A classical revival is taking place. The soulless, drab egalitarianism of democracy, which had taken the colour out of life and crushed all personality, is on its death-bed. New kinds of aristocracy are arising, now that we have proof that the masses cannot be the protagonists but only the tools of history.
—BENITO MUSSOLINI
INSOFAR as analyses of mass culture have gone beyond mere repetitions of the neoclassical contest between the ancients and the moderns, they have usually involved questions about the impact of egalitarian leveling on the creative elites or minorities thought to be necessary to the development of art and ideas. Many of the optimistic analyses have come from American liberals such as John Dewey, who believe that genuine culture can and does flourish in democratic conditions.1 The pessimistic analyses have come from both the right and the left, and frequently also from liberals who might be characterized as cautious or disillusioned. According to the pessimists, mass culture is either a travesty of high culture or else an impossibility, a meaningless phrase. The Marxist position (with many variants, of course) is that because the ruling ideas of any society are those of its ruling class, the mass culture of the bourgeois era is by definition a “mystification” or “false consciousness.”2 For the left, religion, “the opium of the people,” is an obvious example of false consciousness, but conservatives often identify religion with genuine culture and claim that both are threatened by the masses or by bourgeois materialism or by both. In the view of cautious or disillusioned liberals, if a satisfactory culture for a democratic society has not yet developed, it may do so through education and through the creation of institutions that safeguard creative minorities against “the tyranny of the majority.” According to both the conservative and the Marxist viewpoints, mass culture tends to be totalitarian rather than democratic; it is flawed by the worst effects of bourgeois ideology and industrialism. Conservative theorists also tend to see mass culture as mechanical rather than organic, secular rather than sacred, commercial rather than free or unconditioned, plebeian or bourgeois and vulgar rather than aristocratic and “noble,” based on self-interest rather than on high ideals (or, appealing to the worse instincts in people rather than to the best), cheap and shoddy rather than enduring, imitative rather than original, and urban, bureaucratic, and centralized rather than close to nature, communal, and individualized. The first two figures discussed in this chapter, José Ortega y Gasset and T. S. Eliot, both view mass culture in these terms. While Ortega can be characterized either as a disillusioned liberal or as a conservative and Eliot is clearly conservative, both offer versions of negative classicism based on condemnations of the masses and mass culture. Albert Camus, in contrast, though very much a positive classicist, affirms the creative potential of the ordinary individual and, hence, the possibility of a democratic culture of the masses at least in the future. The theories of these three writers exhibit many of the themes in modern responses to mass culture, democratization, and the mass media; they express a range of ideas distinct from both the psychoanalytic ones discussed in Chapter 5 and Marxist ones, which will be dealt with more fully in Chapter 7.
The most extreme answer to the question of whether genuine culture can flourish on a mass basis is a simple negative, and that is the answer given by José Ortega y Gasset in his influential essay The Revolt of the Masses (1930).3 Ortega’s tract for the times stands at the opening of a decade marked by political and economic crisis in Europe and America. He writes from the standpoint of a cautious liberalism that was failing to make much headway either against the Church and aristocratic reaction or against the deeply rooted problems of poverty and illiteracy in Spain: in 1931, when Ortega was beginning his two-year term as a representative in the legislature of the Second Republic, the forces were gathering that would lead to the Spanish Civil War and to nearly forty years of military dictatorship under Franco. Fascism in Italy, Nazism in Germany, and Stalinism in the Soviet Union all pointed in the same direction: to the breakup of democratic hopes and institutions, and perhaps to the breakup of European civilization.4
Everywhere in modern Europe Ortega sees the incompetent majority usurping the place of the competent minority. “The characteristic of the hour is that the commonplace mind, knowing itself to be commonplace, has the assurance to proclaim the rights of the commonplace and to impose them wherever it will” (18). That new Caliban without qualities, “the average man,” has thrown off the yoke of traditional authority and gone hunting for new masters, and he is finding them in Mussolini, Hitler, and Stalin. The modern condition is one of instability and decadence, brought on by industrialization, secularization, the population explosion, the immense parasitic growth of governmental and corporate bureaucracies, and a new, nearly universal literacy that does not seem to increase the level of social intelligence among ordinary people but only to make them more vulnerable to propaganda. Ortega thinks that the new dictatorship of the commonplace, far from generating a new culture, is only throttling the old one. Average or “mass man” does not “represent a new civilization struggling with a previous one, but a mere negation” (190). Ideas, standards, and principles, the bases of traditional culture, could be created and maintained only by educated elites. “When all these things are lacking, there is no culture; there is in the strictest sense of the word, barbarism” (72). The uprising of the masses involves a “vertical invasion” of barbarism from the middle and lower classes, something that had happened before in history, most notably in the case of Rome. Thus, we have again become subject to “the brutal empire of the masses” (19).
Ortega’s essay is an important expression of negative classicism. We are literally living in an interregnum, Ortega believes, “an empty space between two organisations of historical rule” (182) like the period of chaos that began in the fourth century; we are reliving the death-throes of the Roman Empire before the longer interregnum of the Dark Ages. Like Mikhail Rostovtzeff, Ortega interprets the downfall of Rome in terms of the rise of the Roman masses. “The history of the Roman Empire is also the history of the uprising of the Empire of the Masses, who absorb and annul the directing minorities and put themselves in their place. Then, also, is produced the phenomenon of agglomeration, of ‘the full’” (19)—a reference to the quasi-Malthusian horror of “masses” which suffuses Ortega’s essay.
The Revolt of the Masses is a sort of Communist Manifesto in reverse. Although Ortega sees tyranny where Marx and Engels see liberation, he accepts and even exaggerates the main premise of Marxism: the idea of a revolution carried out by the masses against the ruling and owning classes. Marx and Engels were predicting a future “revolution,” of course, whereas Ortega describes a “revolt” that is occurring now. Ortega’s “revolt” is a metaphor for a degenerative process or disease that is attacking society at all levels—it is almost a metaphor for modernity. Rut perhaps the greatest difference between Ortega and Marx lies in the fact that Ortega does not think in terms of economic causation. He believes that, in the conflict of democratic ideals, equality has vanquished liberty, but he does not primarily mean economic equality. “Average man” is not a factory operative or a longshoreman. He has not even the distinction of belonging to a definite social class, and hence of sharing strong group loyalties and hatreds. He is just “average,” with no more individuality than a brass tack. His only characteristics are ignorance, contented vulgarity, and lack of identity. It is easy to see how Marx could expect a numerous, injured, angry, and sometimes organized proletariat to rebel against its oppressors. Class warfare manifested itself in strikes, riots, mass movements, radical organizations, and failed revolutions throughout the nineteenth century. The uprising of Ortega’s mass nobodies, in contrast, spells the demise of Marxist hopes for a proletarian revolution. “The revolt of the masses” above all means fascism, a victory for Nietzschean ressentiment over authority which is itself destructively authoritarian.
Ortega’s mass man is thus similar to the alienated individual who figures in modern Marxist analyses of fascism and monopoly capitalism. He is the same empty shell of a human being as Herbert Marcuse’s “one-dimensional man” or as the “authoritarian personality” diagnosed by Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno. But the Marxist mass man is above all the exploited victim of the elite groups responsible for fascism and monopoly capitalism; he is less history’s agent than its dupe. In the late 1920s and early 1930s, before it was clear that capitalism would survive the crises in the Western democracies, a Marxist such as Christopher Caudwell could project essentially the same vision of a “dying culture” that Ortega projects, only with the hopeful conclusion that a new and just social order would rise phoenix-like from the ashes of “bourgeois culture”:
[World War I] at last survived, there come new horrors. The eating disintegration of the slump. Nazism outpouring a flood of barbarism and horror. And what next? Armaments piling up like an accumulating catastrophe, mass neurosis, nations like mad dogs. . . . How can the bourgeois still pretend to be free, to find salvation individually? Only by sinking himself in still cruder illusions, by denying art, science, emotion, even ultimately life itself. Humanism, the creation of bourgeois culture, finally separates from it. Against the sky stands Capitalism without a rag to cover it, naked in its terror. And humanism, leaving it, or rather, forcibly thrust aside, must either pass into the ranks of the proletariat or, going quietly into a corner, cut its throat.5
Ortega does not accept these extreme alternatives for humanism; it is above all the threat to a humane or liberal culture which he fears. But his analysis still points to the emergence from powerlessness of the very proletariat that Caudwell expects to lead the way to a new era of cultural greatness based on egalitarianism.
Ortega’s chief authority on the masses was of course not Marx, much less Christopher Caudwell. He was instead influenced by an even more conservative prophet of doom than himself, Oswald Spengler, whose The Decline of the West had been making a great stir since 1918. Along with such concepts as “agglomeration” and the “barbarism” of technical specialization, Spengler offered Ortega one explanation for what seemed to be the inevitable metamorphosis of democracy into mass tyranny, or of the apparently suicidal tendencies of progress and civilization. At the end of the life cycles of all cultures comes “Caesarism,” Spengler claims, following shortly upon the sere and yellow leaf of “Megapolitanism.” A great “world-city” stands at the summit of every civilization, containing the vertical barbarians who mine its foundations from within. These are the “dregs, canaille, mob, Pöbel . . . a mass of rootless fragments of population [standing] outside all social linkages . . . ready for anything, devoid of all respect for orderliness.”6 Spengler’s depiction of the residents of the “world-city” is close to Ortega’s of “average man”: “In place of a type-true people, born of and grown on the soil, there is a new sort of nomad, cohering unstably in fluid masses, the parasitical city dweller, traditionless, utterly matter-of-fact, religionless, clever, unfruitful, deeply contemptuous of the countryman and especially that highest form of countryman, the country gentleman” (1, 32). Materialistic and scientific skepticism filtering down to the “fluid masses” of the “world-city” breeds trouble. In such “parasitical” and “unfruitful” hands, the high culture of the past, no longer lovingly tended by “country gentlemen,” perishes like an uprooted flower:
To the world-city belongs not a folk but a mass. Its uncomprehending hostility to all the traditions representative of the Culture (nobility, church, privileges, dynasties, convention in art and limits of knowledge in science), the keen and cold intelligence that confounds the wisdom of the peasant, the new-fashioned naturalism that in relation to all matters of sex and society goes back far beyond Rousseau and Socrates to quite primitive instincts and conditions, the reappearance of the panem et circenses in the form of wage-disputes and football-grounds—all these things betoken the definite closing-down of the Culture and the opening of a quite new phase of human existence—anti-provineial, late, futureless, but quite inevitable. [1, 32–33]
Ortega apparently rejects Spengler’s fatalistic organicism, perhaps finding some of it too optimistic (after all, Spengler postpones the death of Western Civilization to the twenty-second century), but he applies his decline and fall mythology to modern society anyway, refashioning Spengler’s negative classicism to suit his own purposes.
Ortega’s echoes of Spengler’s “Caesarism” are ironic in light of his praise of Caesar at the end of The Revolt of the Masses. On the one hand, Ortega calls “the state” the greatest danger to civilization, seeing in its rise and influence the shadow of Roman oppression and “the lamentable fate of ancient civilisation. . . . Already in the times of the Antonines . . . the State overbears society with its anti-vital supremacy. Society begins to be enslaved, to be unable to live except in the service of the State. The whole of life is bureaucratised. What results? The bureaucratisation of life brings about its absolute decay in all orders” (121). On the other hand, it is precisely to a rebirth or rejuvenation of something like state organization on a European scale that Ortega looks for an escape from “the brutal empire of the masses,” and hence he turns to Caesar as one of the two “clear heads” in the ancient world (the other was Themistocles). As Caesar pointed the way to the modern state, so some new charismatic figure must point the way to the unification of Europe. “Only the determination to construct a great nation from the group of peoples of the Continent would give new life to the pulses of Europe” (183). Only the project of unifying Europe, in short, can counteract “the decadence of Europe” (145). For this reason, we must return to the experience of Caesar, paying not too much attention to his overriding of the democratic procedures of the Republic, which had grown corrupt through expansion and massification: “As genuine elections were impossible, it was necessary to falsify them, and the candidates organised gangs of bravoes from army veterans or circus athletes, whose business was to intimidate the voters. Without the support of a genuine suffrage democratic institutions are in the air. Words are things of air, and ‘the Republic is nothing more than a word.’ The expression is Caesar’s” (158–59). Caesar, the man of imagination, looks beyond the limits of the classical city-state to the new international state of the growing Empire (155–56). Thus the Empire itself serves as an image of the future unification of Europe, even while it also serves as an image of oppression, decadence, and the barbarism of the masses. Ortega does nothing to straighten out this contradiction beyond declaring in a footnote that “it is well known that the Empire of Augustus is the opposite of what his adoptive father Caesar aspired to create” (165). What Caesar looked forward to, however, was apparently just that nightmare of antivital statism that Ortega calls “the greatest danger.”
It is difficult to see how the positive sort of statism supposedly envisaged by Caesar can save us from the negative sort supposedly established by Augustus, especially when the central problem of “the masses” has to do with certain deficiencies in average human nature. Both Ortega and Spengler owe a great deal to yet another enemy of the commonplace, Friedrich Nietzsche, who, although he did not have Mussolini, Hitler, and Stalin to point to as proofs of the incompetence of “average man,” still had much to say about nationalism and socialism as manifestations of the “herd instinct”:
The overall degeneration of man down to what today appears to the socialist dolts and flatheads as their “man of the future”—as their ideal—this degeneration and diminution of man into the perfect herd animal (or, as they say, to the man of the “free society”), this animalization of man into the dwarf animal of equal rights and claims, is possible, there is no doubt of it. Anyone who has once thought through this possibility to the end knows one kind of nausea that other men don’t know—
though it is less Nietzsche’s “nausea” that Ortega expresses than the bewilderment of a frustrated liberal, confronting the terrible paradox that liberalism seems to defeat itself in its moment of triumph.7 And whereas Nietzsche’s herd animal is motivated by ressentiment to tear down whatever is fine and “noble,” Ortega’s mass man” seems to be more self-satisfied than vindictive, a Babbitt who looks into the mirror in the morning, sees nothing looking back, and believes that he is the Supreme Being. “He is satisfied with himself exactly as he is” (62).
As already noted, Nietzsche’s voice was only one of many in the last decades of the nineteenth century which helped to solidify the pessimistic view of human nature which underlies Spengler’s urban mob and Ortega’s average man. The naturalist movement in literature—for Spengler a symptom of decadence, as it had been for Max Nordau—portrayed the average man as the pawn of environment and heredity, and often as the victim of vast collective forces: economic depression and unemployment, riots, revolutions, and wars. The symbolist and decadent movements oifered the other side of this picture: average man could have no share in the arts, which were sublime mysteries beyond the grasp of all but the initiated.8 Reinforcing the literary naturalists, the social Darwinists offered their “gladiatorial theory of existence,” while the crowd psychologists projected the elements of mob action onto all forms of collective behavior.9 These sources of social pessimism were reinforced by many other explorers of the irrational: Freud, of course, but also Emile Durkheim, Max Weber, Henri Bergson, Georges Sorel. Viewed as a cultural trend, their exporations have an ambiguous quality: on the one hand, especially with Freud, Durkheim, and Weber, “the social thinkers of the 1890s were concerned with the irrational only to exorcise it”; on the other, the irrational was worshiped by neo-romantics and nihilists, while violence and warfare received “scientific” approval along with imperialist expansion.10 Thus, the heritage of high culture itself seemed ambigu-ous: by the turn of the century, it almost appeared that culture was in alliance with anarchy—that it had patched up its differences with barbarism and gone looking for fights elsewhere: in the latest imperialist land grabs, but also in the parlors and boudoirs of the bourgeoisie, whose complacent respectability so many artists and intellectuals wanted to explode. There may be some exaggeration in Karl Lowith’s assessment of the opinions of educated Europeans before World War I, but he differs from Ortega chiefly in emphasizing the disillusionment of the cultured rather than the ignorance of the masses: “Nihilism as the disavowal of existing civilization was the only real belief of all truly educated people at the beginning of the twentieth century. Nihilism is not a result of the Great War, but on the contrary, its cause.”11
Matthew Arnold’s antithesis proves thus to be also an affinity, anarchy as a product of culture, if only because the most powerful currents in recent intellectual history have flowed with rather than against the rising tides of democracy and the masses. Although Ortega does not offer an extended analysis of the “treason of the intellectuals”12 or of the more complicated paradox of culture producing anarchy, he gives it general expression:
It will not do, then, to dignify the actual crisis by presenting it as the conflict between two moralities, two civilisations, one in decay, the other at its dawn. The mass-man is simply without morality. . . . How has it been possible to believe in the amoralitv of life? Doubtless, because all modern culture and civilisation tend to that conviction. Europe is now reaping the painful results of her spiritual conduct. She has adopted blindly a culture which is magnificent, but has no roots. [189]
Much of what Ortega means by Europe’s “spiritual conduct” is summed up in his chapter on “the barbarism of ‘specialisation.’” There he argues that mass man is the direct product of “nineteenth-century civilisation,” which in turn was based on the progress of science and technology.13 It then appears that “the prototype of the mass-man” is not an illiterate thug, but “the actual scientific man.” Through specialization, “science itself—the root of our civilisation—automatically converts him into mass-man, makes of him a primitive, a modern barbarian” (109). The worst, most typical sort of mass man is thus a “learned ignoramus,” convinced of his general knowledge because of his narrow expertise in one very specialized line. In short, the progress of civilization fabricates the materials for its own disintegration.
That state of “not listening,” of not submitting to higher courts of appeal which I have repeatedly put forward as characteristic of the mass-man, reaches its height precisely in these partially qualified men. They symbolise, and to a great extent constitute, the actual domination of the masses, and their barbarism is the most immediate cause of European demoralisation. Furthermore, they afford the clearest, most striking example of how the civilisation of the last century, abandoned to its own devices, has brought about this rebirth of primitivism and barbarism. [113]
Whereas “the Roman Empire came to an end for lack of technique” (90), the problem with modern society is nearly the opposite. Technical progress is real enough and valued by Ortega; “but to-day it is man who is the failure, because he is unable to keep pace with the progress of his own civilisation” (91). Put in somewhat different terms, the barbarian specialist has only his own interest and that of his special field in view, to the detriment of a general culture; “the direction of society has been taken over by a type of man who is not interested in the principles of civilisation” (81).
Even though he has in mind the scientific and technical division of labor, Ortega is not criticizing a particular category of culture that might be labeled “mass,” but modern culture in general. The argument for high against mass culture thus recedes beyond two horizons. First, there is the rejection of mass culture itself, or rather of the “barbarism” of the masses. Second, there is the rejection of the progressive, scientific, and “anarchic” elements in high culture as well, until there remain only a set of reactionary political attitudes and a call for a religious revival. Ortega does not follow his argument to this reactionary conclusion (instead of calling for religion, he calls for a united Europe). But similar arguments have frequently been difficult to distinguish from fascism, so that attempts at classical and religious revivals often blur into the “revolt of the masses” that they are meant to counteract.
Ortega’s essay involves a theory of history based on the concepts of the illegitimacy of any large state machinery and of inevitable, cyclic social regression. Although Ortega claims that he is not a determinist and that “everything is possible in history” (79), his argument still follows the pattern of negative classicism. In his critique of Arnold Toynbee, An Interpretation of Universal History, Ortega asks:
Is it an accident, or a law of history, that every civilization reaches a point in which it must set up an Empire, a universal state which means power among all nations, and that this universal state is inundated from the subsoil (at a certain period literally inundated by subterranean peoples coming from the catacombs), by a religious principle which originates among the internal proletariat of that civilization; and that while this religion is swelling and filling the spaces of that universal state, the barbarians—that is, the inferior peoples which surround the frontiers of that civilization—burst into the state and destroy it?14
Although Ortega thinks that in Toynbee’s Study of History “there is not a single sharp, perspicacious idea” (230), his own answer to this question seems to be affirmative. Ortega criticizes Toynbee for carrying the “exemplary character of Roman history to the extreme” (127), but Roman decline and fall is also Ortega’s most frequent model for the modern experience. “The pure truth is that the Roman Empire has never disappeared from the Western world” (96). This fact, says Ortega, would be “a first-rate theme for any young historian who has the wit to see it—the history of the Roman Empire after its official disappearance, that is to say, the history of how this proud historic figure survived after it ceased to live” (96).
In essence, this “first-rate theme” is Ortega’s own in all his writings about history. At the start of An Interpretation of Universal History, he draws from classical political theory three principles that he believes to be of universal significance, visible in Roman as well as in modern history. Ortega finds in Plato and Aristotle the idea that every government has “its own congenital vice, and therefore it inevitably degenerates.” Democracy in particular “quickly becomes pure disorder and anarchy, swayed by demagogues, and ending by being the brutal oppression of the masses which were then called . . . the rabble, okhlos, and thence okhlocracy.” This is the classical model of the “revolt of the masses.” It is also one basis for a cyclic view of history and for “despair of the political” (IUH 33). But, says Ortega, in order to escape from the cycle, Plato and Aristotle recommend a “mixed constitution,” made up of the best features of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy. And this is the second universal principle. The third one, drawn from classical experience rather than philosophy, is the translatio imperii or the apparent movement of empire from east to west, following the stars. Empire, says Ortega, seems to “follow a sidereal course” (IUH 35–36).
Although Ortega calls forth these three principles in order to question them, and although he appears to be questioning Toynbee’s laws of “universal history” in the same manner, he does not reject them. They are the groundwork for his later argument about the illegitimacy of all large state organizations and, hence, of empire. Ortega analyzes the evolution of Roman imperialism to show that “the state, the exercise of public power, begins by being illegitimate and ends by being illegitimate” (IUH 198). This leads to a question that might serve as a summary of The Revolt of the Masses and, indeed, of all Ortega’s writings about modern society: “what should we do when the life of a whole civilization enters the stage of constitutive illegitimacy?” (IUH 199).
Ortega’s question is clearer than his solutions. What is most evident in his work is his belief in the decadence of modern society, the main symptom of which is the new “barbarism” of the masses. The revolt of the masses is in fact a cyclic occurrence in history to which Ortega attaches the label “rebarbarization.” As he says in Man and Crisis, “It is not easy to doubt that the phenomenon of rebarbarization has repeatedly recurred throughout history.”15 As in Rome, so in more recent times: “An excess of sudden dread, a period of many changes, plunges man back into nature, makes him an animal, that is, a barbarian. This was a very serious feature of the greatest crisis in history, at the end of the ancient world” (MC 95–96). Barbarism destroyed ancient civilization from within as well as from without. Its internal symptoms included a withdrawal from politics into self, represented by stoicism; the increasing predominance of the urban “rabble,” which (Ortega quotes Polybius) was “dedicated to festivals and spectacles, to luxury and to [sexual] disorders”; and the substitution of mechanical and bureaucratic techniques for tradition, religion, and community. All of these symptoms are apparent again in the modern “rebarbarization” of society. Of the last symptom, for example, Ortega says that the very faith in progress through technology is itself a source of decay: “The belief in progress, the conviction that on this level of history a major setback can no longer happen and the world will mechanically go the full length of prosperity, has loosened the rivets of human caution and flung open the gates for a new invasion of barbarism.”16
What Ortega offers as an antidote to modern “rebarbarization” is much less specific and vivid than his diagnosis. Ultimately, however, he places his faith in reason, although as with Freud this faith seems more tenuous than his belief in the cyclic recurrence of decline and fall. Our need to rely on reason is in any case tragic. Perhaps echoing Albert Camus’s The Myth of Sisyphus (1942), Ortega writes: “Man is condemned to reason; therefore to a task which is always incomplete, always fragile, always having to be commenced anew, as Sisyphus had always to go back to pushing to the top of the mountain the rock that was eternally bent on rolling down to the valley” (IUH 172).
Ortega’s political philosophy, based on a sharp but also abstract dichotomy between elites and masses (compare Gaetano Mosca and Vilfredo Pareto in Italy), is vague enough to be considered fascist by the left and perhaps too liberal by the right. According to Franz Niedermayer, an admiring critic, “The Revolt of the Masses remained a best seller in Germany . . . regardless of political regime because all factions found in its pages something of value to them” (a typical formula for mass market success).17 Niedermayer quotes the editor of Europäische Revue, Joachim Moras, who says that during the Third Reich “we could read T. S. Eliot, Paul Valéry, and André Gide, but not W. H. Auden or André Malraux. We did have Pío Baroja y Nessi and Gomez de la Serna, and again and again Ortega, but no García Lorca” (65–66). And Niedermayer says that though in 1933 Ortega rejected the proposals of the founder of the Falangist party (his pupil José Antonio Primo de Rivera, son of the former dictator) that he become its intellectual leader, that party itself “was an expression of Ortega’s spirit” (68). Ortega’s version of negative classicism, mingling the themes of disappointed liberalism with more conservative ones, provides a vivid diagnosis of some of the problems of modern society. It also fails to transcend ideas and attitudes—nostalgia for lost authority, a loathing for the vulgar and the common man, distrust of science and of democratic procedures—compatible with the fascism that he sees as one of the most tragic consequences of the revolt of the masses.
While Ortega is loftily obscure enough to have become a popular author for readers of various political persuasions, his diagnosis of “the revolt of the masses” was made many times over by other writers in the 1930s.18 In a decade when republics were being crushed under the iron heels of imperialistic dictatorships, what seemed most evident was the weakness of democracy. The rise of mass or totalitarian societies, the transformation of older cultural forms—partly through the use of the new mass media for propaganda purposes—into “barbarism,” the erection of racist concepts into ideologies accepted by “the masses”—these seemed indeed to involve a “classical revival,” but of the Roman imperial rather than of the Athenian kind.
Like Ortega, the great Dutch historian Johan Huizinga worried about “the masses” in the 1930s. His In the Shadow of Tomorrow (1935), in which he analyzes the parallels between panem et circenses and modern totalitarian movements, laid the groundwork for his study of the relationship between play and culture, Homo Ludens (1944). In the latter, Huizinga writes: “Roman society could not live without games. They were as necessary to its existence as bread—for they were holy games and the people’s right to them was a holy right.”19 But the religious quality of the Roman games had shriveled to almost nothing by the time that Juvenal wrote. Huizinga declares: “Few of the brutalized mob of spectators [during imperial times] felt anything of the religious quality inherent in these performances, and the Emperor’s liberality on such occasions had sunk to mere alms-giving on a gigantic scale to a miserable proletariat.” Huizinga sees the same analogy to modern conditions that Le Bon, Spengler, Ortega, and many others have seen: the Roman “cry for panem et circenses” is not much different from “the demand of the unemployed proletariat for the dole and free cinema tickets”—except that it was perhaps a little more sacred or less worldly (or perhaps just more classical?). Huizinga goes on to diagnose modern decadence in terms like those of Ortega and Spengler, calling much of what he sees about him “Puerilism”—“the most appropriate appellation for that blend of adolescence and barbarity which has been rampant all over the world for the last two or three decades” (205). Puerilism involves a “world-wide bastardization of culture” and “the entry of half-educated masses into the international traffic of the mind,” accompanied by a “relaxation of morals” and a “hypertrophy of technics” (205). These symptoms Huizinga links to totalitarianism, or “the spectacle of a society rapidly goosestepping into helotry” (206).
Huizinga is especially concerned with the processes of secularization which he believes undermine the legitimacy and energy of the play element in culture. The erosion of the sacred in modern society is also one of the central themes in T. S. Eliot’s essays against the “new paganism.” At the end of the 1930s, Eliot published his attack on liberalism and fascism, The Idea of a Christian Society. On one level, his argument is little more than a call for a religious revival (despite the fact that Eliot thinks religion is eternal and therefore can neither die nor revive). Eliot’s dismal picture of a “revolt of the masses” is much the same as Ortega’s. He is more specific in assessing blame than Ortega, however, perhaps because his version of “rebarbariza-tion” is based on avowed conservatism rather than on disappointed liberalism. Eliot thinks that liberalism itself is the main culprit, paving the way for fascism. Both are versions of paganism, the true antithesis of the Christian society.
One symptom of modern paganism is secularized mass culture. Like Ortega, Eliot thinks of culture and the masses as opposites, so that he rejects the idea of civilizing the masses through education, the press, radio, and cinema in favor of a return to religious orthodoxy and to the authoritarian security of class hierarchy. “A ‘mass-culture’ will always be a substitute-culture,” Eliot says in his Notes towards the Definition of Culture (1948), “and sooner or later the deception will become apparent to the more intelligent of those upon whom the culture has been palmed off.”20 Eliot’s notion of “mass culture” here echoes Dwight Macdonald’s 1944 essay “A Theory of Popular Culture,” which Eliot duly acknowledges. Eliot shares with Macdonald the idea of the conspiratorial nature of mass culture: it is a deception that has been palmed off on the unwitting. But Macdonald states this theme more forthrightly than Eliot: “Mass Culture is imposed from above. It is fabricated by technicians hired by businessmen; its audiences are passive consumers, their participation limited to the choice between buying and not buying. The Lords of kitsch, in short, exploit the cultural needs of the masses in order to make a profit and/or to maintain their class rule.”21 One reason why Eliot is not so forthright as Macdonald in presenting mass culture as a conspiracy from above is that he thinks the masses are as much the agents as the victims of the conspiracy. The same ambiguity characterizes Ortega’s essay. From one viewpoint (held constantly by Macdonald but only part of the time by Eliot), the masses can only be the dupes of the clever entrepreneurs, the P. T. Barnums of the entertainment business, who know how to squeeze hard cash out of them by appealing to their lowest instincts. From another viewpoint, however, the masses are the enemies of the established order, and hence of all culture and civilization. Either way, the masses are seen in strictly negative terms. Whether Eliot treats them as the passive victims of a fraudulent commercial culture or as the barbarian ravagers of a genuine high culture, he asserts that they play only a nocuous role in history.
Like Macdonald, Eliot believes that there are distinct levels of culture which are associated with economic classes. Macdonald identifies three levels roughly with the proletariat, the bourgeoisie, and the aristocracy. These he names “masscult,” “midcult,” and “high culture,” a division also apparent in Russell Lynes’s “lowbrow,” “middlebrow,” and “highbrow” (to which might be added G. M. Young’s amusing “sniffbrow,” in his 1922 essay “The New Cortegiano”).22 Macdonald’s schema also includes “folk culture,” except that it is now largely extinct, driven out of existence by the new industrial-commercial categories of “masscult” and “midcult.” Aristocratic “high culture” for Macdonald is genuine; “masscult” and “midcult,” however, are shoddy imitations of the real thing. And “midcult” is especially insidious, Macdonald believes, because of its proximity to the real thing.
Though Eliot insists on the importance of qualitative distinctions based on class, what he means by mass culture is not so much the lowest of Macdonald’s levels as the abolition of all levels. It is the specter of a “uniform culture” in a “classless society” which leads Eliot to define a sound culture as dependent on a “healthily stratified” and a “healthily regional” society—in other words, British society as it is, or perhaps as it was before the turn of the century. Whereas Macdonald is chiefly concerned with the deleterious effects of industrialism and commercialism on culture, Eliot is chiefly concerned with the threats of democratic leveling and socialism. It is in the context of “the disintegration of class” that Eliot makes his argument about the dependence of culture on class hierarchy. And it is in the context of the disintegration of religious faith that he asserts the absolute mutual dependence—even identity—of culture and religion: “No culture has appeared or developed except together with a religion” (CC 87).
In defending, partly by identifying, high culture, class hierarchy, and religious orthodoxy, Eliot seeks to refute Karl Mannheim’s thesis in Man and Society in an Age of Reconstruction (1935) that classes are being supplanted in modern society by meritocratic elites. But Eliot confuses Mannheim’s diagnosis with a prescription; no more than Eliot is Mannheim an apologist for “the disintegrated mass society” (CC 97) or for the “proletarianization of the intelligentsia” (CC 99). This misreading suggests Eliot’s distance to the right of Mannheim’s liberalism. Mannheim’s advocacy of centralized social planning and of mass education, perhaps, tempted Eliot to see him as an apostle of classlessness and cultural uniformity. Against Mannheim’s thesis that elites are replacing classes, Eliot argues the necessity for both, and adds that another kind of elite—“the elite”—must be drawn from both to lead all the subgroups of society (CC 114). This is social stratification with a vengeance. “The elite” would seem to mean “the best,” in the sense of the most cultured members of society, who in turn should be born and bred aristocrats. Eliot thus trebly seeks to fortify his position against the “nightmare” of “cultural uniformity” in the “classless society”: by defending aristocracy, by defending elites, and by defending “the elite.”
Whereas Macdonald worries about the historical emergence of “low” kinds of culture or “kitsch,” Eliot worries about “the causes of a total decline of culture,” leaving little to choose between the terms “barbarism” and “decadence”: “Excess of unity may be due to barbarism and may lead to tyranny; excess of division may be due to decadence and may also lead to tyranny; either excess will prevent further development in culture” (CC 123). Eliot is unsure whether there is any permanent standard by which to judge cultures, but he is quite sure that cultural disintegration is occurring all around us. “We can assert with some confidence that our own period is one of decline; that the standards of culture are lower than they were fifty years ago; and that the evidences of this decline are visible in every department of human activity.” And he goes on to imagine, at the end of the chute down which everything valuable is plummeting, a condition in which there may be “no culture” (CC 91).
This categorical decline and fall, caused by the leveling of classes and the erosion of faith, is not reversible by the “liberal nostrum” of education—certainly it cannot be reversed, Eliot believes, through the nostrum of mass education as planned and provided by a secular, centralized government. For mass education itself is a primary cause of the breakup, and is leading not toward a new culture on an egalitarian basis, but toward a new barbarism:
We know, that whether education can foster and improve culture or not, it can surely adulterate and degrade it. For there is no doubt that in our headlong rush to educate everybody, we are lowering our standards, and more and more abandoning the study of those subjects by which the essentials of our culture—of that part of it which is transmissible by education—are transmitted; destroying our ancient edifices to make ready the ground upon which the barbarian nomads of the future will encamp in their mechanised caravans. [CC 185]
In such remarks on education, Eliot comes close to Macdonald’s “midcult.” For just as Macdonald finds something especially insidious about “middlebrow” dilutions and apings of “highbrow” art, so Eliot finds something dangerous about “half education” (CC 182). He would rather see most people contentedly ignorant and rooted to the land than restless, envious, too much moving about like Attilas on wheels. “A high average of general education is perhaps less necessary for a civil society than is a respect for learning” (CC 177).23
Mass culture for Macdonald connotes a category of debased or shoddy artifacts and amusements that appeal to the poorly educated. Clearly, more schooling and not less is one way to deal with it. He is not talking about “proletarian culture,” however, an idea that involves still another meaning of mass culture—that of a working class actively engaged in producing as well as consuming its own art, knowledge, and entertainment. Against Macdonald’s commercial “masscult” and “midcult” and also against Eliot’s cultural catastrophe must be ranged the ideal of liberated culture expressed by William Morris, Herbert Marcuse, and other Marxists, or in other words the shapes that culture might take in a future classless society. But the utopian adumbrations of the transformation of labor into play in Morris and Marcuse are themselves quite different from the usual understanding of “proletarian culture,” which can be defined in at least two ways. One can define it as that which the working class already produces for its own consumption (existing forms of “popular” and “folk” culture); or one can identify it with the various movements—Proletkult and Zhdanovite socialist realism, for example—in the development of Soviet literature and art. Eliot, of course, rejects both the utopian Marxist and the Soviet versions of proletarian culture, although there is an important way in which he is sympathetic toward working-class culture in England.
Eliot is quite willing to look favorably upon manifestations of culture that might be called “proletarian,” but only if they appear within the confines of a “healthily stratified” and a “healthily regional” society, presided over by religious orthodoxy. With the “nightmare” of “cultural uniformity” as his backdrop, Eliot names a variety of ingredients, including working-class games and amusements, which compose “that which makes life worth living” (CC 100):
Taking now the point of view of identification, the reader must remind himself, as the author has constantly to do, of how much is here embraced by the term culture. It includes all the characteristic activities and interests of a people: Derby Day, Henley Regatta, Cowes, the twelfth of August, a cup final, the dog races, the pin table, the dart board, Wensleydale cheese, boiled cabbage cut into sections, beetroot in vinegar, nineteenth-century Gothic churches and the music of Elgar. [CC 104]
Eliot adds, no doubt as a gesture toward making his list complete, “the reader can make his own list.” Whatever the ingredients, they must include items that might be defined as folk customs (beetroot in vinegar) as well as items that might be defined as popular amusements (the dog races). In this sense, Eliot’s idea of culture embraces working-class experience. But Eliot’s assertion that the reader can make his own list is deceptive, because far from being wide-ranging, his list is quite narrow, as remarkable for what it excludes as for what it includes. As Raymond Williams observes, “This pleasant miscellany is evidently narrower in kind than the general description which precedes it. The ‘characteristic activities and interests’ would also include steelmaking, touring in motor-cars, mixed farming, the Stock Exchange, coal-mining and London Transport.”24 One might as well add: trade unions, the Labour party, the IRA, the Times, and BBC. “Any list would be incomplete,” Williams says, “but Eliot’s categories are sport, food and a little art—a characteristic observation on English leisure.” I am tempted to add that Eliot gives us a portrait of English leisure before the advent of cinema, radio, and television, which would mean at least before World War I. On the basis of this and a few other rather narrow “observations” that Eliot makes, Williams concludes that Eliot “recommends . . . substantially what now exists, socially.” But his generous assessment of Eliot’s cultural recipe is difficult to square with his earlier remark that “Eliot seems always to have in mind, as the normal scheme of his thinking, a society which is at once more stable and more simple than any to which his discussion is likely to be relevant” (236).
Here is a key to understanding Eliot’s cultural politics, and perhaps to understanding negative classicism in general. Instead of portraying British society as it was in 1948, Eliot invokes a utopia from the right to counter the utopia of the left, which he perceives as a totalitarian “nightmare.” His list of cultural ingredients reads like a Dickens Christmas story: against the cold outer dark of the future classless society—a sort of technological necropolis for Eliot—the list has the feel of the fire on the hearth. This result may derive partly from Eliot’s expatriate status: in thinking of such “characteristic” trivia as boiled cabbage cut into sections, he is, as E. M. Forster puts it, “more British than the British.” Eliot’s Britishness is part of his reactionary utopianism: the search for origins, stability, orthodoxy, leads him ambiguously to praise a sinking England, an England just before the deluge (or perhaps just after it). He opposes not only the classless society of the future, but also the complicated, industrial, semi-democratic, semi-aristocratic, quarrelsome, half-educated, not very satisfactory, and not very religious England of the present, while also viewing it as preferable to America. “Totalitarianism appeals to the desire to return to the womb” (CC 142). But it is not altogether clear that Eliot’s own brand of retrospective politics does not appeal to the same desire, the wish to find “the still point of the turning world.”
In saying so, I do not mean to dismiss Eliot’s cultural politics as insignificant. As Williams suggests, his treatment of mass culture is an important contribution to a long tradition of social theory extending back to Burke and Coleridge, although Williams rightly finds Eliot’s “new conservatism” “very different from, and much inferior to” theirs. This inferiority stems from Eliot’s need to root his opposition to “an ‘atomized,’ individualist [or mass; they are synonymous here] society” in “the principles of an economic system which is based on just this ‘atomized,’ individualist society” (242). That is, Eliot is unable to follow the thread of conservative theory away from liberal economics even to the kinds of “conservative socialism” suggested by Coleridge’s “clerisy” and by Robert Southey’s Owenism. As part of their inferiority to earlier conservatisms, Eliot’s politics are not clearly distinguishable from a variant of the arguments used to support the same sort of mass, totalitarian society that Eliot believes he is combatting. This is so even though Eliot attacks liberalism for leading to fascism, and declares: “The fundamental objection to fascist doctrine, the one which we conceal from ourselves because it might condemn ourselves as well, is that it is pagan” (CC 15).
Whether Eliot was or was not ever an anti-Semite or an admirer of Mussolini is not important here (there have been numerous treatments of what William Chace calls his “flirtation with fascism,” with varying results). But the classicist form of Eliot’s social thinking involves contrasting modern democratic-industrial society to an ideal society that, though rooted in the past, is also in several respects like the “corporate state” advocated by fascism. Thus, Eliot’s triple defense of elitism (classes, elites, and “the elite”) might be taken for a simplified version of the theory of elites developed by Gaetano Mosca and Vilfredo Pareto—a theory that, especially through Pareto, became a staple of fascist thought.25 And like Charles Maurras, whose influence he acknowledged, Eliot is both antidemocratic and antisocialistic, both classicist and religiously authoritarian. “[My] general point of view,” he could write in 1928, “may be described as classicist in literature, royalist in politics, and anglo-catholic in religion.”26
Eliot shed the royalist label not long after adopting it, but he remained deeply committed to his conservative brands of classicism and Christianity. He is a Christian first, a classicist second, although the two are inseparable: “Those of us who find ourselves supporting . . . Classicism believe that men cannot get on without giving allegiance to something outside themselves.”27 That “something outside” is ultimately religious. Like T. E. Hulme, whose political and cultural theories he admired, Eliot defines romanticism in terms of emotional solipsism and relativity and classicism in terms of its reference to an external absolute. For both Hulme and Eliot, romanticism equals modern culture decadence—an argument similar to Norberto Bobbio’s analysis of “decadentism” or to Cyril Joad’s of the subjectivist “dropping of the object” in modern culture. Against the breakdown of external authority which is the modern “wasteland,” Eliot looks to literary tradition, “the clerisy,” and the Church—at some point in the past themselves forming an organic whole—to restore organic unity to society. It is too easy, he thinks, to see history only in pieces and to make of experience only what one wishes. Eliot believes that there must be something higher to guide us than individual reason in a secularized context. What he says of the writer in “Tradition and the Individual Talent” extends to history in its entirety:
No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists . . . . The existing monuments [of an art] form an ideal order among themselves, which is modified by the introduction of the new (the really new) work of art among them. The existing order is complete before the new work arrives; for order to persist after the supervention of novelty, the whole existing order must be, if ever so slightly, altered; and so the relations, proportions, values of each work of art toward the whole are readjusted. [SE 4–5]
As in most other versions of theoretical conservatism, not only the arts but society and history form an organic whole. The “pagan” politics of liberalism, fascism, and socialism are what fracture the whole; Christianity is what holds it together.
Christianity is not just the true and absolute religion for Eliot; it is also the preserver of the spirit of the Roman Empire and the transmitter of classicism to modern civilization. The importance of Rome in Eliot’s thinking is partly obscured by its evident cultural inferiority to Greece. “The Rome of the imperial era was coarse and beastly enough,” says Eliot; “in important respects far less civilized than Athens at its greatest.”28 For example, in contrast to the Greeks, the Romans lacked the “gift” of theater, “which has not been vouchsafed to every race” (SE 55). True, the Romans had the wooden tragedies of Seneca and they also had “some success in low comedy, itself an adaptation of Greek models, but their instinct turned to shows and circuses, as does that of the later race which created the Commedia del l’Arte” (SE 56). Eliot does not think that too much should be made of “the ‘decadence’ of the age of Nero” as an explanation for the cultural failings of the Romans: his terminology suggests that cultural endowments come from on high and are bestowed on chosen “races.” This logic allows him to insist on the need for every society to pursue its “destiny “ and to make the most of whatever cultural endowments it is “vouchsafed.” In turn, the importance of “classics” as “gifts” is reinforced; “we must maintain the classic ideal before our eyes” (OP 60).
Despite its cultural thinness in comparison to Greece, Rome—especially imperial Rome—is the society most nearly “classic” and it gave birth to the poet closest to the “classic ideal,” namely Virgil. As “a classic can only occur when a civilization is mature” (OP 54), so “Virgil’s maturity of mind, and the maturity of his age” are expressed in The Aeneid (OP 63). Aeneas points to the “destiny” of Rome which is also our destiny. When Virgil asserts the eternality of the imperium romanum, Eliot claims that he is close to prophetic rightness, for Virgil is also of all classical authors “uniquely near to Christianity” (OP 146–47). And while the worldly version of the Roman Empire de-dined and fell, it did so only to make room for the Holy Roman Empire. Therefore, Eliot says, “we are all, so far as we inherit the civilization of Europe, still citizens of the Roman Empire, and time has not yet proved Virgil wrong when he wrote nee témpora pono: imperium sine fine dedi” (I, Jupiter, impose no limits: I have granted empire without end) (OP 146).
Not only the pattern of our salvation, but—what is almost the same thing—the pattern of our cultural perfection was “set in Rome” (OP 73). Eliot concludes his essay “What Is a Classic?” with a magnificent peroration on Virgil, who produced what is perhaps the one genuine classic by Eliot’s standard and who therefore showed the way for the destiny of all European culture. To define and defend what is “classic”—the task of Eliot’s sort of criticism—becomes in this peroration the task of defending nothing less than civilization:
It is sufficient that this standard [for a classic] should have been established once for all; the task does not have to be done again. But the maintenance of the standard is the price of our freedom, the defense of freedom against chaos. We may remind ourselves of this obligation, by our annual observance of piety towards the great ghost who guided Dante’s pilgrimage: who, as it was his function to lead Dante towards a vision he could never himself enjoy, led Europe towards the Christian culture which he could never know. [OP 74]
Today, however, under the impact of the new paganisms of secular politics, that Christian culture is in danger. In making his case for Christianity, Eliot at times sounds like Kierkegaard, as when he asserts that “without religion the whole human race would die . . . solely of boredom” (SE 326). At others, he sounds more like another Arnold Toynbee or Nicholas Berdyaev, envisaging a new Dark Age:
The Universal Church is today, it seems to me, more definitely set against the World than at any time since pagan Rome. I do not mean that our times are particularly corrupt; all times are corrupt. I mean that Christianity, in spite of certain local appearances, is not, and cannot be within measurable time, “official.” The World is trying the experiment of attempting to form a civilized but non-Christian mentality. The experiment will fail; but we must be very patient in awaiting its collapse; meanwhile redeeming the time: so that the Faith may be preserved alive through the dark ages before us; to renew and rebuild civilization, and save the World from suicide. [SE 342]
In terms of Eliot’s negative classicism, the new Dark Age is now.
Ortega’s vision is rooted in a present in which the highest ideals, associated with the “generosity” of liberalism and also with the classics, are threatened by progress and its corollary, the ascendancy of the “masses.” The Revolt of the Masses is an essay in social tragedy, with no strong sense that the solutions Ortega suggests either can or will work. But he understands that these solutions must be political and must start from the present rather than from the past. Unlike Ortega, Eliot retreats into the past, into both Christianity and positive classicism, and in constructing an ideal union between them seeks salvation from the nihilism that he identifies with modern mass civilization. A third writer who rejects both systems of history and absolutist retreats into the past, and yet who claims to transcend nihilism in the name of an ardent classicism, is Albert Camus. In some respects Camus is the antithesis of Ortega. His optimism in the face of catastrophe and his insistence on the dignity of ordinary human nature set him apart from the aristocratic distrust of the ordinary to be found in The Revolt of the Masses. “Revolt” is in any case for Camus the beginning of freedom, as it is also potentially the beginning of despotism. And Camus does not blame the disasters of this century on falsely aspiring masses, but on intellectual nihilism and on the totalitarian Caesarism of both the right and the left, of both Nazism and Stalinism.
It is therefore surprising to find Camus calling Ortega “the greatest of European writers after Nietzsche.”29 What Camus values in Ortega, however, is his rejection of provincial “statism” and his affirmation of European culture and historical continuity as a solution to nationalist conflict. Ortega can be a devoted Spaniard and yet speak for all Europe. And Camus can be both Algerian and French, loyal to both heritages, and yet also speak for all Europe—indeed, for mankind. In a 1937 lecture on the possibility of “a new Mediterranean civilization,” Camus might almost have been summarizing some of the better aspects of Ortega when he declared: “Nationalisms always make their appearance in history as signs of decadence. When the vast edifice of the Roman empire collapsed, when its spiritual unity, from which so many different regions drew their justification, fell apart, then and only then, at a time of decadence, did nationalisms appear. Since then, the West has never rediscovered its unity.”30 As also for Ortega, internationalism is the solution to the decadence of nationalist conflict. What once gave and still promises to give unity to Mediterranean culture, however, was not the Roman Empire, but the spirit of Greece. Camus asserts that the realization of a new civilization will involve a classical revival antithetical to Mussolini’s, a positive instead of a negative classicism. Because the Romans were “imitative and unimaginative,” it was “not life which Rome took from Greece, but puerile and over-intellectualized abstractions.” The new Mediterranean culture will involve “the very denial of Rome and of the Latin Genius.” The true Mediterranean “is alive, and wants no truck with abstractions. And it is quite easy to acknowledge Mussolini as the worthy descendant of the Caesar and Augustus of Imperial Rome, if we mean by this that he, like them, sacrifices truth and greatness to a soulless violence” (LC 191).
What permits Camus to speak for a new Mediterranean culture and, indeed, for all Europe, he believes, is a classicism that looks back through the philosophical systems that kill (including both fascism and Marxism) and through the Christianity that too often also kills, to what the Greeks stood for: tragic freedom, human dignity, rational lucidity, and beauty. “For the past two thousand years the Greek value has been constantly and persistently slandered. In this regard Marxism took over from Christianity. And for two thousand years the Greek value has resisted to such a degree that, under its ideologies, the twentieth century is more Greek and pagan than Christian and Russian.”31 At least Camus’s own thinking is “more Greek and pagan” than anything else. In another entry in his Notebooks, Camus writes: “For Christians, Revelation stands at the beginning of history. For Marxists, it stands at the end. Two religions” (N 188). And Camus rejects religion of any sort as falsification, a projection of wishful thinking onto an “absurd” universe. But absurdity does not lead to despair. Not only against Christianity, Marxism, and fascism, but also against existentialism and philosophical systematizing of any sort Camus asserts “the Greek value.” German philosophy has substituted the idea of “human situation” for that of human nature, placing history on the throne of God and also, more important, placing it on the pedestal of “ancient equilibrium.” Like Matthew Arnold, Camus praises the classical ability to see life steadily and see it whole, to see with the eyes of tragic vision. Existentialism, moreover, which he rejects as a label for his own viewpoint, merely carries the implications of German metaphysical system building to the extreme, Camus thinks, by relativizing even the idea of “human situation.” After the process of disintegration has been carried out by modern philosophy, “nothing remains but a motion,” meaningless and impossible to pin down. But, Camus says, “like the Greeks, I believe in nature” (N 136).
In his 1948 essay “Helen’s Exile,” Camus declares that we have violated our Greek heritage by rejecting beauty as the first of values and by overstepping the reasonable limits even of reason, transforming it into fanaticism. “We have exiled beauty; the Greeks took up arms for her.”32 Camus distills the essence of both his positive and his negative classicism in these five pages. The very title sums up what he finds most intolerable about the modern condition. The Greek ideal of beauty involved limits, passion tempered by moderation, creative energy but also harmony, proportion. “Our Europe, on the other hand, off in the pursuit of totality, is the child of disproportion” (MS 134). Camus turns to the oldest of philosophers for a diagnosis of the modern ailment: “At the dawn of Greek thought Heraclitus was already imagining that justice sets limits for the physical universe itself: ‘The sun will not overstep his measures; if he does, the Erinyes, the handmaids of justice, will find him out” (MS 135). We (the European society of World War II) have overstepped our measures by violating both Greek principles of beauty and reason, and the Erinyes have found us out. According to another Heraclitean fragment that Camus quotes: “Presumption, regression of progress” (MS 135).
Camus believes that we are imitating Caesar, not Socrates. Throughout his Notebooks are scattered references to a “play on the government of women” which he did not write, in which one of the characters was to have been Socrates, whom Camus makes say: “It’s all going to begin over again. . . . They are preparing everything. Big ideas and interpretations of history. In ten years the slaughterhouses” (N 135). Camus does not think that history moves in inevitable cycles—he is not a believer in either progress or regression as our inescapable destiny—but he does believe that we have ignored our classical roots to our great cost. “This is why it is improper to proclaim today that we are the sons of Greece. Or else we are renegade sons. Placing history on the throne of God, we are progressing toward theocracy like those whom the Greeks called Barbarians” (MS 135).
As that which encompasses nature, beauty, freedom, and human dignity, Camus’s primary value is “culture,” which he identifies with “the Greek value.” It is culture in this Hellenic sense that points beyond modern nihilism to new, creative values. The way forward is also the way back into the past: “If, to outgrow nihilism, one must turn to Christianity, one may well follow the impulse and outgrow Christianity in Hellenism” (N 183). The philosopher of the absurd offers a vision of culture largely antithetical to Eliot’s authoritarianism, a vision akin to the classicist paganism of Nietzsche but without his antidemocratic tendencies. “Our faith is that throughout the world, beside the impulse toward coercion and death that is darkening history, there is a growing impulse toward persuasion and life, a vast emancipatory movement called culture that is made up both of free creation and of free work” (R 164). Camus’s rhetoric here may seem vague to the point of cliché, but in the context of the Hungarian rebellion in 1956 it perhaps seemed more specific. Camus means a culture that is both proletarian and intelligent, in this instance the culture of the Hungarian workers and intellectuals, forged from their union in opposition to Soviet domination. Any version of intellectual elitism—the failure of intellectuals to make common cause with the workers—Camus rejects out of hand. Both a journalist and a resistance fighter himself, he places great importance on freedom of the press: it is the source of a common intelligence that he expects ultimately to defeat the forces of empire and slavery. Viewed from such a perspective, a genuine culture of the masses is not only possible, it is the guarantee of our future life and freedom, a perpetual resistance movement or rebellion against the forces of oppression, prison camps, elitist art-for-art’s-sake, and the abstract, imperialistic system building of the philosophers.
Besides the worker and the intellectual, common life and communal intelligence, Camus’s classicism unites a number of other apparent opposites. First among these are restraint and freedom, the Heraclitean doctrine of limits combined with Promethean rebellion. On the one hand, “classicism is domination of passions” (N 99). On the other hand, “the freest art and the most rebellious will . . . be the most classical” (R 268–69). Camus’s originality derives largely from his ability to put the two parts of this contradiction together. Revolt, resistance, rebellion: these become synonyms for freedom through restraint.
At the end of his remarks on Sisyphus, Ortega, following Nietzsche, points out, “Sisyphus is the oldest Greek word that means ‘the authentic wise man,’ or as we would say, ‘the genuine intellectual’” (IUH 172). The “genuine intellectual” who has made the most of the Sisyphus legend is of course Camus, for whom the story of the authentic wise man condemned by the gods “to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight,” serves as an analogy for the plight of the individual in an absurd universe and also for the seemingly unending frustrations of history (MS 88). Camus’s treatment of Sisyphus is only one of many invocations of classical mythology in his work. “The world in which I am most at ease,” he says in his Notebooks, is the world of “the Greek myth” (N 249). Like Freud with his treatment of Oedipus, Camus does not mean to retreat to some version of transcendental illusion but to reclaim the wisdom expressed in the oldest forms of storytelling. Myth, Camus believes, can be a form of enlightenment after the classical Greek model; it need not be superstition. The most important Greek myths to Camus—Sisyphus, Oedipus, Helen—are stories of mortals, not gods. “There are . . . gods of light and idols of mud. But it is essential to find the middle path leading to the faces of man” (MS 76). Camus celebrates the mythology of this world and of humanity rather than of some other time and place. The story of Sisyphus is in this way more significant than that of any god could be.
Outside of that single fatality of death, everything, joy or happiness, is liberty. A world remains of which man is the sole master. What bound him was the illusion of another world. The outcome of his thought, ceasing to be renunciatory, flowers in images. It frolics—in myths, to be sure, but myths with no other depth than that of human suffering and, like it, inexhaustible. Not the divine fable that amuses and blinds, but the terrestrial face, gesture, and drama in which are summed up a different wisdom and an ephemeral passion. [MS 87]
Camus’s “existentialist” novels, The Stranger, The Plague, and The Fall, may be considered myths with no other depth than that of human suffering; they are also all informed by “the Greek value” as Camus understands it. Of The Plague, he writes, “from the point of view of a new classicism [it] ought to be the first attempt at shaping a collective passion” (N 137)—that is, a political passion—which he considers the first task of culture in modern times.
In his insistence on the values of lucidity and artistic creation in the face of a meaningless universe, Camus comes as close to the spirit of one branch of classical philosophy—stoicism—as any modern writer. If he is an “existentialist” (which he repeatedly denies), then he is one completely antagonistic to the version of absurdity expounded by Kierkegaard and based on Tertullian’s credo quia absurdum. Kierkegaard’s “leap” from reason into faith is, Camus thinks, “philosophical suicide” (MS 31), and his examination of the Sisyphus legend convinces him that suicide of any kind is not “legitimate.” One must imagine Sisyphus forever shouldering his burden again and, if Camus means his legend to stand for something more than the experience of the individual, mankind forever shouldering its burden again at the bottom of the mountain of history. It is never topped, but it is always there to be topped. The act of “futile and hopeless labor” (MS 88) is the only authentic affirmation of life, and therefore we “must imagine Sisyphus happy” (MS 91). Camus’s essay affirms that “even within the limits of nihilism it is possible to find the means to proceed beyond nihilism” (MS v).
In his Nobel Prize address (1957), Camus defines art—culture, beauty, “the Greek value”—in terms of freedom. Art is the antithesis, indeed, the nemesis, of all forms of oppression. “Tyrants know there is in the work of art an emancipatory force, which is mysterious only to those who do not revere it. Every great work makes the human face more admirable and richer, and this is its whole secret. And thousands of concentration camps and barred cells are not enough to hide this staggering testimony of dignity” (R 269). Eliot, too, suggests that the defense of “the Greek value” is somehow identical with the “defense of freedom against chaos,” but rather than “emancipatory force” he has in mind the upholding of an antique standard of authority, exemplified by Virgil’s Aeneid, against everything that he associates with chaos—that is to say, against “paganism.” Nothing could seem farther from Camus’s pagan classicism, according to which art is a form of the eternal Promethean rebellion against whatever distorts or threatens to blot out “the human face.” And insofar as “the human face” is that of ordinary people rather than of geniuses and elites, Camus’s classicism is also quite different from Ortega’s. Camus’s version of the Greek value might be viewed as a kind of positive “revolt of the masses” through which whatever massifies is broken down and replaced by the individual human face. The end of Camus’s Nobel Prize address expresses a hope for the future which depends not on a nation or on a single person, but on “millions of solitary individuals whose deeds and works every day negate frontiers and the crudest implications of history. As a result, there shines forth fleetingly the ever-threatened truth that each and every man, on the foundation of his own sufferings and joys, builds for all” (R 272).
From the start of his career, Camus delighted in turning Ortega’s kind of negative classicism around, identifying “barbarism” with creativity and Roman ruins with a paradoxical hopefulness in new life and the indifference of the universe. In “Summer in Algiers,” for example, writing just before the outbreak of World War II, Camus contemplates his countrymen at the seashore and writes: “The opposite of a civilized people is a creative one. These barbarians lounging on the beaches give me the unreasoned hope that, perhaps without knowing it, they are modelling the face of a culture where man’s greatness will finally discover its true visage” (LC 69). And in his essay meditations on the Roman ruins at Djemila and Tipasa, Camus expresses a similar paradoxical hopefulness in the creativity of ordinary people in the face of death and the indifferent constancy of nature. These pieces belong to the genre of essays on the vanity of empire that runs from Gibbon and Volney down to the present. But the ruins of empire do not represent anything that Camus wants to cling to, to rebuild, or even to mourn; they are only the signs that nature makes grow along the highroads of history to impress upon us that, like Sisyphus, we must always start over again.
Camus’s Nobel Prize address continues the theme of the political commitment of the artist which runs through his work and Jean-Paul Sartre’s as well. Art does not automatically liberate; the artist must work at being a rebel. Though diverging from Sartre on the issue of Marxism, Camus agrees that art should be politically committed and that any version of elitist art or of art-for-art’s-sake is contemptible. Of course it is possible that “on occasion art may be a deceptive luxury” rather than the chief weapon in the fight for freedom and for the dignity and beauty of “the human face.” This possibility leads Camus to spin out a Roman analogy: “On the poop deck of slave galleys it is possible, at any time and place, as we know, to sing of the constellations while the convicts bend over the oars and exhaust themselves in the hold; it is always possible to record the social conversation that takes place on the benches of the amphitheater while the lion is crunching its victim” (R 253). Camus believes that, for the artist, “remaining aloof has always been possible in history” until the present moment. Now, however, an uncommitted art is unthinkable; “even silence has dangerous implications.” Society itself has become an enormous slave galley, and the choice of whether or not to be “committed” is hardly available to the artist, since like everyone else he has been pressed into service and must bend to the oars. The slavedrivers are numerous and “the steering is badly handled.” Whether we like it or not, “we are on the high seas” (R 250). Camus understands why “artists regret their former comfort.” Continuing the second half of his Roman analogy, he suggests that once artists were safe among the spectators at the arena of history, whereas now they have been thrust in among the victims: “history’s amphitheater has always contained the martyr and the lion. The former relied on eternal consolations and the latter on raw historical meat. But until now the artist was on the sidelines. He used to sing purposely, for his own sake, or at best to encourage the martyr and make the lion forget his appetite. But now the artist is in the amphitheater” (R 250).
In contrast to Greece, Rome here and elsewhere serves Camus as an image of oppression. In The Rebel, both Marxism and fascism are condemned as forms of “Caesarian revolution” leading to “empire and slavery.” Their opposite is not liberalism or conservatism, but “rebellion,” associated by Camus with another Greek myth, that of Prometheus, whose story begins well but ends tragically when Prometheus is transformed into Caesar (the fate of Marxism, for example) and, hence, when “the real, the eternal Prometheus”—the rebel rather than the too-principled revolutionary—has “assumed the aspect of one of his victims.”33 The moment the rebel becomes an executioner in the name of some cause other than present freedom and beauty, he ceases to be a rebel and joins the forces of Caesar. Like Spengler and Ortega, Camus develops a dystopian vision of mass society that he names “empire” and “Caesarism,” but in Camus’s view massification grows from the designs of the empire-builders rather than from the aspirations of ordinary men and women.
The revolution based on principles kills God in the person of His representative on earth. The revolution of the twentieth century kills what remains of God in the principles themselves and consecrates historical nihilism. Whatever paths nihilism may proceed to take, from the moment that it decides to be the creative force of its period and ignores every moral precept, it begins to build the temple of Caesar. [RB 246]
If it succeeds in keeping this side of the threshold of Caesarism, rebellion means freedom, reason, and the return of Helen from exile through the art that celebrates life and “the human face.” In the boundary that Camus seeks to define between rebellion and revolution can be seen another version of the Heraclitean doctrine of limits which, if violated, bring retribution. “Moderation is not the opposite of rebellion. Rebellion in itself is moderation, and it demands, defends, and re-creates it throughout history and its eternal disturbances. . . . Moderation, born of rebellion, can only live by rebellion” (RB 301).
Camus’s ideas lead to the paradox of a revolutionary classicism that rejects both revolution in the name of an abstract principle and the authority of the past as overruling the claims of the present. It is the seemingly endless violations of moderation, often in the name of justice (again, as with Marxism as Camus interprets it), that bring about the need for perpetual rebellion and, hence, also create something like cyclic patterns in history. Through rebellion, empires will always fall back into ruins. And insofar as rebellion is not the work of vanguards and elites, but of common men and women asserting their common dignity against whatever would blot it out, Camus finds a hopefulness in the modern “revolt of the masses” that Ortega cannot see, for Camus thinks of the lives of ordinary men and women as a mute protest against and contradiction of the very conditions of their massification.
Camus’s cultural politics are summed up in his treatment of two Roman figures who exemplify the tragic course too often followed by rebellion. The first is Spartacus the gladiator, whose uprising, like all slave rebellions, was a protest against bondage and an assertion of equality with the masters. Beyond equality, there was no positive vision that inspired or justified the rebellion of the gladiators. They sought only to trade places with their masters: “The slave army liberates slaves and immediately hands over their former masters to them in bondage. According to one tradition, of doubtful veracity it is true, gladiatorial combats were even organized between several hundred Roman citizens, while the slaves sat in the grandstands delirious with joy and excitement. But to kill men leads to nothing but killing more men” (RB 109). Because they were inspired by no higher aim than to become masters themselves, Spartacus’s army stalled before Rome. “The city of light of which Spartacus dreamed could only have been built on the ruins of eternal Rome. . . . At the descisive moment, however, within sight of the sacred walls, the army halts and wavers, as if it were retreating before the principles, the institutions, the city of the gods” (RB 109). Spartacus’s rebellion embodied no new principles, nothing that had not already been shaped by Roman laws and customs. Camus’s treatment of Spartacus and of the crucifixion of his followers by Crassus leads to a paragraph on Christ, but his gladiator-martyr does not look beyond the confines of the Roman Empire to Christianity and Marxism. Though exemplary of all other slave rebellions including Christianity and Marxism, the Spartacus uprising, Camus thinks, was self-contained and self-defeating, a tragic heroism that did not find its way out of the labyrinth of empire and eternal injustice.
Camus’s second Roman figure is the seeming antithesis of Spartacus, that most cruel and capricious of emperors, Caligula. Camus’s play of that title, written in 1938 but not performed until 1945, with the Nazi nightmare as background, makes its protagonist out to be, by Caligula’s own assertion, “the one free man in the whole Roman Empire.”34 But it is a false freedom, that of the totalitarian dictator who acknowledges no authority higher than his own whim, and in such a condition one can only be “free at someone else’s expense” (C 28). Camus presents Caligula as a philosophical emperor who lives this false principle out to the end through tyranny and murder. Caligula’s ideal is an empire of silence, a necropolis in which death—by his command—levels all distinctions, everything living. If he is the opposite of Spartacus in being a master instead of a slave, Caligula shares with the gladiator-rebel the goal of a murderous equality. Against Caesonia’s assertion that “there’s good and bad, high and low, justice and injustice” which will never change, Caligula says: “And I’m resolved to change them. . . . I shall make this age of ours a kingly gift—the gift of equality. And when all is levelled out, when the impossible has come to earth and the moon is in my hands—then, perhaps, I shall be transfigured and the world renewed; then men will die no more and at last be happy” (C 17). But the path to this utopian goal—the elimination of death—lies through death, just as Spartacus’s city of the sun cannot be reached except across a river of blood choked with the remains of history’s victims. Spartacus’s rebellion was justified—rendered inevitable, in fact—by exactly the sort of homicidal domination that Caligula represents. The two figures exemplify the two aspects of totalitarianism: Caligula’s fanatical pursuit of the “impossible” as cause and Spartacus’s rebellion as result, an inevitable and tragic cycle of domination, slavery, and revolution that makes Rome, for Camus as for many other writers of his generation, an appropriate analogy for fascism, Nazism, and Stalinism.
Despite the historical nightmares that Camus witnessed, he remained optimistic because of his faith in ordinary human nature, and also because of his faith in “the Greek value.” He touches often upon the themes and images of negative classicism, but usually to stand them on their heads or reject them outright, as he does in the ruins of Djemila and Tipasa. “I am not one of those who proclaim that the world is rushing to its doom,” Camus said in an interview in 1951. “I do not believe in the final collapse of our civilization. I believe . . . that a renaissance is possible.” Negative classicism, indeed, is part of the problem rather than its solution. “If the world were rushing to its doom, we should have to lay the blame for this on apocalyptic modes of thought” (LC 263). In contrast, Camus is much more insistent on the continuity of the traditions represented by positive classicism. Against the deadly spirit of Rome, he asserts the living spirit of Greece: “We shall choose Ithaca, the faithful land, frugal and audacious thought, lucid action, and the generosity of the man who understands. In the light, the earth remains our first and last love” (RB 306).
1. Examples include Walt Whitman, Democratic Vistas; John Dewey, Art as Experience (New York: Minton Balch, 1934), Freedom and Culture (New York: Putnam, 1939), etc.; Carl J. Friedrich, The New Belief in the Common Man (Boston: Little, Brown, 1942); Herbert Gans, Popular Culture and High Culture (New York: Basic, 1974). See also the writings on mass culture by Lyman Bryson, Reuel Denney, Russell Lynes, Paul Meadows, David Riesman, Gilbert Seldes, and Edward Shils.
2. For Marxism and mass culture, see Martin Jay, The Dialectical Imagination: A History of the Frankfurt School and the Institute of Social Research 1923–1950 (Boston: Little, Brown, 1973), chap. 6; Bruce Brown, Marx, Freud, and the Critique of Everyday Life (New York: Monthly Review, 1973); and Adolfo Sanchez Vasques, Art and Society: Essays in Marxist Aesthetics (New York: Monthly Review, 1973).
3. José Ortega y Gasset, The Revolt of the Masses (New York: Norton, 1957 [1930]). Page numbers are given in parentheses.
4. For a list of works that reflect the political and economic crises of the 1930s in terms of a “revolt of the masses,” see the bibliography appended to the second edition of Sigmund Neumann, Permanent Revolution: Totalitarianism in the Age of the International Civil War (London: Pall Mall, 1965).
5. Christopher Caudwell, Studies and Further Studies in a Dying Culture (New York: Monthly Review, 1971), p. 72.
6. Oswald Spengler, The Decline of the West, tr. Charles Francis Atkinson, 2 vols. (New York: Knopf, 1980 [1926–28]), 11, 399–400. Volume and page numbers hereafter are given in parentheses.
7. Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, tr. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Vintage, 1966), p. 118.
8. See, for example, Edmund Wilson, Axel’s Castle (New York: Scribner, 1931), pp. 257-98.
9. Huxley speaks of the “gladiatorial theory of existence” in Evolution and Ethics.
10. H. Stuart Hughes, Consciousness and Society: The Reorientation of European Social Thought, 1890–1930 (New York: Vintage, 1958), pp. 35–36.
11. Karl Löwith, “The Historical Background of European Nihilism,” in Nature, History and Existentialism (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1966), p. 10.
12. Julien Benda, The Treason of the Intellectuals, tr. Richard Aldington (New York: Norton, 1969 [1928]).
13. Here is another place where Ortega finds Spengler “far too optimistic,” because Spengler “believes that ‘technicism’ can go on living when interest in the principles underlying culture are dead” (Revolt of the Masses, p. 83).
14. José Ortega y Gasset, An Interpretation of Universal History, tr. Mildred Adams (New York: Norton, 1975 [1948]), p. 55. Abbreviated in the text as IUH.
15. José Ortega y Gasset, Man and Crisis, tr. Mildred Adams (New York: Norton, 1958), pp. 95–96. Abbreviated in the text as MC.
16. José Ortega y Gasset, History as a System, tr. Mildred Adams (New York: Norton, 1961), p. 104–105.
17. Franz Niedermayer, José Ortega y Gasset (New York: Ungar, 1973), p. 65.
18. Besides the works listed in Neumann, Permanent Revolution, see Leonard Woolf, Barbarians Within and Without (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1939), and Simone Weil, “The Great Beast, Some Reflections on the Origins of Hitlerism, 1939–40,” Selected Essays, 1934–43 (London: Oxford University Press, 1962).
19. Johan Huizinga, In the Shadow of Tomorrow (New York: Norton, 1936); Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play Element in Culture (Boston: Beacon, 1955 [1944]), p. 177.
20. T. S. Eliot, Notes towards the Definition of Culture, published with The Idea of a Christian Society as Christianity and Culture (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1968), p. 184. Abbreviated in the text as CC.
21. Dwight Macdonald, “A Theory of Popular Culture,” Politics, 1 (February 1944), pp. 20 ff. In revised versions, Macdonald uses “mass” instead of “popular” culture. I have quoted from “A Theory of Mass Culture,” Diogenes, 3 (Summer 1953), reprinted in Bernard Rosenberg and David Manning White, eds., Mass Culture: The Popular Arts in America (Glencoe, 111., The Free Press, 1957), p. 60.
22. Though he did not invent these terms, Russell Lynes’s “Lowbrow, Middlebrow, and Highbrow” was first published in Harper’s Magazine in 1949 and reprinted in The Tastemakers (New York: Harper, 1953). G. M. Young’s “The New Cortegiano” is in Daylight and Champaign (London: Jonathan Cape, 1937).
23. I cannot resist saying that, if G. M. Young’s “sniffbrow” was ever applicable to an opinion, it is to this one of Eliot’s. See Young’s “The New Cortegiano” for an able defense of the middle ranges of the cultural spectrum, in Daylight and Champaign, pp. 140–59.
24. Raymond Williams, Culture and Society, 1780–1950 (New York: Harper and Row, 1966 [1958]), p. 234.
25. William M. Chace, The Political Identities of Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1973). See also John R. Harrison, The Reactionaries (New York: Schocken, 1966). There is a good account of “elite” theories in T. B. Bottomore, Elites and Society (Baltimore: Penguin, 1966), especially pp. 7–20. Pareto, whom Mussolini treated “with great respect” and made a senator in 1923, is anthologized in Adrian Lyttelton, ed., Italian Fascisms: From Pareto to Gentile (New York: Harper and Row, 1973).
26. T. S. Eliot, For Lancelot Andrewes (London: Faber and Gwyer, 1928), p. ix.
27. T. S. Eliot, Selected Essays (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1960), p. 15. Abbreviated later in the text as SE.
28. T. S. Eliot, On Poetry and Poets (New York: Noonday, 1961), p. 139. Abbreviated in the text as OP.
29. Albert Camus, Resistance, Rebellion and Death, tr. Justin O’Brien (New York: Knopf, 1969), p. 243. Abbreviated in the text as R.
30. Albert Camus, Lyrical and Critical Essays, tr. Philip Thody (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1967), pp. 188–89. Abbreviated in the text as LC.
31. Albert Camus, Notebooks 1942–1951, tr. Justin O’Brien (New York: Knopf, 1966), p. 263. Abbreviated in the text as N.
32. Albert Camus, “Helen’s Exile,” in The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays, tr. Justin O’Brien (New York: Knopf, 1969), p. 134. Abbreviated in the text as MS.
33. Albert Camus, The Rebel, tr. Anthony Bower (New York: Vintage, 1956), pp. 244–45. Abbreviated in the text as RB.
34. Albert Camus, Caligula and Three Other Plays, tr. Stuart Gilbert (New York: Knopf, 1972), p. 14. Abbreviated in the text as C.