On intertwining history and the Other

Who is our other? In Time and Narrative, vol. 3, ch. 4, 109-116,  Ricoeur seems to give a surprising answer. At least that’s how I understand it. Here, he examines historians’ use of time. He discusses how they bridge the lived time of human beings and cosmic time through three different reflective instruments: calendars, the succession of generations and archive traces; with the caveat that it is not the historian who spends much time reflecting on these instruments, but the philosopher of history.

While his reflections on calendars, archives, documents and traces are fairly straightforward, Ricoeur’s meditation on the succession of generations is less easy to fathom at first glance.

We certainly do know what is meant when we speak of generations, such as the Victorians, the Edwardians, the Baby Boomers, the ‘68ers, the Millennials and others, and ascribe certain general attitudes to them. Attitudes deriving from common influences and shared experiences.

According to Ricoeur’s reading of, among others, Alfred Schutz, Karl Mannheim and Dilthey, a generation is a combination of biological and social time, hence birth, ageing and death, along with the social activities of individuals. A generation has certain traditions from the previous one, i.e. continuity, yet at the same time, is defined by the acquisition of the new, which marks it as different from the parent generation. Thus, Ricoeur understands Dilthey’s concept of generation as being both open and closed, tradition and innovation, something acquired and yet having a common orientation (p. 111).

When time is added to this mixture of influences received and influences exercised, according to Ricoeur, it helps us to understand the idea of a succession of generations. He sees it as a chain arising from the intertwining of new possibilities and transmission of that which is already acquired. In other words, the passing generations carry traditions with them, while at the same time being open to new innovations, with the dead being replaced by the living.

Ricoeur discusses (p.110) how the idea of a generation, according to Kant, in the 3rd proposition of his Idea of a Universal History on a Cosmopolitan Plan, is the interweaving of human history and the human species in the ethical task of creating a civil society, where the previous generation makes huge efforts and sacrifices not for their own well-being, but that of succeeding generations.

Historians use the idea of the succession of generations in a more practical sense.* Thus, for instance, in terms of history’s outermost limits in the relations between the self and the other, the Shoah or Holocaust, historians such as Saul Friedlander, enquire into how it is perceived by succeeding generations (e.g. Introduction to Friedlander (ed.), Probing the limits of representation (1992).  And archive collections around the world, whether witness testimonies from the Holocaust and 20th century genocides, or, e.g. on World War I enable succeeding generations to obtain a glimpse of the lives of previous generations in times of strife.

It took me a while to understand Ricoeur’s thoughts on the succession of generations, but upon long reflection, I believe, that he illustrates how our other is none other than past and future generations, in other words, our predecessors and our successors, thus implying that we who are alive today belong together as a generation.

*cf Wulf Kansteiner, Moral pitfalls of memory studies:The concept of political generations (Memory Studies, 5(2) 2012, 111–113, ) for a critical view of use of the term generation.


Performing in historic spaces: an interview with Patricia Halverson, Chatham Baroque

(Patricia Halverson DMA has a doctorate in Early Music Performance Practice from Stanford University)

How were you inspired to study music? And make it your profession?

Music was important to my parents and consequently, my siblings and I were exposed to music (classical, primarily) and encouraged to take music lessons as a means of education and enrichment, not necessarily towards the goal of making music a career.

As a high school student I was interested in either pursuing music or in becoming an occupational therapist. Certain opportunities in music came my way—stimulating workshops, travel, and encouragement from musician friends—leading me to pursue music studies in college and later, in graduate school, at Stanford.

Why Early Music?

It was a case of being in the right place at the right time in terms of opportunities that presented themselves. For instance, while in high school I had the opportunity to tour with an early music collegium at the College of St. Scholastica in Duluth, Minnesota. One of the attractions of music from the Renaissance and Baroque periods is the explorative and flexible nature of music. I attended my first year of college at the College of St. Scholastica. I spent the remaining three years of undergraduate study at Brandeis University in Waltham, MA. Both schools are liberal arts schools, meaning that students develop a major area of focus but are also required to have a number of credits outside of the primary discipline.

And approximately what centuries are we speaking of here?

Much of the music I studied and performed while in college was music from the 16th century. Currently, I perform regularly with a group called Chatham Baroque. Our focus is 17th century and early 18th century repertory.

Do you also think about the historical context of your music? What sources do you use, apart from musical scores?

We love to perform in historic spaces. It is inspiring to us and it also informs our approach. This does not happen terribly frequently but we have had this experience in Latin America, Mexico and in historic churches in South Carolina, Massachusetts and Pennsylvania. In terms of historical context and sources, it is important for players of early music to be well versed in historical performance practices. This knowledge informs programming choices, ornamentation styles, the arranging of music, to name just a few examples. In Chatham Baroque we try always to have access to facsimiles of the music we play or to use clean modern editions.

You play on an authentic instrument from those times? What difference does it make?

The instruments I own are copies of original instruments. I use strings made of pure sheep gut or gut core covered with silver. Gut strings as opposed to nylon or steel strings have a significantly different sound. The bows used by players of early music are quite different from modern bows Since much of the music has references to dance, the bows make a big difference in playing stylistically.

Does it sound different to playing on a modern reconstruction?

That is a question which is impossible to answer simply because it depends on the builder and the overall condition of the instrument. Original instruments, especially members of the viola da gamba family, are not very common and are expensive to purchase and maintain. There are countless examples of original instruments in excellent condition, most likely with some restoration needed at various times. I have never had the opportunity to purchase an original instrument nor have I been in the market for such an instrument. I would be delighted if one were to fall into my lap!

How about costumes, have you ever performed your music wearing costumes from that time?

Occasionally, but the costumes were modelled on appropriated dress from the time, not authentically produced. Performing in costume is not something I would pursue. In general, I would say that playing in costume is something that amateur musicians are more likely to do.

Would the costume affect the playing? And how about your audience, would they experience the music differently? Am asking because of a weird experience: I once listened to an ensemble playing wonderful music, Renaissance I think it was, but suddenly I felt their sober dark suits were incongruous with the sounds emanating from their instruments.

It is likely that costumes would affect the playing. As for the audience’s experience, it depends a good deal on their expectation.  I believe that audience members may enjoy costumes because they can provide a visual enhancement of a purely musical experience. But I would guess that most musicians are not happy performing in costume.

What is the best performance your ensemble has given?

That is a challenging question. It is fun to perform concerts and I feel extremely fortunate to have wonderful and talented colleagues with whom I perform on a regular basis. When things go well in a live performance, it can be a thrilling experience. The other side of the spectrum are those concerts that are deflating. It’s like a bad day at the office. What keeps me going are the performing experiences that go beyond the “normal.” This can result with a particularly moving piece, or if the effort of the performers aligns in a special way.  The involvement or response of an audience or the treat of performing in an acoustic perfect for the repertory can also bring on one of these “magical moments.”

Or the best CD you’ve made? Can readers listen to some of your music online?

Espanoleta on the Dorian label (no longer in print but on iTunes). Henry Purcell: Sonatas and Theatre Music, also on the Dorian label. Bach & Before, on Chatham Baroque’s own label. Chatham Baroque’s music can be heard online by searching for Chatham Baroque on YouTube.

Music touches something deep within us, when I listen to music from earlier times, I feel we’re sharing something authentic with human beings in the past who heard the same music. As a performer, when you play, do you ever feel the frisson of history?

As I mentioned earlier, it is essential to be familiar with the history and have a knowledge of performance practices from the period during which the music was composed. For me, performing live does not involve or require a connection to the past. Rather, it is more about the moment—the music, the performers and what happens spontaneously on stage as a response to the connections between the performers and hopefully, with the audience.

How about other Early music ensembles? Who do you feel has particularly contributed to the field?

Important pioneers in the field include Gustav Leonhart, Frans Bruggen, members of the Kuijken family. They are all European. It is the case that teachers and performers from western Europe have led the way as leading performers and teachers in the early music movement. In today’s world there are an incredible number of important ensembles and orchestras to list and many ensembles evolving in the States and beyond that I have not yet heard or know.

What are you reading at present? Have you a favourite author, book, film, play, painting or building that you find inspirational?

I read a mix of things, mostly fiction. Nothing of great note lately, though I greatly enjoyed David McCullough’s The Wright Brothers.

And music? Who are the composers, perhaps from other historical periods, who inspire or fascinate you?

I attend many live performances each month. It is a necessary part of the continuing education in the life of a professional musician. I really enjoy hearing music totally unrelated to early music. My husband and I attend several concerts performed by the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra each year. It is broadening and moving to learn new works and hear their programs in a live setting.  Nearly all of the PSO’s repertory is music that I will never have the opportunity to perform.  I am a big fan of the music of Mahler, Brahms, Chopin, Rachmaninoff, Sibelius, and Verdi.

Humanity and history: what do these terms mean to you as a musician? And what do the present day migrations signify to you?

Regarding humanity and history, we live in a conflicted world filled with inequalities. More often than not, technology offers a distracting palate and trumps face-to-face conversation. I would like to think that the arts and music in particular have the potential to inspire and move viewers and listeners in a way that is new and healing.

On history and the fabric of life

Paul Ricoeur ends his magisterial work on history philosophy, La mémoire, l’histoire, l’oubli with a reference to Søren Kierkegaard’s discourse on the biblical birds in the air and lilies in the field (2000, p. 656). Why does he do so?

The works of his compatriot, Albert Camus, may hold a clue. Camus, too, similarly to Ricoeur endeavoured to make sense of the history of the 20th century which they were born into. While their beliefs were unalike, Camus contrasts the fates of his characters against the sun, the light, and the sea.

What does this have to do with history philosophy, one may wonder. Many years ago, I followed a university course on history philosophy with a brilliant teacher, where we read the classical 19th and 20th century works of history philosophers. While I failed the actual exam, my readings and reflections left me with a vague glimpse into how human beings considered their relationships to the divine and to nature. Over the course of history up until today, it is our changing views of this threefold relationship that constitutes our thoughts on history. At times, we treated the forces of nature with awe, as being divine. At other times, we have believed that the divine had given us lordship over nature or that we had raised ourselves above nature. That humankind was progressing to a higher form of development.

It took a Freud to remind ourselves that we too are a part of nature. The muddy trenches of WWI shattered forever our dreams and visions of mastery. In the Shoah or Holocaust of WWII, we tasted its bitter dregs. In the Cold War threats of nuclear annihilation, very much current in Camus’ lifetime (he died on the 4th January 1960), we foresaw what destruction humanity was capable of. Ricoeur who lived into the 21st century and had time to reflect on both the Truth and Reconciliation commission at the end of Apartheid and the wars in ex-Yugoslavia before his death on the 20th May 2005, endeavored to find a way for human beings to live together with truth, justice and reconciliation.

What our present generation of human beings can leave to the future generation is thus, according to Ricoeur, in Kierkegaard’s words, for the human in distress to contemplate the birds and lilies, and see how glorious it is to be a human being, thereby releasing their worldly cares. Ricoeur proposes: “…in opposition to this ruinous competition … the possibility of a work of forgetting, interweaving among all the fibres that connect us to time: memory of the past, expectations of the future, and attention to the present.” (Memory, History, Forgetting, 2004, p. 504; á l’inverse de cette ruineuse compétition…le possible travail de l’oubli, tissé entre toutes les fibres qui nous rattachent au temps: mémoires du passé, attente du futur et attention au présnt-original French version, 2000, p. 654-655).

Gift giving and the historian

In his last major work, The Course of Recognition (2007, p. 238), Ricoeur sees historians’ work as providing a valuable corrective to the more theoretical concept of ideal types.

Ideal types are simplifications of real life phenomena. The danger being that sometimes one forgets that these are merely theoretical aids. Historians through their enquiries dissolve these rigid boundaries, and endeavour to show the complex interactions that took place, in other words, providing the nuances.

The example that Ricoeur gives in this connection takes place in a discussion on gift giving and mutual recognition. He explores Marcel Mauss’s seminal work, the Gift (1925), and looks further into the spirit of a gift and the differences between a gift and merchandise, and when a piece of merchandise turns into a gift, i.e. a non-commercial good. In this connection, he refers to how Nathalie Zemon Davis’s The Gift in 16th-century France, provides a valuable corrective.

In cases of spontaneous gifts in acts of friendship and neighbourliness, gifts on festive occasions- do we have to give a gift of equal value in return? When is a gift considered gratitude for a service rendered and when corruption? What is the borderline between a gift and a sale? And when an author acknowledges and dedicates a book, which is then sold commercially by the publisher? Questions that have accompanied us throughout history. For celebrations, festivals and gift giving have been part of human life since time immemorial. Sacrificial offerings to the gods, gifts to family, friends and neighbors, spontaneous gifts, gifts from duty or compulsory gifts, gifts come in many sizes shapes and purposes. According to Ricoeur, it all seems to depend on the spirit in which the gift is given.

Despite the historical enquiry being confined in time and space, he observes that we can draw valuable conclusions from her findings: about the different beliefs that lie at the heart of the spirit of gift giving; the confusion between the giving of a gift and the selling of a good or service; and the unintended drawbacks of the practice of giving a gift.

In other words, Ricoeur’s view of history as a useful corrective in a sense embraces both fundamental aspects of history as describing how things exactly were, and how history can provide examples of how and how not to act in certain situations.

Do authors read book reviews?

Would Camus have read a review of his book, L’Homme revolté (1951), written by his compatriot Paul Ricoeur in the 1952 edition of Christianisme Social (no.60, 229-239)? This intriguing question arose in my mind one Saturday morning, when shaken out of my usual lethargic Saturday morning daydreaming by a husbandly voice with the exciting news that I had mail in our snail mail letterbox from our university library.

Over breakfast, as I skimmed through the 11 paged photocopy of closely written prose in small-sized font – my excitement knew no bounds (fn. Seeing certain parallels in the lives of Camus and Ricoeur, my googling found a blog entry by Olivier Abel, professor of philosophy and ethics, who referred to this book review).

For the past 7 or 8 years, I have been ploughing my way through the translated works of Ricoeur, starting with Time and Narrative, History Memory and Forgetting, Oneself as Another, as well as the essays in Course of Recognition, The Just, and Reflections on the Just, these essays being easier to read and understand than the three monographs (and The Rule of Metaphor which I’m attempting now). Usually a half an hour a day on my bus ride to work.

Not having had any courses on philosophy or any talent for logical thought, especially in the early years of reading Ricoeur, it wasn’t a great deal I understood, but what little I understood intrigued me. With an interest in 20th-century history, from the interwar period onwards to the end of the century, I had often wondered how the great thinkers of the 20th century dealt with the Shoah and the Cold War. Although I had begun with Hannah Arendt, something, which I can’t quite remember now, made me turn to Ricoeur. Yet, the more I read Ricoeur, the more my thoughts turned to a novel we had to read as a set book for our French A’ levels in the sixth form, Camus’ La Chute (1956).

Seen from today’s sensitivities towards religious texts, it is interesting that, in those far off days, forty years ago in a convent school, our French teacher, a devout Catholic herself, could present and go through, word for word, idea for idea, a novel with a protagonist who declares that no one is innocent, not even the infant Jesus, the Mystical Lamb, whose very existence caused Herod to slaughter the innocents.

The foggy canals of Amsterdam, along which the Jean Baptiste Clamence, proclaims this good news is the Dantesque hell in which we find ourselves in the aftermath of the Shoah, on the threshold to nuclear annihilation with the incipient Cold War, and in Camus’ own case, also the unravelling of his beloved Algeria in the background. Clamence calling himself a judge pénitent forms the subject of another blog entry, when we come to consider a section in Ricouer’s History, Memory, Forgetting on moral guilt.

Here, in Ricoeur’s review of Camus’ L’Homme Revolté, what makes me wonder is that he, Ricouer, devotes the final section of the review to an examination of the issue of innocence and guilt, an issue that constitutes a central theme in Camus’s novel a few years later. So, the question remains: Do authors read reviews of their books? Might Camus have read Ricoeur’s review?

Admittedly, times were otherwise, and in a pre-digital world, one was most likely dependent on word of mouth or a sharp publisher or agent with their nose to the ground to find a review in what seems to me today, a somewhat obscure journal. (fn. Very soon after I wrote this post, a search online brought up an article by Guy Basset, philosophe, directeur des Hautes Études Camusiennes, who also wondered if Camus had seen this review in Bulletin of Etudes Camusiennes, 77, January 2006, pp 14-16.

Would the papers of Camus or Ricoeur contain evidence of any correspondence between them, I wonder.