantine had done in the 5th century. With his direction doctrinal conformity triumphs over ethical solidarity. What matters is not kindness as expressed in the Beatitudes, but correctness of religious confession in the manner of St. Paul.*

The rebellion against the The Coming Man for Sol0vyev comes not from Christians, who laud his linguistic achievement in uniting their sects, but from the Jews, who recognise his bad behaviour (among other things The Coming Man is uncircumcised). Judaism, of course, is an ethical religion of behaviour not of doctrinal faith. It is a religion in which ethical and spiritual concepts emerged together. It is also a religion whose mythical heroes are mystics not theologians. One such mystic, Job, makes it clear that Judaism stands firmly against The Coming Man, even if he claims to be divine. Job argues with God; he doesn’t passively accept what he has to say. Neither does Solovyev.

* Interestingly, even the confession of the ‘name of Jesus’ results in supernatural action to strike down the confessors. Although they are later found to be alive, Solovyev is ambiguous about the spiritual worth of even this linguistic expression.

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Fields of Fire by James Webb
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Kids

About a third into Fields of Fire, it hits you: all these characters are children, big children, and children with guns but children nevertheless. The influence of Lord of the Flies is unmistakeable. The training of these Marines is aimed at creating not functioning adults but perfectly behaved children who are respectful and obedient, who speak only when spoken to, and who continuously grumble about taking revenge on their elders, but only among themselves. What they do on their own time is their business; the adults would rather not know.

The sociological glue which keeps them functional is not an ethos of foxhole camaraderie but the rules of the unsupervised playground. They are members of a gang. The first rule of gang membership is that only the gang matters. To be excluded from the playground gang means merely social isolation in the playground. Here it means injury and death. The opinion of other gang members about oneself is the crucial determinant of behaviour, - more important than fear of death, the need for shelter and food, and inhibitions about ruthless homicide.

The details of their existence emphasise their infantile status. They all receive nicknames upon arrival in combat. Not Stinky, Curly, or Four Eyes mocking their physical features but Wild Man, Snake, and Psycho reflecting their relative states of derangement. In addition to the usefulness of these names as a constant reminder of gang membership, they also serve paradoxically as a mechanism for dealing with the loss of comrades through injury and death since the names are transferable to replacements as required.

Like most boys, the Marines are greatly impressed by technology. The sights, sounds and smells of heavy artillery, fast aircraft, and automatic rifles (ours not theirs) are thrilling. The frustrations of pursuing an elusive enemy in unbearable physical conditions are mitigated by periodic displays which don’t have much effect on the enemy but momentarily boost morale. The standard response to these lethal pyrotechnic shows is “Get some!,” said with the enthusiasm of a ten year old pulling the wings off flies after receiving a beating from his father.

And this abuse is often very much what they had become accustomed to as young people. Many feel at home with it even as they resent it. Some because they have been brought up on the streets with violence as the norm. Others because they have been indoctrinated into a tradition of violent patriotism. Others because they naively allowed themselves to be manipulated by ‘the system.’ Their resentment is encouraged by the absent adults who understand that the Marines’ aggressiveness will be proportionate to their dissatisfaction.

These Marines are indeed “Zombie people, regurgitated by the gluttonous monster.” They have been ‘processed’ into children who are constantly on the edge of puerile rebellion. That they rarely go over that edge and kill their military masters is a tribute to the refinement of their training. Children are lost without their parents. Without parental direction and encouragement, they become a mob not a gang. And mobs are dangerous for their members as well as for everyone else. As I said: Lord of the Flies comes to mind.

The theme common to almost all war fiction, especially that of the American war in Vietnam, is resentment for lost youth. Some are resentful for being forced to go. Others for naively believing in the reasons they went voluntarily. Others for the lifelong guilt they suffer for the things they had to do. The only way, it seems, to assuage this resentment is to subject following generations to the same conditions they endured. Pitiful but true. What a species we are.

Postscript: Another GR contributor alerted me to the poetry of Randall Jarrell. Here is his poem ‘Losses,’ which, I think captures the reality of boys in war:

It was not dying: everybody died.
It was not dying: we had died before
In the routine crashes-- and our fields
Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks,
And the rates rose, all because of us.
We died on the wrong page of the almanac,
Scattered on mountains fifty miles away;
Diving on haystacks, fighting with a friend,
We blazed up on the lines we never saw.
We died like aunts or pets or foreigners.
(When we left high school nothing else had died
For us to figure we had died like.)

In our new planes, with our new crews, we bombed
The ranges by the desert or the shore,
Fired at towed targets, waited for our scores--
And turned into replacements and woke up
One morning, over England, operational.

It wasn't different: but if we died
It was not an accident but a mistake
(But an easy one for anyone to make.)
We read our mail and counted up our missions--
In bombers named for girls, we burned
The cities we had learned about in school--
Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among
The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals;
When we died they said, 'Our casualties were low.'

They said, 'Here are the maps'; we burned the cities.

It was not dying --no, not ever dying;
But the night I died I dreamed that I was dead,
And the cities said to me: 'Why are you dying?
We are satisfied, if you are; but why did I die?

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The Spectral Link by Thomas Ligotti
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

An All-New Context

Salvation is the pervasive neurosis of the Western world - that everything will work out just fine. It’s religious genesis from Judaism to Christianity and hence to Islam is obvious enough. But its secularised versions - from the political ideologies and terrorisms of the right and the left to the self-help and self-improvement programmes of entrepreneurial intellectuals - have become even more pervasive, and destructive, as global society has tried to shed its religious roots. The slogans have changed from those involving redemption from sin and the alleviation of spiritual misery to the functionally equivalent clichés of being the best you can be and improving the world. All rely on the fallacious presumption of human perfectibility which is thought to be achievable either through concerted effort or with divine assistance.

That such salvation is the most obvious aim of the 20th century’s most popularly embraced form of neurosis - psychotherapy - is not something one typically discusses in polite company. Which of course is precisely the reason Ligotti writes about it. Being a human being makes us defective as such. The industry that has emerged in response to this recognition has one central function, that is, to convince us that our defects are reparable, that we are able, if we work very hard and pay a great deal of money, to become whole, truly human, productive, loveable, and valued as much as we think we ought to be. In other words, we will achieve “the condition of being ‘saved’—that is, of having no need to fret over the plight of human existence.”

Salvation means in short that all our problems will be solved. Worry will disappear as the purely mental construct it is. We can either presume there is light at the end of the metaphysical tunnel and work our way toward it, or we can be demoralised by the misery, squalor and pain that surrounds us. Most of us don’t want to think through our position at all and so settle for someone telling us where to go next. We let someone else think the big thoughts. That’s why they get paid the big bucks. We are merely along for the ride. This way we avoid “terminal demoralisation,” the modern firm of eternal damnation.

Just occasionally, metaphysical mutants like Ligotti show up, however. They create a sort of metaphysical upheaval, an all-new context, by pointing out that salvation in all its historical forms is utter bunk (as if we needed more than Donald Trump to make the case decisively). “Question: How could we know we were keeping certain truths from ourselves regarding how things truly are in this world at its deepest level? Answer: Because we have done it before.” This is, of course, unpalatable. But it might be considered a form of redemptive demoralisation, an unofficial license to end it all... or at least to stop spending money on shrinks. There are things worse than doom.

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