Max Stirner is seen as occupying a minor position in the history of ideas, somewhere between an enfant terrible and the invisible man. This book has attempted to demonstrate that, at least from an unpartisan viewpoint, his ideas constitute an original and valuable contribution to philosophical inquiry and reveal new perspectives in an age of unparalleled skepticism and uncertainty, where the search for an answer to the ancient problem of how to live well is more frenetic than ever. The issue of Stirner's relationship to nihilism is key to an appraisal of his legacy because the orthodox labeling of Stirner as a nihilist, which is so widespread as to have become almost axiomatic, exposes both the crucial themes of his philosophical project and the ideological backdrop to his polarized reception. If, as this study has sought to establish, Stirner's status as a nihilist is doubtful at worst and partial at best, it underlines, among other things, the importance of reevaluating his standing as a thinker and reassessing the substance and significance of his thought.

One of the key findings to come out of this investigation is that Nietzschean or existential nihilism occupies a prominent position in the common (mis-)understanding of Stirner as a nihilist. While Stirner had a limited effect on the development of Russian nihilism, and while moral nihilism may adequately describe Stirner's ethical outlook but not his philosophy as a whole, it is the assumption that he is expounding a doctrine of emptiness, in the sense of meaninglessness, that has continually dogged the debate about Stirner and nihilism, especially since World War II. Stirner's critics in this regard have invariably ignored the fact that his version of nothingness, insofar as the concept plays any significant role in his thought, is meonic, in the form of the “creative nothing” of a transitory individual's life. The equating of Stirner's meonic nothingness with the empty void of existential nihilism is a recurrent misconception in Stirner criticism and one which must be rectified before a coherent picture of his thought can emerge.

Stirner's detractors have also tended to disregard the fact that the central themes of pessimism, like the pernicious effects of the passage of time or the absurdity of human existence, which are a fundamental part of existential nihilism, are entirely absent from Stirner's writings.

On the Left Bank, at the corner of rue Bonaparte and quai Malaquais, lived the daughter of Marshal Davout, the Marquise de Blocqueville, a childless widow and very distinguished woman with a refined mind. She lived nearly the entire century, never leaving her home, and having friends come to pay her court every evening, with a dinner reception on Mondays. She was connected with everyone: the Countess d’Haussonville [Louise de Broglie], mother of Count Gabriel-Paul d’Haussonville; Madame de [Gervais]; Claude Bernard; Digonneau; Louis Diémer; Eugène Guillaume (the sculptor); etc. It was there that I met Liszt, and I will never forget him playing Beethoven's Sonata in C-sharp Minor for us one evening.

The house is historic. It was built by the father of one of the boarders of the Mazarin College who had the building constructed, but left before it was finished. This house became a social club, and girls came there in the evening. It was there that Abbé Prévost wrote his Manon. He had written a volume of short stories, twelve, I believe, but he had only given eleven to his publisher who was anxious to get the twelfth so he could publish the work. Thus, pressed for time, he wrote the twelfth story about the girl Manon, with whom he had lived; he simply wrote about his own love affair with Manon in this gambling-den. This was the very subject of Jules Massenet's Manon, a subject that also appealed to Giacomo Puccini, whose Manon Lescaut includes a striking fourth act in which we see the embarkation of these women for America, a scene that lends itself to wonderfully treated choral developments.

Madame de Blocqueville was haunted by the fear of being evicted from this house by the Beaux-Arts, whose school had already taken over neighboring buildings. She had lived there for about forty years, and in fact did not have to suffer this distress; she died, and the house still exists. There were some fine portraits there, some interesting marble statuary from the Empire period, and on the mantelpiece, in a frame like those that hold our small photographs, a wonderful pencil sketch by Ingres—the head of the Apothéose d’Homère that the master had dedicated to her.

[see Fig. 29]

Shortly after my book Widor: A Life beyond the Toccata was published, Dr. Larry Palmer sent me an email on May 28, 2011, congratulating me on the completion of the biography. He attached the scan of a five-page letter he owns, written by Widor on June 10, 1894. I am grateful for his permission to publish this letter here.

Addressed to an unidentified woman, Widor's letter was in response to her request for a list of his works that were lacking from various publishers’ catalogues. Although the list ends at opus 69, with the impending publication of the Third Symphony, for Organ and Orchestra, it shows Widor's oeuvre as he surveyed it at that date. Interestingly, he omitted many opus numbers, perhaps in the belief that there was no question about them: opp. 7, 10–13, 15, 19–21, 26, 31, 41–42, 46, 50, 57, 62. None of these works is unaccounted for today. See Near, Widor: A Life, Appendix 2: “List of Musical Works,” 408–54.

In five instances, Widor's letter indicates works for an opus number left blank at the time of my compilation in 2011: Lorenzo, op. 27 (an unpublished opera); Psaume 112, op. 38 (unpublished); Salutaris, op. 55 (Hamelle); Jeanne d’Arc, op. 65 (Hamelle); Suite espagnole, op. 67 (unpublished)— this may be the Ouverture espagnole, published in 1897, three years after the letter was written. Also, Widor left opus 23 as (unpublished)—this became Trois motets.

In addition, he assigned an opus number to works differing from their published opus number. Opus 1, Ouverture (unpublished) is certainly the Ouverture portugaise; this opus number was taken over by Variations de Concert sur un thème original, for Piano; a revision of this work became op. 29. Opus 2, Six duos, for Piano and Organ [Piano and Harmonium] became opus 3, and opus 2 was reassigned as Pages intimes for Piano. Opus 2bis (Quatre petits trios, published by Schott) are arrangements of four of the Six duos, and thus would become opus 3bis. Opus 3 (unpublished Trio) is unidentifiable. Opus 33 is given as Concerto for Violin (unpublished); this opus number was taken over by Six valses, for Piano; the Violin Concerto was never reassigned an opus number.

While most kinds of armour appear in the archaeological record long before they can be identified with certainty in written evidence, the reverse is true for quilted armour in Western Europe. This appears in written sources from the twelfth century onwards, whereas the oldest surviving quilted garments and depictions of soldiers in quilted garments date to the thirteenth. Moreover, written sources give detailed lists

This is the first of a planned series of three articles on linen armour. Some of the research in this paper was supported by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council, Canada. of materials, information on construction techniques, prices, and other information that cannot be learned from art or the surviving artifacts. However, these texts are written in a wide variety of languages and call similar garments by a confusing variety of names. Medieval societies were multilingual, so it is necessary to study all languages spoken in a region to understand individual terms. Many terms could be used quite naturally in English, the Romance languages, and Latin. This project lays out the most important known sources from across Catholic Europe with translations, so that texts from the same country in different languages, and texts in the same language in different countries, can be studied side by side.

The sources discussed in this study are drawn from dictionaries (see Appendix 1.1 for a list), research on medieval armour, and reading by the author and fellow enthusiasts. Searchable digital corpora have been a very great help, but so have been the discussion forums and mailing lists of the 1998–2018 era where interested parties could pool their private lists of evidence. When selecting sources for inclusion, I have tried to represent as many languages and regions as possible and preferred sources with technical information to sources which simply mention a gambeson, pourpoint, or aketon. Unless otherwise indicated, translations are my own.

TERMS DISCUSSED

In Western Europe before the Fourth Crusade (1202–4), five families of words can refer to a quilted coat. (For words for quilted garments, see table 1.1.) Aketon, gambais/ gambeson, and pourpoint are relatively easy to interpret, although aketon can also refer to cotton fibre or to cotton cloth (see sources ii.2, ii.9, ii.10, ii.13, below); the etymology of gambeson is disputed; and pourpoint can be anything which is quilted, such as a bedcover or horse cover. Words in the jupe family are more difficult to interpret.

On October 22, 1924, I went to a session at the Dijon Academy to celebrate the promotion to Monsignor granted to Abbé René Moissenet, who has been directing the renowned choir school of Dijon Cathedral for many years. He is the man most suited to plainsong. At the Gregorian congress that took place for the restoration of plainsong before the war, the first meetings were fruitful and happy, but afterwards the influences of the publishers ruined everything so much that one day Abbé Moissenet was going to return to Paris, discouraged. But just as he was about to set foot on the step of his carriage, the Pope summoned him. “They’re stubborn, there's nothing to be done!” Moissenet exclaimed.

When I was complaining to a clergyman about the mutilations to which plainsong had been subjected, he said to me: “It's your fault. Why didn't you protest?” I did protest, but the damage had been done. The publishers immediately published their book profiting from the Imprimatur. You can't change every book in the universe in a few months. It's in old plainsong books that we must look for the true strains. They had been reviewed by Henri Dumont, who had more or less restored plainsong to its true tonalities.

I was organist of the grand orgue of Saint-Sulpice from the beginning of 1870 until the end of 1933. Wanting to thank me for the services rendered to the church over so many years, the clergy of Saint-Sulpice authorized a festival of my works on April 19, 1934. The orchestra of the Conservatory Concert Society was placed on a platform built especially for the occasion under the grand orgue. One of my greatest artistic joys was to conduct my Third Symphony at Saint-Sulpice, with the grandeur of the place and the assistance of the most beautiful of orchestras and the Saint-Sulpice organ.

At this time a group of pilgrims from Germany came there from across the sea and gave the duke a full and honest account of how he was regarded at home. Many of them took back news of him when they returned home. In this way the emperor learned that he was in Jerusalem and was in good health, the news brought to him by a knight who had seen him there. He gave the emperor a full and detailed account of Ernst's strange retinue and of all the adventures he had had, and how he himself had seen and was in a position to report on the amazing creatures and say honestly that they were still with him. The great emperor was pleased to pass on to all of his princes the news that Duke Ernst was alive and well in Jerusalem.

When this became known to the princes, they worried about his life. They said, “He should now be forgiven for what he did, and we must help the noble lord regain the imperial favor, so that his guilt can be wiped out and he can return to the good graces of the emperor.”

By the grace of God and with the intercession of Empress Adelaide, the emperor himself came to regret that he had done Duke Ernst an injustice because Count Henry had slandered him. The mighty emperor ordered, therefore, that he should return in secret to the empire. He wished to restore to him everything that he had taken away, and wanted to forgive the brave warrior everything and bestow great gifts on him. That was what he had in mind. [5705–5756]

To continue with the story, then.

As long as the noble duke was in Jerusalem, the worthy warrior was cherished for his great bravery. He did so much harm to the heathens that they had good cause to bewail their losses. The duke now heard regularly that the great Holy Roman emperor had spoken mercifully of him and had often prayed to the Lord that he might return to his homeland, so that he might hear of all the marvels that had happened.

Whenever the conversation turns to single orders or special commissions in medieval silk weaving, sooner or later the altar hanging with a Crucifixion scene in Regensburg will be brought up as one of the most elaborate and exclusive commissions to have survived from the decorative arts of the Middle Ages (figs. 2.1 and 2.2).

The basic type of pictorial fabric is well known from medieval textile art. Starting from the thirteenth century, fabrics with subjects containing human figures are mentioned in merchants’ account books and church inventories. They can also be found among the surviving silk weavings of the period, depicting the Crucifixion of Christ along with a variety of other religious images, including various saints, the enthroned Virgin Mary, the Nativity, the Adoration of the Magi, the Entombment, and the Resurrection. Alongside these, secular scenes from courtly literature are also attested to as pictorial themes in woven silks.

However, all these fabrics containing human figures depict small-scale scenes, scarcely more than a hand span wide. They were products of the extensive use of serial production, by means of which the centres of the Italian silk industry supplied the European market. Like the later woven orphrey bands with figurative designs of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, they were manufactured as repeat patterns in countless repetitions, to be used as ornaments for secular or ecclesiastical clothing.

The Regensburg altar hanging is, in contrast, a unique piece with respect to its content, form, technique, and design. It originally measured about 120 centimetres (about 1⅜ yards) in height and 300 centimetres (3. yards) in width, and was commissioned by Heinrich von Rotteneck, the bishop of Regensburg from 1277 to 1296. The identity of the commissioner is made clear on the hanging, through both text and imagery. Kneeling in full pontificals, his hands raised in intercession, the bishop appears to the side of the Crucifixion scene, while a woven inscription gives his name and title. It may be assumed on this basis that Heinrich was both the commissioner and the recipient of the hanging. This type of full-figure donor portrait is unique in thirteenth-century silk weaving, representing the first occurrence in the history of European silk production.

They made a course for this country, steering the ship toward land, and sailed into a harbor where they dropped anchor. Once on terra firma, they very soon saw an extremely fine city surrounded by an impressive wall, finely decorated with the most beautiful shining yellow and green marble, with black, red, and white insets making up striking checkered patterns, as well as a great many images of things both strange and familiar, some known to them only by hearsay, and all as clear as glass. The whole was surrounded by a deep defensive ditch full of water so that the whole city was surrounded by a moat. The battlements were also built and decorated magnificently, gilded, and decorated with all kinds of artistically arranged precious stones. This magnificent citadel had nothing to fear from any attackers. The towers, defensive parapets, and firing-ports were carefully planned and arranged—so we are told in the books in which the city is described. We must be grateful to the person who passed this story on to us for giving us such a clear picture. Amazing people, too, lived in the shining city.

When our brave warriors reached land, then, they took in the sails, dropped anchor at once, and put out the boat. Duke Ernst said to his friends and companions: “It seems that things have turned out well, now that God has sent us to this beautiful country and fine-looking city. We had very few provisions left, and we can replenish our supplies here so that we do not starve. We have had to suffer a lot since we took to the seas and had no sight of any land, but now that we have found this amazing-looking city, I am confident that there will be people in charge there, and we shall find out today whether they are Christians or pagans. We shall have to approach them diplomatically so that they will sell us the provisions we need. If they are not Christians they will not let us live, but it is just as well if we lose our lives here—we set out to fight for God, and we should not complain if we fall in battle rather than starving to death on the ship.”

Some important concert dates

When the King gave me the land in Madrid, I asked for a large sum from Edmond de Rothschild. He told me, “No! Whatever interest in Spanish art there is for us, it's far from equaling that of the relations existing between England and us. Without the English fleet, we were lost in 1914, and also without the French alliance after the Battle of Cassel. We must therefore unite with Great Britain by all possible means, and reaffirm the endless chain between the two youths!”

May 26–30, 1919, I went to London with Rothschild to find a house that he wanted to donate to the Institute. We were shown the house of Sir Thomas [More] that had to be pulled down in order to cut a street through; it was then transported stone by stone to the banks of the Thames. The house was very interesting, but it was impossible to transform for the use we wanted to make of it. Its name was Crosby Hall.

Faced with the impossibility of finding what we wanted, I had the idea of contacting a correspondent member of the Institute, an architect whom we had just nominated: Sir John Simpson, president of the Royal Society of Architects. He hastened over the next morning and told us, “I know everything around here. Go back to Paris. You can rely entirely on me. As soon as I find something suitable, I’ll let you know.”

[July 19, 1919:] Attending the great parade of troops in London, five days after the one in Paris, we met Ferdinand Foch who was the guest of Buckingham Palace, and General Debeney who commanded the French troops. In the morning, I was awakened by the bugle calls of the French troops who were camping in Hyde Park. We saw the parade from the balcony of Edmond de Rothschild's cousin, Lady Rothschild. And I still have in my ears the cheers of the people as the sailors of the Battle of Jutland and Admirals David Beatty and John Rushworth Jellicoe passed by.

The next day, Sir Simpson took us to Queensgate to visit the house he intended for us; we were surprised by its fine condition and its French furniture. Corneille and Racine were represented in its library, as well as a number of engravings from our calligraphy, and models or reductions of statues from our French school.