Chronicles of a Liquid Society by Umberto Eco
So criteria that are merely quantitative have their shortcomings. Let’s go back to the question of checking the number of citations. First let me say that this criterion may apply more to hard-science publications (mathematics, physics, medicine, etc.) than to those in the soft sciences, like the so-called social sciences. For example: I publish a book in which I show that Jesus was the true founder of Freemasonry—note that for a substantial sum, to be donated to charity, I could also provide an appropriate, up-to-date bibliography, though it would contain works that haven’t been taken particularly seriously. If, however, I manage to find some apparently reliable supporting documentation, it would cause pandemonium in the field of historical and religious studies, and hundreds of essays would appear citing my work. Let’s also assume that most of these essays cite my book in order to dispute it. Is there any quantitative control that discriminates between positive and negative citations?
What then can be said about a solid and well-argued book that has nevertheless stirred controversy and criticism, such as Eric Hobsbawm’s book on the short twentieth century, and what criteria could be used to remove all citations by those who discuss it critically? And then, would we refuse Darwin a teaching post simply by demonstrating that over fifty percent of those who cited him, and who still cite him, did so and still do so in order to say he was wrong?
If the criterion is purely quantitative, we would have to accept that among the authors most cited over recent decades are Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh, and Henry Lincoln, who have written a book on the Holy Grail that became a bestseller. They have written a pile of rubbish, but they have been, and will be, frequently cited. If the criterion was quantity alone, a university that offered them a post in the history of religions ought to leap to the top of the charts.
Such doubts in relation to the soft sciences ought to be raised in many cases for the hard sciences. Stanley Pons and colleagues shook the world of science a few years ago with a much-criticized and probably false theory on cold fusion. They have been cited endlessly, almost always to refute them. If the criterion is only quantitative, we have to take them into serious consideration. Some people might argue that in such cases the quantitative criterion should apply only to journals of serious scientific value. But leaving aside that this itself would be a qualitative criterion, what do we do if these serious journals refute what the academics have said? Qualitative criteria would have to be introduced once again. I’d like, however, to see how much criticism Einstein received when he announced his general theory of relativity, and there again, let’s take one of the most debated questions, whether what is known as the Big Bang actually happened. We know that eminent scholars have conflicting views. If a new theory appears that rejects the Big Bang, do we have to cross out all negative citations by those who still support this idea?
I say these things not because I have a ready-made solution, but to highlight how difficult it is to establish criteria of excellence on quantitative bases and how dangerous it is to introduce qualitative elements, which in the end were those used by Stalinist official culture to expel from the scientific community those who didn’t subscribe to the principles of dialectical materialism or didn’t take seriously the theories of Lysenko. Nor do I want to claim that no criteria exist. I wish only to point out how difficult it is to formulate them, and what a sensitive subject it is.
2003
Political correctness
Political correctness is a movement of ideas that grew out of the American universities, inspired by liberal, radical, and left-wing values, aimed at recognizing multiculturalism and reducing certain deep-rooted linguistic vices that led to forms of discrimination against minorities. The usage changed from “Negroes” to “blacks” and then “African Americans,” and from the thousand pejorative words used against homosexuals to “gays.” This campaign for the purification of the language inevitably produced its own brand of fundamentalism, including the more glaring cases of feminists who proposed that “history” should become “herstory,” clearly ignoring the Greco-Latin etymology of the word, which makes no reference to gender.
The trend has also developed a neoconservative or openly reactionary complexion. If the decision is no longer to call people in wheelchairs “handicapped” or “disabled” but “differently abled,” and no access ramps to public buildings are built, it simply means that the word has been removed but not the problem. There is also talk of replacing “unemployed” with “indefinitely jobless,” or describing someone who has been sacked as “in programmed transition between employments.” Who knows why a banker doesn’t feel embarrassed by his title and insist on being called a “savings operative.” If the name is changed it may well be because there is something wrong with what that name denotes.
Edoardo Crisafulli deals with this and countless other problems in his book Il politicamente corretto e la libertà linguistica (Political Correctness and Linguistic Freedom), which examines the contradictions and the arguments for and against this trend, and what’s more, it’s most entertaining. Reading it made me think of the curious situation in our own country. While there’s been a rapid explosion of political correctness elsewhere, in Italy there has always been far greater interest in political incorrectness. If, once upon a time, our politicians, reading from a piece of paper, had said, “It emerges that there is a generally agreed preference, not for a policy of parallel convergence, but for one that follows an asymptotic option that also eliminates individual points of interchange,” today they would say, “Dialogue? Fuck those filthy sons of bitches!” It’s true that at one time, in the first Communist social clubs, the adversary was branded as a “freeloader,” and in parliament, during heated exchanges, the choice of language would be more unrestrained than a dockworker’s, but these were instances when a certain form of behavior was accepted, as happened, too, in houses of ill repute, where the women were no more verbally restrained than a politician. Today, however, the insult is transmitted on television—a sign of Italy’s unswerving faith in the values of democracy.
2004
Thoughts in fair copy
Ten days ago, Maria Novella De Luca and Stefano Bartezzaghi took up three pages of La Repubblica to reflect on the decline of handwriting. It’s now clear that our children, with computers and text messages, no longer know how to write by hand except in awkward capitals. One teacher, when interviewed, said they also make many spelling errors, but that’s a separate issue. Doctors know how to spell but write badly, and you can be an expert calligrapher and still not know how to spell accomodation.
I know children who attend good schools and have decent handwriting, but the articles I’m referring to mention fifty percent of children, and evidently I happen to know the other fifty percent. Curiously, the same thing applies to me in politics.
But the problem is that things began to go wrong long before the computer and the cell phone. My parents used to write with a slightly sloping hand, holding the paper at an angle, and their letters were minor works of art, at least by today’s standards. It’s very true that there was a general belief, probably promoted by those who wrote badly, that fine calligraphy was the art of simpletons, and it’s clear that having a fine hand isn’t necessarily a sign of great intelligence. Nevertheless, it was nice to read a note or document written as God used to intend.
My generation was taught to write neatly, and during our first months at elementary school we had to form our letters on rows of vertical sticks, an exercise that was later regarded as dull and repressive, though it taught us to keep our wrists firm in forming loops that were plump and round on one side and fine on the other, using delicate nibs manufactured by Perry & Co. But not always, since the pen often came out of the inkwell caked in a sticky goo that messed up our desks, exercise books, fingers, clothing—and took ages to clean up.
The problem began after World War II with the advent of the ballpoint pen. It’s true that the first ones also made a great deal of mess, and the writing woul
Why should we mourn the loss of fine calligraphy? Writing well and fast on a keyboard encourages swiftness of thought; the automatic spell checker generally, though not always, underlines errors; and using the cell phone encourages younger generations to write “HAND” instead of “have a nice day.” Let’s not forget that our forefathers would have been appalled to see us write “bus” instead of “omnibus,” or “best” instead of “yours sincerely,” and Cicero would have turned pale if he’d known that medieval theologians would one day write “respondeo dicendum quod.”
The art of calligraphy, it is said, teaches hand control and coordination between wrist and brain. Writing by hand means that each phrase has to be formed in the mind before it is written down, but in any event, handwriting, with the resistance of pen and paper, requires a slowing down of thought. Many writers, even when accustomed to writing with a computer, know that sometimes they’d prefer to carve like the Sumerians on a tablet of clay so as to think in peace.
Children will write more and more on their computers and cell phones. Yet those pursuits that civilization no longer sees as necessities are being rediscovered by humanity as sporting exercises and aesthetic pleasures. People don’t need to get around by horse, but they still go to riding school; aircraft now exist, but many enjoy sailing like Phoenicians of three thousand years ago; there are tunnels and railways, but people still find pleasure clambering over alpine passes; in the age of email there are still collectors of postage stamps; people go to war with Kalashnikovs but enjoy the peaceful pursuit of fencing.
It would be a good thing for parents to send children to schools that teach fine calligraphy, and not only for them to learn something beautiful but also to advance their fine motor skills. Such schools exist—just search “calligraphy classes” on the Internet. And it’s a skill that might provide good opportunities for someone without a steady job.
2009
Meeting face-to-face
Each autumn there’s a proliferation of literary and philosophy festivals in Italy. Every city, it seems, wants a festival of its own, emulating the original success of the Mantua Literature Festival; each vies for the best minds, some of which move from festival to festival, but all in all the quality of speakers is fairly high. Newspapers and magazines are now beginning to get excited, not so much that such festivals are being held, but that they attract crowds large enough to fill a stadium, mostly young people from other cities who have come to spend a day or two listening to writers and thinkers. What’s more, to run such events requires teams of young volunteers, who give their time in the same way their parents did in 1966 when they rescued books from the mud after the flooding of Florence.
I think it’s therefore superficial and foolish of certain moralists to view these events as a sort of intellectual McDonald’s and take culture seriously only when it’s pursued by a select few. It’s an interesting phenomenon, and we ought to ask ourselves why young people go to festivals rather than clubbing. Let no one say it amounts to the same thing, as I have never heard of a carful of kids on ecstasy crashing at two in the morning on their way back from a literary festival.
There is nothing new here, though there’s been an explosion of interest in recent years. Back in the 1980s, Cattolica’s town library, on the Adriatic coast, organized evenings with the title Che cosa fanno oggi i filosofi (What Philosophers Are Doing Today), and the audience came in droves from a radius of at least a hundred kilometers. Then, too, people were wondering what was going on.
Nor do I think this can be compared with the cafés philosophiques that thrive around Place de la Bastille in Paris, where people go on Sunday mornings to sip Pernod and indulge in simple and therapeutic philosophy, a less costly form of psychoanalysis. No, in the gatherings we are talking about here, people spend hours listening to academic discussions: they go, they stay, they come back.
There are only two kinds of explanation. One was discussed during those early gatherings at Cattolica: many young people are tired of lightweight entertainment, of journalistic reviews reduced, with a few honorable exceptions, to half a column or ten lines, of television stations that discuss books only after midnight, if at all. And so they welcome more serious initiatives. Those who go to festivals number in the hundreds, even thousands, but they still make up a small percentage of their generation. They are an elite, but they are a mass elite, whatever an elite might mean in a world of seven billion inhabitants. It is the least that a society can demand in the balance between those who determine their own lives and those who allow their lives to be determined by others.
Such cultural gatherings also show that new ways of virtual socialization are not enough. You can have thousands of Facebook contacts, but in the end, unless you’re completely stoned, you realize there is no real human contact online, so you look for opportunities to share experiences and be face-to-face with people who think like you.
2013
The pleasure of lingering
When I gave the Norton Lectures at Harvard University some twenty years ago, I recalled that eight years previously they were to have been given by Italo Calvino, who died before he could write the sixth and final lecture. The texts were later published in English as Six Memos for the Next Millennium. As a tribute to Calvino I used his lecture in praise of quickness as a starting point, noting, however, that his enthusiasm for speed didn’t negate the pleasures of lingering. So I devoted one of my lectures to the pleasures of lingering.
Lingering was something a certain Monsieur Humblot didn’t approve of when he rejected Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu for the publisher Ollendorff: “I may be slow on the uptake,” he wrote, “but I just can’t believe that someone can take thirty pages to describe how you toss and turn in bed before falling asleep.” A denial of the pleasures of lingering would thus prevent us from reading Proust. But apart from Proust, I mentioned a typical case of lingering in The Betrothed by Alessandro Manzoni.
Don Abbondio is on his way home, reciting his breviary, and he sees something he didn’t want to see, namely, two bravoes waiting for him. Another writer would immediately have satisfied the reader’s impatience and told us what happens. But Manzoni takes several pages here to explain who bravoes were, and having done so, he lingers on to describe how Don Abbondio fingers his collar and looks behind him to see whether anyone might come to his aid. And finally the author asks, anticipating Chernyshevsky: “What is to be done?”
Did Manzoni have to introduce those pages of historical detail? He knew perfectly well that the reader would be tempted to skip them, and every reader of The Betrothed has done just that, at least on a first reading. And yet, even the time required to turn the pages forms part of a narrative strategy. The delay increases the torment, not only of Don Abbondio but also of his readers, and makes the drama more memorable. And isn’t The Divine Comedy also a story that lingers? The journey in Dante’s dream might last a single night, but to reach the final apotheosis we have to work our way through a hundred cantos.
Anna Lisa Buzzola’s book Letteratura lenta nel tempo della fretta (Slow Reading in Hurried Times) is about slow reading, but she doesn’t just hope for the return to a more leisurely approach to reading. She links the problem to the question of speed in modern life and to recent anthropological studies, placing her subject at the center of a series of healthy practices that include the “slow food” movement.
When it comes to literature, the author examines the theories of Gérard Genette, Viktor Shklovsky, and others, and gives a full analysis of the works of Javier Marías, Ian McEwan, Gesualdo Bufalino, Erri De Luca, José Saramago, Milan Kundera, Philippe Delerm, Paolo Rumiz, and Alessandro Baricco. Honesty requires me to reveal that she also kindly refers to me and the pleasure of lingering over the infinity of lists in m
This analysis gives rise to a phenomenology of techniques in the art of lingering that makes the reader want to read more slowly, even if you have to linger over thirty pages to understand how someone can toss and turn in bed before falling asleep.
2014
On Books, Etc.
Is Harry Potter bad for adults?
I wrote an article about Harry Potter nearly two years ago, at a time when the first three novels had been published, and the English-speaking world was arguing over whether children might be morally harmed by such tales of magic, and might be tempted to take occult mumbo jumbo seriously. Now that the film version has transformed Harry Potter into a global phenomenon, I watched an Italian chat show a few weeks ago whose guests included a well-known wizard and a Catholic priest and exorcist. The wizard, dressed in a sorcerer’s garb that not even Ed Wood would have used in one of his horror films, was very happy about this promotion of people like him, while the priest felt the Potter stories transmitted satanic ideas. Most of the panelists were levelheaded, and considered magic, black or white, to be drivel, though they felt that those who believe in it should be taken seriously, while the exorcist thought that every form of magic, black, white, or spotted, should be taken seriously, as the work of the devil.
If this is what we have come to, I think it’s time to speak out for Harry Potter. It’s true that these are stories about wizards and witches, and they have clearly been a success because children have always loved fairies, dwarfs, dragons, and sorcerers, yet no one has ever thought Snow White was the product of a satanic plot. The stories have become a success because their author, by clever calculation or astounding instinct, has managed to reproduce certain truly archetypal narrative situations.