Philosophy in Russia: From Herzen to Lenin and Berdyaev. By Frederick C. Copleston. University of Notre Dame Press. 445 pages. $15.95.
The best thing about the publication of a paperback edition of Fr. Coplestons Philosophy in Russia is that more people may discover Vladimir Solovyev, the subject of a chapter in the book, and, according to Copleston, Russias greatest religious philosopher. Solovyev was a friend of Dostoevsky; he could have stepped from the pages of one of Dostoevskys novels. Anguished truth-seeker, mystic sage, flirter with the gnostic quest for esoteric secrets of the cosmos, prophet of social justice, Solovyev would have provided an apt model for any number of Dostoevskys characters. A passionate lover of Mother Russia, he at one time envisioned his homeland as a theocratic polity that would lead the nations to the true Christ. Russia must exemplify Christian charity, he believed, and toward that end, he urged Tsar Alexander III to pardon the assassins of the Tsars father.
Throughout his life Solovyev labored for the reunion of the Catholic and Orthodox Churches, though he believed their mystic oneness had never been broken. To heal the breach, he urged the tsar to journey to Rome and embrace the pope. He toyed with conversion to Rome, but died in the Orthodox communion he loved so irrevocably. His writings sparked a revival of religious metaphysics in Russia after his death in 1900. Sadly, that revival never reached fruition; Russia embraced a new faith. Solovyev was a strange figure, but in that very strangeness he embodied a powerful witness for the Faith.
What Is to Be Done?. By Nikolai Chernyshevsky. Cornell University Press. 449 pages. $12.95.
Russian writers of the 19th century produced a number of books that rank with the most distinguished creations of modern literature. What Is to Be Done? is not one of those works, and Chernyshevsky is small potatoes in comparison with Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoevsky, Chekhov, and Tolstoy. As art, What Is to Be Done? is a mess. Though not excessively long by Russian standards, its abundance of arid and dreary passages makes it seem twice the length of War and Peace. As Leszek Kolakowski snaps in his Main Currents of Marxism: It is a work of small literary value, didactic, boring, and pedantic . Even Chernyshevskys narrator is forced to admit: What uninteresting people!
Yet it is arguable that What Is to Be Done? was the most influential novel published under the Old Regime of the tsars. Michael Katz and William Wagner (the translator and annotator, respectively, of this first full and adequate English rendering of the novel) call it the most subversive and revolutionary work of nineteenth-century Russian literature. In a passage quoted by Katz and Wagner in their perceptive and informative Introduction, Joseph Frank, the definitive biographer of Dostoevsky, claims that no work in modern literature, with the possible exception of Uncle Toms Cabin, can compete with What Is to Be Done? in its effect on human lives and its power to make history. Lenin put it succinctly: He [Chernyshevsky] plowed me up more profoundly than anyone else.
Chernyshevsky championed the radicals of the 1860s in their war against the established order. His novel is a stew of ideas and ideologies that nourished the revolutionary firebrands of the era: feminism, sexual liberation, utilitarianism, positivism, philosophical materialism, scientific rationalism, co-operative socialism. Over it all hovers the Utopian vision of a radiant and beautiful future of freedom, equality, and material abundance. Kirsanov, one of Chernyshevskys New Men, exclaims: The Golden Age will dawn .
But the seed of a less glorious future is buried within the book. Amidst the paeans, to the bliss and brotherhood that lie ahead, one finds Rakhmetov, the quintessential New Man, rebuking a comrade in chilling words: What do fifty people matter? You could have harmed the cause of all mankind and betrayed the idea of progress! That, Vera Pavlovna, in ecclesiastical language is called a sin against the Holy Spirit. That not its radicalism or materialism is the crucial (and murderous) flaw of the program adumbrated by Chernyshevsky in his famous novel.
The Call of Stories: Teaching and the Moral Imagination. By Robert Coles. Houghton Mifflin. 212 pages. $18.95.
The education industry has accomplished the seemingly impossible: it has degraded the study of literature into an arid and bootless exercise. A disgruntled English major confided his frustration and disappointment to Robert Coles: But I never liked the way the professors used the books zeroing in on the text, raking and raking, sifting and sifting it through narrower and narrower filters. Im not against learning about symbols and images and metaphors, but there was something missing . Something? Yes, life. Coles urges the teacher of literature to engage a students growing intelligence and any number of tempestuous emotions with the line of a story in such a way that the readers imagination gets absorbed into the novelists. Coles is one of those rare professors who apprehends something often ignored in the academy: the study of literature is not about symbol-mongering, metaphor-scrounging, or the concoction of outré theories it is about life.
Coless belief that literature can be used to aid students in shaping their moral conduct harbors its own potential dangers. It can degenerate into a philistine utilitarianism in which art becomes the handmaid of moral exhortation or the servant of the merely practical. Coles avoids this enfeebling concept of literature. The whole point of stories is not solutions or resolutions, he asserts, but a broadening and even heightening of our struggles with protagonists and antagonists introduced, with new sources of concern or apprehension or hope, as ones mental life accommodates itself to a series of arrivals: guests who have a way of staying, but not necessarily staying put.
The poetry-writing doctor William Carlos Williams once told a young Robert Coles that we all carry [stories] with us on this trip we take, and we owe it to each other to respect our stories and learn from them. As both physician and teacher of literature, Coles has followed Williamss advice ever since.
Liberalism Ancient and Modern. By Leo Strauss. Cornell University Press. 276 pages. $8.95.
The controversy provoked by Allan Blooms The Closing of the American Mind occasioned many dark mutterings (and a few frantic shrieks) about the perniciousness of something called Straussianism. Most people who tuned into the rumpus over Blooms book must have been puzzled by the term. Was it some new disease, a recently discovered syndrome that caused those infected to exhibit outlandish behavior? What a letdown to learn that it referred to nothing more exotic than the teachings propagated by disciples of the political philosopher Leo Strauss, a refugee from Nazi Germany who found asylum in the United States, where he lived and taught (mostly at the University of Chicago) until his death in 1973.
For those confused by talk about Straussianism, the best solution is to read Strauss himself, a task rendered easier by the reprinting of Liberalism Ancient and Modern, a collection of essays published first in 1968, and perhaps the best introduction to Strausss writings. The volume evidences two qualities of Strausss fertile mind: his ability to sweep his vision across the full vista of Western civilization, a talent displayed in two essays on liberal education; and second, his enthusiasm for painstaking explication of a text, a trait demonstrated in his analyses of Platos Minos, Lucretiuss De Rerum Natura, and Maimonidess The Guide of the Perplexed.
All the essays no matter how abstruse the subject reveal Strausss lucid prose and his knack for turning a phrase, neither of which generally characterizes the writings of political philosophers. One example suffices: It is as absurd, he muses in What Is Liberal Education?, to expect members of philosophy departments to be philosophers as it is to expect members of art departments to be artists.
Religion and Politics. Edited by Fred E. Baumann and Kenneth M. Jensen. University Press of Virginia. 114 pages. $10.95.
Despite an unimaginative title, this is an engaging collection of essays by Fr. Robert F. Drinan, Ernest L. Fortin, and others. The most fetching one is by Cornell Universitys Werner J. Dannhauser, if only because it raises a rarely discussed issue, the affinity of political conservatives for religion, and does so in a self-scrutinizing way (Dannhauser is a card-carrying conservative of the Straussian school).
Dannhauser tells us that the mockers of conservatism have a good point when they define a conservative as one who is against anything being done for the first time. The trouble, moreover, is that it is much easier to tell what is old than what is good. It is also vastly easier to tell what is old than what is true.
Dannhauser scolds his fellow conservatives for not adequately distinguishing between religions utility in maintaining social order and religions truth. He notes that the Founding Fathers, so revered by conservatives, were children of the Enlightenment who were more interested in religions social usefulness than its veracity. He finds the same flaw in Tocqueville, one of the patron saints of our neoconservatives. Nor is Dannhauser impressed with our recent religious revivals, which he finds quite shallow. In America today, he says, unbelief sets the tone. These are surely uncomfortable words for todays pious celebrators of America the Beautiful.
With annoyance, Dannhauser, a religious Jew, states that too many conservatives whose own belief is weak or nonexistent, who admit privately that religion is for the troops, continue to try to teach catechism to those troops . To his fellow conservatives he says, We must eschew the tendency to pay mere lip service to religion; we must grapple with its truth. Amen.
Curiously, Dannhauser notes that religion is no longer the monopoly of the Right. Religion now flowers on the political Left, and so, if only for practical reasons, the Right can ill afford to continue patronizing believers.
But, although Dannhauser doesnt say it, he would no doubt agree that the religious Left also needs to be much more attentive to its own inclinations to value religions utility (for social change) over its truth. As Dannhauser says, the city of man can never equal the city of God.
Stigmata: An Investigation into the Mysterious Appearance of Christs Wounds in Hundreds of People from Medieval Italy to Modern America. By Ian Wilson. Harper & Row. 164 pages. $17.95.
For Catholics who depend upon such phenomena as stigmata to vindicate the claims of Christianity, Ian Wilsons book is an ambiguous blessing. The good news is that he confirms the authenticity of the spontaneously bleeding wounds. His analysis of stigmatics, from St. Francis to so recent a figure as the Anglican Englishwoman, Jane Hunt, absolves all but a tiny handful of trickery or duplicity. The bad news is that Wilson concludes that a change in form can be willed upon the flesh by something beyond the normal consciousness of the stigmatic, without there being any justification for regarding that something as divine. Wilson argues that stigmaticism involves an extreme example of the power of mind over body, in this instance, taking the form of self-hypnosis and post-hypnotic suggestion.
Does this discredit or weaken the Christian religion? Some might see this as Wilsons purpose another scoffing unbeliever determined to expose superstition and mock credulity. Nothing could be further from the authors mind. Far from attacking the Catholic Church, he praises it for evincing a healthy skepticism over the centuries toward the claims of stigmatics. In this, the Church has acted wisely, generally neither condemning nor approving the stigmatics evidence of divine intervention. The Church has canonized some stigmatics one thinks of St. Francis and the two Catherines, of Siena and Genoa but it has done so because these people bodied forth the holiness God adjures us to practice, not because they bore (for whatever reason) physical wounds akin to those inflicted upon Christ.
The Book of Masks. By Hwang Sun-won. Readers International. 175 pages. $9.95.
The opening piece the spare, elliptical Masks establishes the tone of irony, understatement, and poignancy that prevails throughout this volume of stories by one of South Koreas most illustrious writers. His blood soaked into the earth and became earth. The dead soldier had been a farmer and for him soil was life itself. War and social turmoil the Korean War of 1950-1953 and the student protests that helped topple Syngman Rhees government in 1960 form the backdrop to many of these stories. In Conversation in June About Mothers, a woman drowns her wailing infant to save the lives of a group of refugees fleeing from North Kore an soldiers. A prostitute aids a wounded student demonstrator in For Dear Life, and another story features an old man dubbed Uncle Medal because of his penchant for recounting tales of his dead sons war exploits.
Yet Hwang Sun-won is no social realist or composer of journalism in the guise of fiction. Mostly his stories capture small moments in seemingly insignificant lives. But as the author reveals repeatedly with Songil, the crippled bell-ringer in Shadows of a Sound, with the child in Blood, and with the devoted nurse in Winter Forsythias no life is insignificant. Hwang Sun-won reminds one too of the universality of loneliness, heartache, compassion, and pity, and of the terrible briefness of joy.