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THE MAN WITHOUT CONTENT
Giorgio Agamben
The Man Without Content
was originally published in Italian in 1994 under the title
L'uomo
senza contenuto
© 1994 by Quodlibet for the Italian edition
To Giovanni Urbani as a token of friendship and gratitude
Contents
Translator's Note
xi
§ 1 The Most Uncanny Thing
1
§ 2 Frenhofer and His Double
8
§ 3 The Man of Taste and the Dialectic
of the Split
13
§ 4 The Cabinet of Wonder
28
§ 5 "Les jugements sur la poésie ont plus
de valeur que la poésie"
40
§ 6 A SelfAnnihilating Nothing
52
§ 7 Privation Is Like a Face
59
§ 8 Poiesis and Praxis
68
§ 9 The Original Structure of the Work of Art
94
§ 10 The Melancholy Angel
104
Notes
119
Translator's Note
The Man Without Content
engages in a dialogue with a large number of literary and
especially philosophical figures, from Plato to Walter Benjamin. With the exception of the
Greek and French sources, Agamben quotes in Italian translation, frequently his own. In
the instances in which I have located English translations for the passages quoted, I have
routinely modified them to follow more closely the wording of Agamben's Italian
translations. In cases where no published translation is cited, the translations are mine.
Thanks to Thomas Albrecht, David Arndt, Jennifer Bajorek, E. S. Burt, Erin Ferris, Kevin
Newmark, Richard Regosin, and Elizabeth Rottenberg for help with sources, and to Nancy
Young for her excellent editing.
THE MAN WITHOUT CONTENT
§I The Most Uncanny Thing
In the third essay of the
Genealogy of Morals
, Nietzsche subjects the Kantian definition of
the beautiful as disinterested pleasure to a radical critique:
Kant thought he was honoring art when among the predicates of beauty he emphasized
and gave prominence to those which established the honor of knowledge: impersonality
and universality. This is not the place to inquire whether this was essentially a mistake; all
I wish to underline is that Kant, like all philosophers, instead of envisaging the aesthetic
problem from the point of view of the artist (the creator), considered art and the beautiful
purely from that of the "spectator," and unconsciously introduced the "spectator" into the
concept "beautiful." It would not have been so bad if this "spectator" had at least been
sufficiently familiar to the philosophers of beautynamely, as a great
personal
fact and
experience, as an abundance of vivid authentic experiences, desires, surprises, and
delights in the realm of the beautiful! But I fear that the reverse has always been the case;
and so they have offered us, from the beginning, definitions in which, as in Kant's famous
definition of the beautiful, a lack of any refined firsthand experience reposes in the shape
of a fat worm of error. "That is beautiful," said Kant, "which gives us pleasure
without
interest
." Without interest! Compare with this definition one framed by a genuine
"spectator" and artistStendhal, who once called the beautiful
une promesse de bonheur
.
At any rate he
rejected
and repudiated the one point about the aesthetic condition which
Kant had stressed:
le désinteressement
. Who is right, Kant or Stendhal?
If our aestheticians never weary of asserting in Kant's favor that, under the spell of
beauty, one can
even
view undraped female statues "without interest," one may laugh a
little at their expense: the experiences of
artists
on this ticklish point are more
"interesting," and Pygmalion was in any event
not
necessarily an "unaesthetic man."
1
The experience of art that is described in these words is in no way an
aesthetics
for
Nietzsche. On the contrary: the point is precisely to purify the concept of "beauty" by
filtering out the α
ἴ
σθησις, the sensory involvement of the spectator, and thus to consider
art from the point of view of its creator. This purification takes place as a reversal of the
traditional perspective on the work of art: the aesthetic dimensionthe sensible
apprehension of the beautiful object on the part of the spectatoris replaced by the
creative experience of the artist who sees in his work only
une promesse de bonheur
, a
promise of happiness. Having reached the furthest limit of its destiny in the "hour of the
shortest shadow," art leaves behind the neutral horizon of the aesthetic and recognizes
itself in the "golden ball" of the will to power. Pygmalion, the sculptor who becomes so
enamored of his creation as to wish that it belonged no longer to art but to life, is the
symbol of this turn from the idea of disinterested beauty as a denominator of art to the
idea of happiness, that is, of an unlimited growth and strengthening of the vital values,
while the focal point of the reflection on art moves from the disinterested spectator to the
interested artist.
In foreseeing this change, Nietzsche was a good prophet as usual. If one compares what
he writes in the third essay of the
Genealogy of Morals
with the terms Antonin Artaud uses
in the preface to
Theater and Its Double
to describe the agony of Western culture, one
notices, precisely on this point, a surprising agreement in their views. "It is our occidental
idea of art that has caused us to lose culture. . . . To our inert and disinterested idea of art
an authentic culture opposes a violently egoistic and magical, i.e., interested idea.''
2
In a
sense, the idea that art is not a disinterested experience was perfectly familiar in other
eras. When Artaud, in
"Theater and Plague,"
Plague," remembers the decree issued by
Scipio Nasica, the grand pontiff who had the Roman theaters razed, and the fury with
which Saint Augustine attacks the "scenic games," responsible for the death of the soul,
one can hear in his words the nostalgia that a soul such as his, who thought that theater
drew its only worth "from an excruciating magical relation to reality and danger," must
have felt for a time that had such a concrete and interested notion of the theater as to
deem it necessary to destroy it for the health of soul and city. It is no doubt superfluous to
note that today it would be impossible to find such ideas even among censors. However, it
may be useful to point out that the first time that something similar to an autonomous
examination of the aesthetic phenomenon appears in European medieval society, it takes
the form of aversion and repugnance toward art, in the instructions given by those bishops
who, faced with the musical innovations of the
ars nova
, prohibited the modulation of the
song and the
fractio vocis
during the religious services because they distracted the faithful
with their charm. Thus, among the statements in favor of interested art, Nietzsche might
have cited a passage in Plato
Republic
that is often invoked when speaking about art, even
though this has not made the paradoxical attitude that is expressed there any less
scandalous to the modern ear. Plato, as is well known, sees the poet as a danger and a
cause of ruin for the city:
If a man who was capable by his cunning of assuming every kind of shape and imitating all
things should arrive in our city, bringing with himself the poems which he wished to
exhibit, we should fall down and worship him as a holy and wondrous and delightful
creature, but should say to him that there is no man of that kind among us in our city, nor
is it lawful for such a man to arise among us, and we should send him away to another
city, after pouring myrrh down over his head and crowning him with fillets of wood.
"We can admit no poetry into our city," adds Plato with an expression that shocks our
aesthetic sensibility, "save only hymns to the gods and the praises of good men
3
Even before Plato, however, a condemnation of art, or at least a suspicious stance toward
it, had already been expressed in the words of a poet, namely Sophocles, at the end of the
first stasimon of his
Antigone
. After characterizing man, insofar as he is the one who has
τέχνη (that is, in the broad meaning the Greeks gave this term, the ability to produce, to
bring a thing from nonbeing into being), as the most uncanny thing there is, the chorus
continues by saying that this power can lead to happiness as easily as to ruin, and
concludes with a wish that recalls the Platonic ban on poets: "Not by my fire, / never to
share my thoughts, who does these things."
4
Edgar Wind has observed that the reason why Plato's statement is so surprising to us is
that art does not exert the same influence on us as it did on him.
5
Only because art has
left the sphere of
interest
to become merely
interesting
do we welcome it so warmly. In a
draft of
The Man Without Qualities
that Robert Musil wrote at a time when the definitive
design of his novel was not yet clear in his mind, Ulrich (who still appears with his earlier
name, Anders) enters the room where Agathe is playing the piano and feels an obscure
and irresistible impulse that drives him to fire some gun shots at the instrument that is
diffusing through the house such a "desolatingly" beautiful harmony. As for us, however, it
is likely that if we attempted to go to the bottom of the peaceful contemplation that we,
unlike Ulrich, usually reserve for works of art, we would eventually find ourselves in
agreement with Nietzsche, who thought that his time had no right to answer Plato's
question about art's moral influence, since "even if we had the artwhere do we see the
influence,
any
influence from art?"
6
Plato, and Greek classical antiquity in general, had a
very different experience of art, an experience having little to do with disinterest and
aesthetic enjoyment. The power of art over the soul seemed to him so great that he
thought it could by itself destroy the very foundations of his city; but nonetheless, while he
was forced to banish it, he did so reluctantly, "since we ourselves are very conscious of her
spell."
7
The term he uses when he wants to define the effects of inspired imagination is
θει +
̑
ος
ϕ
οβός, "divine terror," a term that we, benevolent spectators, no doubt find
inappropriate to define our reactions, but that nevertheless is found with increasing
frequency, after a certain time, in the notes in which modern artists attempt to capture
their experience of art.
It appears, in fact, that simultaneously with the process through which the spectator
insinuates himself into the concept of "art," confining it to the τόπος ο
ὐ
ράνιος , the
heavenly place, of aesthetics, we see the opposite process taking place from the point of
view of the artist. For the one who creates it, art becomes an increasingly uncanny
experience, with respect to which speaking of interest is at the very least a euphemism,
because what is at stake seems to be not in any way the production of a beautiful work
but instead the life and death of the author, or at least his or her spiritual health. To the
increasing innocence of the spectator's experience in front of the beautiful object
corresponds the increasing danger inherent in the artist's experience, for whom art's
promesse de bonheur
becomes the poison that contaminates and destroys his existence.
The idea that extreme risk is implicit in the artist's activity begins to gain currency, almost
as thoughso thought Baudelaireit were a sort of duel to the death "où l'artiste crie de
frayeur avant d'être vaincu" ("where the artist cries out in fright before being defeated");
and to prove how little this idea is merely one metaphor among those forming the
"properties" of the "literary histrio,' it suffices to quote what Hölderlin wrote on the brink of
madness: "I fear that I might end like the old Tantalus who received more from the Gods
than he could take," and "I may say that Apollo struck me.''
8
Or the note found in Van
Gogh's pocket on the day of his death: "Well, as for my own work, I risk my life in it and
my sanity has already half melted away in it." Or Rilke, in a letter to Clara Rilke: "Works of
art are always the product of a risk one has run, of an experience taken to its extreme
limit, to the point where man can no longer go on."
Another notion that we encounter more and more frequently in artists' opinions is that art
is something fundamentally dangerous not only for the one who produces it but for society
as well. Hölderlin, in the notes in which he attempts to condense the meaning of his
unfinished tragedy, finds a close connection, almost a unity, between the principle of the
Agrigentans' anarchic unbridledness and Empedocles' titanic poetry; and he appears, in a
projected hymn, to consider art the essential cause that led to the ruin of Greece:
for they wanted to found
a kingdom of art. But they missed
the national [
das Vaterländische
] in the attempt
and wretchedly
Greece, the highest beauty, was ruined.
9
And it is likely that in all of modern literature neither Monsieur Teste, nor Werft Rönne, nor
Adrian Leverkühn would disagree with him, but only a character with such seemingly
hopeless bad taste as Romain Rolland's Jean Christophe.
Everything, then, leads one to think that if today we gave the artists themselves the task
of judging whether art should be allowed in the city, they would judge from their own
experience and agree with Plato on the necessity of banishing it. If this is true, then the
entrance of art into the aesthetic dimensionand the understanding of it starting from the
α
ἴ
σθησις of the spectatoris not as innocent and natural a phenomenon as we commonly
think. Perhaps nothing is more urgentif we really want to engage the problem of art in
our timethan a
destruction
of aesthetics that would, by clearing away what is usually
taken for granted, allow us to bring into question the very meaning of aesthetics as the
science of the work of art. The question, however, is whether the time is ripe for such a
destruction
, or whether instead the consequence of such an act would not be the loss of
any possible horizon for the understanding of the work of art and the creation of an abyss
in front of it that could only be crossed with a radical leap. But perhaps just such a loss
and such an abyss are what we most need if we want the work of art to reacquire its
original stature. And if it is true that the fundamental architectural problem becomes
visible only in the house ravaged by fire, then perhaps we are today in a privileged
position to understand the authentic significance of the Western aesthetic project.
Fourteen years before Nietzsche published the third essay of the
Genealogy of Morals
, a
poet, whose word remains inscribed like a Medusa's head in the destiny of Western art,
had asked poetry neither to produce beautiful works nor to respond to a disinterested
aesthetic ideal, but to change man's life and reopen the gates of Eden for him. In this
experience, in which
la magique étude du bonheur
(the magical study of happiness)
obscures all other design to the point of becoming the sole fatality of poetry and life,
Rimbaud had encountered Terror. Thus the "embarkation for the island of Cythera" of
modern art was to lead the artist not to the promised happiness but to a competition with
the Most Uncanny, with the divine terror that had driven Plato to banish the poets from his
city. Only if understood as the final moment of this ongoing process, through which art
purifies itself of the spectator to find itself faced by an absolute threat, does Nietzsche's
invocation in the preface to the
Gay Science
acquire all its enigmatic meaning: "Ah, if you
could really understand why we of all people need art . . . ," but "another kind of art . . .
an art for artists, for artists only!"
10
§2 Frenhofer and His Double
How can art, this most innocent of occupations, pit man against Terror? In
Les fleurs de
Tarbes,
Jean Paulhan takes as his premise a fundamental ambiguity in languagenamely,
the fact that it is constituted on the one hand by signs that are perceived by the senses,
and on the other by ideas associated with these signs in such a way as to be immediately
evoked by themand makes a distinction between two kinds of writers. There are the
Rhetoricians, who dissolve all meaning into form and make form into the sole law of
literature, and the Terrorists, who refuse to bend to this law and instead pursue the
opposite dream of a language that would be nothing but meaning, of a thought in whose
flame the sign would be fully consumed, putting the writer face to face with the Absolute.
The Terrorist is a misologist, and does not recognize in the drop of water that remains on
his fingertips the sea in which he thought he had immersed himself; the Rhetorician looks
to the words and appears to distrust thought.
That the work of art is something other than what is simple in it is almost too obvious. This
is what the Greeks expressed with the concept of allegory: the work of art
ἄ
λλο
ἀ
γορεύει,
communicates something else, is something other than the material that contains it.
1
But
there are objectsfor example, a block of stone, a drop of water, and generally all natural
objectsin which form seems to be determined and almost canceled out by matter, and
other objectsa vase, a spade, or any other manmade objectin which form seems to be
what determines matter. The dream of the Terror is to create works that are in the world
in the same way as the block of stone or the drop of water; it is the dream of a product
that exists according to the statute of the thing. "Les chefsd'oeuvres sont bêtes," wrote
Flaubert; "ils ont la mine tranquille comme les productions mêmes de la nature, comme les
grands animaux et les montagnes" ("Masterpieces are stupid: they have placid faces like
the very products of nature, like big animals and mountains"); and Degas, Valéry writes,
used to say "C'est plat comme la belle peinture!" ("It's just as dull as beautiful painting!").
2
The painter Frenhofer, in Balzac
The Unknown Masterpiece
, is the perfect type of the
Terrorist. Frenhofer has attempted for ten years to create on his canvas something that
would not be just a work of art, albeit that of a genius; like Pygmalion, he has erased art
with art to make out of his
Swimmer
not an assemblage of signs and colors but the living
reality of his thought and his imagination. He tells his two visitors, "My painting [
ma
peinture
] is not a painting, but a feeling, a passion! Born in my studio, it [
elle
] must
remain here as a virgin and not leave if not covered." And later: "You are in front of a
woman, and you are looking for a picture. There is such depth on this canvas, its air is so
true, that you can't distinguish it from the air that surrounds us. Where is art? Lost,
vanished!" But in this quest for absolute meaning, Frenhofer has succeeded only in
obscuring his idea and erasing from the canvas any human form, disfiguring it into "a
chaos of colors, tones, hesitating nuances, a kind of shapeless fog." In front of this absurd
wall of paint, the young Poussin's cry"but sooner or later he will have to realize that
there is nothing on his canvas!"sounds like an alarm responding to the threat that the
Terror starts posing for Western art.
3
But let us take a second look at Frenhofer's painting. On the canvas there is only a
confused mass of colors contained inside a jumble of indecipherable lines. All meaning has
been dissolved, all content has vanished, except the tip of a foot that stands out from the
rest of the canvas "like the torso of a Venus sculpted in Paros marble standing among the
ruins of a city destroyed by fire" (
Chef d'oeuvre, p. 305). The quest for absolute meaning
has devoured all meaning, allowing only signs, meaningless forms, to survive. But, then,
isn't the unknown masterpiece instead the masterpiece of Rhetoric? Has the meaning
erased the sign, or has the sign abolished the meaning? And here the Terrorist comes face
to face with the paradox of the Terror. In order to leave the evanescent world of forms, he
has no other means than form itself, and the more he wants to erase it, the more he has
to concentrate on it to render it permeable to the inexpressible content he wants to
express. But in the attempt, he ends up with nothing in his hands but signssigns that,
although they have traversed the limbo of nonmeaning, are no less extraneous to the
meaning he was pursuing. Fleeing from Rhetoric has led him to the Terror, but the Terror
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