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mercredi 31 décembre 2025

THE PHILOSOPHICAL LESSON FROM PRESIDENT TRUMP



Postill magazine  February 1, 2025 by Pascal Engel

 

It is customary on both sides of the Atlantic to vilify Donald Trump, and to see in him the main culprit for most of the ills of recent years: the definitive transformation of politics into a reality show, the elevation of lies to the status of a communication system, nepotism and plutocracy, climate denial, isolationist nationalism, populism, Neronian authoritarianism, sexism, proto-fascism, and above all vulgarity. All this is perfectly true, and for once opinion is totally right. That is also a bit of a problem.

 

Because Trump is anything but a simpleton. He is not another G.W. Bush. The system he has put in place is formidable: the more indignant people become, the more they evoke Caligula or Mussolini with their Godwin points, the more they fall into his trap, because that is all he is waiting for—he has understood that not only are people wrong, but they also like to be wrong. He is in fact, perhaps unwittingly, a profound philosopher. Did he not warn us that he was “a very stable genius?” He had the merit of posing a number of perennial philosophical questions. I can think of at least seven.

 

Truth

 

The first concerns the notion of truth. By brazenly lying, uttering obvious untruths and letting his press secretaries resort to concepts like “alternative facts,” Trump has drawn attention to the absurdity of defining truth as what is “true for me” and the incoherence of relativism. He has thus done more service to the defense of truisms such as “truth is conformity to facts” or “facts are facts” than any dissertation by philosophers who have attacked post-modernism by trying to refute it with rational arguments.

 

Trump also made very clear the difference between two conceptions of truth: the classical conception, according to which truth is correspondence with facts, and the pragmatic conception, according to which what is useful or what pays off is true. He explicitly proposed to define truth in the second way. To journalist Jon Karl he said: “I always try to tell the truth, and I always want to tell the truth. But sometimes something happens and there's a change, but I always want to be truthful.” In other words, when things turn out differently than I thought they would—understand: to my disadvantage, or if my advantage is to present them otherwise—I do not tell the truth, but I am still sincere. In other words, my intentions are good, but my intentions are directed by what suits me, or is useful to me, and that is then for me the measure of the true. This aspect of Trumpism has obviously not escaped the notice of subtle Machiavellians and contemporary disciples of Protagoras. But are they well equipped to criticize it?

 

Sincerity

 

All this shows that Trump is aware, like any politician worthy of the name, of the difference between truth as utility and truth as correspondence to facts, on the one hand, and between truth and sincerity, on the other, and of the fact that it is far more important to present oneself as respectful of the latter than of the former. Truth is a property of statements, judgments or speeches, whereas sincerity, or veracity, is a property of people and their intentions. One can utter false statements while being sincere, and true statements while lying. In the eyes of many of his voters and supporters, and in his own eyes, Trump may lie, but he is no less sincere. His technique is not that of ordinary lying, but rather that of deception. You can deceive by telling the truth, or by not quite telling the truth, or by keeping the public guessing as to whether you are dealing with truth or falsehood. The difference lies in the fact that the liar intends to say the wrong thing, even though he knows it is not true, whereas the deceiver tries to mislead or confuse, without taking responsibility for his assertions, as in a shell game.

 

It is also the bullshit technique, so well described by Harry Frankfurt (On Bullshit) The liar respects the truth and observes its rules, whereas the bullshitter does not care. He will say anything, regardless of whether it is true or false; and he will say it anyway to suit his own interests. If he senses that his audience has changed its mind or does not approve, he changes his tune according to their expectations. It is the old formula for political opportunism. Trump pushes it to its limits, even saying things that go against his own interests, just because they pop into his head.

 

This technique is also used for fake news in the media, and here Trump's individual strategy meets that of the Internet collective, which enables falsehoods to be propagated exponentially. Fake information can be understood neither as falsehood nor as truth, because it is up to the receiver to decide whether, according to his or her tastes and preferences, it is or is not. Often the receiver sees it as false, but prefers to hold it as true, and most of the time does not care, whether it is or not. It is the formula for bullshitjust talking. That is why Trump calls any truth he does not like fake news. It is the pragmatist criterion of truth combined with relativism: “What I like is true, what I don't like is false, but you're entitled to say the same.” This is why, for example, he can say after the events in Charlottesville: “There are good people on both sides.” That is also why his opponents are given names that can just as easily apply to himself: “Crooked Hillary,” “Lying Ted,” like children in the playground: “Liar yourself.”

 

Assertion

 

Trump is also a profound philosopher of assertion. Philosophers of language debate whether there is a norm of assertion, as a declarative speech act. Many consider that assertion is governed by the norm of truth: to assert something is to represent oneself as saying something that is true. Others say that assertion is governed by a stronger norm, that of knowledge: the speaker must not only believe that what he is saying is true, and intend to communicate that he is saying the truth, but know that what he is saying is true. One wonders whether Trump follows this standard. The bullshitter clearly does not. In principle he should, not only by virtue of a linguistic norm, but also by virtue of a political norm—should not a president of the United States, or even an important politician, state what he knows, not just what he believes? Even if he does not know everything, does he not have access to information to which the public does not have access, and is he not responsible for what he says to a higher degree than the ordinary citizen? But if he denies any such responsibility, is he not undermining his very presidential function? Or does he not redefine it, by crudely admitting that a President of the United States has the right to say anything?

 

According to some philosophers, assertion is not governed by standards as strict as truth and knowledge; it depends on contexts and intentions, and saying is not governed by any central standard. If this is the case, then Trump is, from the point of view of the pragmatics of discourse, perfectly legitimate to say anything, depending on the circumstances. But it is also clear that he is not some drunk sitting at a bar. He says what he says according to certain intentions he has, what he holds as those of his interlocutors, and his general objectives. Even if it is in his interest to sound sincere, the less sincere he is, the less he will be believed.

 

Trust

Whether or not an assertion, of which public speech is a paradigmatic manifestation, is governed by the norm of truth or that of knowledge, the question always arises as to what degree of information or knowledge authorizes it. This is particularly the case when it comes to the system of expertise. Experts, such as scientists on climate change, say one thing. Trump denies it (which shows that he still respects the norm of assertion, because to deny p is to assert the not p). In the case of scientific expertise, there is knowledge, even if it is in principle open to revision or amendment, and even if, in the way it is presented, it may be biased and linked to political interests. But when it comes to political communication, particularly via the highly ephemeral medium of Twitter-X/Truth-Social which the President uses most of the time, how much knowledge underlies the messages? For Trump, and for most of his supporters, this question is irrelevant, because the epistemic standard of Trumpian assertions is not knowledge, but trust.

 

There is a classic American character, that of the confidence man—the con-man—whose most famous incarnations are Phineas Taylor Barnum, Frank Abagnale (the hero of the film Catch Me If You Can) and the central character of Melville's novel, The Confidence Man. His Masquerade. Trump is a con-man. The philosophy of testimony opposes two conceptions—one, defended by Hume, says that if testimony is to be credible, it must go back to the sources of its justification, and the other, defended by Thomas Reid, says that testimony must be trusted by default. The con-man obviously relies on the latter. But it is one thing for testimony to be credible by default (which explains why we are so gullible); it is another thing for it to be normatively justified, whatever the source. Even Christ's disciples, like Thomas, rejected the second thesis. Trump's merit is to have brought these questions, which are central to social epistemology, back to the forefront.

 

Morality

 

Trump's contribution to moral philosophy is no less important than his contributions to the theory of knowledge. The author of the anonymous New York Times op-ed in September 2018 lamented, “The heart of the problem is the president's amorality. Anyone who works with him knows that he is bound by no discernible principles to guide his decision-making.” This observer reminded us of the distinction between immoralism and amoralism, and the relevance of the Trump case to understanding it. Someone who is immoral is someone who ignores the good, goes against what is just, or rejects any system of morality or moral value, which presupposes that we recognize that there is such a thing as acting morally or justly. Medea says: video meliora, deteriora sequor, “I see the best but I do the worst.” But Trump is neither Thrasymachus, nor Callicles, nor Medea, nor Nietzsche, and he certainly has not read Gide's The Immoralist. He is an amoralist—no moral considerations move him; and it is fair to say that he has not the slightest idea of what it would mean to be moral. Perhaps he maintains, as is often said, a kind of poor man's Machiavellianism—that politics does not need morality.

 

The Alt-Right also hates political correctness. This position would make his attitude to truth perfectly consistent—if truth and veracity have no moral value, and if they do not have to be taken into consideration, it is understandable that he should allow himself to say anything, according to his interests, and that he should mock the father of the American hero Humayun Khan killed in Iraq, or a disabled journalist. You can blame him, but you cannot blame him for being inconsistent. But the Trumpian position can be interpreted differently—perhaps he maintains that ethical action should not be based on principles. According to a school of moral philosophy known as “particularism,” acting morally does not consist in applying a principle, but in acting well according to particular situations. So maybe Trump is a moralist, but of the particularist variety?

 

Specious present

 

Kafka said, in his Diary: “The bachelor lives only by the moment.” But Trump is not a bachelor, even if he may be a bachelor machine à la Duchamp. He lives in the moment, both because he is always, as we have noted, stream of consciousness, not in the manner of Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway, but in the manner of his preferred mode of communication, Twitter-X/Truth Social. He lives in what William James calls the “specious present,” the brief moment when we are aware of the present, but which has already passed by the time we realize it. Bergson, then Husserl, analyzed this awareness of time, but the 45th President of the United States is more concerned with the psychopathology of attention deficit disorder, which, like Twitter/X, turns this pathology into a business. He does not insult anyone, because his insults (such as when he calls his head of diplomacy “as stupid as his feet” and “as lazy as a snake”) are as quickly forgotten as they are uttered.

 

Ideal

 

The Trump presidency contains a more general philosophical lesson, prophetically drawn long ago by Richard Rorty in Achieving our Country (1998): “At that point, something will crack. The nonsuburban electorate will decide that the system has failed and start looking around for a strongman to vote for-someone willing to assure them that, once he is elected, the smug bureaucrats, tricky lawyers, overpaid bond salesmen, and postmodernist professors will no longer be calling the shots. A scenario like that of Sinclair Lewis' novel It Can't Happen Here may then be played out. For once such a strongman takes office, nobody can predict what will happen. In I 932, most of the predictions made about what would happen if Hindenburg named Hitler chancellor were wildly overoptimistic. One thing that is very likely to happen is that the gains made in the past forty years by black and brown Americans, and by homosexuals, will be wiped out. Jocular contempt for women will come back into fashion. The words "nigger" and "kike" will once again be heard in the workplace. All the sadism which the academic Left has tried to make unacceptable to its students will come flooding back. All the resentment which badly educated Americans feel about having their manners dictated to them by college graduates will find an outlet.”

 

Rorty has been widely praised for his lucidity, for thus predicting the Trump phenomenon, and beyond those we are experiencing in Europe. But there is one essential point on which Rorty was not lucid. He believed that we should not revisit postmodernism's rejection of the classical ideals of democracy founded on values of truth, knowledge, reason and justice taken as moral values, because he held these values to be empty. He believed that the American left should not return to these values, but replace them with other, more social ones, such as solidarity and “deep” democracy à la Dewey. But I believe, on the contrary, that what the Trump presidency shows is that democracy will only revive if these classic ideals and values are maintained and reaffirmed.

 

It is not always so clear in books about Trump. Those by Jason Stanley (How Fascism Works, 2018) or Tim Snyders (On Tyranny, 2017) rely on the imputation of fascism. They are not wrong, of course; but they are wrong when they analyze its propaganda as well-oiled rhetoric. Umberto Eco said of Mussolini's fascism that it was all rhetoric, and not an ounce of philosophy. It seems to me, on the contrary, that Trump's policies contain a lot of philosophy and rather little rhetoric—he does not intend to persuade. And if we have to fight him, it is on that score. Then we will have to pit philosophy against philosophy, and, for example, take issue with Schopenhauerians like Houellebecq who say they are delighted with Trump and applaud his nihilism. There is nothing to be delighted about, and religion will not save us from him.

 

 

 


IThis essay was originally published in AOC (January 9, 2019).

lundi 22 décembre 2025

Comment ne pas croire au Père Noël

 


Paru sous le titre « Pôle Express » , Le Nouvel Observateur Hors série, 64, janvier 2007


Quelle est la différence entre croire au Père Noël, aux elfes, aux fantômes ou aux soucoupes volantes – ce que l’on peut appeler des croyances fictionnelles - et prendre goût à des fictions : aux contes de Perrault et de Grimm, à la Guerre des étoiles et au Seigneur des anneaux? La différence semble être que quand on lit les aventures du Petit Poucet, de Blanche Neige, de Dark Vador ou de Bobo le Hobit, on n’a pas besoin de croire que ces entités existent, mais seulement de postuler leur existence dans la fiction et de faire comme si elles existaient ; lireet comprendre une fiction ne demande que l’exercice de l’imagination. En revanche, croire au Père Noël, aux fées ou aux fantômes implique de croire que ces entités existent : par définition croire c’est croire vrai, et non pas croire faux. Dire : « Je crois au Père Noël mais il n’existe pas » est une espèce de contradiction pragmatique qui annule ce qu’elle est supposée exprimer, un peu comme quand on dit « Je promets de ne rien promettre ». Mais justement, est-ce que notre « croyance » au Père Noël et aux elfes n’est pas de ce type ? Les enfants croient-ils vraiment au Père Noël et ne feignent-ils pas plutôt, tout comme leurs parents, d’y croire ? La réponse est tentante, mais elle ne cadre pas avec le fait que l’on attend du Père Noël certaines choses – des cadeaux – qu’on n’attend pas des créatures de fiction. Ces dernières peuvent avoir un effet sur nous (nous passionner ou nous faire peur) qui n’est pas le même que celui que nous inspire la croyance au Père Noël ou aux sorciers. Et pourtant il semble bien y avoir une relation entre notre attitude vis-à-vis des entités que nous posons explicitement comme fictionnelles et celles, comme le Père Noël ou les fées, qui peuvent être objets de croyance. Laquelle ?

La notion de croyance est ambigüe et désigne plusieurs sortes d’attitudes distinctes. Mais celles-ci se rattachent toutes à un noyau commun. Une croyance, paradigmatiquement, obéit à quatre caractéristiques. En premier lieu elle consiste à tenir pour vraie une certaine proposition (explicitement, en donnant son assentiment verbal, ou implicitement, par ses actions) soit sous le mode de la conviction soit sous le mode de l’incertitude, et sur la base de certaines raisons ou de données qui l’étayent. En second lieu la croyance implique des dispositions à agir sur la base des propositions qu’on croit vraies. Normalement si vous croyez que quelqu’un est un sorcier ou un démon, vous aurez tendance à vouloir l’éviter, et si vous croyez que la fin du monde aura lieu l’année prochaine vous ne faites pas de projets pour votre retraite. En troisième lieu une croyance implique l’existence d’une certaine trame inférentielle cohérente qui la relie à d’autres croyances. Si je crois qu’il pleut très fort, normalement je crois aussi que les rues sont mouillées, qu’il y a des nuages, et qu’on est trempé si on sort sans imperméable. Cette trame doit être minimalement rationnelle pour qu’on puisse attribuer des croyances : si par exemple quelqu’un croit que le paletot du Père Noël est à la fois rouge et non rouge, ou que le Père Noël est une courge, il nous est très difficile de considérer, au moins de prime abord, qu’il a ces croyances. Enfin les croyances sont involontaires, au sens où on ne peut pas croire quelque chose immédiatement par l’effet d’une simple décision (bien qu’on puisse utiliser toutes sortes de moyens indirects, comme la méthode Coué, la drogue ou l’hypnose, pour produire en soi une croyance à plus ou moins long terme).

       Les croyances au Père Noël, aux fées ou aux soucoupes volantes obéissentelles à ces conditions ? Ce n’est pas clair. Les données qui les confirment sont par définition douteuses, et ceux qui ont ces croyances ont au moins des raisons aussi fortes de croire le contraire. Mais alors comment peut-on à la fois croire et ne pas croire la même chose? En revanche, les enfants semblent remplir la seconde condition : ils agissent comme s’ils tenaient pour vrai que le Père Noël existe, en mettant leurs petits souliers devant la cheminée ou en lui écrivant des lettres, bien que la gamme de ces actions soit limitée. De même la gamme des inférences que que ceux qui croient au Père Noël ou aux fées se limite à des propriétés stéréotypées. Peut-on dire, comme on le fait souvent, que la croyance au Père Noël est volontaire, et que ce c’est parce qu’on veut bien croire au Père Noël qu’on obtient cette croyance? Il est certes courant de prendre ses désirs pour des réalités, mais l’idée d’une croyance obtenue volontairement par l’effet d’une décision consciente est contradictoire: celui qui veut croire quelque chose doit par définition admettre qu’il ne le croit pas déjà, ou qu’il croit le contraire, sans quoi il n’aurait pas besoin de vouloir le croire, mais s’il parvient, par l’effet d’une décision, à croire ce dont il sait qu’il ne le croyait pas avant, alors il doit nécessairement se trouver dans la position à la fois de croire et de ne pas croire la même chose. On répondra que ce genre de situation n’a rien de rare: c’est même sur elle que reposent les attitudes d’aveuglement volontaire ou d’auto-duperie. Mais à la différence du mari trompé qui croit néanmoins que sa femme est fidèle, croire au Père Noël ou aux fées ne repose pas sur une conduite d’illusion ou de tromperie. Par définition la dupe de soimême croit quelque chose contre toute évidence, et on peut blâmer cette attitude parce qu’elle implique un certain consentement à l’erreur. Au contraire le sujet des croyances fictionnelles n’acquiert pas de véritable croyance. On ne peut pas dire non plus qu’il soit crédule ou superstitieux, même si c’est sans doute vrai pour les plus jeunes enfants. Il est beaucoup plus exact de dire qu’il acquiert une quasi-croyance : en un sens les enfants croient au Père Noël, et en un autre sensil n’y croient pas. Essayons de voir en quoi cela peut consister

     On pose bien mieux la question ainsi: comment pouvons-nous être touchés, émus, avoir peur ou trouver du plaisir par le biais d’entités dont nous savons qu’elles n’existent pas? Cette situation semble être par nature irrationnelle et donne lieu au célèbre « paradoxe de la fiction ». Les trois énoncés suivants, qui caractérisent la croyance aux entités fictionnelles semblent contradictoires. (1) Pour avoir une émotion (de peur ou de plaisir) vis-à-vis de certaines personnes ou de certains faits, nous devons croire que ces personnes ou situations existent, mais (2) nous savons justement que les êtres fictionnels n’existent pas ; et pourtant (3) les êtres de fictions sont capables de nous émouvoir (de nous faire plaisir, de nous effrayer, etc.). Ainsi décrite, la croyance aux êtres fictionnels conduit à attribuer au sujet des croyances contradictoires, ou potentiellement contradictoires, comme celles qui donnent lieu au « paradoxe de Moore » : « Le Père Noël n’existe pas mais je crois qu’il existe ». Mais à nouveau, cela nous reconduit à l’idée que les croyances fictionnelles sont certaines sortes de croyances irrationnelles. Le philosophe Kendall Walton, dans l’un des livres les plus influents écrits sur la fiction Mimèsis as Make-believe (Harvard 1990) soutient que le mécanisme psychologique sous-jacent est une forme d’imitation et de faire-semblant : on ne croit pas aux sorciers ou aux fées, mais on fait comme si, ou on simule la croyance en question. Selon Walton, cette capacité de simulation est à l’origine de la plupart des attitudes émotionnelles que nous avons vis-à-vis des récits, et elle est au fondement de la fiction elle-même.

     Nombre de psychologues cognitifs ont testé, chez les enfants, les jeux de faire semblant – « on dirait que que je serais le Papa et que tu serais la Maman », et ils ont associé ces jeux à une capacité psychologique, qui surgit vers l’âge de trois ans, à attribuer des états mentaux à autrui, ou ce que l’on appelle une « théorie de l’esprit ». C’est de cette capacité notamment que semblent privés les enfants autistes. Selon les partisans de l’idée que la simulation mentale ou une forme d’empathie émotionnelle est à la base de la capacité à attribuer à autrui de états mentaux, c’est celle-ci, et non pas une forme de compétence théorique, qui est à l’origine de notre aptitude à comprendre des histoires à propos des autres, et aussi de nous raconter à nous-mêmes des histoires. L’avantage de l’explication en termes de faire-semblant est qu’elle nous évite d’avoir à attribuer des croyances, donc des propositions crues, à ceux qui croient au Père Noël ou aux fées. Le véritable ressort de leur attitude psychologique est plutôt d’ordre émotionnel. Il ne s’agit pas de dire des choses vraies ou fausses à propos des entités fictives, mais plutôt de raconter des choses sur elles, en se mettant à la place de ceux qui auraient confiance en ces entités. En fait on aurait ici affaire bien plus à un croire en , qui est une forme de confiance ou de foi, qu’à une forme de croire que, au sens d’une croyance propositionnelle répondant à des critères intellectuels. Une autre indication qu’on n’a pas affaire à des croyances proprement dites est qu’il n’est même pas clair que les gens qui croient au Père Noël ou aux fées sachent exactement ce qu’ils croient. Croient-ils que les fées vivent dans les bois ou dans les villes? Quelles sont de très jolies créatures ou au contraire que certaines peuvent être vilaines ? Croient-ils que le Père Noël porte des caleçons longs ou plutôt des sous-vêtements Dim ? Que Babar a un numéro de sécurité sociale ? Il en va ainsi des êtres de fiction : la liste des propriétés qu’on peut leur attribuer est indéfinie. Sherlock Holmes habite Baker Street, est célibataire et opiomane. Mais la liste s’arrête-telle là ? A-t-il des bretelles ou une ceinture ? Achète-t-il ses chaussures chez un bottier de Bond Street ou chez Harrod’s ? Le propre de la fiction - du moins la fiction littéraire - est qu’elle demeure ouverte à ces possibilités qu’elle n’explicite pas (mon neveu m’a dit un jour : « Madame Bovary, c’est nul, on sait même pas à quoi elle ressemble »).

     Les croyances fictionnelles sont donc semblables aux attitudes que le lecteur adopte vis-à-vis des êtres de fiction. Comme celles-ci, elles n’impliquent pas une véritable adhésion, mais à la différence de celles-ci cette adhésion est revendiquée et simulée. Les croyances fictionnelles n’impliquent pas de dispositions à agir ni der trames inférentielles spécifiques. Elles n’impliquent pas un tenir-pour-vrai, mais une capacité à entretenir des hypothèses. Elles sont en fait comme les croyances hypothétiques que nous imaginons quand nous interprétons un énoncé conditionnel irréel : « Si ceci avait lieu, alors cela serait le cas ». L’antécédent de ce conditionnel n’est pas quelque chose qui est cru : c’est une croyance suspendue.

Peut-on étendre aux croyances religieuses les caractéristiques de ces quasi croyances fictionnelles? Tout comme celles-ci, les croyances religieuses portent sur des propriétés et des entités dont l’existence ne peut faire l’objet d’une vérification ou d’une preuve au sens ordinaire. Mais l’analogie s’arrête là, car le croyant ne traite pas sa croyance comme une fiction. Qu’il adopte la posture de la foi et refuse de donner des raisons à ses croyances, ou qu’il adopte celle de la connaissance et cherche – par le dogme, le raisonnement et la révélation – des preuves de sa croyance, il est tout ce contraire – tout au moins de son propre point de vue – de quelqu’un qui se raconte des histoires. Il vise à affirmer quelque chose, et à connaître, par sa foi, une certaine réalité. Les critiques de la religion et les défenseurs de Lumières contre la superstition peuvent certainement l’accuser de s’illusionner ou de souscrire malgré lui à une fiction, mais on ne peut pas comprendre la foi religieuse si l’on ne part pas du principe que pour le croyant sa foi est tout sauf une histoire à laquelle il consent. Quand la foi devient feinte ou mimée, par exemple parce qu’on a tout intérêt à masquer son incroyance ou une autre croyance que celle qui est reçue, elle n’est plus la foi. Il s’ensuit que la différence entre croire en Dieu et croire au Père Noël devrait être maximale. Mais en même temps, un certain nombre de conditions de la foi religieuse contemporaine accentuent le rapprochement. On parle partout du retour de la religion et des croyances dans le monde contemporain sécularisé. Mais ce retour s’accompagne la plupart du temps d’une perte des contenus des croyances. Ceux qui se disent croyants, dans les pays de tradition catholique en particulier, ne savent plus très bien si Dieu est une ou plusieurs personnes, et si on leur demande s’ils croient à l’Immaculée conception, à la grâce divine, au péché originel ou à la résurrection, ils répondent la plupart du temps ne pas savoir ce dont il s’agit. Comme l’a remarqué le philosophe Maurizio Ferraris dans son livre Père Noël, Jésus adulte, que croient ceux qui croient ? (Bompiani 2006) on ne sait pas trop bien en quoi croient ceux qui disent être croyants. Cela ressemble étrangement au cas des croyances fictionnelles : de même que l’on ne sait pas, et qu’on se soucie peu de savoir, si Sherlock Holmes portait des bretelles, ou si le Père Noël habite au Pôle Nord ou en Finlande, les contenus de la foi deviennent parfaitement indéterminés. Un marxiste, ou un darwinien à propos de la religion y verra la confirmation de ses vues selon lesquelles c’est la fonction de la religion qui compte et non pas son contenu. Pour des évolutionnistes comme Richard Dawkins et Daniel Dennett (Breaking the Spell : religion as a natural phenonemon, 2006) la foi est un « mème » ou un virus qui se propage dans les esprits, et peu importe la manière dont l’histoire est racontée, si l’effet est identique. Peu importe le véhicule et la forme de l’histoire, du moment que le contenu est vaguement ressemblant. Comme aime à le dire Dennett : « Je n’ai pas lu Madame Bovary, mais j’ai vu le film ». De même : « Je n’ai pas lu les Evangiles mais j’ai vu Ben Hur » Mais les croyants authentiques doivent y voir aussi la pire des menaces à leur foi. De même que J.K. Chesterton disait que qu’à partir du moment où l’on cesse de croire en Dieu on croit en quantité de dieux, on peut bien dire que celui qui cesse de croire que Dieu ait des propriétés distinctives est prêt à croire au Père Noël ou inversement.


jeudi 11 décembre 2025

Passion structurale simple

 




L’âge d’or du structuralisme semble loin derrière nous. Mais avons-nous réellement quitté cette époque ? Ne croyons-nous pas toujours que le monde est un livre, un palais de structures où de vivants piliers nous offrent une forêt d’énigmatiques symboles ? Ces trois livres illustrent la passion des structures, chez Proust, Rohmer, Deleuze. Mais faut-il vraiment aller chercher des images en s’emmêlant dans le tapis deleuzien ?


Jean-Claude Dumoncel, La mathesis de Marcel Proust. Garnier, 786 p., 49 €

Patrice Guillamaud, Le charme et la sublimation. Essai sur le désir et la renonciation dans l’œuvre d’Éric Rohmer. Cerf, 585 p., 30 €

Jean Pierre Ezquenazi, L’analyse de film avec Deleuze. CNRS Éditions, 208 p., 22 €


Le structuraliste par excellence n’est ni Jakobson, ni Lévi-Strauss, ni Barthes, ni Foucault, c’est Deleuze. Qu’on relise son article de 1967, « À quoi reconnaît-on le structuralisme ? » (repris dans L’île déserte, Minuit, 2002). Mais c’est un structuraliste ambigu et atypique. Son Proust et les signes, paru un an avant les Éléments de sémiologie et le Sur Racine de Barthes (1965), a été souvent compris comme un manifeste structuraliste. Mais le structuralisme est essentiellement un nominalisme, et il appelle une sémiotique, discipline qu’on comprend souvent comme dissociée de toute ontologie et de toute référence à un monde extra-verbal. Or Deleuze ne proposait en rien une lecture nominaliste de Proust et il liait explicitement sémiotique et ontologie. Il voyait en Proust un platonicien, à la recherche d’Idées et d’Essences, et il s’intéressait tout autant à la production des signes qu’à leur interprétation. Il ne cherchait pas des structures, au sens d’images dans le tapis. Il traitait Proust comme un philosophe, et ses personnages, lieux et situations comme autant d’incarnations de concepts (bergsoniens). Il était structuraliste, mais pas, comme la plupart de ses contemporains, structuraliste de l’espace, mais structuraliste du temps. Son chiffrement de Proust, et de tant d’autres auteurs qu’il discuta, était basé sur des structures bergsoniennes. Il y a la durée, qui est qualitative, et qui est raison du temps et du mouvement, et que nous saisissons dans l’intuition. Les structures sont dynamiques, elles sont faites de forces et d’intensités.

 

En bon deleuzien (il a consacré mainte étude au Maître), Jean-Claude Dumoncel part du livre de Deleuze sur Proust, et sa division des signes (signes de l’art, impressions et réminiscences, signes de l’amour, signes de la mondanité), mais il entend aller plus loin, en reconstruisant la Recherche, selon une formule de Barthes dans « Proust et les noms », comme « une mathesis générale, le mandala de toute cosmogonie littéraire ». Il vise à reconstruire cette mathesis, prenant au sérieux (c’est-à-dire au pied de la lettre) les métaphores mathématiques telles que « la plus émouvante des géométries » ou « algèbre des batailles », trouvant chez lui toute une logique modale des possibles, une logique du temps, une théorie des graphes, un traité des sections coniques enté sur le fameux cône bergsonien de Matière et mémoire, et ne cesse de plonger dans le texte de Proust des problématiques comme celle de l’identité personnelle selon Derek Parfit et, en fait, toute la philosophie de Platon à Whitehead et Deleuze. Charlus, les Guermantes, Saint-Loup, Albertine, Swann  et  Marcel tournent dans une grande farandole mathématico-logique aux côtés de Leibniz, Arthur Prior, Russell ou Hintikka.

Que penser de ce livre foisonnant et follement érudit ? Quand on le lit comme une sorte de répertoire raisonné et raisonnant des lieux, personnes et thèmes proustiens, réordonné selon des plans géométriques, l’exercice est fastidieux mais instructif, et il incite souvent à revisiter la Recherche, et il y a du charme et des trouvailles étonnantes dans les marottes du professeur Dumoncel. Mais si on le lit comme un ouvrage destiné à nous donner le chiffre caché de l’œuvre, il fait plutôt penser au projet de ce personnage de fou littéraire des Enfants du limon qui, pour trouver la quadrature du cercle, avait entrepris de mesurer toutes les margelles de puits, toutes les bouches d’égout, tous les cerceaux, tous les ronds de serviette, bref tous les cercles de la terre, un à un,  armé de son double décimètre.

 

Jean-Claude Dumoncel, La mathesis de Marcel Proust

 

Les deux livres de Deleuze sur le cinéma (L’image-mouvement et L’image-temps) ont beaucoup stimulé les critiques de cinéma et toutes sortes de fous philosophiques. Mais, souvent, ce sont plutôt des livres de métaphysique bergsonienne et deleuzienne illustrés par des exemples filmiques que des livres qui offriraient une méthode de lecture des œuvres cinématographiques. Jean-Pierre Ezquenazi propose, quant à lui,  une telle méthode. Selon son préfacier, Pierre Montebello, il ne s’agit pas de lire le cinéma à travers les concepts bergsoniens, mais bien plus de « reterritorialiser les concepts deleuziens sur le cinéma » : dramatisation, rythme, singularité, plissements, bifurcations. Cela veut dire, nous dit l’auteur, faire du cinéma un espace de tension, de forces, d’intensités. Mais à supposer qu’on comprenne ce que cela veut dire, cela nous donne-t-il une méthode de lecture ? Deleuze traite du cinéma comme composition de mouvements, idée intéressante et qu’il a brillamment mise en œuvre, mais j’avoue n’avoir jamais bien compris comment les mots-valises deleuziens comme « pensée mouvement » ou des notions comme celle de « dramatisation » ou de « plissement » pouvaient être appliqués à l’analyse de film. L’auteur donne des analyses « deleuziennes » de Kubrick (Barry Lindon) et de Cassavetes (The Killing of a Chinese Bookie) mais elles me semblent plus faire écho aux concepts bergsono-deleuziens que proposer une méthode (Ezquanazi donne en exemple l’analyse d’une séquence des Oiseaux par Raymond Bellour (Cahiers du Cinéma, 216, 1969), qui, elle, donne un vrai paradigme de méthode). Deleuze aime à citer Peirce et sa classification des signes (L’image-mouvement, p. 101). La sémiologie est une méthode de lecture, un peu trop quand on ne la couple pas à une ontologie. Mais ici la lecture est plutôt impressionniste.

Deleuze a remarqué très justement (ibid. p. 110) que Rohmer fait de la caméra « une conscience formelle éthique capable de porter l’image indirecte libre du monde moderne névrosé et d’atteindre le point commun entre cinéma et littérature ». Deleuze a tout à fait raison d’évoquer ici la notion de « style indirect libre ». La lecture que fait Patrice Guillamaud, lui aussi philosophe, de l’œuvre de Rohmer parle aussi de géométrie et d’organisation de l’espace, mais ses références sont plutôt stoïciennes et phénoménologiques (on lui saura gré de ne pas trop bergsoniser, fléau de notre temps et des autres). Il entend montrer que tous les films de Rohmer ou presque exemplifient une structure fondamentale et systématique, celle de la renonciation. Les personnages sont tous animés de désirs et de passions auxquels ils renoncent, tout en ayant conscience de leur nécessité. On a beaucoup parlé au sujet de Rohmer des thèmes du puritanisme et du libertinage, mais Guillamaud sonne plus juste en centrant les vingt-cinq films de Rohmer sur le thème du désir transfiguré et sublimé par un renoncement. Ma nuit chez Maud et Le genou de Claire sont paradigmatiques. Guillamaud livre un commentaire érudit, toujours d’une très grande finesse, à la fois sur ce thème, ses incarnations stylistiques et sa « structure processuelle ». C’est fort convaincant.  Mais je me demande, là aussi, si trop de structure ne tue pas la structure. Moi aussi j’ai mon schème.


On connaît (par exemple en lisant les œuvres de Davidson et de Searle) le problème des « chaînes causales déviantes » en philosophie de l’action : un agent peut accomplir une action conforme à la raison qu’il avait d’agir, sans pour autant que cette raison soit la cause appropriée de son action. L’exemple canonique est celui d’un individu qui désire hériter de la fortune de son oncle, et décide de l’assassiner, mais qui, alors qu’il roule en auto en pensant à son futur crime, écrase accidentellement un passant, qui se trouve être son oncle. Bien des scénarios de Rohmer reposent sur le même schème. Le cas pur est celui de La boulangère de Monceau : le narrateur rencontre une jeune femme élégante, qui soudainement disparaît. Il noue une relation avec une autre jeune femme, boulangère de son état, mais, au moment où il a obtenu un rendez-vous avec elle, la première femme réapparaît, et lui apprend qu’elle a observé ses allées et venues, croyant en être la cause. Là-dessus le narrateur, ne la détrompant pas, abandonne lâchement la boulangère et s’en va avec la jeune femme élégante. Un schème voisin se reproduit dans Ma nuit chez Maud, où le narrateur, joué par Jean-Louis Trintignant, tombe amoureux d’une jeune femme blonde, mais rencontre ensuite Maud, une belle brune, et renonce à elle. Il propose plus tard à la blonde de l’épouser, mais celle-ci hésite car elle sort d’une liaison, avec un homme qui se trouvait être, le narrateur l’apprend à la fin, l’ancien mari de Maud. Le genou de Claire, où le séducteur Jérôme s’apprête à se marier, mais s’engage dans une tentative de séduction de Claire, dont il se promet de toucher le genou, y parvient par un chemin détourné et s’en va accomplir son mariage. Dans chacun des cas, le désir initial se trouve satisfait, mais par des voies obliques. Rohmer trouva dans La marquise d’O. de Kleist le parfait accomplissement de la chaîne causale déviante : alors qu’il entendait la sauver de reîtres violeurs, l’officier russe viole la jeune femme évanouie et l’engrosse (je ne sais pas si notre époque, qui est friande de dénonciations, apprécierait beaucoup ce scénario). Couverte de honte et chassée par sa famille, elle finit par céder aux avances de son violeur devenu son prétendant en tout bien tout honneur, et l’épouse. Dans chacun de ces cas, l’action initialement visée s’accomplit, mais par des voies qui échappent au contrôle des agents et malgré eux.

Cette lecture est, je l’avoue, bien simplette et naïve au regard des si subtiles et éclairantes analyses de Guillamaud, mais je me demande, avec René Pommier [1], si l’on a réellement besoin, dans les grandes œuvres littératuro-filmiques (la différence ne compte pas : comme disait Godard, tout est cinéma), qu’il s’agisse de Proust, d’Eisenstein, de Dreyer ou de Rohmer, d’aller chercher des structures cachées. Tout n’est-il pas là, bien clair pour qui veut lire ou voir ? Proust nous parle de l’amour, du temps, de la mémoire, de la société, et Rohmer n’en fait-il pas autant ? Le reste est tout aussi essentiel : c’est de la technique, de l’écriture, du  montage.


  1. René Pommier, Assez décodé !, Roblot, 1978 ; Roland Barthes, grotesque de notre temps, grotesque de tous les temps, Kimé, 2017.

À la Une du n° 48

mardi 9 décembre 2025

AN INCOMPREHENSIBLE RHETORIC

 

 

Monte Cassino

Introduction
 

Philippe-Joseph Salazar, in his numerous and remarkable investigations on the power of rhetoric in contemporary political discourses, has been cautious to distance his views from those of the postmodernists for whom rhetoric has nothing to do with truth. The art of speech for classical rhetoricians had three functions: to convince (docere) to please (delectare) and to move (movere). It was at the service of passion and desire, but also of reason. Reason can only be convinced by truth. The sophists and the postmodernists reduce eloquence only to the manipulation of opinion through emotion and desire. Discourse, for them is only, as they say, “performative”, at the service of action and power. How could Salazar have led such incisive and insightful analyses of the rhetoric of the Jihadists and of white supremacists, if he had accepted the postmodernist view that all discourses are equal with respect to their truth, and that we live in a “post-truth” era? Nevertheless, at some points, Salazar, in his work related to
the Committee Truth and Reconciliation in South Africa has asserted that South Africa is not only a springboard for the study of the rhetoric of political discourse during this period, but also that it exemplifies a number of postmodernist themes :


“South Africa offers a remarkable stage for a replay of the great themes of public deliberation and the rise of a postmodern rhetorical democracy. South Africa indeed offers a unique example of a democracy that has issued from a régime which both magnified and predated European colonialism, a democracy that has broken that mold without a revolution and its usual sequels and without an anarchic disintegration—the two models known so far in analogous situations. This is why I believe South Africa fully qualifies for the adjective postmodern.2


I agree with Salazar that there is something remarkable and unique among the situations which have been described as forms “transitional justice” in the post-apartheid South Africa, and that the deliberations which have led to the formation of a democracy have something in common with the debates which shaped the Athenian democracy. But does that allow us to talk of a post-modern rhetorical democracy, and if the analogy holds, is it a good thing? One of the most well-known post- modernist themes is relativism, which was indeed the chief doctrine of the Athenian sophists. They insisted on the necessity of rejecting the absolutist conception of truth, and of accepting that truth is by essence plural. But one thing is to
observe that South Africa is an “African Athens” and that rhetoric is the proper tool to study these developments, and another thing is to accept the relativism of the Sophists and praising their post-modernism. I think that neither the promoters of the Truth and Reconciliation committee nor Philippe-Joseph Salazar take this second line, although it is clear that some contemporary disciples of Protagoras squarely accept truth relativism and its consequences. I want to explain here that if they do accept this view they subscribe to a conception of rhetoric which is not only absurd, but also incomprehensible and most dangerous.


2. Classical and Protagorean rhetoric


There are two views that one might take about the role of rhetoric in general and in public discourse in particular, which I shall call respectively the classical one and the Protagorean one. The classical one is Aristotle’s. Philippe Joseph Salazar takes his starting point from Aristotle’s view of politics and of the role played by rhetoric within public life in classical Athens. Following Plato, in particular in the Theaetetus and in the Protagoras, Aristotle shows in his Metaphysics (book Gamma) that Protagoras’s doctrine about truth ( “Man is the measure of all things”) is incoherent : if truth is relative to speakers they cannot disagree , for if one says that one thing P, and the other denies it, according to relativism they are both right, each from his point of view, hence we have to accept that P and not P, and to deny the principle of contradiction. This holds for theoretical knowledge, for which truth is absolute, and there is no exception to the principle of contradiction. But for practical knowledge, and for political deliberation, these principles do not hold without exception: one can accept that each party has “their “ truth, influenced by their interests and character, for the aim is not to know truth, but to persuade in order to improve our actions and to reach certain results which are deemed good to the city. Politics is not the realm of truth, but of deliberation for practical purposes, and its rests on the art of practical judgment, which weights costs and benefits forthe sake of a better good. Politics, and especially democratic politics, is the realm of opinions, not of knowledge. It might even be dangerous, or at least imprudent, to introduce in it absolute principles and claims for truth. This Aristotelian lesson was also Hanna Arendt’s, in her famous essay “Truth and politics”(1967) 3, where she says that politics has no room for truth, and may well be sometimes the domain of untruth and of lies. Salazar agrees: “Politics, rhetoric and truth have been linked ever since democracy took shape. Hannah Arendt, reflecting upon the luminous Greek legacy under the long shadow cast by Nazi devastation, forcefully made the point that the Ancient Greek belief in argued speech –  “logos”, what I would call “deliberate deliberation” – is fundamental to any definition of humankind as political. To share in social life necessitates, at any level and in various grades of expertise, to be able to articulate thoughts into words, and to impart these words a “logical” strain, so as to make an impression upon those we address; sometimes we manage to “persuade” them, sometimes we fail at doing so but, even then, we leave a trace of our speech (“logos”) in them. Rhetoric lies, in Arendt’s vision, at the core of being citizens. The “logic” invoked is however not that of logicians: citizens are not philosophers, they do not search for universally proven Truth. In fact – and this is a fundamental “political fact” –, they should not. They utter their beliefs, expecting their fellow citizens to do the same, and to listen to each other’s expression of opinions which each speakers may hold to be true. But, and this is the other side of Arendt’s argument on democracy, truths expressed by citizens must  somehow represent the diversity of the citizenry. This argument is profoundly Aristotelian: a democracy is made of diverse individuals. That insight applies a fortiori to “multicultural” societies like South Africa. In a democracy, in Ancient Greece no less than in South Africa today, truth is transient, fragmented, often community-based, it belongs indeed to the domain of prejudice, opinion, belief, perception (Aristotle, Politics, VII, 13). This is why argument and deliberation – “rhetoric” – allow citizens, and their representatives, to articulate such diversity. The anti-democratic peril of ideology consists, conversely, in the attempt to try and impose one single truth onto the citizenry – as in the apartheid regime, that latter-day offspring of fascism.4 In other words, the logic of the logicians, which regulates theoretical discourse, tells us that there is only one truth, and that one cannot assert one thing and its negation, whereas the“logic” of rhetoric, which regulates practical discourse and a political regime like that of democracy, does not have to respect the classical principles of logic, and it actually had better sometimes not respecting them. In the realm of science falsehood and contradictions kill you. In real life, they can save you. When it comes to the expression of feelings and emotions, when one has to persuade and attract the sympathy of hearers, and when one has to deliberate and make political friends, contradictions may be tolerated, and may be welcome. If a lover
tells to his or her partner: “I love you, and I don’t”, he or she may cause suffering, but it would be completely improper to answer: “You are illogical! Please respect the principle of contradiction, and the principle of the excluded middle: either you love me, or not!”. Or if a politician says “I am your friend. But I may also your enemy”, nobody will balk at that, since we know that in politics the rule of the game is to make alliances, which may be broken. In politics there is almost a duty of being ambiguous and of voicing a plurality of messages. The Sophists were right on this point. This is also the voice of realism in psychology and in anthropology, which Thomas Hobbes expressed firmly in a famous passage of the Leviathan quoted by Arendt:


“ For I doubt not but, if it had been a thing contrary to any man’s right of dominion, or to the interest of men that have dominion, ‘that the three angles of a triangle should be equal to two angles of a square,’ that doctrine should have been, if not disputed, yet by the burning of all books of geometry suppressed, as far as he whom it concerned was able .”5

 In other words, it is not only desirable, but also reasonable to silence one’s logical instincts when one deals with real political life. Aristotle’s view was that we should not mix up the spheres of science and of politics. Although he disagreed with the Sophists about the value and correctness of the logical uses of discourse, he accepted the Sophist’s lesson that in the domain of public life we cannot hope for more than the plausible, based on the convergence of opinions, which can be defeasible. There is, for this reasonable view, still the question of how far can this shunning of truth concerns be pushed within politics. Let us just note here. that classical rhetoricians, like Quintilian, defined it as the art of thinking well and of saying
well, hence did not separate the art of persuasion from the art of saying what is just and good.6 But besides this traditional line on the use of rhetoric in political deliberation, there is another line, Protagorean, according to which the rules of rhetoric not only apply to the specific sphere of politics and public human affairs, but across the board. In other words, this radical line extends the ban on truth to all discourses, including those which have theoretical, scientific or philosophical purposes7. To please and to move are the only aims. This was the view of the Sophists, who intended to truth-talk and to defend relativism in all spheres. For Protagoras truth absolutism is wrong, and the claims of philosophers to defend it is an illusion. Rhetoric, conceived as a practice of persuasion through relativist truth, is universal. Now this seems to be a self- defeat of relativism, since the sophist denies that anything applies
“universally”, including his own claims. But the claim that there is no privileged standpoint from which one can assert the truth, and that one should doubt any truth talk, not only was the message of the sophistic movement, but it has become the motto of postmodernist discourse: one should only use the word “truth” with commas, since there is no literal, absolute truth, but only a plurality of truths, all from their respective points of view. This radical lesson of what we may call neo-sophistry, has been embraced by a number of philosophers, in particular by Barbara Cassin, a stern defender of the universality of rhetoric, who has also reflected on the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TC), and defended the relevance of hard line sophistry in all domains.


2. The attractions of neo-sophistry


Cassin, in her writings on the TRC argues that antagonism between the two objectives of
the Commission – restoring the truth and reconciling people – is only apparent and wants to
show that here is actually no conflict between the two, if we drop out truth and keep
reconciliation:
 

“The very order of the words, “Truth and Reconciliation”, is by itself already a strong indication of a possible synthesis of opposing models. The finality is in effect not the truth, but the reconciliation. We do not search truth – disclosure, alētheia – for truth, but with a view to reconciliation – homonoia, koinon. The “true” here has no other definition and, in any case, no other objectifiable status, than that of the “best for”. This “for”, in its turn, is explicitly a “for us”, koinōnia or we-ness. The TRC is the political act which, like the Athenian decree of 403 BCE, makes a cut (“a firm cut-off date”), and charges itself with
using evil, to transform the misfortunes, mistakes and suffering, to make something good out of them, notably a past on which to construct the “we” of a “rainbow nation”.8 “

How can this reconciliation be achieved? Through accepting that the search for truth is not a search for truth itself, but is accomplished through a “narrative”, and a “story”, the objective of which is to make people understand each other as fellow humans. Cassin quotes Arendt:    “Who says that which is (legei ta eonta) always recounts a story, and in this story the particular facts
lose their contingency and acquire a meaning that is humanly comprehensible” . Arendt is very close, in a certain way, to tying Africa and Greece. She does not deal here with philosophical truth, that of the epistēmē, the dialectics or science of being, but rather with the truth of narrative. Again at work is the mimēsis which allows us to bring Aristotle’s Poetics and Karen Blixen’s Out of Africa together. Think of the famous Aristotelian motto: “Poetry is more philosophical than history”, meaning that poetry better facilitates the transition from the singular to the plural, and its verification through the success of the katharsis. It is attuned to what the novelist says: “Me, I am a storyteller and nothing but a storyteller”, and, “All works  can be borne if we transform them into story, if we tell a story on them”. Under the novelist’s
pen, the term “reconciliation” comes naturally to whisk away, to suppress and overcome, a statement about truth. To the extent where the one who tells the truth is also a story-teller, he accomplishes that “reconciliation with reality” which Hegel, the philosopher of history par excellence, understands as the ultimate goal of all philosophical thought and which, assuredly, has been the secret engine of all historiography which transcends pure erudition. The key to Protagoras’ paradox here (“everyone has justice, and those who do not have it must be killed”) is the following: Everyone is just, even those who are not. They must pretend to be just and that is all they need to be just “in a certain way”. In affirming that they are just, they recognize justice as constitutive of the human community and by so doing justice itself is integrated in the city – in a way, it is the praise of virtue by vice that universalizes virtue. The background of the myth and of the whole dialogue between Protagoras and Socrates is the question of knowing “whether virtue can be taught”. Protagoras maintains that everyone is naturally virtuous and that virtue is taught according to the exact model of the mother-tongue. Everyone has it, and yet we do not stop teaching it, from the nanny to the teacher. This is why Athenian democracy is properly founded as it gives everyone isēgoria, equality of speech, freedom for everyone to speak in front of the assembly. Everyone speaks, everyone is just, everyone is a citizen. Public deliberation, parole publique at its best. But the fact is that some are better at it than others – for Protagoras they are the Sophists or politicians, and one had
better place oneself under their tutoring, at least temporarily. Protagoras’ analysis goes beyond being applicable to the TRC’s practice and to the TRC as a model for deliberation within reconciliatory politics. It shows two things. Firstly, that repenting, the apology or the request of pardon, is that much less necessary since “the one who does not infringe justice is a fool”. The perpetrator who speaks in front of the TRC could well argue that his past acts, even if barbaric, show justice, that consistency is still interpretable ad majorem communitatis gloriam as an indication that s/he did never cease to act as a member of the community, thus attempting to further the transition from a worse to a better state. Secondly, what counts in  full disclosure is not that one declares one’s injustice, it is that one declares one’s injustice. This is the condition for membership of a deliberative community. Shared language is the
minimum requirement for a “we” to appear. Such sharing even implies that one consents to
practices such as the TRC itself.” 9
 

 I have allowed myself this long quote, because it is a kind of festival of postmodernist themes: truth is but a fiction and a narrative, not the description of what is real, but a kind of of performance, which has to be evaluated through its results. Cassin’s proposal is to understand the work of the TRC not as the “disclosure” of truth, or as a report on what actually happened during the Apartheid period in south Africa, but as a narrative which has a performative character and which can be measured by its benefic effects –healing the wounds of the past.
According to Cassin, the work of the TRC accomplishes this very Protagorean feat: exchanging truth for freedom: («Freedom was granted in exchange of truth», ibid., § 29). “Dealing with truth”, she suggests, in nothing other than making a deal with truth, and transforming it. There are, according to Cassin four main elements in the transformation of truth into freedom, which form the background of the work of the TCR. The first consists in substituting truth as an origin by truth as a result: truth becomes a matter of achieving the best result, and the most appropriately, in the given circumstances (seizing what the Sophists called the kairos).. The second consists in taking truth not to be a given, but a social construction, the object of a negociation between parties, rather than something which is discovered. The third is that truth is the object of a narration and of a fiction. Cassin mentions (like the TRC reports) that a fourth notion of truth is present, forensic truth, which she calls factual. It obviously contrasts with the other kinds of truth, for the facts to be adduced in a trivial are not supposed to be the object of a negociation, of a construction or of a narrative. But she does not tell us how this fourth notion is, or is not, related to the others. As one might expect, Cassin draws the main consequence of these transformations of truth: truth is relative. Relativism about truth entails, she tells us, that there is no difference between appearance and reality. But according to her this does not entail that truth is subjective, relative to individuals only. It is defined pragmatically as what achieves good effects. And this pragmatic impact of truth is objective: we can know, by objective criteria, what has good effects or not. Nevertheless, these effects, and their objective character, can vary. Hence if truth can be more or less useful, it is itself more or less truth. Truth has degrees: one claim can
be more true than another because it brings better effects. Truth only means “is better”.10
           The conclusion to be drawn, Cassin tells us, is that it is dubious that truth still has a proper
place in politics. Not only it reduces to what is useful depending on the circumstances, but it is what everyone agrees to consider as such on the basis of a consensus. Cassin quotes Desmond Tutu: « We believe we have provided enough of the truth”. She proposes to interpret this saying in the terms of Gilles Deleuze: “The notions of importance, necessity, interest are a thousand times more determining than the notion of truth. Not at all because they replace it, but because they measure the truth of what I say”. To measure truth, Cassin adds, is no doubt one of the best definitions of relativism.
Cassin calls her form of relativism “consequent”. It trades clearly on postmodernist and pragmatist themes. She also makes clear that she does not intend to reduce the significance of these sophistical themes to the circumstances of the TCR episode and to the South African political context, but to use these as a test case for the defense of a philosophical doctrine, not only about political discourse but about all kinds of discourses, including those which are, like philosophy, traditionally aimed at truth. She takes her claims to be consistent with Heidegger’s and Derrida’s views on truth and deconstruction. Her point is that one does not need to follow the sophistical doctrines only within politics, but that one can to extend it to all uses of language. She also takes Austin’s views on language to be grist for her mill. In other words she defends what I have called above the radical line on rhetoric, or universal rhetoricism. 

      On the face of it Salazar’s project is different. He does not want to promote sophistry as a
general philosophical standpoint. His aim is to show that South Africa lives a postmodernist
moment, and that the difficulties of the transitional period initiated by the end of Apartheid
and the TCR will largely be overcome I one adopted, instead of a “Platonic” approach to
truth, the deliberative style of “rhetorical democracy”11 In that he fully agrees with Cassin’s
approach :

“In a democracy, in Ancient Greece no less than in South Africa today, truth is transient, fragmented, often community-based, it belongs indeed to the domain of prejudice, opinion, belief, perception (Aristotle, Politics, VII, 13). This is why argument and deliberation – “rhetoric” – allow citizens, and their representatives, to articulate such diversity. Politics in a democracy is a contest of words about competing truths. No government ought ever to believe that they have “the truth”. They are merely the sum total of what Aristotle describes as some sort of picnic: at the democratic table we all bring our own food to make the party successful, in spite of the variety of condiments and the diversity of food stuffs. As the philosopher of rhetoric Barbara Cassin, furthering this argument, points out, “harmony” in a democracy is the sum total of disagreements – to agree on ends (to live in a democracy) while disagreeing on means, and constantly, thanks to debate and deliberation and argument – from talk shows to parliaments –, to enrich such diversity (Cassin 1995: II, 3). Aristotle called this multifarious process of competing truths, “friendship”, politikē philia, “political love” (Aristotle, Nic. Ethics, IX, 6). Incidentally, there is a parallel here with the French Revolution’s use of the word citoyen (“citizen”). As a form of address this word replaced the old regime’s address 11 P. 53 « The African Renaissance remains remarkably Platonic as South Africa enters the next phase of nation-building. The executive wishes, in a philosophical gesture of sorts, toimpart “truth” to public deliberation. The Presidency would retain its prudential value—as clearly indicated in the earlier quote about the second President’s supposed lack of rhetoric. Yet by wishing to impose a “truth” instead of allowing citizens to argue and debate and differ and “make sense” of their civil activity, the claim to absence of rhetoric is in itself a typical Platonic claim.” (Salazar 2004, op.cit : 53) 

nomenclature that fixed each “subject’s” position in social intercourse (inferior/superior); citoyen was a way to affirm such “political love” in a democracy – then aptly termed “republic”, i.e. “that which belongs to all”. … The good citizen must then be a Sophist, who can “truly” believe in policy X before election time, then vote for Y even if Y has a track record that does not support policy X. It happens all the time. But why? Because a democracy is not a theocracy. The ability to exchange viewpoints with others, and with oneself, is the very stuff of democracy A citizen need not believe in truth, but merely in the value of “this” truth, correlated with the belief in deliberation, rhetoric, argument – which relativizes all truths and, as Arendt puts it, make you see the world (the political world) through someone else’s words. Democracy is the art of conversation”.12

 No one can dispute that in a democracy this kind of pluralism is not only a matter of fact, but also a requirement. But does it allow to put, as the postmodernists are keen to do, quotations marks around the word “truth”? I find this very dubious. The whole problem is: when the rhetoricians claim that truth and reason have no place in politics, because it is realm of passions and conflict, do they really mean that we can at all get rid of truth and reason at all?


3. Sophistic rhetoric is incomprehensible


     Cassin writes in the style of the hermeneutical commentary, mostly from Plato, Aristotle, the Sophists, which are supposed to exemplify the various postmodernists themes. What we get are more a series of slogans the purpose of which is to tie the contemporary political situation to the history of these debates in Ancient philosophy, in the kind of deconstructive style with which Derrida has made us familiar. Cassin’s view does not call for objections, if only because her prose is completely devoid of arguments. If it did contain arguments, the objections would be the familiar ones which have been raised since Plato against Protagoras and relativism, which have been rehearsed ad nauseam. 13 Moreover, Cassin is well aware that relativism has been shown, in all of its versions, self-refuting. But this traditional objection that relativism is logically incoherent, has never been accepted by relativists, because they reject the idea that logic could regulate speech. 

   I find Cassin’s defense of rhetoric simply incomprehensible. By “incomprehensible” I do not mean nonsensical, in the way Sokal and Bricmont have denounced the “fashionable nonsense” of many French
philosophers to whom Cassin is sympathetic14. Indeed, Cassin’s inherits many of the features of the Heideggerian jargon, supplemented by bits of Lacan. Heideggerese, Lacanese , Derridese, and other philosophical idiolects, although they have their own special rhetoric, are
not devised to convince or to argue, they consist mostly in a series of analogies by which
those who already agree with the Master are can recognize various patterns which they
approve15. These do not require giving reasons, or call for conviction, but only for what
Austin (one of Cassin’s favorite authors) call “phatic communion”. Although they very often
invoke the idea that, at the bottom of language lie the Unsayable, the Indicible, the
Incomprehensible, or the Untranslatable16, they are not incomprehensible if one masters the
vocabulary of the idiolects and accepts to play their game. Nevertheless it is undeniable that
certain claims are made, that certain analogies are drawn, on the basis of textual hermeneutics,
and that certain theses are asserted, about truth, meaning, interpretation and the power of
sophistry. These are these theses which I find incomprehensible, when one tries to understand
them in the flattest and most common sense terms.
When I say that the neo-sophist’s claims are incomprehensible, I do not intend to impose
by force the authority of common sense on philosophical claims. This authority was indeed
recognized by the Sophists, and Cassin follows them in her characterization of rhetoric as the
art of speech. The sophist intends to speak the voice of common sense against the
philosophers. Gorgias and Protagoras insist that the notion of truth defended by the
philosophers, either the Platonic notion of a purely intelligible truth world, situated out the
sensible world, makes no sense for the ordinary citizen. The sophists do not deny that we have
an ordinary notion of truth, but they take it to be interpreted according to relativist standards.
So let us assume that there is such an ordinary notion of truth, and that in such neo-sophist
claims that “truth is relative”, “truth has been replaced by freedom”, or “rhetoric must replace
truth-talk”, truth is to be understood in the most straightforward sense. If this is so, the notion
of truth does not make sense.
The ordinary notion of truth is central to our system of communication. According to
Bernard Williams’ useful image17, it is part of a triangle of intrinsically related notions: belief,
assertion and truth. In ordinary communication, we express our beliefs through sentences by
asserting these. In assertions we express our belief that the sentences that we utter or write are
true. We actually represent ourselves as saying something true, which we believe, and we
expect others to recognize this: communication would not function if they did not recognize
this intention. Now if “true” meant, as the relativist claims “true for me” or “true relative to a
parameter” (or a framework, or some social system, etc.), this would mean that in asserting
something we are merely expressing our opinions, or our beliefs, and simply communicate
that these are our beliefs, without implying that these are “simply” true, in the sense of
corresponding to some reality, or to some objective state of affairs, since the relativist denies
that “true” has this meaning. According to the relativist, when we assert something we are not
saying that what we believe is true, or that the sentence we use expresses a proposition which
is true, for we are just saying something, which we present as our opinion. But if this is the
case it is hard to understand how we can talk of something which could be further than our
opinion. We could not even, as Plato and Aristotle have remarked, disagree, for disagreement
in this case only means that one has a different opinion, not one that can be assessed as true or
false. Not a very good news for politics: if all agree, why debate, why negociate?
At this point, the neo-sophist could answer that asserting is a speech act the role of which
is not to describe things, but to do certain things. Cassin makes much of this performative
character of speech, and takes it to be a lesson of sophistic rhetoric that discourse is a kind of
action, made to impress and seduce. Rhetoric is a kid of performative discourse through and
through18. She also suggests that her claims should not be taken as assertions or affirmations,
in order to avoid the charge that she contradicts herself, a classical skeptical ploy. But she
completely overlooks the fact that illocutionary acts like assertions can transfer a
propositional content presented as true. “Performative”, in some postmodernist circles, seems
to function like a shibboleth. Sometimes they write as if all uses of words become
“performative”, which is absurd, for there are limits to the use of this concept. Austin held
that “I know” does not report a state of knowing, but a claim to know. But he was well aware
that it cannot be a performative in the usual sense, since someone who says “I know” does not
thereby know. Austin also defended the view that truth is not a property of what is said, but “a
dimension of assessment of sentences” 19. According to the so-called “performative” theory of
truth, when I say “It is true that P” I am actually approving of P, not describing any state of
affairs: “true” is a term of praise, by which I want to express my agreement of P to my
community. But this view is absurd if this is supposed to be all that “true” means, as anyone
who in a restaurant argues with the waiter over the price of the bill has experienced: to say
that the sum is wrong cannot merely express disapproval. So if this is what Cassin means
when she says that the TRC , by replacing truth by reconciliation, reconciliation as a
performance, this is meaningless.
       Cassin also claims that relativism does not imply subjectivism because a “consequent”
relativism holds that truth is “measured” by its utility and efficiency. This claim is puzzling. If
it means that the criterion of truth is usefulness, this is right, for quite often (but not always)
what is true is useful. But this cannot be a definition of truth, for there are many things which
are true but useless or even produce bad consequences. Moreover how could the measure of
truth by utility be “objective”? Utility is, unlike truth, always relative to given aims. So it is
hard to understand how the resulting pragmatism can be “consequent”, unless, contrary to the
hypothesis of the Sophist, true is objective.
        Equally baffling is the claim that truth could be replaced by freedom. One can understand it as saying that the ideal of truth, which holds in justice trials, has to be replaced by another ideal, that of trusting others, and making them free. This obviously was one of the aims of the TRC commission. Trust is indeed a very important political factor, and one of the objectives of politics is to secure trust. “Truthworthy” and “trustworthy” are among the old senses of “true” in Indo-European languages, and Cassin often relies on etymology in order to advance her claims. But to what extent does this etymology show that truth can be defined as trust, or, for that matter as freedom? Now, replacing truth by freedom might mean something different: that the project is to replace the value of truth by the value of freedom. But this is a very different claim that the one which is advertised by Cassin (obviously inspired by Heidegger gnomic saying that “the essence of truth is freedom”). The definition of truth (whether it can be defined as correspondence, coherence, pragmatic or other) is one thing, the value of truth is another.

     The last, but not the least, confusion, which more or less pervades all these discussions, is
between the nature of truth and what people think of it or do with it. It is said that since
democracy rests on the plurality of opinions, truth has to be plural, and that only a theocracy
or a tyranny can pretend to have a unique and absolute truth. But truth – the mere distinction
between true and false – is neither plural nor unique, for it does not depend of what one thinks
of it. That it is true that snow is white is made true by the fact that snow is white, not by the
fact that a number of individuals, or a single individual, believe or claim that snow is white.
Truth is owned by nobody, and the fact that some people pretend that it is their property has
nothing to do with the nature or the definition of truth. It is only if one takes truth to be what
people believe to be true, that is their opinion about what is true, that truth can seem to be
plural or unique. Protagoreanism is indeed a form of idealism.
What sense can we make of this budget of confusions or sophisms? To borrow the terms of
La Mothe LeVayer, the sophistic conception of truth displays a strong lack of common sense.
The fact that it is deliberate sophistry does not make it more acceptable.


5 Truth and politics again


There is one notion of truth mentioned by the TRC which I have so far left out: forensic truth, the truth with which judges and tribunals deal everyday. It is indeed the most, and in many ways, the only kind of truth worth having. It is part of what the usual situations of transitional justice deal with. Is it part of the project of exchanging truth for freedom to reject the everyday notion of factual truth? Does the Arendtian view that truth has no place in politics entail any such claim? Certainly not. Arendt , just after quoting the Hobbes passage reported above, shows that although there a conflict between factual truth and politics, the
latter can never get rid of it. As it is often remarked, democratic deliberation could not function if one could not rely on factual truths in the most ordinary sense. But if the neosophistic program of removing the notion of truth from public and political discussion is supposed to operate, how can we save the simple of notion of truth? Cassin defines, following Heidegger, truth as “disclosure” (Unverborgenheit). If this is supposed to be the essence of truth, it has the same revisionist purpose as the project to replace truth by freedom. But the most common notion of truth is simply correspondence with facts, or with what exists, legein ta onta. To a neo Protagorean thinker, this sounds too Platonic, and we are told that this is not what politics requires. We are told that rhetoric is the basis of freedom of speech. But how can freedom of speech be secured without truth? Cassin occasionally refers to Viktor Klemperer for his study of the language of the Third Reich, but she does not seem to connect the power of the nazi rhetoric with the need to respect simple truth against the lies carried by hat rhetoric. I wonder what the Protagorean rhetorician has to answer to Orwell’s “freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two equal four”.
      Behind the Sophist’s move, there is a familiar thought: democracy is the realm of opinion, and opinions can be true or false, so how can truth prevail at the cost of being tyrannical? I shall not enter his classical discussion 20, but as I noted above postmodernists typically mistake the fact that there is a distinction between truth and falsity with the existence a “tyranny of truth”, and conclude that if one intends to reject this tyranny one has to reject truth iself. To be fair to Cassin, she does not explicitly reject the simple correspondence notion of truth, only the Platonic philosophical view of which she believes that ordinary truth is loaded. But ordinary truth has nothing Platonic. It is just that a statement is true if it fits the facts. The Platonic notion is obviously not one which the promoters of “truth and reconciliation” had in mind. In my view, they were wise to keep the notion of truth, even if their aim was not to install a tribunal for the crimes of the Apartheid period, as it has been done in a number of situations of transitional justice in the past . In his book on these issues, Jon Elster distinguishes a hierarchy of motivations which may animate actors in such periods: a desire of revenge, pursuit of self-interest, and the desire to promote the good of the polis.21 Revenge and self-interest are passions which are often opposed to what James Madison called “the mild voice of reason”. I concur with Cassin that the third motive, the good of the city, and the necessity of reconciliation, often conflicts with the desire for truth in trials. But does it follow
that we have to reject the very notion of truth?
      So we are left with the good old Aristotelian view: politics needs rhetoric, but rhetoric does not need to reject truth and reason. Now, as Orwell, among many others, has shown, " political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind". As Philippe-Joseph Salazar has shown brilliantly in his work of the rhetoric of Jihadists and of Supremacists, we can use rhetoric to analyze and describe these constructions of appearances and the blowing of these winds. But it does not follow that we have to take their rhetoric at face value. We can be fascinated by their strength, and by the postmodernist aspect that their fictions create, but the work of the rhetorician is not to praise this kind of rhetoric, but to bury it.
      Rhetoric takes in charge the emotions and the elements of irrationality in human nature. It reminds us that this dark side is always present, and that truth and reason have only a very small share. The masters of truth of today, the media, who are the main voice of politics, ignore this irrational share, which leads to religious fanaticism, and which is present in the story of injustice that whole countries suffer. When this fanaticism uses the tools of rhetoric to serve their ends, the the role of the rhetorician is to remind us of this obscure side when it lies in discourse, at the service of politics or terror or of slavery. Fist-order discourses, those which concern politics at the basic level, where conflicts are in the open, does not trade on truth. It trades on passion and violence. But it does not follow that rhetoric, when it is used, at
the meta-level of description, as a tool for the analysis of these conflicts within their discursive expression, has to stop using the usual tools of reason and truth. 

 

3 Between Past and Future Viking Press, NY(1968) 

4 P.J. Salazar, « Democratic Rhetoric » , QUEST An African Journal of Philosophy / Revue Africaine de
Philosophie Vol. XVI, No. 1-2, 2002, p. 13 – 14 see also Erik Doxtader and Philippe-Joseph Salazar, Truth and Reconciliation in South Africa. The Fundamental Documents, Cape Town: New Africa Books/David Philip, 2008
5 Hobbes, Leviathan I, 11

6 Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria, II, xv , Harvard , Loeb Library, 1922.
7 I do not pretend that is the historical Protagoras’ actual view. I give it this name because it is a full-blown and
comprehensive relativism. Protagoras was famous for his supposed art of “making the wrong argument right”.
8 “Politics of memory” in QUEST, XVI, op. cit, p. 27 , see also her Sophistical practice, New York: Fordham University Press 2004 

9 Cassin 2003, op.cit , see also her Sophistical Practice, op cit., ch 14 , and her Vérité, réconciliation,
réparation, avec Barbara Cassin et Olivier Cayla, Le Genre Humain, 43, 2004
10 Sophistical practice, op cit p. 236 

12 Salazar, ,ibid. p.15
13 For recent discussions of relativism, see M.Bagrahmian, Relativism,London: Routledge, P. Boghossian, Fear
of Knowledge, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005, T.Williamson, Tetralogue: I'm Right, You're Wrong,
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015
14 Sokal and Bricmont, Fashionable nonsense, 

18 Cassin, Quand dire c’est vraiment faire, Paris, Fayard, 2015, ch 2 : « An assertion does not belong to truth»,
« We have to get rid of the fetichism of truth and falsity », etc.
19 J.L. Austin, “Other Minds” (1946), “Truth” (1950) and “ in Philosophical Papers, Oxford 1, R. Rorty ,
Objectivity, relativism, and truth. Philosophical Papers, Vol. 1. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,1991 

15 P.J. Salazar gives a wonderful illustration of this in his postface to the extraordinary document that he has
edited Heidegger’s discourse in 1945 before the Committee of denazification in Freiburg (Heidegger On the Art of Teaching, edited and translated from the German by Valerie Allen and Ares D. Axiotis ; in M. A. Peters, Heidegger, Education and Modernity (p. 24-45). Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 2002, French translation Klincksieck L’art d’enseigner de Heidegger2007). The document is extraordinary because Heidegger explains his project and defends his action, in taking up the Rectorate, in most clear and intelligible terms, without using the Heideggerese jargon, which shows that when the circumstances dictate clear speech, esoteric thinkers are perfectly able to get rid of their antics.
16 See Cassin’s monumental ( but philosophically shallow) Le vocabulaire européen des philosophies , Paris, Seuil 2004, English translation, The Dictionary of the Untranslatable, ed. E. Apter, 2015 Princeton, Princeton University Press. I have analysed this rhetoric of the untranslatable in “Le mythe de l’intraduisible”, En attendant Nadeau , july 2017, special issue, “la traduction”, https://www.en-attendant-nadeau.fr/preprod/2017/07/18/mythe-intraduisible-cassin/
17 B. Williams, Truth an Truthfulness, Princeton University Press 2002 

20 I allow myself to refer to my book Manuel rationaliste de survie, Agone, Marseille 2020
21 See John Elster , Closing the books, transitional Justice in Historical Perspective, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2004; pp. 82-83