Sometimes the simplest forms are the most difficult to explain. Perhaps the reason for this is that one estimates the problems involved as being too simple, too obvious, and does not seek, therefore, to penetrate to their core. Besides, there is an aura of the primitive and underivative about a literary form we are used to considering as popular; we hardly dare profane it by dry, objective analysis. As the tradition of a community, it shares the anonymity of the latter. Seeking the traces of creative and tradition-conscious personages, we find only an amorphous mass of the unknown. No wonder that the riddle has been relegated back to prehistoric times, permitting us to conceal its problems behind a veil of mystery.

A myth relates a sacred story, that is to say, it recounts a primordial event that occurred at the beginning of time. But to tell a sacred story is equivalent to revealing a mystery, because the characters in a myth are not human beings. They are either gods or civilizing heroes, and therefore their gesta constitute mysteries: man would not know these tales if they were not revealed to him. Consequently, a myth is a story of what happened—what the gods and supernatural beings did—at the beginning of time. “To recount” a myth is to proclaim what occurred then. Once “told,” in other words, once revealed, the myth becomes the apodictic truth: it establishes truth. “It is so because it is said to be so,” the Netsilik Eskimos declared in order to justify the validity of their sacred history and their religious traditions. The myth proclaims the advent of a new cosmic situation or narrates a primordial event, and so it is always the story of a “creation”; it tells how something has been effectuated, has begun to be. That is why the myth is interdependent with ontology; it deals solely with realities, with what really happened, with what was clearly manifest.

The starting point of any inquiry into the relationship between Frederick and the Arabic-Islamic culture goes back to the Arabic-Norman Sicily to which he was bound by the great Constance, by his infancy, by his early adolescence, and by his crown. Despite the fact that he was born by chance in the Marche region and had preferred to spend his adult years in the flat land of Puglia, where he died, it was in Sicily that he first formed the elements of his intellectual personality and culture. The first question to be answered, therefore, is: How much of the Arabian culture of the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries was still alive in Sicily after the survival of both the Moslem domination and the political, religious, ethnical, and social crises by which the last Mohammedan influence upon Sicily had been completely eliminated under the last Norman kings?

Holy Wednesday, 1953, was a great day for Santiago, a village of the Highland Maya Indians in the Central American Republic of Guatemala. On the church porch, strung up on a post decorated with lush tropical leaves, hung a four-foot puppet clothed in Indian costume with a large sombrero and a wooden mask, into whose mouth a long cigar had been planted by his worshipers. This, I had learned, was Judas Iscariot—but a strange Judas it was, for, instead of being burned, stoned, or otherwise reviled and derided as is usually the case with village Judas figures, it was cared for by Indian priests constantly on guard, presented with gifts of fruit, candles, and incense, and altogether made far more fuss of than the saint whose fiesta this bright Eastern week should have been: Jesucristo, the Mayanized Christ. The thousand bananas and hundreds of cocoa beans and other tropical fruit, for instance, which the young Indian municipal officials had gathered in a three-day trek toward the Pacific coast, had been presented to the puppet before being hung up among the gilded wooden columns of the main altar inside the church.

Is history at present in a position to sustain the dialogue of our times? Is it not rather, like an album of faded pictures, a curiously anachronistic story for a century infatuated with progress, speed, and productivity?

It can hardly be claimed that the advance in material civilization has done much for poetry. The growth of large towns has curtailed that intimate connection of man with nature which has in the past provided countless themes for song; the pressure of crowded populations fosters conventions of behavior which are inimical to the free play of imaginative impulse; the spread of standardized education does not always encourage the originality and independence which are necessary to creative work; the specialization of intellectual life diminishes not merely the desire to write poetry but the ability to enjoy it. A mass of evidence shows that poetry is far less popular in western Europe and the United States than in countries like Persia or China or India, whose material civilization is far less advanced but which have kept a traditional taste for the beauty of words. At an even lower level, in societies where conditions are still primitive and existence is indeed hard, poetry may be the main pastime and consolation of peoples like the Asiatic Tatars or the Armenians or the Ainus, among all of whom it is a truly national art practiced with a high degree of accomplishment and enjoyed by whole populations. Compared with such societies, our own mechanized, urban world is indeed feeble and uncertain in its approach to an art which has in the past enjoyed great glory but seems now in danger of becoming an esoteric pursuit of cliques and coteries.

There has been no uniform conception of philosophy in the West. The Greek conception differs very much from that of Kant, and Kant's philosophical thought is in turn altogether dissimilar from that of a man like Ayer. However, there are certain broad characteristics which distinguish the philosophy of European culture from philosophies of Hindu and Chinese cultures. Within the same culture, of course, there are a number of clear-cut directions. It may, for example, be pointed out that philosophy, as conceived in Germany, Spain, and Italy, differs very much from the philosophy that has evolved in Britain and Scandinavian countries. There are, certainly, exceptions. Britain has produced Bradley and Whitehead; and Denmark, Kierkegaard. Still we are not far wrong in thinking that there is something which distinguishes the philosophy of one tradition from that of another. This difference is inevitable because philosophical activity takes place not in a vacuum but within a historical setting. History is influenced by the geography of the country and the racio-cultural patterns that have been established. Again, foreign impacts produce currents of far-reaching change in habits of thought as well as action. To cite an instance, but for the German influence sweeping through Coleridge, the Cairds, and Green, Bradley or Bosanquet would be unexplainable. I will therefore assume that the philosophy of a tradition can be taken as a historic and continuous phenomenon with a special genius of its own and, perhaps, a destiny as well.

When, in the year 1516, Sir Thomas More wrote his book about the ideal state, he located it on the Island of Utopia, which was supposed to have been discovered by Raphael Hythlodaeus, a companion of Vespucci on his fourth voyage. At first a fictitious geographical name, the term “utopia” continues to live in the minds of men, although it no longer is relevant to geography or to voyages of discovery and is by no means necessarily connected with the description of ideal states. Today, according to dictionaries and encyclopedias, “utopian” describes any plan which seems impossible to realize; the word is weighted either with resigned regret or with the forbearance of the sensible soul who well knows that the ideal state would in the end prove no better than the existing one.

Cyberneticians define information and the quantity of information in mathematical terms, apprehending them independently from their meaning. When they put aside their conceptualizations and symbolizations, foreign to the semantic content of messages, we see them hesitant about their domain of prospection.

During the past century and a half historians and sociologists have often shown signs of considerable simplicity of mind when assessing the motivating forces behind the men whose deeds they are studying, and those attaining the most flattering notoriety in the intellectual world have been among the simplest. From the early nineteenth century, beginning with the fall of Napoleon, there is a tendency to present the historical disciplines as sciences: the re-creative anecdote is greeted with increasing disdain, and sociology undergoes its act of baptism. The Revolution of 1789 and the epic of imperial France are events of such dimension that it is difficult to associate them with the conscious designs of a few individuals. No longer a muse, Clio becomes a goddess. In War and Peace Tolstoi ironically treats historians of the old school who pretend to offer the key to the Revolution “in exposing the deeds and gestures of a few dozen men in one building in the city of Paris.” The French emperor's gallop into Russia and the stubborn but apparently passive resistance offered by Kutuzov—these are facts in which Tolstoi sees the manifestation of forces far surpassing the play of a few human wills. Tolstoi's manner in extolling Kutuzov is typical: Kutuzov is not a visionary; he shows no signs of genius, but with humble and patient fervor he turns aside all obstacles which might stifle the voice of popular instinct. Thirty years before Tolstoi, in a letter to his fiancée, Georg Büchner stated the case in another good example of this type of thinking: “I have studied the history of the Revolution. … I find in human nature a frightening equality, in the condition of man an ineluctable power conferred at once upon all and upon no one. The individual is but a fleck of foam upon the wave, greatness merely the result of chance, the power of genius a puppet show, a ridiculous struggle against a law of iron.” Men are interesting insofar as they are representative. Saint-Simon, mentor of Auguste Comte and father of sociology, declares that the great men of the world merely play the role assigned to them in historical evolution. According to Saint-Simon, the sixteenth century, an age of theology, gave birth to theologian-kings: Charles V and Henry VIII. Because he is a theologian, Henry VIII easily prevails over gallant and witty Francis I. The eighteenth century, a siècle of philosophy, “counts but two great names among its sovereigns: Catherine and Frederick the Great, friends of philosophers and patrons of philosophy.” Seen in this light, the features of the individual become blurred and shadowy. History is admired instead— history which, often with material of mediocre quality, builds solid edifices. But, faced with the astonishing drama played out by Napoleon himself, Tolstoi merely shrugs his shoulders, while following step by step simple men like Tostopchin or Kutuzov, who are obviously the mere instruments of history. Heine, who went through a Saint-Simonian phase, is amazed that Luther, that rough, gross monk whose brain was clouded by anxiety and superstition, so easily wielded the battering ram that shattered the old medieval world. In the 1830’s Auguste Comte foresees a “history without proper names,” a definition which is of prime importance in the analysis we are undertaking here. But, a hundred years later, Maxime Leroy, nourished on both Comte and Sainte-Beuve, draws more subtly shaded definitions: history becomes a “sociology containing proper names.”

I have been asked to express in my turn the reflections which a reading of K. Satchidananda Murty's fine paper, “Philosophical Thought in India,” have inspired in me. In complying with this request, I would like, first of all, to caution the reader that my aim is not an ambitious one and that my remarks will be formulated with great modesty. They are based, to be sure, on thirty years of intellectual and spiritual contact with Indian thought, but they remain nonetheless those of an analyst and observer from the outside. It is not fitting that a guest admitted into the intimacy of Indian civilization should raise his voice too high in commenting on a statement that is based on knowledge originating from within. Therefore, I propose merely to explain how the data of Indian philosophical history might appear to a mind that has been trained in the civilization of the West and that seeks to achieve a universal view; to indicate where, for such a mind, major emphases should be placed.

The time is past when “myth” could be considered serenely, when μvθoς could be translated as “legend,” or when Littré could define it as follows: “A story pertaining to time or facts that history does not clarify and embracing either a real fact transformed into a religious notion or the invention of a fact with the help of an idea.” It was calmly asserted that the myth concerned formal divinities, that it was the means of expressing the relationship between these divinities and men—hence the historical form it most frequently assumed. But, in any case, it was a matter of the past. The gods were indeed dead, and the stories regarding them no longer concerned us. The nineteenth century, the century of reason, was devoid of myths, and only the “poets” (falsifiers!) regretted this. But along came the psychology of the unconscious, then sociology and history, to give a fresh meaning, and thereby vigor, to these dusty tales incorporated in Greco-Latin mythology. No longer were they a childish invention to lend color to a naïve religion. We perceived instead subtle expressions of the profound and complicated tendencies of man, and the divinities involved in these myths were no longer the simple gods of thunder and of time. Complex characteristics enriched their personalities. They assumed unprecedented dimensions. Cronus and Zeus were cloaked in mystery—the mystery of man. And by a strange reversal, what seemed childish then was not the imaginary myth but the rationalist philosophy that had contested it because of its failure to understand.

Nothing has yet been done, and, here, in the middle of the twentieth century, it is fast becoming too late to draw up a suitable catalogue of the works of human wisdom. We are forced to project for the future the complete realization of our desires. This future will no doubt discover a conscious and effective organization of thought and action—a constant good fortune in the pursuit of legitimate satisfactions through a total mastery of natural forces—in a word, a perfect and reciprocal adaptation between man and that part of the universe in which he lives. All this, or most of it, still remains to be done; but much has already been said in the five thousand years that men have been writing. An intelligent observer arriving from Sirius would doubtless be especially struck by the extraordinary gap separating here on earth what is so well said from what is so badly carried out. Or rather he would wonder how it is that beings as highly gifted as men, judging from the knowledge and wisdom they have accumulated, still make such ineffective and even harmful use of the means at their disposal. The most indulgent hypothesis would be to see in this the result of a temporary misunderstanding owing to the great speed with which human thought evolves. Our observer would resume his journey then, resolved to return after a hundred years or two, sure that he would then find that man had bridged the gap and become as great in what he does as in what he knows.

The bourgeoisie—that fundamental reality of our civilization—has not i yet found its historian. Although there are more studies, relatively speaking, on the period following the Revolution, the evolution of the bourgeoisie prior to the eighteenth century is known to us only through fragmentary research, local and limited. The attention of historians is attracted solely to the exceptional cases in which the financial powers happen to play a direct political role—Colbert, Jacques Coeur, Fugger, Bardi, or Buonsignori. The great expansion of the northern cities during the thirteenth century inspired the researches of Henri Pirenne and his disciples; the high point in the development of Italian cities was studied by the Sapori-Luzzatto school, but the sum of this evolution has not been synthesized. There is not a single general history of the bourgeoisie, yet entire libraries are dedicated to feudal society.

The possibility of the development of comparative thought made the Renaissance an era particularly favorable to the awakening of the scientific understanding of social phenomena. Isolated elements of such an attitude had already appeared, but now their accumulation became of decisive importance.

To define abstract art, which occupies such an important place in contemporary aesthetics, merely as a plastic mode of expression that makes no attempt to seek its own forms among those already existing in reality is to give a very inadequate notion of it. The term “non-figurative art,” which is sometimes used to describe it, arbitrarily restricts its range by stressing as peculiar to it this elementary fact alone and by characterizing abstract art solely as a controversial or even as a revolutionary art, as opposed to traditional aesthetics, which is itself figurative. Abstract art at times has also been called “concrete” or “non-objective” art. All these definitions have as little validity in themselves as those that are made use of in the history of art and are acceptable only at their “face value,” to use the monetary term, because they have no absolute value but merely a conventional one based on the principle of exchange (Baroque, Gothic, Rococo, Cubist). However, they are not to be ignored, since they do express the state of uncertainty, uneasiness, and indecision that afflicts most amateurs and even historians of art in regard to abstract art. At the same time, these definitions also indicate an awareness that we are dealing with a very important and complex phenomenon, enriched by extensive projections into the domain of social psychology, sociology, and probably even metaphysics.

There is no end to possible theories of motivation, with their corresponding ways of defining and classifying motives. Our hero can do what he does because he is of some particular religion, race, nationality, social class, historical tradition, occupation, personality type, or glandular makeup or has been psychologically wounded in one or another of the ways specified by the various competing experts. If we say that he did as he did because of the situation in which he was placed, there can be endless variation in our terms for what he did; and the situation in which he did it can be interpreted in terms of varying scope, ranging from a view of his act as done against a background of one or many gods more or less actively concerned with his conduct or against a purely secular background of “nature” (“environment” variously interpreted); or we may place his act with reference to the most minutely particular of circumstances, as when explaining exactly why Mr. Q., Republican, retired, Yale graduate, wearing glasses, and just having quarreled with his wife, turned his car exactly as he did in the particular combination of factors that made up one particular traffic accident. In view of such a motivational jungle, a good basic proposition to have in mind when contemplating the study of motives would be: Anybody can do anything for any reason.

History, as most people understand it, is the product of an intense effort to describe in an objective way and in rigorous chronological order events which have occurred in past time. Before the Renaissance the historian compiled traditions, chronicles, and statements, with no concern to verify the correctness of his data; thus legend was mixed with truth in confused and picturesque narration. Now, however, the investigator, established as a judge of inquiry, begins research on a chosen subject within his competence by unleashing his critical judgment, rather like a hound on the trail of suppositions. He unearths documents and confronts them, weeding out the false from the authentic, subjects the most diverse witnesses to close comparison, and then with great patience, whether gifted or inept, he presents his thesis to the assembly of the learned. These, like a jury, either accept his conclusions, admit only a part of them, or reject them completely. Thus, from the time of the humanists who cleared the way up to the present day, an extraordinary legion of specialists, as patient as the ancient Benedictines are said to have been, have made efforts to clarify past events to establish the bases of an objective text of what has actually taken place. Hence the work of the great historian consisted in joining and fusing this labor into a homogeneous unit that would be the approximate reflection of the epoch under study.

The relation between government and industry is a problem not of economics but of political economy. It is a problem of controlling and civilizing economic power in order that it may be used for the public good within the framework of democratic institutions. It is a problem of striking a delicate balance between individual freedom and centralized control. It is a problem for which there is no monistic solution and which transcends the clichés of popular controversy between conservatives and liberals.

The simplest and no doubt the most persistent of the ideas held on the relationship between society and power, from Menenius Agrippa to Auguste Comte, is that of an analogy between the social body and the human body. Both these men deduced that power is nothing other than the supreme regulating function of all functional activities, as harmoniously integrated in society as they are in human physiology. Ethnographic study often strengthened this organicist conception through description of the various social functions as necessary or vital for the cohesion and the existence of primitive society. But historic societies provide a spectacle quite different from that of an integrated organism. In them social functions are not abstractions but are seen rather in the form of human groups whose relationships can scarcely be said to show an organic solidarity. Within these groups and working to set them against each other, powers have their own interests which they must protect against the inroads of ambitions. The permanence of certain functions (military, religious, and economic, for example) does not imply permanence in the structures which implement them or in the real or fictional power which accompanies them. Their meaning is ambivalent. Obviously, they contribute to the architecture of a society; they may have a latent content which is a disintegrating factor from the moment when their hierarchy no longer suits the changing stratifications of the social body.