It is said that reality is stronger than any description we can make of it, and we must admit that atrocities, when we see them, go beyond any idea we may have had of them. On the other hand, when it is a question of values and beliefs, the contrary is true: reality is much less than its representation and the ideas it professes. This loss of energy is called indifference. Madame Bovary believed that in Naples happiness was as firmly rooted as the orange trees and as strong as stone. The wisdom of nations knows that that is not the case: “We hope for Paradise but as late as possible,” affirms a Christian proverb. This indifference poses a problem or an entire series of problems (Georg Simmel's work could be considered from that point of view) unless it arises from all our errors, spontaneous or scientific, concerning man and society. I do not know where I read, or dreamed, the story of a young ethnologist who went to study a tribe that was said to believe that the world would come to an end if the priests let the sacred fire go out. He assumed that the priests were as anxious as though they controlled the detonator of an atomic bomb. Admitted into the temple of the fire, he saw the peaceful religious going about routine tasks. Reality is rarely emphatic. Rites and customs, for example, reflect the beliefs of a society. Paintings and sculptures show what the society believes or serve to make it believe what it sees. Sculpture in cathedrals were the bible of the illiterate. Is that really certain? We notice that most often people perform the rites without believing in their significance and, in any case, without interest in them, because the liturgy is not a means of communication giving information. They do not look at the images. (How many Parisians have looked at the Napoleonic bas-reliefs on the Vendôme column?) and if they tried to do so, they would not be able to decipher their iconography or even see them: placed too high, the images are often undecipherable. So it is necessary to sketch out a sociology of art in which the art work, far from conveying an iconography and an ideology, is a decor that we do not even look at, that we can hardly see and that is however very important. The study of all these insufficiencies would be a vast program. Here we will confine ourselves to art.

A gap exists between the philosophers of history and the practitioners. Both groups proudly encourage their splendid isolation from the other. The philosophers tend to consider the practitioners incompetent to philosophize about historical study; the practitioners tend to think that the philosophers engage only in “flimflam.” Insofar as one can judge from the practitioners’ attempts to formulate theories of historical study and the philosophers’ attempts to explain historical practice, each group is right about the other. As a result, the practitioners of history rarely ponder theoretical issues because they tend to feel that there are more worthwhile pursuits, such as studying the past. The philosophers rarely examine how historical study is actually done because they tend to feel that the practice is not important for their exquisitely designed theoretical models.

Kuhn's theory of scientific change is founded on the idea that there are minimal defensible grounds for the claim that the history of science is characterized by the cumulative growth of knowledge. According to Kuhn, revolutionary theories in the history of science cannot be perceived as logical and empirical derivations from their predecessors since, quite often, the research methods, theoretical assumptions and the empirical findings of the former are incompatible with the latter. Thus, the analysis of each novel scientific theory must begin with a recognition of the epistemological and ontological independence of that theory's paradigm.

Is the essay literature or philosophy? A form of art or a form of knowledge? The contemporary essay is torn between its belletrist ancestry and its claim to philosophical legitimacy. The Spanish philosopher Eduardo Nicol captured the genre's uncertain status when he dubbed it “almost literature and almost philosophy” (Nicol 1961:207). The problem is hardly a new one. It goes back to what Plato called the “ancient quarrel” between poetry and philosophy, and more recently to the German Romantic theorist, Friedrich Schlegel, who called for a mode of criticism which would be at once philosophical and poetic. But today, when the status of critical discourse is up for grabs, reflecting the crisis of knowledge in the universities, the question of the essay takes on a new urgency. Now the predominant form of writing in the human sciences, it cannot avoid the challenge to define itself according to the prevailing standards of scientific knowledge and method.

Over the past few years postmodernism has been gaining popularity. Because the works of writers such as Jacques Derrida, Michel Foucault, Gilles Deleuze, Jacques Lacan, and Félix Guattari, for example, are now readily available to the English reader, a novel intellectual force is present that must be assessed (Hassan, 1985). Terms such as “mise en abîme”, “libido”, “schizo-analysis”, “undecidables”, and so forth must be explained and their relevance for social analysis deciphered. Furthermore, a conception of knowledge, a research methodology, and an image of social order that are consistent with these somewhat odd ideas have been introduced, and thus must be evaluated with respect to their sociological importance. At first, due to the strange language that is adopted and the nature of the philosophy offered, postmodernism appears to the uninitiated as an attempt to subvert rational discussion.

When Auerbach writes in Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature that, although Homer can be analyzed, he cannot be interpreted, he puts the reader on notice that not all verbal discourse embodies the structure of interpretation. He equally shows the reader that there is discourse which, in order to be read, must be interpreted—that of the Bible and its heirs. Although Mimesis has long been celebrated, its readers have not properly remarked that what allows Auerbach to achieve his penetrating reading of Western literature is precisely the critical distinction which he makes between analysis and interpretation, between that which is devoid of or lacks (is ignorant of) interpretation and that which consciously involves (wills) interpretation. Given the failure to appreciate the distinction which Auerbach systematically draws between analysis and interpretation, it is hardly surprising that philosophers and literary critics have failed to see that the distinction between analysis and interpretation presupposes a general theory of interpretation which applies no less to philosophy than to literature.

The expression “République des lettress” is still used today. It appears in most recent dictionaries of the French language, and it even occasionally occurs in ordinary conversation or in the press, a pompous and ironic circumlocution to designate the Parisian literary “milieu.” This archaistic and pejorative survival masks (somewhat similarly to the word “rhetoric”) the attention that researchers are now according to the older meaning of this surviving expression, and to the concept of an international exchange of ideas that it represented for scholars of the Ancien Régime. As proof that this scientific interest is recent, Paul Hazard, in the famous Crise de la conscience européenne (1936), devotes not a single line to the “Republic of Letters,” while in the chapter dealing with Pierre Bayle he cites the “Nouvelles de la République des Lettres” (1684), the learned periodical published in Amsterdam by this erudite Calvinist, apparently without feeling a need to explain a title that seemed self-evident. For the history of ideas, this notion was not a subject for history. It resided outside the field of perception of a discipline that was completely devoted to a sort of chemistry of pure ideas, removed from the literary form that carried them, and a fortiori from institutional circuits, and forms of sociability and dialogue that “invent” and spread them, and even more so from the awareness that “scholars” might have had of the solidarity that united them and of the meaning they might be able to attribute to it.