CTA

COLLEGII HUMANIORUM
ESTONIENSIS
ACTA COLLEGII HUMANIORUM ESTONIENSIS
E ESTI HUMANITAARINSTITUUDI TOIMETISED

4
2004

KULTUURI MAAILMAD

CULT URAL WORLDS

Tallinn 2004
Koostanud ja toimetanud: Mihhail Lotman
Kujundanud ja küljendanud: Triinu Ootsing
Trükitud trükikojas Uniprint

ISSN 1406-0558
© Humanitaarinstituudi SA
Narva mnt 29,
Tallinn 10120
S A AT E K S ฀ 7

1.฀Ü H I S KO N D

Mikko Lagerspetz THE HEGEMONY OF THE CONVERTIBLE 9

George Schöpflin CENTRAL EUROPE: DEfiNING A THOUGHT-STYLE 19

Riho Saard USUSOOTSIUMI IDENTITEEDI VÄLJAKUTSUMINE JA

MUUTUMINE EESTI BAPTISMI NÄITEL 33

2 .฀K U LT U U R฀

Tõnu Viik WHY DID PLATO WRITE DIALOGUES? 51

Triin Kallas THE POWER OF DIALECTIC 67

Rein Raud IDENTITY, DIFFERENCE AND CULTURAL WORLDS 84

Mihhail Lotman GLOSSOPHOBIA IN RUSSIAN CULTURE 104

3.฀K E E L ฀ J A ฀K I R J A N D U S

Daniele Monticelli NIMISÕNADE LOENDATAVUS JA EESTI KEELE

MÕISTATUS 118

Maria-Kristiina Lotman ANCIENT GREEK CHOLIAMBUS: ITS METRE,

RHYTHM AND SEMANTICS 142

Ülar Ploom SOME A SPECTS OF TRANSFIGURATION AND /OR

TRANSCENDENCE IN DINO CAMPANA’S L A CHIMERA 164

Aigi Heero ÜBER DIE LITERATURPOLITISCHE SITUATION IN

DEUTSCHLAND IM FRÜHEN 19. JAHRHUNDERT ANHAND DES
“LITERATUR-BLATTS” UND DER LITERARISCHEN TASCHENBÜCHER 181

Eneken Laanes JAKOB MÄTTIK JAAN KROSSI “KEISRI HULLUS”:

JUTUSTAJAST TEGELASEKS 201

Piret Peiker LEGITIMACY AND FLUIDITY: CENTRAL EUROPEAN

NARRATIVES OF PERSONHOOD 220

AUTORID฀ 230
S A AT E K S

Teieni jõudnud raamat on Eesti Humanitaarinstituudi toimetiste

neljas väljaanne ja ühtlasi teine artiklite kogumik. Kogumiku ma-
terjalid annavad pildi EHI õppejõudude viimaste aastate töödest ja
uurimustest instituudi traditsioonilistes teadusvaldkondades, milleks
on ühiskond, kultuur, keel ja kirjandus. Toimetised ilmuvad EHI
kuueteistkümnendal tegevusaastal.

Tõnu Viik
EHI rektor

Ilmunud EHI väljaanded:

ACTA 1/1994: Rein Raud. The Role of Poetry in Classical Japanese Literature.
Tallinn
ACTA 2/1995: Uurimusi keelest, kirjandusest ja kultuurist. Tallinn
ACTA 3/2000: Ülar Ploom. Quest and Fulfilment in the 13th Century Italian Love
Lyric. An Idea of Medieval Cognitive Poetics. Tallinn
1.฀Ü H I S KO N D

THE HEGEMONY OF THE CONVERTIBLE

Mikko Lagerspetz

1. Social change and the “value vacuum”

In October 2001, I attended a conference in Vilnius called Re-

placing the Vacuum: New Geographies and Ideologies. It was organised
by Lithuanian philosophers.1 The title of the conference referred to
a notion which is, I believe, now topical all over previously socialist
Central and Eastern Europe. The overall instability of many spheres
of life during the rapid economic, political and social change of the
1990s and the late 1980s seems to have produced an experience of
”value vacuum”, of a faltering of the moral foundations of society. Such
a feeling has, of course, previously been formulated and analysed by
intellectuals at several different times and places.
In fact, the emergence of sociology as a separate discipline at the
beginning of the 19th century was largely a reaction to an analogous
experience called forth by the industrial revolution. The old social
order with its estates, guilds, and relationships of authority and power
had been supported both by ideology and habit. None of it could any
longer be taken for granted. Stressing the need for empirical social
research, thinkers such as Saint-Simon and Comte devoted themselves
to a search for a new morality that could overcome the lack of social in-
tegration in their contemporary society. According to Saint-Simon,

1
This paper was originally presented at the conference ”Replacing the Vacuum: New
Geographies and Ideologies”, organised in Vilnius on 19–20 October, 2001, by the
Lithuanian Philosophical Society and the Open Society Foundation – Lithuania. It
has been slightly revised for publication in this collection of articles. I am grateful
to the Tallinn Centre for Contemporary Arts for financing my participation at the
conference.

Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4, 9

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
 [a] New Christianity is needed in order to secure the victory of the
principles of universal morality in its struggle against the quest for
egotist goals at the cost of the common good. This renewed religion
should bring all nations to a state of eternal peace by uniting them
against everyone who strives for egotist goals with disregard for the
common good of mankind. [This religion] should unite all nations
against any such unchristian government that is ready to sacrifice
the interests of the people for those of the rulers (Saint-Simon
1824/1919: 50. My translation).

The two great sociologists of the following century – Durkheim

and Weber – approached the same complex of issues, but were less
reliant on the ability of intellectuals to deliberately construct a new
basis for morality. Durkheim warned about the anomie facing con-
temporary societies; Weber described the substitution of tradition by
rationality as disenchantment.
The anomie, value vacuum or lack of ”natural” order that now
characterises post-communist Europe has, of course, its own unique
prehistory of forcibly established order, consecutive revolt and radical
change. However, we can also see it merely as another instance of a
more general dilemma facing contemporary societies: the disruption
of tradition and habit – either through revolution or rapid evolution-
ary change – rips the members of society away from their habitual
answers to fundamental questions about social order. The problem
is then what kinds of questions can be answered by rationality, and
whether, how and by whom the missing answers can be provided.

2. The crises of world views

Many have recognized the immensity of the task of reconstructing

political and economic order in Central and Eastern Europe. How-
ever, the breakdown of real socialism shook more than “merely” the
political and economic foundations of the societies concerned. It
is no coincidence that the early 1990s saw a flourishing of interest
in millenniarist sects, UFOs and other “paranormal” phenomena
throughout the formerly socialist world (E. g., Platz 1997, quoted on

10
p. 308 in Kligman & Verdery 1999. Cf. also Lagerspetz 2001). The
foundations of what was defined as “knowledge” was shaken; this co-
incided with new possibilities of interpreting the external world and
perceiving one’s own position in it. The political crisis was accompa-
nied by simultaneous epistemological and ontological crises and a
crisis of identity.
Whatever ideas of an alternative society there were before the
final upheavals of 1988–1991, they never constituted a comprehen-
sive program. The Central and Eastern European revolutions have
been characterised as ”double-rejective” – i. e., as motivated by pro-
test against both foreign domination and communism as systems of
power, rather than by a clear set of future goals (e. g., Holmes 1997:
14; Tismaneanu 1999: 1). People were conscious of what they were
abandoning, but there were obvious reasons why their visions of the
future could never be very elaborate. Although almost everybody
could agree on such objectives as independence, democracy and a
market economy (and no doubt, the material standard of living found
in Western Europe), few had any detailed practical knowledge of how
all these things functioned in the ”West”.
The most important reason for the lack of future-bound plan-
ning was, however, the lack of any reliable basis. As Karl Marx has put
it, ”mankind always sets itself only such tasks as it can solve” (Marx
1859/1990: 390). There were no previous examples of a country aban-
doning the political and economic system prevailing in the Soviet
Union and other member countries of the communist bloc. On the
other hand, there was the experience both of tragically ended reform
attempts (as in 1956 and 1968) and of finding a modus vivendi in a
carefully sustained balance between the population’s expectations
and the demands from Moscow. Those demands were never fully
predictable; liberalisation of the regime could always be followed by a
sudden return to the old. The limits had recently been shown by the
proclamation of a state of martial law in Poland in 1981.
Some examples from Estonia serve to illustrate the dynamics of
the population’s expectations during the revolutionary period. In
September 1987 the proposal for a Program for Economically Inde-

Mikko Lagerspetz 11
 pendent Estonia (Isemajandav Eesti; IME) became a symbol of political
and economic reform attempts within the republic; moreover, it was
the only concrete set of future goals that had been presented. However,
not long after, it became obvious that carrying out the program would
not be possible because of the resistance of the all-Union authorities.
With the emancipation of the Central and Eastern European socialist
countries during 1989, full-fledged national independence started to
look like a realistic option. The IME was finally also abandoned by
the radicalized Estonians themselves.
But obviously, independence from the USSR could not be achieved
through the action of Estonian social movements alone. The chances
for gaining it would be highly dependent on the Soviet leadership and
also on international circumstances. Both were outside the control
of Estonian independence activists. As a result, the more ambitiously
independence-minded strategies ended up with almost no immediate
goals to orient towards – apart from a mere abandonment of the status
quo. This is also one explanation for the popularity in 1990–1992 of the
idea of a restoration of the pre-war society, with its political institutions
and property relations.2 In comparison with the uncertainties of the
present, the past seemed to represent a more solid reality.
The existing ideas on the future of the newly re-established state
in 1991 can be stated in a few words: an abandonment of the previous
economic and political systems, and a wish to keep Russia at a distance.
These two elements represent the negative side of the revolutionary
discourse. On the positive side, there were vague ideas of “Western”
capitalism and liberal democracy, an idealized picture of the pre-WW
II society and, perhaps, one of “Europe”. And importantly, both the
negative and the positive ideas had their common point of departure
in the establishment of the “nation” rather than private individuals
as the actor whose well-being was at stake.
Above, my aim was not merely to present an aspect of the revo-
lutionary period in Estonia. Despite the inevitability of historical

2
Of course, these ideas were in harmony also with the “conservationist” strategy
adopted by the local communists and the semi-legal opposition in the Baltic republics
during the Brezhnev years; cf. Shtromas 1990.

12
idiosyncrasies, I believe that the development of the leading ideas of
political discourse, the end results, and the underlying logic were es-
sentially similar in all the real socialist counties that have experienced
the “transition” to liberal democracy and capitalism.

3. The new objectives

Ten years later, when looking at the new social order of the
former Socialist bloc one cannot avoid the idea of it having been
designed according to the description given about the ideological
enemy by the Marxist-Leninist textbooks of the previous regime. It is
as if beggars on the streets, lack of social security, open discrimination
against women, and other conspicuous signs of inequality would for
the new rulers be a proof of finally having reached that previously
prohibited and secretly longed-for goal – Capitalism. Interestingly,
the new policies have by no means been pushed through by neo-lib-
eral political parties only; in practical politics, the difference between
them and other parties calling themselves conservative, nationalist,
or even Social Democrat does not seem great. Despite the emergence
of numerous ”loser” groups from the transformation, the prevailing
political discourse continues to be that of the ”winners”.
On one hand, the dominating ideas have stressed the need for
subsuming immediate individual and group interests into the long-
term common goals of the nation. These include prosperity and, as its
necessary precondition, international security. In order to reach the
former goal, domestic entrepreneurship and foreign investment need
to be encouraged. Membership in NATO is presented as the main
instrument for reaching the latter. Joining the EU is instrumental
from the point of view of both economic and security objectives. On
the other hand, income redistribution by means of social policy is
interpreted as interference with market mechanisms, and allegedly
has the effect of slowing down the pace of economic development.
The neoliberalist politicians’ standard answer to any demands based
on ideals of equality or social justice is that, in the long run, all the
present problems will be solved by the prosperity created by the “in-
visible hand” of market mechanisms.

Mikko Lagerspetz 13
 The situation we are witnessing comes close to what Antonio
Gramsci called hegemony: the “intellectual and moral leadership” of a
class in power or striving for power (Gramsci 1971: 57). In short, the
identity of a member of the “nation” has pushed into the background
or de-legitimized other possible, class- or interest-based identities. At
the same time, the “nation” does not appear to be much more than
a “mutual-benefit-society” providing material wealth to the (best de-
serving members of) the “nation” (cf. Habermas 1990/1996). What is
good for the entrepreneurial class, is good for the nation.

4. The hegemony of the convertible

The treatment of economic prosperity as the primary or only

goal of politics is certainly not typical of the post-communist coun-
tries only, but a tendency long ago noted and criticised by Western
social theorists (e. g., Habermas 1973/1976). Also the rejection of
active social policy belongs to the neo-liberal thinking which for two
decades has gained ground throughout the capitalist world. Here, one
can discern an affinity between the post-communist and the Western
”post-modernist” contexts. One could even say that the ”post-mod-
ernisation” of political life has come further in the East than in the
West. Many of those institutions that are functioning as obstacles for
the victorious neo-liberalism in Western Europe are weak or non-ex-
istent in the formerly socialist countries – consider, e.g., trade unions,
institutions of social policy, or non-governmental organizations. More
than ever there is a lack of common moral principles that could enter
what Saint-Simon called the ”struggle against a quest for egotist goals
at the cost of the common good”. For this participant of the French
Revolution of 1789, the common good meant equality and fraternity;
for post-communism and post-modernism, neither one of these values
seems highly rated.
I have already discussed the specific historical reasons for the sud-
den surfacing of what was called a value vacuum in the post-communist
countries; from a more general point of view one might say that we are
dealing with the retreat of ”metaphysical”, i.e. non-empirically based,
values when faced by rationalist argumentation. This development

14
points to a crisis and to a growing impotence of all ideas related to a
good society that are substantial rather than technical. However, this
is not where it ends. What follows has been said by many; wishing to
widen the range of quotable authors, I refer this time to a text from
1936 by the Finnish philosopher Erik Ahlman:

In the beginning, traditions were followed without questioning

their legitimacy; they were taken for granted. However, since the
introduction of the analysis and criticism of these traditions, nothing
will be accepted unconditionally any more. […] Representatives of the
”enlightenment” consider themselves opponents of metaphysics,
but without noticing it, they still rely on certain metaphysical foun-
dations. For example, […] they continue to argue on the basis of
rationality, justice, humanity, and logic. Accordingly, these principles
are presumed to be valid without further consideration. But they
can in fact be valid only if one presupposes a kind of metaphysical
faith. That is, a faith of the same kind that one considers oneself be
fighting against (Ahlman 1936/1993: 89–90. My translation).

The quotation depicts a logical sequence from traditional society

to modernism based on rationality and further to the present situ-
ation, where the very foundations of rationality are undermined by
rationality itself. The passage from modernism to post-modernism is
no rupture, but a logical development in a known direction.
The argument also shows the impossibility, in fact, of any social or-
der being built on rational foundations only. If no metaphysical values
– among them ”justice, humanity, logic” – are to be acknowledged, the
ultimate consequence is hard to imagine and hardly rational; it would
perhaps mean the disappearance of society as an ordered community
of people, a return to a Hobbesian war of everyone against everyone.
Admittedly, this perspective is still very far from what has been reached
by the neo-liberal political current dominating the political life of
post-communist countries. Hitherto, it has merely brought about the
substitution of other substantial values by prosperity. Measurable and
seemingly universally convertible, the goal of economic prosperity
appears as the most ”value-free” of all political goals imaginable.

Mikko Lagerspetz 15
 The new leading ideas, prosperity and international security of
the “nation”, both seem to be, in fact, non-ideas. Not in spite of, but be-
cause of their “impersonality and colorlessness” (cf. Simmel 1896/1991:
19) – their abstract emptiness, they were able to serve as a sort of greatest
common denominators for members of a society, who had abandoned
the previously dominating ideology before ever having had time to
negotiate with each other on a new one. In a situation where no other
political objectives could be universally accepted, money and security
got the chance to serve as their substitutes.

5. Is there a remedy?

Durkheim and Weber described the retreat of inherited norms

and values as a consequence of rapid social change. At the same time,
they were convinced that after a stabilisation of the new social order,
much of the social life would continue to be based on norms emerging
slowly but without conscious rational planning. This has very much
remained the prevailing sociological view. I would summarise it as a
combination of conservatist concern for the erosion of common val-
ues with a more optimist inclination to believe in society’s ability to
spontaneously fill the vacuum with new contents.
What is this cautious optimism based on? I think that it builds on
the insight of the non-reducibility of human action to any universal
model of rational calculation. As an illustration: if we treat the Prisoner’s
Dilemma as a model of decision-making, we have already forgotten that
in real life, not all persons – e. g., the homeless – would consider a long
jail sentence an option to be avoided. What is rational and desirable
from the point of view of one actor, might not be for another. It cannot
be reduced to any universally valid principles.
Importantly, there is not only a lack of universally valid founda-
tions for social values; there is also a lack of foundations for any claim of
subordinating these values to abstract reasoning. This is what I consider
the constructive message of the method of thought now known as
post-modernism. It serves to strengthen our awareness of the limits
of any purely technocratic idea of progress. Values such as justice
or dignity are hardly reducible to any one convertible currency. Or,

16
further: what is the price of a clean environment? What is it worth to
be listened to and to be accepted as a participant in decision-making?
The ”prosperity” promised by contemporary capitalism does not bring
about all the things that people consider essential for a better quality
of life. Their ”metaphysical faith” in other values is rooted in their own
experiences and it will not be eradicated by rationalist rhetoric.
The problem for us today is that other values have to be expli-
cated, argued for and fought for; that is, the hegemony of the one
value claiming universal convertibility can only be broken by people
fighting for other values. It also requires the emergence of arenas in
which the fight can take place – that is, pluralist civil societies. Time is
needed – a relative stability in Central and Eastern Europe, enabling
people to become aware of their own values and interests, and to build
solidarities. And precisely as before the revolutionary events of the
1980s, the action will not get started before its goals are perceived as
realistic. That is, every experience of successful common action has a
positive effect on future cooperation (cf. Putnam 1993/1994: 167–171,
and Putnam’s discussion elsewhere on “social capital”). Sooner than
we might think, the time will be ripe – in the near future if not now,
provided such a process is not deliberately suppressed. I believe that
the present concern for ”social capital”, ”social sustainability” and
the like in Central and Eastern Europe is a sign of the times. After a
long period of insecurity and unpredictability, the citizens are about
to begin a dialogue on what constitutes a good society.

REFERENCES

Ahlman, Erik. “Kulttuurin synty ja kuolema” [The Birth and Death

of Culture]. In: Erik Ahlman, Teokset IX [Collected Works, Vol.
IX]. Jyväskylä: University of Jyväskylä, 1936/1993: 85–92
Gramsci, Antonio. Selections from the Prison Notebooks. Ed. and transl.
by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith. London: Lawrence
& Wishart, 1971
Habermas, Jürgen. Legitimation Crisis. London: Heinemann, 1973/
1976

Mikko Lagerspetz 17
 Habermas, Jürgen. “Citizenship and National Identity”. Appendix II
in Jürgen Habermas: Between Facts and Norms. Transl. by William
Rehg. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1990/1996
Holmes, Leslie. Post-Communism: An Introduction. Cambridge: Polity
Press, 1997
Kligman, Gail & Katherine Verdery. “Reflections on the ‘Revolutions’
of 1989 and After”. Eastern European Politics & Societies, Vol. 13
No. 2 (1999): 303–12
Lagerspetz, Mikko. “Consolidation as Hegemonization: The Case
of Estonia”. The Journal of Baltic Studies, vol. xxxii, No. 4 (2001):
402–420
Marx, Karl. “Preface to A Critique of Political Economy”. In: Karl
Marx, Selected Writings. Edited by David McLellan. Oxford etc.:
Oxford University Press, 1859/1990: 388–92
Platz, Stephanie. “The Transformation of Power and the Powers of
Transformation: The Karabagh Movement, the Energy Crisis,
and the Emergence of UFOs in Armenia at the Dawn of Inde-
pendence”, Manuscript, 1997
Putnam, Robert D. Making Democracy Work: Civic Traditions in Modern
Italy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993/1994
Comte de Saint-Simon, Claude Henri. “Neues Christentum. Dialoge
zwischen einem Konservativen und einem Neuerer”. Übersetzt
von Dr. Friedrich Muckle. In: Werner Sombart (ed.), Grundlagen
und Kritik des Sozialismus. Erster Teil. Berlin: Askanischer Verlag,
1824/1919: 35–59
Shtromas, Alexandras. “How Political Are the Social Movements in
the Baltic Republics?” Nationalities Papers, Vol. XVIII, No. 2
(Fall 1990)
Simmel, Georg. “Money in Modern Culture”. Theory, Culture and Soci-
ety, Vol. 8 (1991) (1896/1991): 17–31
Tismaneanu, Vladimir. “Introduction”. In: Vladimir Tismaneanu
(ed.): The Revolutions of 1989. London & New York: Routledge,
1999: 1–16

18 Mikko Lagerspetz
 CENTRAL EUROPE: DEFINING A THOUGHT-STYLE1
George Schöpflin

THERE ARE SERIOUS methodological problems in trying the define “Cen-

tral Europe”. The definition must capture the greatest number of pos-
sible shared factors and simultaneously exclude what is not Central Eu-
ropean. This enterprise should be feasible if the conceptual boundaries
are clear, if we concentrate on the non-material as well as the material
factors and we accept that all definitions have both a descriptive and
an evaluative dimension, meaning that defining “Central Europe” is
no more and no less ideological (though more difficult) than defining
France. It should follow that geographical definitions on their own are
banal and insufficient, that so are history, politics, gastronomy on their
own. One should try to identify the shared elements of all these dimen-
sions. This ultimately demands that we step back and look at something
less self-evident – the way in which people think about themselves, the
way in which they construct their worlds, their identities, their criteria
of making sense of their lives and defining the good life.
This brings us to social construction theory (Anderson’s “imag-
ining” is one variant of this; Berger and Luckman, 1991). It starts
from the premise that the world in which we live is constructed by
us and that once constructed, it is not open to change very readily,
even though we can deconstruct it as often as we like. In construct-
ing, what we do is to establish ways of narrating the world and we do
this in response to how we experience events, change, the impact of

1
Presented as keynote at “The Contours of Legitimacy in Central Europe: New Ap-
proaches in Graduate Studies” Conference. European Studies Centre, St. Anthony’s
College, Oxford 24–26 May 2002.

Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4, 19

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
 material factors etc. These responses are shared discourses and give
rise to discursive fields. The narratives in question are bounded, that
is, they include and exclude, meaning that they are the bases of an
identity. The collectivity in question fixes these boundaries and then
protects them by constructing a myth-symbol complex that sacralises
the construct. Finally, the collectivity which has undertaken this enter-
prise can be said to have acquired particularity, though it will equally
be a part of wider, “universal” processes.
The central argument to be put forward in this paper is that Cen-
tral Europe – South-Eastern Europe has certain evident similarities
but is distinct – is marked by a very particular set of experiences that
can be summarised as a series of semi-consensual, semi-imposed
transformations from outside in which local elites were either active or
marginal or oppositional and the bulk of the population was excluded.
The particular experience of these cumulative transformations, their
residues and interpretations when taken together create the thought-
styles and thought-worlds that are identifiable and specific to Central
Europe (Douglas, 1986). Where Central Europe differs from France,
say, is that it never underwent the experience of a strong, centralised
political power that could condense culture sufficiently for it to be-
come national.
The coming of modernity in the 17–18th centuries confronted
these collectivities with an acute dilemma, one that continues to in-
form attitudes, responses and identities in the region. In essence, the
dilemma is this: without modernisation, the future of these collec-
tivities is dim and their cultural reproduction is directly threatened
by the superior power accumulated in the West, meaning that they
must condense sufficient power to define their own models of mo-
dernity. However, their abiding historical experience has been one
of failure in this respect. They have succeeded in securing cultural
reproduction, but it is always seen as contingent on the wishes of more
powerful neighbours and their domestic models of modernity are at
risk (Lotman, 2001).
For Central Europe, both the Reformation and the Counter-Ref-
ormation came from outside. It is correct, of course, that the area had

20
been absorbed into Western Christianity, but it was peripheral to both
Rome and the centres of Protestant reform, the German lands and Ge-
neva. It was in this sense that Central Europe was affected, not in any
way necessarily unwillingly, by the Reformation and then subsequently,
rather less voluntarily by the reconversion to Catholicism launched in
the 16th and 17th centuries. The key factor here was that the region
was not directly involved in the formulation of the innovations and
the new thought-worlds and thought-styles was the work of outsiders,
just as feudalism had been. What is central in this connection was that
neither variant of Western Christianity fully suppressed the other and
the two lived on as competing plausibility structures (Berger, 1967), the
contest sometimes being bloody, as during the Thirty Years War. They
infused politics with added dimensions of defined reality that claimed
sole representation of the truth and access to the ultimate sacred pos-
tulate; in the pre-Enlightenment period this commanded considerable
authority and stamped its forms on elites and societies alike.
The central feature of the contest was the irreducible conflict
between individual and mediated, collective access to authority, with
Protestants insisting on the former and Roman Catholics on the latter.
The Protestant emphasis on individual conscience contradicted the
Catholic claim for obedience and hierarchy. Although broadly speaking
the Catholic thought-style emerged preeminent, and to some degree still
colours modes of expression and articulation, it was also affected and
in some cases eroded by Protestant values that could emerge as rebel-
liousness or distrust for constituted authority. But the polarity further
meant that Western Christianity was potentiated and not overtaken by
stasis, as tended to happen to Orthodoxy, and lived on, particularly in
the countryside, until well into the 20th century and, maybe, beyond.
The residues of this transformation, then, constructed a thought-world
that constituted the cognitive matrix into which the concepts of the next
transformation were integrated (or not, as the case may be).
The next transformation was the imperial one and it was secular,
though with traditional religious elements in the legitimation of the
ruler. In the 18th century, the new organisational techniques that
gave rise to the modern state were imported by the empires, but the

George Schöpf lin 21

 corresponding ideas that these techniques worked more efficiently if
society consented were not taken on or only very partially. The absolut-
ist state, for this is the term used to describe the process, concentrated
on enhancing its capacity for coercion and extraction, argued as an
instrument for the general improvement of a thoroughly backward
society. By comparison with the developed West, these societies were,
indeed, backward. In fact, one of the central difficulties was that they
barely existed as societies, they were an agglomeration of peoples not
conscious of themselves in the way in which the rational Enlighteners
supposed. They understood their worlds as bounded by the village;
they were largely illiterate or where they were literate, their reading
was narrow; their concept of politics was severely restricted. Their
backwardness had various sources, preeminent among them being
second serfdom; full emancipation of the serfs had to wait until the
19th century. Furthermore, the relatively complex middle strata
– bourgeoisie, professionals, administrators – who were ready to con-
test the drive for legibility by the state and whose consent to rule the
state came to accept in the West were largely absent in Central Europe
(Bauman 1987, pp.162–186).
Thus the drive by the imperial state to condense power and extend
legibility ran into unexpected obstacles. There was the structural one
of the sheer difficulty of making an undifferentiated society “rational”
by the new techniques, which had after all been elaborated in a differ-
ent cultural context. They found themselves saddled with the wrong
kind of people – this was a standard problem for would be radical
reformers in Central and South-Eastern Europe and elsewhere; and
it is still a problem. And this was matched by the resistance of those
whose power was diminished by the rise of the state – the nobility.
The traditional nobility where it existed was as conservative as the
peasantry, though it was conservative about its privileges and status
rather than being concerned about the unchanging nature of the tra-
ditional village commune.
Here, the ruler embarking on rationalising reforms encountered
an insuperable paradox. Imperial legitimation rested ultimately on the
proposition that the ruler exercised power by divine right and birth,

22
as a part of the natural order. The problem was that the nobility also
claimed its privileges as deriving from the same source. As long as the
two were broadly in accord there was no serious legitimation crisis,
but once the modernisation from above was launched and introduced
rationalisation as an added, and modern, source of legitimacy, as well
as significantly adding to the power of the ruler, there was bound to be
trouble (Wehler, 2001). Consent was the solution, but this could only
be obtained where ruler and nobility were broadly operating within
the same political space, where the ruler believed that a measure of
power could be redistributed to other actors and where the nobility
did not feel that the ruler was alien, in other words where the nobility
had a degree of voice in how power was exercised. The example of
Poland was instructive. It was precisely because the Polish elites acting
in concert finally decided to launch a modernisation of the state with
the 3 May 1791 constitution that would have moved power quite a long
way towards citizenship that the surrounding empires decided to put
an end to such dangerous experimentation and partitioned what had
been left over from two earlier partitions. In essence, the imperial
rulers of Central Europe sought only a partial modernisation and to
impose this without the civic norms that were an implicit part of the
package (Macartney, 1968).
This meant that the division between state and society, the weak-
ness if not absence of reciprocity and the preservation of the privileges
of the ruler as exempt from democratic control replicated the standard
pattern of transformation from above and the consequent resistance
to it. The imperial attempt at transformation ignored the rationalities
of society, its cultural capital, its attachment to its own rather than the
ruler’s norms and in the end, because modernity is predicated on the
consent of society, society won. But it was a victory won at a cost. It cre-
ated a lasting ambivalence towards the modern state and thus to mo-
dernity. It set the pattern for a moral legitimation to resistance – moral,
because these societies were seeking to define their moral norms against
external attack – and thereby made the connection between society
and modernity very hard to attain. Crucially, the impersonal norms of
modernity were and are distrusted and personal ones of informalism

George Schöpf lin 23

 are preferred, thereby enhancing the incompleteness that these socie-
ties are notionally trying to leave behind, given that they equate success
with modernity as they see it in the West.
The chronologically next transformation was the direct conse-
quence of imperial absolutism – the reception of nationalism. The
cognitive framework into which these new ideas were brought con-
sisted of the amalgam of the Counter-Reformation thought-style with
Protestant resistance coupled with the rationalising aims of empire and
neo-feudal resistance. The need was to find a set of ideas with which
to resist imperial claims that would be superior to nobiliary power. It
had to be nobiliary power plus something that could counteract the
imperial version of modernity.
So if empires sought to establish their hegemony by constructing
a reality-definition based on efficiency, power and rationality, legiti-
mated by reference to modernity and simultaneously the natural order,
then the local elites found themselves in a quandary. Some, though
far from all, accepted the imperial legitimation. Others resisted. The
forms of resistance were determined by the residues, the inherited
mindsets and cultural capital, as well as by the way in which the con-
cepts surrounding modernity were taken over from the West.
The concept of nation that was imported from the West, there-
fore, was necessarily narrowed by the aims for which the concept was
to be deployed and equally by the structural weakness of an absence
of society and nation. Both these had to be redefined or, maybe, re-
invented if the anti-imperial project was to succeed. Historically, the
concept of nation had existed in Central Europe largely as it had in
West. It was the corpus politicum, the restricted number of people
with the right of access to political power. In the West, the new mid-
dle strata appropriated this idea and the accompanying discourse
and claimed that nationhood was the property of all within a given
state territory. In Central Europe, where statehood was claimed by
the imperium, the Western concept had to be recalibrated to suit local
conditions. The local elites, which as we have seen were qualitatively
different from their counterparts in the West, had two options. They
could rely on ancient territorial rights, like the historic kingdoms of

24
Hungary or Bohemia and claim power in the name of all the people
who lived there, or where these antecedent political forms were ab-
sent, they could try to define a “people” and claim power accordingly,
by arguing that the “people” in question had always existed and the
areas they inhabited was the territory that they should claim for their
states. The confusion of conflicting definitions of people, territory,
state, nation, modernity and legitimations had far-reaching and gen-
erally negative consequences.
If the standard, ideal-typical model of modernity in Europe is
one where in broad terms state and society are correlated with re-
spect to etatic, civic and ethnic identity-forming processes, 2 then in
Central Europe the picture was much more complex. Etatic identities
were controlled by the imperial state elites and legitimated by pre-
modern discourses of dynasty, privilege, birth etc. There was some
conversion of aristocratic power into bureaucratic, though this was
never particularly successful. Civic identities were underdeveloped
because the imperial state could have no concept of citizenship – this
is an absolutely essential factor to grasp – given that it based its claim
to power on pre-modern dynasticism which excluded the bulk of the
population from political participation. Consent by the ruled was at
most a partial requirement for the exercise of power and could always
be ignored where it was denied. Thus empire was necessarily on a
collision course with popular sovereignty and this was what the Holy
Alliance was about.
In effect, empires functioned by reserving certain vital sovereign
powers for themselves, like the right to control (some) taxation and
coercion without consent. The contest over the right of legislatures
to control taxation, which had been fought in England in the 1640s
(ship money) had no counterpart in Central Europe. Indeed, the
idea was regarded as dangerous. In 1914, Francis Joseph needed no
parliamentary consent to declare war; war-making was a part of the
imperial reservatum. Legitimation, therefore, was an uneasy mixture
of old and new and the personal loyalty of the ruler was not sufficiently

2
I have argued this in Schöpflin, 2000

George Schöpf lin 25

 dynamic to offset to new radical claims to power made in the name
of the people-as-nation.
The 19th century for Central Europe was, therefore, a continuing
struggle. The empires were strong enough to hold off the sub-elites
as these dug deeper and deeper into the resources they had at their
disposal – the demand for political power legitimated by people-as-
nation – but they could not eliminate them. Much as the memory of
imperial rule is sometimes seen through a hazy blur of benevolence,
in reality they were unviable in the end because they had lost the
argument. The plausibility structures that they sustained and sus-
tained them grew threadbare or were gradually transformed into
ethno-nationalism, as happened with Germany. Austria-Hungary did
not have that option and Russia tried it, but lacked the capacity and
the power of attractiveness to make it stick.
The problem for the future was that the form and content of the
Central European variant of nationhood bore the marks of the incom-
plete journey to modernity that these nations made. Vitally, being at
most only partly territorial, they could not evolve etatic and civic norms
that could transcend ethnic differences. Their territoriality was always
questioned and the security even as to core territory was a luxury that
they never enjoyed, quite unlike France or the Netherlands, say.
When it comes to the Central Europeans’ own experience of
constructing modernity, it is hard to see anything other than partial
success at best and this lack of success certainly influences attitudes
currently. From the perspective of the region, this has created a sense
of incompleteness, indeterminacy, marginalisation and powerlessness
(Miłosz, 1983). Incompleteness, however, assumes that somewhere out
there, there exists completeness and this, in turn, implies that the con-
cept of Europe is radically condensed into a model that the Central and
South-East Europeans can try to adopt, but because this reductionism
damages the effectiveness of the original, it is never actually reached.
The outcome is a frustration, which can become the seed-bed of nativ-
ism, populism and xenophobic, rejectionist nationalism.
Take Hungary first – the Hungarian model of modernity, after
enjoying considerable success a century ago, encountered the most

26
catastrophic failure in 1918, overwhelmingly because it could not pro-
vide a satisfactory answer to the question of multi-ethnicity. The two
subsequent attempts to define Hungarian modernity, 1945–1947 and
1956, were both suppressed by communism. Communism was itself
a model of modernity, but it was highly reductionist and in many re-
spects a counter-modernising process, by forcibly making political and
social systems less complex than they were beforehand.
The interwar Czechoslovak model was destroyed by its inability
to cope once again with the multi-ethnic nature of the state and by
the belief that the Czechs had the capacity to impose a Czech model
on all the non-Czechs, who made up somewhere over half the popu-
lation. All this has an ironic echo in Hungarian ears. It implies that the
Czechs learned the wrong lesson from the Hungarians’ failure, that
a Czech hegemony would be acceptable if it went hand in hand with
a reliable legal order, a sound administration and relative economic
prosperity – an illusion, as it turned out in 1938.
The Polish story is more complex, not least because after 1918 the
new state had to accommodate three different types of Polish identity,
each of which brought divergent visions of modernity with them and
found that these were ultimately incompatible. Thus in Poland too
identity played a key role in explaining failure; to this may be added
the inability of the Polish state to deal with the roughly one-third of its
ethnically non-Polish population and to seek to impose a semi-Jacobin
model of centralisation and assimilation on them.
All the major European models of identity politics relied heav-
ily on the hegemony of the most numerous ethnic component in the
state and imposed its own model of modernity on the rest. Taking
this model over proved disastrous in Central Europe for a number of
reasons. First, the numerical proportions were different, no dominant
ethnic group enjoyed the overwhelming demographic superiority that
characterised France, say, together with an effective state system that
could provide citizenship in exchange for assimilation. Second, the
dominant model was able to offer its citizens and subjects an acceptable
share of prosperity, a fairly competent administration and relatively
uncorrupt politics. In Central Europe, this was not the case. Third,

George Schöpf lin 27

 the dominant model was misread, in as much as the hegemonic ethnic
group had the self-confidence to redistribute power throughout soci-
ety, albeit slowly at times; this was hardly true of Central Europe.
Communism attempted to establish something that looked quite
new – to do away with ethnicity altogether and to create class-driven
identities that would have “transcended” nationhood. This proved to
be illusory, but the attempt had far-reaching consequences for Central
Europe that is still marked by the experience. Pivotally, communism
was bizarrely, even absurdly, reductionist. It had a model of moder-
nity which was more contingently Soviet Russian than its proponents
claimed, above all in its determination to set up simple, easily con-
trollable structures and systems, while simultaneously generating
greater complexity. This was deeply contradictory and confusing, and
eventually resulted in the demise of communism – the victim of the
very complexity that it created but denied.
However, for those forced to live in it, it represented a moral
order (Wuthnow, 1987), albeit a negative moral order, against which
identities, meanings and life strategies could be defined. Above all,
communism established a kind of existential security, so that there
were predictabilities despite its arbitrary, discretionary nature. In
this situation, the search for order and meaning and for the sources
of coherence that is fundamental to all collectivities,3 looked to eth-
nicity. Ethnicity, however, while it is excellent at providing collective
solidarity, has little or nothing to offer for those seeking answers to
the problem of democracy and civility. From this perspective, being
Polish or Czech or Hungarian, say, had nothing concrete to offer as
far as the political power was concerned, other than a vague symbolic
sense of community that was always understood as superior to com-
munism – seen as simultaneously alien and oppressive.
The end of the communist system, therefore, meant not only the
unavoidable quest for a new set of identities, but a quest with quite in-
adequate cultural capital. In the circumstances, two broad sources were
used – “democracy” and ethnicity. I have put the word “democracy” in

3
Eliade, Mircea The Myth of the Eternal Return: Cosmos and History (London: Penguin,
1954).

28
quotation marks, because it was read as a powerful discourse, a highly
attractive alternative when communism had ceased to be exemplary and
binding, but for the most part it remained a discourse, as its practical,
operational, procedural aspects were not and could not be understood.4
It was perfectly understandable in the conditions of the reception that
the values of democracy, which the West was itself very largely unable
to conceptualise, that the institutions of democracy would often remain
on paper and that in the absence or weakness of a civil society, civility
would be more honoured in the breach than in the observance.5
Where there emerged a major and in many ways inadequately
defined collision between the West’s slow redefinition of democracy
and the underlying structures of post-communism was in the area of
ethnicity. The post-communists, despite their negative memories of
combining modernity and democracy, had and have no real alternative
to pursuing this goal. In the light of the weakness of civil society and
the eroded state, identity must be based primarily on ethnicity, even if
ethnicity is a poor basis for both modernity and liberty. For the West,
however, the encounter with Central Europe was traumatising, above
all in the context of the disintegration of Jugoslavia, an experience
that was almost universally misread.
The Western response was to try to marginalise ethnicity and to
impose what it believed were non-ethnic approaches to the exercise of
power. This was the thrust of the message that the West delivered to
the post-communist world. The message was, as I have argued, both
flawed and misplaced. It was flawed because it assumed that the West is,
if not without sin (and thus in a good position to cast stones) certainly
without ethnicity; this is an error. And secondly it was misplaced because
it wholly misunderstood the reliance on ethnicity in Central Europe,
attributing it to “ancient hatreds” and a kind of generic if not actually
genetic deficiency on the part of the people of the region.
Similar monsters born of the dubious analyses of Western jour-

4
Sztompka, Piotr ‘The Intangibles and Imponderables of the Transition to Democ-
racy’ Studies in Comparative Communism 24:3 (September 1991).
5
Mastnak, Tomaž, ‘Fascists, Liberals and Anti-Nationalism’ in Caplan, Richard &
John Feffer, Europe’s New Nationalism: States and Minorities in Conflict (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1996), pp.59–74.

George Schöpf lin 29

 nalists, NGO activists, functionaries, politicians and others with use-
less cognitive categories then came to pervade Western discourses
about the post-communist world.6 It was a new Orientalism waiting
to discover its existence. Not surprisingly, the Central Europeans re-
sented it, but could do very little given the political power, prestige
and money with which the West arrived.
In this sense, the last decade has been spent in a twofold process
of mutual misunderstanding. The West has constructed its own im-
ages and discourses about Central Europe and the Central Europeans
have returned the favour. Misunderstanding is not intended here to
signal failure, on the contrary. But it does mean that the transmission
and reception of Western concepts of democracy took place without
much understanding of the cultural baggage with which it arrived
– as if there could be such thing as cultural innocence7 – so that the
outcome was a series unintended consequences, the least of which
was that Western institutions did not function in the way in which
they did in the West.
The nature of the Central European identity, therefore, should
be seen as an amalgam of the various historical-political experience
that the region has undergone. It should be stressed that there has
been considerable similarity of the types of legitimation and power,
the forms of knowledge and discursive fields constructed and, logi-
cally, of the responses that emerged. The sense of intermediacy and
lack of agency, together with a distrust of power, are central in this
respect. Since the reception of democratic systems, the patterns of
development have been broadly alike. The preference for interpreting
Europe as symbolic recompense for the communist period and the
disregarding of European Union procedures are very much a shared
pattern throughout the area.
Pivotal here is the legacy of the Baroque, the modernisation of
the Counter-Reformation, and the meta-languages constructed then.

6
Wedel, Janine Collision and Collusion: the Strange Case of Western Aid to Eastern Europe
1989–1999 (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1998).
7
Douglas, Mary and Steven Ney, Missing Persons: A Critique of Personhood in the Social
Sciences (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998).

30
This underlies the persistence of historicism, the sentimentality, the
penchant for hyperbole, the suspicion of “pragmatism” (read as oppor-
tunism) and articulation of self through these discursive fields as ethnic
communities in search of parity of esteem. Membership of the Euro-
pean Union will affect this model in a variety of ways, notably in the
need to accept Europe as a field in which the Central Europeans are
in partnership with one another, but the long term pattern of Central
Europeanness has been set and will retain its current configuration
for the foreseeable future.
So, what then are the key elements of the Central European
thought-style? First, there is a certain preference for religious meta-
phors, rather than, say, scientific ones, though both exist. There are
metaphors of wholeness counterpointed by a fear of fragmentation
and incoherence. There is a clear presence of historicising rhetoric, of
looking for the explanations for one’s collective problems in a meaning
that is attributed to the past; and the past is seen as an active agent,
undercutting human agency. To some extent, this is a reflection of
the preference for thinking in structures over thinking pragmatically
– structures once identified appear to make human agency and in-
dividual responsibility futile. A kind of determined positivism is the
counter-discourse. There are well-established discourses with overt
moralising purposiveness and a corresponding suspicion of detach-
ment. Western discourses by contrast hide their moralising quality
behind scientific and objective language. Central Europeans like to
rely on aestheticising non-aesthetic phenomena. They have a certain
fear of being forever marginal, of not being actors in history, of not
having recognition on equal terms and ultimately of their own disap-
pearance. Correspondingly, there is a longing for centrality, one that
they half know is unattainable, because it is mythicised. Community
and ethnicity tend to be seen as one, there is an ethnic path-depend-
ence and the denial of this, underpinned by universalist counter-dis-
courses imported from the West. Finally, the region is haunted by its
own sense of indeterminacy and incompleteness, of not having voice,
of being disregarded and that completeness, and with completeness
the good life, is elsewhere.

George Schöpf lin 31

 REFERENCES

Bauman, Zygmunt 1987. “Intellectuals in East-Central Europe: Conti-

nuity and Change” East European Politics and Societies Vol.1 No.2
(Spring), pp.162–186.
Berger, Peter 1967. The Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory
of Religion. New York: Doubleday
Berger, Peter and Thomas Luckman1991. The Social Construction of
Reality: a Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge.London: Penguin
Douglas, Mary 1986. How Institutions Think. Syracuse NY: Syracuse
University Press
Douglas, Mary and Steven Ney 1998. Missing Persons: A Critique of Person-
hood in the Social Sciences. Berkeley: University of California Press
Eliade, Mircea 1954. The Myth of the Eternal Return: Cosmos and History.
London: Penguin
Lotman, Jurij 2001. Robbanás és kultúra translation of Kultura i vzriv
by Teri Szűcs. Budapest: Pannonica
Macartney, C.A. 1968. The Habsburg Empire 1790–1918. London: Wei-
denfeld and Nicolson
Mastnak, Tomaš 1996. ‘Fascists, Liberals and Anti-Nationalism’ in Cap-
lan, Richard & John Feffer, Europe’s New Nationalism: States and Mi-
norities in Conflict Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp.59–74.
Miłosz, Czesław 1983. The Witness of Poetry. Cambridge MA: Harvard
University Press
Schöpflin, George 2000. Nations, Identity, Power: the New Politics of
Europe London: Hurst
Sztompka, Piotr 1991. ‘The Intangibles and Imponderables of the
Transition to Democracy’ Studies in Comparative Communism 24:3
(September 1991).
Wedel, Janine 1998. Collision and Collusion: the Strange Case of Western
Aid to Eastern Europe 1989–1999. New York: St Martin’s Press
Wehler, Hans-Ulrich 2001. Nationalismus: Geschichte, Formen, Folgen.
Munich: C.H. Beck
Wuthnow, Robert 1987. Meaning and Moral Order: Explorations in Cul-
tural Analysis. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press

32 George Schöpf lin

USUSOOTSIUMI IDENTITEEDI VÄLJAKUJUNEMINE JA MUUTUMINE
EESTI BAPTISMI NÄITEL
Riho Saard

K ÄESOLEVA ARTIKLI EESMÄRGIKS on vastata küsimusele, kuidas sündis

ja kujunes Eesti varase baptismi eneserefleksioon liikumise esimese
viiekümne aasta jooksul.
Eesti elas 19. sajandil üle muudatusi, mis olid lahutamatult seotud
nii Euroopas kui ka Venemaal toimuvast. Oldi ületamas seda vara-
semat iseenesestmõistetavust, et luterlik kirik on ainus ametlik rah-
vavalgustaja, mõttemaailma kujundaja ja sotsiaalne tugi. 19. sajandi
alguses oli toimunud eestlaste massilisem kirikuvahetamisliikumine,
mille käigus oli 1840. aastate lõpuks ortodokskirikuga liitunud ca
65 680 eestlast. (Saard 2000: 30) Baltisakslaste, rannarootslaste ja
eestlaste keskele levisid uued usulised arusaamad ning 1880. aastatel
Läänemaal alguse saanud prii- ja baptistikoguduste moodustumisega
oli 1920. aastate alguseks jäänud Eesti Vabariigi elanikkonnast ca 2,5
% juba püsivalt väljapoole ühtegi kirikut. (Saard 1999a: 20)
Erinevaid konfessioone on olnud harjumus seostada rahvustega.
19. sajandi Venemaal nimetati õigeusklikke vene usulisteks, rooma-
katoliiklasi poola usulisteks, luterlasi ja sellega lähedalt seotud ven-
nastekoguduse liikmeid ja hiljem ka baptiste saksa usulisteks, priilasi
nimetati rootsi usulisteks. Jakob Hurda arvates oli eestlaste identiteedi
osaks protestantism, luterlik protestantism, mis tähendas, et eestlane
olla tähendas kindlasti ka luterlaseks olemist. Aivar Jürgensoni uurimus
Siberi eestlastest osutab, et eesti asunikud on läbi aegade luteri usku
nimetanud “meie usuks” või “eesti usuks” ja rünnak luterliku kiriku
vastu oli rünnak ka eestluse vastu. (2002: 227, 237) Hurda seisukoha

Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4, 33

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
 tagajärjeks oli eestlastest õigeusklike väljalülitamine eestlusest. Õige-
usu kirikusse kuulunud eesti üliõpilastel keelati näiteks astuda Eesti
Üliõpilaste Seltsi liikmeks. Nii muutus juba 19. sajandi lõpul luterlik
kultuurnatsionalism rahvuslikult mõtlevatele eestlastest õigeusklikele
tõsiseks probleemiks. Luterlik pastorkond lootis omalt poolt, et on vaid
aja küsimus, kui õigeusu kirikuga liitunud eestlased poliitiliste olude
muutudes luterlusse tagasi pöörduvad. Kuid selle võimaluse saabudes
1905. aastal ei olnud tagasipöördujate hulk sugugi nii suur, kui oleks
võinud eeldada. Vastupidi, 1910. aasta alguseks oli Eesti- ja Liivimaal
ametis vähemalt 83 eesti rahvusest õigeusu preestrit ja eestlastest luteri
pastoreid oli vaid 46. (Saard 2000: 67, 71) Eestlust ja õigeusku ei näinud
kõik (Carl Robert Jakobson, Ado Grenzstein, Jüri Truusmann) sugugi
nii lepitamatu vastuoluna, kui võiks arvata. Johann Köler unistas ko-
guni uuest eestikeelsest evangeelsest kirikust, milles oleks puudunud
otsene viide luterlusele. Kirik, kus oleksid säilinud küll mitteorto-
dokssed usukombed ja pühad, kuid mille usuõpetus oleks vastanud
õigeusu kiriku dogmale kolmainsusest, oleks võinud muuta eestlased
kiriklikult vabaks baltisakslaste ülemvõimu alt. (Saard 2000: 221) Kuigi
Eesti riigi sünni juures olid tuntud eesti õigeusklikud Konstantin Päts,
Konstantin Konik ja Jaan Poska, osutus mõistepaar õigeusklik-eestlane
Eesti Vabariigi päevilgi veel piisavalt problemaatiliseks. Eesti Vabariigi
alguspäevil (1922) moodustasid õigeusklikud kogu eesti elanikkonnast
ca 20% (eestlastest õigeusklikke 56%) ja see protsent püsis muutumatuna
kuni 1940. aastateni. (Frilander 1999: 153) Pärast raskeid nõukogude
aastaid moodustavad eestlased õigeusklikest ikka veel märkimisväärse
osa – 13%. (Hansen 2002: 45, 115)
Baptism ei olnud luterlikule kirikule 1884. aastal sugugi varem
tundmatu liikumine. Tartu Ülikooli teoloogiateaduskonna professor
Karl Christian Ulmann oli baptismiga seonduvat käsitlenud 1859.
aastal ilmunud töös Wie die Baptisten der lutherischen Kirche die Bibel
gegenüberstellen. (Frey 1905: 216) Liivimaa pastorite sinodil oli 1862.
aastal arutletud selle üle, kas herrnhuutlus oli siinmail baptismile teed-
rajav või seda tõkestav. Järgmisel aastal analüüsiti Liivimaa pastorite
sinodil juba saksa baptistide usutunnistust. (MN 1865: 214–230) Saa-
remaa Mustjala pastor Theodor Heinrich Renatus von Hesse avaldas

34
1865-66 ajakirjas Dorpater Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche pikema
artikli Ein Wiedertäufer auf Oesel, mis käsitles baptist L. Johannes
Schwani tegevust Saaremaal. 1881. aasta rahvaloenduse andmeil elas
1881. aasta lõpul Tallinnas üks inglasest baptist ja Tartus üks naine,
tõenäoliselt sakslane, kes tunnistas end baptistiks. (Jordan 1889: 23;
Jung-Stilling & Anders 1885: 164) Eesti Kirjameeste Selts oli 1883.
aastal publitseerinud koolidele uue kirikuajaloo õpiku Weikene Kiriku
lugu, milles tutvustati eesti noorsoole põhjalikumalt ka uusaja usulisi
liikumisi: mennoniite, baptiste, kveekereid ja irvinglasi.
Pärast esimeste baptistikoguduste rajamist 1884. aastal Lääne-,
Harju-, Hiiu- ja Pärnumaal muutusid baptismiga seotud küsimused
varasemast palju teravamaks. Seda kinnitavad luterliku kiriku sino-
dite arutlusteemad ja 19. sajandi teisel poolel poleemilise kirjanduse
rohkus, mis koondus algperioodil põhiliselt ristimisega seotud küsi-
mustele. Pärast Haapsalu lähedal toimunud esimeste baptistide risti-
mist1 1884. aastal, ilmusid ajakirjanduses ka esimesed poleemilised
artiklid. Eestimaa evangeelse-luterliku kiriku ja kirikuvalitsuse amet-
likus häälekandjas Ristirahwa pühapäewa leht kirjutati:

Mis Johannes soojal maal Jordani jöe kaldal tegi, seda ei sünni mitte
meie maal jää augus järele teha. (Rpl 10/4.03.1884)

Pärast Ülemiste järves 25. aprillil toimunud ristimist avaldati

lehes juba pikem poleemiline kirjutis Ristitud wõi alles ristimata? (Rpl
20/1884) Iseseisvate trükiste ilmumine algas aga 1885. aasta jaanuaris,
kui ilmus Eestimaa Konsistooriumi eestvõttel eestikeelne tõlge Gustaw
Rühli novellist Karl Odebrekt. Ühe baptisti elu- ja ümberpöörmise lugu. See
oli jutustus ühe baptisti vaimuliku tõe otsinguist ristimisküsimuses,
mis juhtisid peategelase lõpuks tagasi luterlikku kirikusse.
1885. aasta märtsis ilmus herrnhuutlase Johannes Dunkeli raama-
tuke Ristimise seadmisest ehk Ristimist waimulikult mõista, mis oli vastus

1
Ristimine viidi läbi 11. veebruari õhtul 16 kraadise külmaga Haapsalu lähedal Ungru
jões. Kommentaariks olgu öeldud, et 1884. aastal oli Haapsalu keskmine veebruari
päevane temperatuur -3 Réaumur’i ehk -3,75 Celsiust. (Jordan 1889: 17) Haapsalus
toimunud ristimist kajastasid paljud ajalehed, nagu Wirulane, Revalische Zeitung,
Olewik, Tallinna Sõber. Talvel ristimised polnud sugugi erandlikud, vaid ajakirjan-
duses äratoodud teadete järgi teostati neid veel 1890. aastatelgi.

Riho Saard 35
 sel perioodil ainsale baptistide levitatavale eestikeelsele brošüürile
Ristimise seadmisest, keda peab ristima ja mil wiisil see peab sündima?
Brošüüris polemiseeriti ristimise välise toimetamise üle. Samale bap-
tistide brošüürile vastas ka Tartu Püha Maarja koguduse kirikuõpe-
taja Paul Gerhard Adalbert Willigerode kirjutisega Ümberristijad ehk
Baptistlased, milles kirjutas:

Kui näituseks Baptistlased tõist apostli tähendamise sõna oma õpetuse

toetamiseks ka tahawad wäljaspidiseks käsuks tõsta, nimelt (1. Kor.
10:1–2) siis peaksiwad nad ka õpetama, et üksnes mere- ja pilwe
weega tohib ristida. (1885: 29–30)

1890. aastatel ilmusid J. N.-nn tõlgitud ja A. Ginemanni välja antud

Laste ristimise lugu (1890), mille tegevus toimub 1850. aastate Rootsis.
(Laste 1890) Herrnhuutlase Gustav Allo jutlustekogus Armastuse ühen-
daja ehk üks ringwaatus kõige usklikudele (1894) kritiseeris autor teravalt
vabakoguduste lahkulöömist luterlikest kristlastest. (Allo 1894) Neile
lisaks ilmusid 19. sajandi lõpul Simuna köstri Willem Normanni brošüü-
rid Kõne laste ristimisest, selle küsimisega: Mis peame õigemaks arwama, kas
laste, wõi wanade ristimist? On see õige, kui inimesed endid teist korda ristida
lasewad? (1894), milles ta ühe argumendina õigustamaks lasteristimist
kasutas konsensuse põhimõtet - lasteristimise esinemist kõigis suurtes
kristlikes kirikkondades. Ülejäänud kaks Normanni brošüüri ilmusid
1896. aastal: Mis arwame meie selle praeguse aja hüüdmise heälest: “Minge
wälja Paabelist” ning Lühike seletus uskudest ehk mõnedest weikestest ususelts-
kondadest, mis Sektideks nimetatakse. (Normann 1894; 1896a; 1896b)
Initsiaalide W. E. K. all ilmus raamatukesest Kas nõnda nimetatud
“priikogudused” seisavad püha kirja põhja peal või mitte? koguni kolm
kordustrükki 1892, 1893 ja 1896. Selles analüüsis Kullamaa pastor
Wilhelm E. Kentmann prii- ja baptistikoguduste õpetust ja tõdes,
et õpetus, mis viib kirikust väljaastumiseni “on kuradist”. (Rpl “Kas
nõnda nimetatud “priikogudused” seisawad püha kirja põhja peal wõi
mitte?” 6/9.02 – 14/5.04.1892) Tallinna Oleviste pastor Anton Her-
mann von Haller avaldas 1897. aastal raamatukese Bist du getauft? ja
mitmed saksa soost vaimulikud käsitlesid ristimisteemat eestikeelses
jutluseraamatus Elupuu (1900).

36
 Eestlaste vabakoguduslikku liikumist ei tunnistanud omaks ega
positiivseks ka eesti rahvusliku liikumise tegelased. Oleviku peatoimetaja
Ado Grenzsteini arvates ei olnud see üldse kuigi arukas, et 19. sajandi
lõpul ”leitakse” usu sisus midagi uut. Mingi mõte võis Grenzsteini arvates
olla asjal vaid siis, kui Tartu Ülikooli teoloogidel oleks olnud midagi uut
kirikule ususasjus teatada. (Olevik “Saage mõistlikuks!” 47/26.11.1884)
Rõuge pastor Rudolf Gottfried Kallas hoiatas rahvast vabakogudusliku
liikumise eest oma jutluseraamatutes Igawene Ewangelium ehk Rõõmu-
sõnum Jeesusest (1889), Meie Issanda Jeesuse Kristuse Armulaud (1891)
ja Saaroni walge lill. Pulmapäewaks. Perekonna raamat (1894). (Kallas
1889; 1891; 1894) Türi pastor Andreas Kurrikoff väljendas oma eita-
vat suhtumist liikumisse 1894. aasta Postimehes ja Nõo pastor Martin
Lipp 1896. aastal ilmunud teoses Kodumaa kiriku ja hariduse lugu. (Pm
“Läänemaa waimulik liikumine” 101–104/1894; Lipp 1896) Kaarma
pastor Friedrich W. Ederberg aga 1899. aastal ilmunud raamatukeses
Sõna ja sakrament. (Ederberg 1899) Jakob Hurda suhtumisest vabakogu-
duslikku liikumisse saame teada tema jutlustekogust Elu walgus (1907).
Jutlusest Laske umbrohi ja nisu ühtlasi kaswada leikuseks loeme:

Uuemal ajal on Eesti rahwa keskel mitmel pool katsutud ristikoguduse

põldu selleläbi parandada, et inimesed omast esiwanemate kirikust
wälja astuwad ja iseseltsi lööwad. Niisugused on, näituseks, meie
ümberristijad ja prii-usulised – – (1907: 131)

Väärib tähelepanu, et Jakob Hurt ei rõhuta luteri kirikust rääki-

des mitte luterlust, vaid peab oluliseks selle seotust esivanematega.
Niisugusest kirikust lahkumine oli usulises mõttes esivanemate ja
iseenda vahele piiri tõmbamine, esivanematest lahkumine, mis tähen-
das sotsiaalsete suhete katkemist, lõhenemist ja rahvuslikele kultuu-
riaadetele selja pööramist. Baptistid tunnustasid 1930. aastatel küll
ühiskonnas toimunud poliitilisi muutusi: usuvabadust, demokraatiat,
aga laiemate rahvuslike kultuuriaadetega nad ei tegelenud.
Poleemika ristimise üle jätkus ka 20. sajandi algul. Narva
lestadiuslaste jutlustaja Klaus Huusmann tõlkis eesti keelde raamatu-
kese, mille Martin Luther kirjutas 1528. aastal kahele preestrile uues-
tiristijate vastu – Öndsa Martin Lutheruse kiri Uuesti ristijate wastu ilmus

Riho Saard 37
 1903. aastal. Selle eessõnas viitas Huusmann kriitiliselt Lutheri-aegse-
tele spiritualistidele ja anabaptistidele ning õigustas lasteristimist.
Tallinna Oleviste pastor Elieser Traugott Hahn avaldas 1904. aas-
tal brošüüri Õpetus pühast ristimisest, milles käsitles küsimusi ristimise
välisest toimetamisest ja ristitavate vanusest. (Hahn 1904) Haapsalu
pastor Friedrich Wilhelm Alexander Spindleri 1906. aastal ilmunud
brošüürist Wastus küsimise peale: Mis jutustab piibel ristimisest? ilmneb, et
baptistide Lendlehtede Väljaandmise Selts (1905) oli levitanud lend-
lehte Mis jutustab piibel ristimisest? Lendlehe esimesel küljel olid piibli
kirjakohad, milles kõneldi usklike ristimisest aga teine külg oli jäetud
tühjaks ja lugeja täita nende piibli kirjakohtadega, milles selgesti rää-
gitaks laste- ja veevalamisega teostatud ristimisest. (Spindler 1906)
Niisiis keskenduti 1884. aastast kuni 20. sajandi alguseni kiriku
poolt peamiselt vaid baptistide ristimisõpetusele ja -praktikale. Bap-
tistides ei nähtud muud kui vaid omapärast ristimisliikumist. Seda
kinnitab ka asjaolu, et Eestimaa konsistooriumi assessori Rudolf Karl
Wilhelm von Freymanni poolt 1901. aastal välja antud 1832. aasta kiri-
kuseadusesse Gesetz für die Evangelisch-Lutherische Kirche in Russland oli
lisatud kuus punkti ristimise kohta. (1901: 241–256) Seega ei nähtud
20. sajandi alguse baptismis veel mingit suuremat tervikut. Liikumist
tunti ja defineeriti peamiselt ühe üksiktunnuse, ristimise abil.
Valitsevate tsensuuriolude tõttu ei võinud baptistid enne 1905.
aasta manifeste neile kirjutistele vastata. Keskne roll oli seejuures bap-
tistide endi ajakirjal Teekäija. Juhan Welsbergi tõlkes avaldati selles
1906.–1907. aastal Düsseldorfi ja Kölni baptistikoguduste pastori Höfsi
[Albert Hoefs] artikkel Baptistid ja nende ristimine. (Tk 7/1906–1/1907)
Järgmisel aastal avaldati Teekäijas baptist Jüri Milli ja luterlase Jüri
Rulli aastail 1893–1894 kirja teel peetud teoloogiline diskussioon
Wabameelsed usuasjade seletajad, millest 90% oli pühendatud ristimi-
sega seotud küsimustele. Lisaks piibli eksegeesile üritasid mõlemad
osapooled kasutada ka kirikuajaloolisi argumente, eriti patristikat. (Tk
13–22/1907) 1908. aastal avaldati ajakirjas artikkel Kas baptistid on üm-
berristijad?, millest alates hakkas baptistide argumentatsioonides ikka
enam ja enam esikohale nihkuma kirikuajaloolised argumendid. (Tk
9/1908) Nimetatud argumentatsiooniviisi muutumist ja uut suunda

38
selles kinnitas seegi, et samal aastal avaldati 17. sajandi radikaalpietisti
Gottfried Arnoldi kirjutis Ristimine esimeste ristiinimeste juures. Sellele
järgnes Milli pikem kirjutis Ristimine oma muudatustega esimestes aas-
tasadades pärast Kristust ja A. Rauschenbuschi artikkel Esimeste kristlaste
nõudmised ristimise juures. (Tk 17–20/1908; 20–23/1909; 13/1913)
1920. aastate alguses võis baptistide kirjutistes kohata lasteristi-
mise küsimuses juba üllatavalt leebetki suhtumist. Näiteks Johannes
Lipstok kirjutas oma raamatus Kristus Uue Testamendi walgusel (1924)
järgmist:

Üheski asjas ei lähe usulised waated nii lahku kui laste juures. Neid õn-
nistatakse, ristitakse, lõigatakse ümber ja pühitsetakse, antakse Kristuse
ihu ja werd, pannakse taewa elukirja ja istutatakse Jumala peenraile.
Kõigil wõib oma jagu õigus olla, sest see on loomulik, loomusund igal
kristlikul emal, et tema oma last tahab Kristuse juure wiia, olgu ühel
wõi teisel wiisil. Uskkondade esitajad ja koguduste karjased ei peaks aga
siin juures mitte tülitsema. Kristus ei ole seda teind. (1924: 54–55)

Ajaloolise identiteedi loomine

Valdavalt noorte ja nooremas keskeas olevate eestlaste usulise

tunnetuse emantsipatsioon algas iseseisva piibliseletusega, usuliste
tõdede üle juurdlemisega, kuid see ei tähendanud sugugi kiiret side-
mete katkemist luterluse ja luterliku kirikuga. Vormsis sai usuline ära-
tus 1876. aastal alguse Martin Lutheri jutluste ettelugemisest. (Saard
1995a: 115) Erinevalt näiteks Noarootsis kujunes 1877. aastast alates
Vormsis ärganute ja kohaliku pastori vahel, keda ei peetud halbade
elukommete tõttu õigeks usklikuks, välja omapärane suhe: armulauda
jagasid ärganud omavahel kooliõpetaja juhtimisel, kuid kõigi teiste
kiriklike kasuaaltoimetuste puhul pöörduti endiselt pastori poole.
Kuni üks osa ärganutest jõudis 1882. aastal Ridalas veendumuseni,
et mistahes riigikirik ei ole Jumala kogudus, ning ristisid üksteist
vastastikku vabas looduses uuesti. Kusjuures ärganud ise ei pidanud
seda ”uuesti” ristimiseks. (Saard 1995a: 119) See akt ei tähendanud
sugugi veel täielikku kirikust lahkumist, sest paljudeks aastateks jäeti

Riho Saard 39
 oma nimi endiselt luteri kiriku kirjadesse ning osa vallalistest noor-
test, mõeldes kas või kiriklikule laulatusele2, pöördus juba järgmistel
aastatel kirikusse tagasi. Luterlikust laulatusest ja matusest ei tahtnud
eestlased ennast eristada, küll aga luterlikust armulauast ja ristimi-
sest, milles taheti sarnaneda uustestamentlikule õpetusele. Pikapeale
taastus paljude vabakoguduslastest eestlaste side luterliku armulauaga
uuesti ning seda ka Vormsis, kust iseseisvate armulaudade pidamise
komme oli rootslaste ja eestlaste hulgas alguse saanud. (TS 38/1885;
Protokoll der Estländischen Provinzial-Synode 1892: 8) Eestimaa pas-
torite sinodil märgiti 1907. aastal, et sagenesid juhtumid, kus vabako-
guduste liikmed tõid Tallinnas oma lapsi kirikutesse ristida. (Protokoll
der Estländischen Provinzial-Synode 1907: 8) Paljud Ridala baptistide
ja priilaste kodudest pärit 17–18-aastased noored soovisid aga minna
kindlalt luterlikku leeri. (EAA f 1246 n 1 s 74) Arhiiviallikate väikese
informatiivsuse tõttu ei või muidugi väita, et niisugune suundumus
oleks olnud massiline. Kuid needki üksikjuhtumid kinnitavad, et
eemaldumine luterlusest ei osutunudki nii lihtsaks.
19. sajandi rahvusliku liikumise üks avaakorde oli Fr. R. Kreutz-
waldi Kalevipoja ilmumine, millega oli toimunud eestlaste kaugema
mineviku heroiseerimine, mis pidi õigustama ka eestlaste olemasolu.
Ka Hurt oli esitanud nn. estomaanilise ideoloogia, mis taotles eestlaste
arendamist uusaegseks ja püsivaks kultuurrahvaks. Kõigepealt tuli aga
eestlastele kirjutada nende ajalugu ja luua identiteet, mis pidi lähtuma
sellest, et meie esivanemad olid olnud “tsiviliseeritud” inimesed ja
nad pole mingi üksikrahvas, vaid et neil on maailma teiste rahvaste
hulgas ka sugulasi. (vt lähemalt Prants 1911)
Pärast esimeste baptistikoguduste rajamist 1884. aastal, hakkas
peagi välja kujunema ka baptistide käsitlus oma ajaloolisest identi-
teedist, mis oli võrreldav sugulaste otsimisega kirikuajaloost. Eesti
baptistidel oli selleks kasutada 1883. aastal Peterburi saksa baptisti-
kogudusest saadud Moritz Geissleri teos Die Baptisten, wer sie sind,
was sie glauben und woher sie stammen, nebst ihren Eigenthümlichkeiten

2
Eestimaa pastorite sinod oli Tallinnas 1883. aastal otsustanud, et kirikust lahkunu-
tele ei lubata enam kiriklikku laulatust. (TS 39/1883)

40
(1871)3. Teos trükiti eestikeelsena 1885. aastal Hamburgis ja kandis
nime Baptistid, kes nad on, mida usuwad, kust nad pärit ja nende erilised
omadused ja pani luterlased “kohkuma ja värisema”. (Rpl “Sõnake
Baptisti elust, nende oma usu raamatu järel” 14/2.04.1889) Selles esi-
tatud baptistide ajalooline identiteet vastas täielikult apostellikule kro-
noloogilisele suktsessiooniteooriale4: novatistid (200–600), donatistid
(300–600), gallia-brittannia kristlaskond (300–500), paulikaanid
(600–1100), pateriinid (1000), berengariinid (1000), petrobusiaanid
(1100), valdeslased (1100), begardid (1100), albilased (1100–1200),
lollardid (1300), John Wyclif (1329–1384), Jan Hus (1370–1415),
Hieronymus Prahalane (1365–1416), Böömi ja Määri vennad
(1400–1600), anabaptistid (1500), mennoniidid (1500), puritaanid
(1600) ja Roger Williams (1603–1683). Sellele lisaks mainiti:

Issand Jeesus ise, – – oli pealegi esimene baptist. Seda olid ka apostlid,
samuti ka esimesed ristikogudused. (Geissler 1928: 12)

Nõrk teooria võib olla hea stiimul. Nii näiteks oli Eduard
Bornhöhe ajaloolise jutustuse Tasuja (1880) kirjanduslik väärtus väike,
kuid 1885. aastal alanud venestamissurve ajal oli selle tähtsus palju-
de isikute ja kogu rahva jaoks suur. Samamoodi olid lood ka Eesti
romantilise isamaaluule, eriti Koidula Soome-silla suhetest tõelisuse-
ga. Pideva kirikliku ja ühiskondliku surve all viibides võis baptistide
jaoks olla teadmisel, et neil on olnud ja on maailmas “sugulasi” suur
väärtus. Viimast kinnitab baptistide laialt levinud seletusviis, et see,

3
Kordustrükk ilmus 1878 aastal ja kandis pealkirja Die Baptisten, wer sie sind, was sie
glauben und woher sie kommen, nebst ihren Eigenthümlichkeiten.
4
Oma ajaloolisest algupärast on baptistidel olnud kolm suktsessiooniteooriat. 17. sajan-
dist alates on olnud neid, kes on uskunud baptismi katkematusse liini apostlite aegadest
alates. Üks osa neist on rõhutanud selle usu jätkuvust persoonides, teised koguduste
ja liikumiste jätkuvust, aga kõik nad on viidanud nendele opositsioonirühmitustele,
milliseid on olnud igal sajandil (William Cathcart, The Baptist Encyclopedia (1881)). Teise
teooria järgi on läbi sajandite esinenud persoone ja grupeeringuid, kes on esindanud
baptistlikke põhimõtteid, aga nende vahel on puudunud katkematu ajaline jätkuvus.
(Thomas Armitage, A History of the Baptists; Traced by Their Vital Principles and Practices,
from the Time of Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ to the Year 1889 (1889)). Kolmas teooria
rõhutab, et baptism algas radikaalreformaatorite (anabaptistide) keskelt Zürichist 16.
sajandil. (Duncan 1964: 125–135; Hughey & Kolomainen & Toivola 1970: 50–52)
Tänapäevane baptismi uurimine ei võta suktsessiooniteooriaid enam kuigi tõsiselt,
pigem arutatakse, millises suhtes on inglise separatistide ja hollandi mennoniitide
mõju 17. sajandi alguses rajatud baptisti kogudustele.

Riho Saard 41
 mida luterlased nimetasid uueks usuks, oli alanud juba Jordani ran-
nalt, kui Johannes ristis Jeesuse, ja see, mida nimetati vanaks usuks,
oli saanud alguse Saksamaal alles 480 aastat tagasi.
Pärnu baptistikoguduse jutlustaja-vanem Jüri Mill kasutas
Geissleri teoses esitatud suktsessiooniteooriat aga ainult õpetusliku
suktsessioonina ehk vaimse sugulusena. Mill kirjutas 1894. aastal
luterlasele J. Rullile:

Ka waadake – – pealkirja all “Baptistide ajalugu” sealt näete kas meie

mõte ristimise üle on hiline wõi warane olnud ja kas nad on nurja
läinud wõi seisma jäänud – – Ja kui Teie oma ususeltsiga tahate meid
ajapikkusel mõõta, siis oleme Teist wanemad. (Tk 13– 22/1907)

Hiljem esitas Mill artiklis Kas baptistid on ümberristijad? baptisti-

de spirituaalse suguluse järgmiselt: Aleksandria Clemens (150–215),
Tertullianus (160–220), Cyprianus (200–258), novatistid (200–600),
donatistid (300–600), Athanasius (300–373), Gregorius Natsiantsist (330–
390), berengariinid (1000), petrobusiaanid (1100), henrikaanid (1100),
valdeslased (1100), mennoniidid (1500), metodistid ja adventistid. (Tk 9/1908)
Endine luterlasest misjonär, baptist Hendrik Tuttar jätkas oma
raamatus Tunnistajate hulk (1918) sama liini ja kirjutas:

Aga läheme kord apostlite radadele: alakem esimesest Kristuse kogu-

dusest Jeruusalemmas – – ning võrrelgem kristlaste ristikogudusi
nendega, – – kas need olid: katoliiklased, lutherlased, kalwinistid wõi
koguni põlatud allakastjad, teistkord ristijad ehk baptistid! (1918: 7)

Eesti baptistiliikumise käsitlus oma ajaloolisest suktsessioonist

arenes äärmustesse 1920. ja 1930. aastatel. Eesti Baptisti Koguduste
Liidu esimehe Karl Kaupsi arvates ei olnud esimene tõeline baptist
mitte Jeesus, vaid hoopis Ristija Johannes. (Kaups 1926: 7) Niisugusele
mõtlemisele oli iseloomulik, et Eesti baptistid pidasid omi kogudusi Eesti
esimesteks uustestamentlikeks kogudusteks, mida väljendas ka nende
50-aastase juubelialbumi pealkiri 50 aastat apostlite radadel (1934). (Kaups
1934a: 12; 1934b: 68) Pealkiri, millest võis aru saada nii, et eestlased
on oma ligi 700-aastase kristliku kirikuajaloo jooksul tegelikult alles 50
aastat tagasi leidnud üles apostelliku traditsiooni ja algkiriku.

42
 Silmatorkav oli ka Martin Lutheri iseendaga harmoniseerimine,
mille eesti baptistid võtsid saksa baptistidelt üle. Juba L. Johannes
Schwan oli oma kirjas Saaremaa ülemkirikueestseisjale N. von
Ditmarile tsiteerinud Martin Lutherit näitamaks, kuidas luterlikud
vaimulikud on lubanud endale suure reformaatori seisukohtadest
suuri kõrvalekaldumisi nii õpetuses kui ka riituses. (Saard 1999b: 8)
See-eest olid baptistid M. Lutherile lähemal kui luterlased ja seda just
ristimise välises toimetamises, nagu ilmnes nende usutunnistuse ühek-
sandast artiklist Ristimisest. (Saard 1995b: 8) Võttes M. Lutheri oma
ristimispraktika tagajaks, võidi arvata, et nii on võimalik laiemalt mõ-
jutada luterlikus kontekstis elavate eestlaste hoiakuid baptistide suhtes.
Igal juhul oli see katse kõrvaldada (vähemalt leevendada) konflikti
baptismi ja M. Lutheri vahel, aga mitte baptismi ja luterluse vahel.

Uued ideoloogilised kontaktid

19. sajandi teisel poolel hakkas ilmuma juba maailmakirjanduse

eestikeelseid tõlkeid, nagu Victor Hugo Notre-Dame kellalööja, Lev Tolstoi
Sõda ja rahu, John Miltoni Kadunud ja jälleleitud paradiis jt. Need tõlked
tõid lisaks otsestele välismõjudele kaasa ka uusi ideoloogilisi kontakte.
Kui vabakoguduslike ideede ja mittesaksapäraseid aspekte rõhu-
tava luterluse Eestisse levimise eest võib tänada Rootsi Evangeliska
Fosterlandsstiftelseni kooliõpetajaid, siis baptistlike põhimõtete siia
levimisel mängisid olulist rolli Peterburi ja Riia saksa baptistikogudu-
sed. Need kontaktid, aga laiemalt kogu vabakoguduste moodustumisp-
rotsess, tõid Eesti usumaastikku senisest täiesti uusi usulisi ideid.
Eesti baptistide kasutada olid 19. sajandi lõpul J. M. Crampi Geschichte
des Baptismus ja A. Rauschenbuschi Die Entstehung der Kindertaufe. Ülla-
tavalt palju kasutasid baptistid oma kirjutistes radikaalpietisti Gottfried
Arnoldi teoseid Unparteyische Kirchen- und Ketzerhistorie (1699–1700)
ja Die erste Liebe zu Christo, wahre Abbildung der erste Christen nach ihrem
lebendigen Glauben und heiligen Leben (1696). Olgugi, et Arnoldi teoseid
esines Tallinnas juba 18. sajandil nii professorite kui ka kaupmeeste
ja käsitööliste raamatukogudes, oli viimane tsensuuri poolt keelatud.
(Pullat 1992: 90; Reimo 2001: 278) Palju kasutamist leidis baptistide
hulgas ka August Neanderi romantiline kirikuajalookirjutis Allgemeine

Riho Saard 43
 Geschichte der christlichen Religion und Kirche (1825–1845). Nagu teose
pealkirjastki näha, ei olnud kristlus ja kirik Neanderile enam kattuvad
mõisted. Niisugune kirikuajaloo käsitlus pidigi vabakoguduslikule lii-
kumisele sobima. Baptistidele sobis ka Neanderi seisukoht, et algkirik
lasteristimist ei tundnud. Ristimisel pidi ristitav saama aru selle akti
sisust, ilma selleta polnud ristimisel väärtust.
Omaette ideoloogilise baasi andis baptistidele nende identi-
teedi jaoks Baptisti koguduse Usutunnistus ja Põhjusseadus Pühakirja
tunnistustega (1912), mis oli tegelikult tõlge Saksa baptistikoguduste
revideerimata5 usutunnistusest Glaubensbekenntnis und Verfassung der
Gemeinden getaufter Christen, gewöhnlich Baptisten genannt. Mit Belegen
aus der heiligen Schrift (1847). Usutunnistuses oli 15 usuartiklit ja seda
oli oma teoloogilistes väitlustes luterlastega kasutanud eesti teadaole-
valt esimene baptist L. Johannes Schwan Saaremaal juba 1865. aastal.
(Saard 1999b: 8) Sellele lisaks oli usutunnistus ainuüksi sellisena
ideoloogiline kontakt reformatsiooniaegse pärandiga. Usutunnistuse
viiendas artiklis Äravalimisest õndsakssaamisele rõhutati:

– – saiwad, ära kadunud inimestesoost need inimesed, kellele see

äralunastamine tõesti aegade jooksul pidi omaks saama, Jumalast
Isast ärawalitud – – Nendele inimestele sai igawene elu Kristuse sees
antud – – (BKU 1912: 19)

Ülalesitatu viitab üsna selgelt kalvinistlikule predestinatsiooniõpe-

tusele, mille 17. sajandi Inglismaa partikulaarbaptistid6 omaks võtsid
(The Confession of Faith § XXXI (1644)). Ka Ameerika baptismi isa
Roger Williams kuulus nende hulka ning kalvinistlikku predestinat-
siooniõpetust sisaldasid Ameerika Philadelphia Baptist Associationi
usutunnistus The Philadelphia Confession (1742) ja Abstract of Principles
(1859). (Westin 1975: 258; Lumpkin 1969: 165)

5
Revideeritud usutunnistus ilmus 1906 aastal ja sellest jäeti välja usuartikkel Arm-
uabinõudest ja nende korraldusest. Ristimist käsitlevast artiklist eemaldati M. Lutheri
kommentaar sõnast “taufe”. Revideeritud usutunnistuse kõrval jätkati aga ka revidee-
rimata usutunnistuse kasutamist, millest ilmus 1908 aastal juba kolmeteistkümnes
kordustrükk.
6
Inglismaa partikulaarbaptismi juured on Inglismaa separatistlikus liikumises,
mille sünnikirikuks oli Londonis paiknev Jakob-Lathrop-Jessey Church. (Hughey
& Kolomainen & Toivola 1970: 57–58, 76)

44
 Predestinatsioonile lisaks esines Eesti baptistikoguduste usutun-
nistuses selge viide ka perseverantsusele:

Niisugune Jumala nõu on muutmata ja igawesti kindlaks seatud,

nõnda, et need, kellesse see puutub, need ärawalitud, Kristuse käest
mitte enam ära kisutud ei wõi saada. (BKU 1912, 19)

Artiklit perseverantsusest sisaldasid näiteks Ameerika baptisti-

de usutunnistused The New Hampshire Confession (1833) ja Abstract of
Principles. Viimane liitus selles otseselt reformeeritute usutunnistusega
The Westminster Confession (1646). (Teinonen 1991: 147) Seega oli eesti
baptism angloameerika kalvinistliku partikulaarbaptismi osa, millele
viitas J. Mill juba 1903. aastal Keilas peetud ettekandes Õhtusöömaajast
ning Osvald Tärk palju kindlamalt 1934. aastal ilmunud artiklis Baptistid
läbi sajandite. (Mill 1903; Tärk 1934: 17) Pärast II maailmasõda baptistide
teoloogiline identiteet muutus. Kuigi kalvinismi kritiseerivaid väiteid, eriti
selle perseverantsuse printsiipi, oli kritiseeritud juba ka enne II maail-
masõda, distantseerisid eesti baptistid ennast varasemast kalvinistlikust
identiteedist alles pärast sõda. O. Tärgi artikli kordustrükist jäeti 1989.
aastal välja sõna “kalvinistlikud”. (Tk 1/1989) Lisaks sellele elas muutusi
üle ka baptistide ajalooline identiteet, kui hakati ennast distantseerima
usureformaator Melchior Hofmannile lisaks ka kogu 16. sajandi anabap-
tistlikust ristijateliikumisest. (Saard 1996: 17 ; Saumets 1997: 19)
Eesti rahvusliku liikumise kokkupuude maailmakirjandusega ja
vabakogudusliku liikumise sidemed kirikuajaloo maailmatasemeliste
teoste ja usutunnistustega lõid kahtlemata endisest paremad võima-
lused uuteks ideoloogilisteks kontaktideks. 1920. aastate alguseks oli
eesti baptistidel olemas juba oma ajalooline ja õpetuslik narratiiv, mis
oli asendanud senise “isamaal sündinud asjust” käsitlusviisi seostatud
algulooga, kus üksiksündmused olid liitunud ajalooliseks tervikuks.
1930. aastatel hakkasid baptistid käsitlema endid eelloona millelegi tu-
levikulisele, uuele, mõistes ennast kui eeltööd tulevasele demokraatiale,
parlamentarismile ja niisugusele usule, mis oleks paremini kooskõlas
modernismiga. Viimane pidi eriti hästi väljenduma just nende püha õh-
tusöömaaja ja ristimise õpetuse suuremas kooskõlas ratsionaalsusega.

Riho Saard 45
 Iseseisvus, demokraatia ja sekularisatsioon

Kuigi eesti vabakogudusliku liikumise peaeesmärk möödunud

sajandil ei olnud ühiskondlik-poliitiline ja vabakogudusliku iseseis-
vumisprotsessi mõjud puudutasid 1920. aastate alguseks Eesti elanik-
konnast aktiivselt ainult 2,5% (baptiste 0,32%), oli seda märgata siiski
ka ühiskonnas laiemalt. Jätkates herrnhuutlaste poolt eestlaste seas
alustatud rahvaliku kristluse traditsiooni, lisasid vabakogudused selles-
se peamiselt angloameerika ideaale, milledest kesksemad olid usuvaba-
dus ja iseseisvad demokraatlikud kogudused. Nii näiteks käsitles Karl
Kaups eesti baptismi kui ühiskondlik-poliitilise vabadusvõitluse osa.
Sest erinevalt luterlikust ja õigeusu kirikust taotlesid vabakogudused
Kaupsi arvates eestlaste rahvuslikku ja poliitilist vabadust. Kaupsi
sõnul oli baptism eesti demokraatia isa. (1934b)
Baptism ei olnud vana maailma usuliste käsitluste esindaja,
vaid angloameerika st. uue maailma usuliste vaadete kuulutaja ja oli
sellisena juba 19. sajandi lõpul peamiselt linnaeestlaste huviorbiidis.
Friedebert Tuglas tunnistas 1912. aastal, et kuigi “eestlastest ei saa
hääd usumäratsejat”, ei puudu baptistidel, võrreldes luterlastega,
sisemine hingestatus, sest “kui meie maal üleüldse vaimulikust kirjan-
dusest kõnelda, millel hing koguni ei puuduks, siis oleks selleks ainult
baptistide kirjandus.” Veel 1991. aastal on Jaan Kaplinski pidanud
oluliseks tõdeda ühes essees, et “kirik on tegelikult vähem apostlik,
kui näiteks baptistid. Paulus meenutab mulle pigem baptisti jutlustajat
kui kõrgkiriku piiskoppi.” Selles võib näha ehtkristliku traditsiooni
vabastamist kirikust ja hierarhiast.
Eesti baptistidel oli 19. sajandi lõpul ja 20. sajandi alguses eesmärk
ületada konflikt ühiskonnaga ja riigiga. Kaups oli väga liigutatud
Jaan Tõnissoni ja Kaarel Eenpalu teatud väljendustest eesti baptisti-
de aadressil, nagu “lahkuskusid Eestis ei ole”, mille sõnum oli selge:
baptism oli 1930. aastatel juba riiklikul tasandil aktsepteeritud konfes-
sioon. Baptism oli vabanenud luterluse varjust, milles see oli paistnud
senini vaid sektantliku lahkusuna. Baptistide eesmärk oli vabastada
riik sidemetest luterluse ja ortodokssusega, seega konfessionaalselt
neutraalne, mitte aga kristluse suhtes neutraalne riik.

46
 Luterlik eestlaskond, mis enne II maailmasõda moodustas elanik-
konnast 89% (874.026), oli 2000. aastaks laskunud 11%-le (152.237).
Vabatahtliku liikmeannetuse tegi kirikule 2001. aastal veel ainult 45
172 inimest (1981 oli toetajaid 56 925). Kuigi 54% usaldab kirikut,
sealjuures eestlased enamuses luterlikku kirikut, siis pole Toomas
Pauli hinnanguil sellise kõrge koteeringu taga tegelikult mitte midagi
olulist. (2002: 120) Kuigi eestlane võib tänagi tunda kultuurilist sidet
luterlusega ja luterliku kirikuga, ei otsi ta oma usuküsimustele enam
ilmtingimata vastuseid sellest kirikust. Kui praegu otsida nagu Tuglas
kirjandust, milles ei puudu hing, siis ei ole see kaugeltki enam ainult
baptistlik või luterlik ega üldse tingimata kristlik kirjandus. Seda
hinge on palju rohkem võimalik leida kirjandusest, kus on ületatud
ühe kindla konfessiooni või religiooni ainudomineerivus. Kas Eesti
ühiskond on siis teel vabanemas luterlikust identiteedist, vabanemas
sidemetest kristlusega üldse või siis ainult selle luterlikust vormist,
mille dogmad ei ole usutavad ja veenvad? See küsimus ootab vasta-
mist, kuid selle põhjuste detailsem käsitlus ei mahu enam käesoleva
artikli raamidesse. Paratamatult on aga ka vabakoguduslik liikumine
aidanud vähemalt kaudselt kaasa eestlaste eemaldumisele luterlikust
identiteedist.

LÜHENDID

BKU – Baptisti koguduse Usutunnistus

DZ – Dorpater Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche
EAA – Eesti Ajalooarhiiv
M N – Mittheilungen und Nachrichten für die evangelische
Geistlichkeit in Russland
P m – Postimees
Rpl – Ristirahva pühapäeva leht
T k – Teekäija
T S – Tallinna Sõber

Riho Saard 47
 PERIOODIK A

Olevik
Postimees
Ristirahva pühapäeva leht
Teekäija
Tallinna Sõber

K A S U TAT U D ฀ A L L I K A D ฀ J A ฀ K I R J A N D U S

EAA – Eesti Ajalooarhiiv, f 1246

Allo, Gustav 1894. Armastuse ühendaja ehk üks ringwaatus kõige
usklikudele. Revel
BKU 1912. Baptisti koguduse Usutunnistus ja Põhjusseadus Pühakirja
tunnistustega. Tallinn
Duncan, A. Pope 1964. Der Ursprung der Baptisten. Die Baptisten.
Die Kirchen der Welt. Band II. Stuttgart
Dunkel, Johannes 1885. Ristimise seadmisest ehk Ristimist waimulikult
mõista. Tallinn
Ederberg, F. W. 1899. Sõna ja sakrament. Kuressaare
Elupuu 1900. Elupuu. Uus jutluse raamat 95 jutlusega. Toim. M.J.Eisen.
Jurjev
Frey, Johannes 1905. 1802–1903 Die Theologische Fakultät Dorpat-
Jurjev. Revel
Freymann, R. von 1901. Gesetz für die Evangelisch-Lutherische Kirche
in Russland. Reval
Frilander, Timo 1999. Puun ja kuoren välissä. Näkökulmia virolaiseen
ortodoksisuuteen 1840-luvun tunnustuksenvaihtoliikkeistä
vallankumousvuoteen 1917. – Ortodoksia 48. Helsingin yliopiston
Ortodoksian ja Itä-Euroopan kirkkojen tutkimuksen laitos. Toim.
M. Kotiranta. Kuopio, lk 141–158.
Geissler, Moritz 1928. Baptistid, kes nad on, mida usuwad, kust nad pärit
ja nende erilised omadused. Tallinn
Hahn, Traugott 1904. Õpetus pühast ristimisest. Revel
Haller, Anton Hermann von 1897. Bist du getauft? Reval
Hansen, Hans 2002. Luterlased, õigeusklikud ja teised. Usuühendused

48
 Eestis 1934–2000. Tallinn
Hesse, Theodor 1865–1866. Ein Wiedertäufer auf Oesel. DZ. Dorpat
Hughey, J. & Kolomainen, M. & Toivola, V. 1970. Baptistit. Jyväskylä
Hurt, Jakob 1907. Elu walgus. Jutluseraamat. Tallinn
Huusman, Klaus 1903. Öndsa Martin Lutheruse kiri Uuesti ristijate
wastu. Narva
Jordan, Paul 1889. Beiträge zur Geographie und Statistik des Gouvernements
Ehstland. Reval
Jung-Stilling, Friedrich von & Anders, W. 1885. Ergebnisse der
baltischen Volkszählung vom 29. December 1881. Theil I. Ergebnisse
der livländischen Volkszählung. III Band. Die Zählung auf dem flachen
Lande. Lieferung II. Riga
Jürgenson, Aivar 2002. Siberi eestlaste territoriaalsus ja identiteet. Tal-
linna Pedagoogikaülikool Humanitaarteaduste Dissertatsioonid
7. Tallinn
Kaplinski, Jaan 1998. Usk on uskmatus. Vagabund
Kaups, Karl 1926. Põllu wagudel. Tartu
Kaups, Karl 1934a. Eesti baptismi ideelised põhialused. – 50 aastat. Keila
Kaups, Karl 1934b. Riigikirik ja wabakogudus. Keila
Laste 1890. Laste ristimise lugu. Tallinn
Lipp, Martin 1896. Kodumaa kiriku ja hariduse lugu. Jurjev (Tartu)
Lipstok, Johannes 1924. Kristus Uue Testamendi walgusel. Keila
Lumpkin, L. William 1969. Baptist Confessions of Faith. Norfolk (USA)
Mill, Jüri 1903. Õhtusöömaajast. Tk 13/1908
Normann, Willem 1894. Kõne laste ristimisest, selle küsimisega: Mis pea-
me õigemaks arwama, kas laste wõi wanade ristimist? On see õige, kui
inimesed endid teist korda ristida lasewad? Revel
Normann, Willem 1896a. Mis arwame meie selle praeguse aja hüüdmise
heälest: “Minge wälja Paabelist”. Jurjev (Tartu)
Normann, Willem 1896b. Lühike seletus uskudest ehk mõnedest weikestest
ususeltskondadest, mis Sektideks nimetatakse. Jurjev (Tartu)
Paul, Toomas 2002. Põuapäikese paistel. Etüüde. Tallinn
Prants, Heinrich (1911) Soome sugu rahwaste ajalooline arenemine.
Tallinn
Protokoll der Estländischen Provinzial-Synode 1892. Reval

Riho Saard 49
 Protokoll der Estländischen Provinzial-Synode 1907. Reval
Pullat, Raimo 1992. Raamat ja lugeja Tallinnas 18. sajandil. Vana
Tallinn II (VI), lk 80-101. Tallinn
Reimo, Tiiu 2001. Raamatukultuur Tallinnas 18. sajandi teisel poolel.
Tallinn.
Rühl, Gustaw 1885. Karl Odebrekt. Ühe baptisti elu- ja ümberpöörmise
lugu. Tallinn
Saard, Riho 1995a. Roseniolaisuus Virossa 1800-luvun lopulla.
Suomen Kirkkohistoriallisen Seuran Vuosikirja 84–85 (1994–1995),
lk 109–125. Toim. H. Mustakallio. Jyväskylä
Saard, Riho 1995b. Ühest äraunustatud usutunnistusest. Tk 11/1995, lk 6–8
Saard, Riho 1996. Liivimaa usureformaator Melchior Hoffman eest-
laste silmade läbi nähtuna. Tk 1/1996, lk 16–17
Saard, Riho 1999a. Eesti varane baptism – arukas ja empaatne? Eesti baptis-
tikoguduste ajaloolisest arengust ja identiteedist. Tk 5/1999, lk 18–21
Saard, Riho 1999b. Ad fontes L. Johannes Schwani kirjast Saaremaa
ülemkirikueestseisjale N. von Ditmarile. Tk 11/1999, lk 6–8
Saard, Riho (2000) Eesti rahvusest luterliku pastorkonna väljakuju-
nemine ja vaba rahvakiriku projekti loomine, 1870–1917. Suomen
Kirkkohistoriallisen Seuran Toimituksia 184. Helsinki
Saumets, Andres 1997. Ristijateriik Münsteris 1534–1535. Tartu
Ülikooli Usuteaduskonna Ajaloolise usuteaduse ja ladina keele
õppetooli magistritöö. Tartu
Spindler, F. 1906. Mis jutustab piibel ristimisest? Tallinn
Teinonen, Seppo A. 1991. Kirkkojen tunnustukset. Helsinki
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Tuttar, Hendrik 1918. Tunnistajate hulk ehk Baptistid piibli ja ajaloo
walgusel. I wihik. Pärnu
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1884–1934. Toim. R. Kaups. Keila
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50 aastat 1934. 50 aastat apostlite radadel 1884–1934. Toim. R. Kaups. Keila

50 Riho Saard
2.฀K U LT U U R฀

WHY DID PLATO WRITE DIALOGUES?

Tõnu Viik

MY ESSAY WILL discuss the political motives of Plato’s writing. It has

become a conventional view that The Republic and other political dia-
logues of Plato advocate a fascist type of authoritarian state ruled by
a philosopher, presumably by Plato himself. Thorough control over
all spheres of social life was supposed to force all citizens to lead a
“happy” life prescribed by the philosopher-king. Such a model of the
organization of social life has been associated with the dictatorships
of the twentieth century and fiercely condemned by the critics of
modern totalitarianism. In the following I will try to shed some light
on the political intentions of Plato’s writing in order to see whether
the “totalitarian” charges against Plato have merit.
There is plenty of evidence in the text of his dialogues that Plato
had a bitter reaction to his contemporary political situation. In the
first book of the Republic, Thrasymachus asks Socrates if he is naïve
enough to think that politicians “think of something besides their
own advantage?” (343b-c).1 Obviously neither Thrasymachus nor
Socrates has any illusions about this. In the Gorgias, Callicles agrees
with Socrates when Socrates asks: are the politicians not “bent upon
the gratification of citizens and do they not slight the common good
for the sake of their own private good, and so keep company with
the people trying solely to gratify them?” (502e).2 In a word, rather

1
All translations are from Plato, Complete Works (Ed. John. M. Cooper; Hackett Pub-
lishing Company, 1997).
2
Here Plato speaks of orators, but these orators are engaged in political activity, i.e.,
they are people doing politics – politicians in this sense.

Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4, 51

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
 than seeing the good of their polity, politicians pay it lip service while
they go about pursuing private, egoistic ends. Socrates also accuses
them of lying to the citizens by pleasing them with “false speeches,”
i.e., with speeches that the politicians know are false and, what is
more, they do not tolerate those who do not please them with false
speeches in return. Thus, not only do politicians tell lies in order to
cover their corruption, they are not interested in a true account of
the real political situation.
Plato’s bitter tone suggests that he is doing more than giving a
neutral description of the phenomenon of political corruption, he wants
things to be different. We know that Plato tried and failed several times
to assist tyrants in reforming their governments. The Seventh Letter
expresses his belief that all such attempts must fail. In it he talks about
his friends who have gained political power in Athens, and whom he
expected to “lead the city out of unjust life … and establish her in the
path of justice” (324d). However, his friends ruled the city even more in-
competently than it was ruled before. They executed Socrates who “had
refused to have a part in the unjust arrest of one of their friends” (325e).
Under their rule the “corruption of our written laws and our customs
was proceeding with such an amazing speed that… I became in the end
quite dizzy… and I refrained from action” (325d-e). Plato explains: “I saw
it was impossible to do anything without friends and loyal followers,” but
all his friends became corrupt as soon as they obtained power (325d).
So could it be that Plato’s aim was to design a society that would
not suffer from political corruption? Did he write dialogues in order
to propagate a political reform? Was the Academy perhaps designed to
produce uncorrupted “friends and followers” who would assist Plato in
“guiding his city out of injustice”? It is known to us that some members
of the Academy drafted constitutions for the new Athenian colonies.
Furthermore, we know from Plato’s own life that he attempted more
than once to convince tyrants to enact political reforms. Marx said that
the task of philosophy is to change the world, not just to understand
it. If Plato thought the same way, then the reason why Plato wrote the
dialogues could lie in preparing a political reform which would “make
the whole city happy,” as he claims in the Republic (420c).

52
 There are some passages in the Republic which discuss philoso-
phers coming to power in a city, but before we turn to them, let us
briefly consider how his ideal city would secure itself against political
corruption. As we saw in the Gorgias, the problem of political corrup-
tion has three levels: (1) politicians are motivated by personal gain
rather than the common good of the city; (2) despite politicians’ talk
of improving society they do nothing to help it; and (3) politicians
do not wish to hear the truth about political matters, i.e., they do not
tolerate honest accounts of political situations, preferring the accounts
which are designed to please them.
The political order of Plato’s utopian state addresses these lev-
els of corruption in the following way: (1) rulers are philosophers
who are convinced that acting justly is better than benefiting from
unjust acts; (2) the political order is not democratic, and therefore
is free from the dangers of populism. The empowerment of the
ruler does not depend on pleasing citizens with (false) promises
and speeches. The ruler can concentrate on actually making the city
better rather than talking about it. (3) As the philosopher-king rules
with knowledge, he will be interested in perfecting his knowledge,
in whatever way he can. For a philosopher is “one of those who
would be pleased to be refuted if …[he] say[s] anything untrue and
who would be pleased to refute anyone who says anything untrue;
one who, however, wouldn’t be any less pleased to be refuted than
to refute” (Gorgias, 458a).
For improving political life by putting a philosopher in power
Plato must assume that a philosopher is more resistant against corrup-
tion than anybody else. This assumption does indeed derive from his
conviction that the knowledge of truth (and this is what distinguishes
a philosopher from others) and moral virtue are indistinguishable. In
other words, it is not possible to do evil if one possesses true knowledge.
Viciousness is always based on philosophical ignorance. Consequently
the philosopher-king is the best candidate for being a ruler, because
he is most capable of resisting corruption.
In addition to relying on the good nature of a philosopher-king,
Plato planned to confront the danger of corruption by not allowing

Tõnu Viik 53
 the “guardians” (including both rulers and military) to have any pri-
vate property. They must live in a common barracks; thus anyone who
wishes will be able to see what they own (Rep., 416d-e). They cannot
“slight the common good for the sake of their own private good”
simply because they do not have any private property “beyond what
is wholly necessary” (416d). As we see, the life of Plato’s rulers is not
pleasant in any sense in which a majority of people would understand
it. Perhaps that is why “in a city of good men, if it came into being,
the citizens would fight in order not to rule, just as they do now in
order to rule” (347d).
But even assuming that there were potential rulers who agreed
not to have any private property, the question becomes how to put these
people in power. Plato claims that we have two options regarding this
problem: “Either some chance event compels those few philosophers
who aren’t vicious (the ones who are now called useless) to take charge
of the city … or … a god inspires the present rulers and kings or their
offspring with a true erotic love for true philosophy” (Rep., 499b). In
whatever way it is done, Plato is convinced that political power and
philosophy must entirely coincide (Rep., 473d, my emphasis). Accord-
ing to Plato the chance that an existing king would suddenly become
a lover of wisdom is minute. Concerning the first option, there is
just one account in the Republic of how true philosophers are put
into power in their city. In the third book, Socrates tells Glaucon the
Phoenician story in which those who are born to be rulers have some
gold mixed in their nature. Others have in their nature either silver
– the guardians, – or bronze and iron – the workers. Thus potential
rulers can be recognized by their golden nature, which is visible to
everybody (415a-c).
In Socrates’ own account of the just city, as it is presented in the
Republic, potential rulers are recognized by the philosophers already
in power. Thus at the end of the seventh book Socrates proposes to
send everyone who is older than ten years out of the city. Meanwhile
the philosophers will “take possession of the children, who are now
free from the ethos of their parents, and bring them up in their own
customs and laws” (541a). However, Socrates does not tell us how

54
could philosophers force everyone to leave the city in the first place.
Plato’s other dialogues do not offer any realistic account of how phi-
losophers should obtain political power either. This suggests that
Plato did not make preparations for a political revolution, at least not
in his dialogues.
Furthermore, Plato has Socrates himself to explain to Glaucon
that the aim of their discussion of the city is “to make a theoretical model
of a good city,” rather than to consider how such a city could come
into being (472d-e, my emphasis). Socrates even claims that

perhaps there is a model of it in heaven, for anyone who wants

to look at it and to make himself its citizen on the strength of
what he sees. It makes no difference whether it is or ever will
be somewhere, for he would take part in the practical affairs
of that city and no other (Rep., 592b).

In the Seventh Letter, Plato gives a philosopher the following sug-

gestion in relation to the city he lives in:

Let him warn her [the city], if he thinks her constitution is

corrupt and there is a prospect that his words will be listened
to and not put him in danger of his life; but let him not use
violence upon his fatherland to bring about a change of con-
stitution. If what he thinks is best can only be accomplished
by the exile and slaughter of men, let him keep his peace and
pray for the welfare of himself and his city (331d).

Thus Plato recommends a philosopher not to be engaged in any

sort of revolutionary activities. But if the good city is not going to be
introduced in reality, then what is the use of the “theoretical model
of a good city”? And how is it possible for a philosopher to take part
in the practical affairs of a theoretical model of a city?
I maintain that Plato creates the theoretical model of a good city
not in order to introduce it in reality but in order to quarrel with the
“poets.” Plato calls “poets” the representatives of every genre of literary

Tõnu Viik 55
 fiction from the epic poems of Homer and Hesiod to the plays of his
contemporaries (e.g., Sophocles and Euripides). For Plato philosophy
is essentially a quarrel with “poetry.” Plato criticizes the “poets” for
their bad influence on the social life of the city, insofar as their writing
creates “a strong inclination to do bad things” by creating “convincing
images” that affect the souls of citizens (Rep., 391e). The poets teach
that “many unjust people are happy and many just ones wretched, that
injustice is profitable if it escapes detection, and that justice is another’s
good but one’s own loss” (Rep., 392a-b). Plato thinks that this view of
human life is essentially wrong; the “poets” do not know what they are
talking about: “good poets really do not have knowledge of the things
most people think they write so well about” (Rep., 599a).
Furthermore, the “poets” convey a wrong image of what gods and
heroes are like (Rep., 377e). Plato holds that it is actually not true that
gods are “warring, fighting, or plotting against one another” (Rep.,
378c). Gods are noble natures who retain their shape (Rep., 381c), do
not lie (Rep., 382e), and do not mislead people (383a). In fact, gods do
not have bodies, because any combination of soul and body is mortal,
but gods are immortal. The idea that gods could have bodies is in
fact a “pure fiction, based neither on observation nor on adequate
reasoning” (Phaedrus, 246c-d).
What is more, the “poets” hold a faulty view on the relation of
gods to human beings. For example, Plato reports Homer making a
“foolish mistake” when he says:

There are two urns at the threshold of Zeus,

One filled with good fates, the other with bad ones (Rep.,
379d).

The person to whom Zeus allots a fate mixed from both urns,
will experience both success and wickedness in his life, while the one
who gets his fate entirely from the second urn will have a miserable
life. But actually, as Plato claims, gods are responsible only for good
things (Rep., 379c). The “poets” are wrong in assigning “misfortune
and a bad life to many good people, and the opposite fate to their

56 Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4,

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
opposites” (Rep., 364b). In fact, as Plato claims in the Phaedrus, Zeus
is “looking after everything and is putting all things in order” (246e).
As he has “a view of Justice as it is” (247d) and as he is a noble creature
possessing self-control, he does not act unjustly towards humans.
We see that the quarrel between poetry and philosophy concerns
divine matters and the relation of divine matters to human beings.
The quarrel is not about poetry using images versus philosophy, as a
“pure science,” using concepts; or with poetry being emotional and
philosophy being rational. Plato is a “poet” himself; he uses images
of Socrates and his interlocutors, he creates myths and similes, and
his dialogues evoke emotions. The problem is rather that the other
“poets” depict the human condition as principally tragic – there is
an imbalance between what one gets and what one deserves. Thus,
the “poets” teach that human destiny is unjust in principle, and it is
so because the gods are irrational, uncaring, or even evil towards
human beings.
Even though Plato does not agree with the account of the “po-
ets” about divinities, he does not believe that the divine reality has
a completely rational nature, or that human life in this world is
always as good as the person deserves. He does maintain that one
is always happier if he acts justly, but that does not exclude the role
of contingency in one’s life or a disproportion between what one
deserves and what one gets. In the Republic, for example, Socrates
says that “we must accept what has happened as we would the fall
of the dice, and then arrange our affairs in whatever way reason
determines the best” (604c). Plato is well aware that anything can
happen to a human being. For example, Socrates, the most just of
all men, was persecuted and put to death. But in contrast to the
world-view of the “poets”, Plato believes that the cause of bad fate is
not any divine creature but man’s own weakness and ignorance, or
the evil will of other men.
In the myth of Er, told by Socrates at the end of the tenth book
of the Republic, human souls can choose their future lives, but here
their choice depends upon the knowledge they possess at the moment
of choice. This knowledge, in turn, depends on the soul’s former life

Tõnu Viik 57
 (620a), and, as a result, some souls are unable to make good choices.
However, it is clear that divinities do not make choices for souls, nor,
as Homer would have it, do they force any choice upon them. Thus
it is true that the choice made by a soul determines the quality of its
next incarnation, but this choice rests purely on the soul itself. Plato
is therefore not denying the fatal element of destiny in man’s life, but
he thinks that if there is any kind of divine interference, then it can
bring only good results. Plato talks about “divine good luck” (Rep.,
592a), but he never uses expressions like “divine bad luck” or “divine
disaster”.
Thus creating false images of the divine reality is the main reason
why Plato accuses the “poets” for having a negative influence on soci-
ety. Now, in the Republic Plato attempts to create his own counterim-
age of the just city in order to fight the false images presented by the
“poets”. The rest of the dialogues are created for the same purpose:
to provide true images of the reality. The “theoretical model of the
good city” in the Republic is one of them. The “good city” discussed
by Socrates is not something to be introduced in reality. Rather, it is
an image that helps Plato to fight against the “poets” for influence
over the souls of citizens.
Plato’s conception of education helps us to see why it is politically
important to fight with the “poets.” It is not accidental that Plato
discusses the nature of education and its contents at considerable
length in the Republic. This is how Socrates explains the nature of
education: “Education isn’t … putting knowledge into souls that lack
it, like putting sight into blind eyes” (518b-c). Rather,

The power to learn is present in everyone’s soul, and … the

instrument with which each learns is like an eye that cannot
be turned around from darkness to light without turning the
whole body. This instrument cannot be turned around from
that which is coming into being without turning the whole
soul until it is able to study that which is the brightest thing
that is, namely, the one we call the Good…. Then education
is the craft concerned with doing this very thing, this turning

58
 around, and with how the soul can most easily and effectively
be made to do it. (Rep., 518b-d).

I think that this passage illuminates most adequately Plato’s

political intention for writing the dialogues. Plato practices the craft
of “turning people around” towards the true reality. The one who
is “turned around” toward the Good cannot be corrupt, because his
soul and body will be habituated in imitating what is good, true, just,
and beautiful in itself.
To understand this thesis we need to consider the content of
education as proposed by Socrates in the Republic. The educational
process starts from music and (revised) poetry, both of which perme-
ate the soul with rhythm and harmony and make it graceful (401d).
The soul which is educated in music and poetry will “sense it acutely
when something has been omitted from a thing and when it hasn’t
been finely crafted or finely made by nature” (401e), and they teach
one to appreciate what is good and fine (522a). Thus the students
of music and poetry acquire a certain “harmoniousness,” a “certain
rhythmical quality,” and “other habits akin to these” (522a).
Next students turn toward the study of calculation, which “leads the
soul forcibly upward and compels it to discuss the numbers themselves,
never permitting anyone to propose for discussion numbers attached
to visible or tangible bodies” (525d). The same effect is produced by ge-
ometry and astronomy. Calculation, geometry, and astronomy provide
habits of analytic reasoning (διάνοια). It is not yet the highest type of
knowledge (νόησις), which is provided by philosophical intellection. The
latter does not use images (είδωλα), but proceeds to the forms themselves
(είδη); to the original models of all images. The philosophical reasoning
considers the archetypes of all things, the forms themselves (510b), while
the other disciplines merely use the forms as a starting point for creating
images. Calculation, geometry, astronomy, and analytic reasoning work
with intelligible images of the primordial forms, while music and poetry
deal with the sensible images of the forms. As the intelligible images are of
the same nature as the forms themselves (i.e., they are both intelligible),
they are “closer” to the truth than the sensible images.

Tõnu Viik 59
 The intelligible images can be handled in reasoning and ex-
pressed in language, i.e., narrated in the form of stories and similes,
or formulated as general definitions and logical syllogisms. All lin-
guistic expressions, including names and definitions, are still images
of forms, and not the forms themselves. There is a distinction between
the form of the Good and the name “Good.” The name “Good” is an
image of the Good, which makes it possible to conduct a theoretical
discussion about the form of the Good. The Good itself, i.e., the form
of the Good, is something that exists beyond this name and our oral
or written discourses.
The pedagogic effect of all disciplines, besides philosophy itself,
consists of habituating the student to fine proportion, rhythm, and
harmony, whether in theoretical thinking or in practical work and
behavior. It is crucial for the potential success of the pedagogic effect
that the human soul can be made harmonious in indirect ways. The
direct way of doing it is contemplating the form of harmony itself.
The indirect way of doing it consists of using the frequent influence
of harmonious images. Fine images produce a good effect even if
the very principle of fineness (the form of it) is not understood by
the student, and this is what makes education possible: “imitations
practiced from youth become part of nature and settle into habits of
gesture, voice and thought” (Rep., 395d).
For example, Socrates explains in the Republic that the children
who become guardians must not be allowed to imitate anything other
than “courageous, self-controlled, pious, and free men, and their
actions:”

They mustn’t be clever at doing or imitating slavish or shame-

ful actions, lest from enjoying the imitation, they come to
enjoy the reality (395c).

Thus the process of education can produce a good effect even if a

student does not actually know what he is being educated in. That is,
education can be successful even on the level of “ignorant” imitation of
well-designed images. It is only necessary that the images be chosen or

60
created by somebody who knows their archetypes. Plato probably held
that normally the education of most people is based on “blind” imitation
of images. E. R. Dodds supports this view by saying that, at least in the
Laws, Plato maintains that “the virtue of the common man is evidently
not based on knowledge or even on true opinion as such, but on a proc-
ess of conditioning or habituation (653b).”3 However, for the success of
Plato’s educational procedure is necessary that the teacher know the
true content of the images learned and imitated by students.
Plato’s theory of education leads us to an important point about his
view of human nature. It is a general condition of human life always
to be shaped and habituated by images, both sensible and intelligible
ones. Plato does not see man as an autonomous and detached from
the world. Rather, he is always disposed to the influence of the im-
ages which are present in his family and in his society, i.e., the nature
of human being is always shaped by social conventions and popular
representations.
This is why it is so hard to find good people in a corrupt society.
The same reason explains why it is very hard to find true philosophers.
Socrates repeatedly reminds his interlocutor that good natures become
outstandingly bad if they receive bad upbringing (Rep., 491e, 495a,
497b). Thus potential philosophers will, according to this logic, become
the most corrupted individuals in an unjust social environment. Those
who have been able to become good philosophers have resisted the in-
fluence of their society’s images, either through divine intervention (e.g.,
Socrates’ daimonion), or through imposition of some obstacles, such as
sickness, which forces the philosopher to withdraw from society.
Diverse social representations battle to influence human souls in all
societies. In a situation where images created by the “poets” produce
vicious influence, it naturally follows that there is a quarrel between
philosophy and poetry. The failure of the “poets” consists of the fact
that their images are not truthful copies of the first forms, for unlike
philosophers, the “poets” are not able to “see” the true archetypes of
things. Plato attempts to oppose the images created by the “poets”

3
Dodds, E. R., The Greeks and the Irrational (University of California Press, 1983), p.
110.

Tõnu Viik 61
 with better ones. In his view he is creating images which are using the
knowledge of the true first principle of (human) life – the form of the
Good. The “theoretical model of the good city” in the Republic is one of
these knowledgeable constructed images. The reality which the image
of the just city is meant to explain is that of the human soul. In other
words, “the just city” in the Republic serves as an allegory designed
to illustrate the nature of a just soul. Consequently it cannot be taken
as a description of desired political reality.
Consequently, if it is true that Plato attempted to create pedagogi-
cally well-designed images in order to counterbalance the “ignorant”
images of the “poets”, then it would be wrong to accuse Plato of creating
the totalitarian constitution of a utopian state. The “theoretical model
of a good city” is not something to be literally instituted in political
reality, but it is designed to habituate the reader of the Republic with
the form of the Good and with the constitution of a soul correspond-
ing to this form.
It is also important to note that Plato is writing neither a politi-
cal pamphlet nor a philosophical treatise. He is producing a work of
art which is supposed to compete with the other works of art written
by the epic poets and tragedians. Charles Kahn argues that Plato
created a literary genre of “a ‘realistic’ historical dialogue, a work
of imagination designed to give the impression of a record of actual
events, like a good historical novel.”4 Even though Plato’s dialogues
are designed to give an impression of a first-hand record of “actual”
events, we should not confuse them with such records. They are works
of imagination as all other works of “realistic” literature. Actually it
is not surprising that Plato wrote literary fiction, because in order to
quarrel with the “poets” one has to speak the same language as they
do; one has to be on the same level of discourse.
In fact Plato’s dialogues contain a variety of elements which en-
able Plato to fight at the same time against the poets, rhetoricians,
orators, and tragedians. Each of these is addressed in their own ele-
ment. There are mythical stories meant to engage with those who

4
Charles H. Kahn, Plato and the Socratic Dialogue (New York: Cambridge University
Press, 1996) p. 35.

62
have produced epic narratives, such as Homer and Hesiod. There
are logical arguments against orators and rhetoricians. There is a
dramatic composition throughout the most of the dialogues, and there
is an anti-tragic hero – Socrates. Martha Nussbaum claims that there
are at least six different genres that are either mentioned, discussed,
or imitated in Plato’s dialogues: epic, lyric, tragic and comic poetry,
scientific or historical treatise, and oratory.5
Already the fact of employing the form of literary fiction excludes
the possibility that Plato was attempting to formulate eternally true
political principles to be written into the constitutions of the real
states, or eternally true philosophical propositions as common to philo-
sophical treatises. We are used to considering arguments the main
medium of philosophical thought. It is therefore strange for us that
in the dialogues it is never completely clear whether Plato actually en-
dorses an argument or not, since it is provided by one of the fictional
interlocutors. We cannot take Socrates’ words to be the words of Plato
– this would be a misunderstanding of the logic of literary fiction.
What is more, arguments in ‘realistic’ historical dialogue are not
presented as universally true then and always (this is the universal
essentialism of the genre of the scientific treatise), but as suitable in
this moment of conversation to convince this particular interlocutor.
It does not mean that some of the arguments in Plato’s dialogues
cannot be universally true, but that their mode of presentation in the
literary form of dialogue has a very different – temporary and local
– character. The theoretical arguments, which often occur in Plato’s
dialogues, even if they are formulated as universally valid, serve other
aims than establishing an eternally true doctrine.
Why does Plato employ a genre that is not suited for formulating
an ultimate doctrine of truth? Traditionally the researchers of Plato
have concluded that there are no direct philosophical reasons for Plato
to use the form of literary fiction.6 It has also been widely assumed that

5
Martha Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and
Philosophy (Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1986), p. 123.
6
See for example Charles Griswold, “Plato’s Metaphilosopy: Why Plato Wrote Dia-
logues?” Plato: Critical Assessments, ed. Nicholas Smith, vol. 1 (London, New York:
Routlege, 1988), p. 238.

Tõnu Viik 63
 we can convert Plato’s philosophy into the form of scientific treatise
without losing anything essential. Most of the “secondary literature”
about Plato discusses his “doctrine” derived from the utterances of
Socrates in the same way we would discuss the conceptual systems of
Spinoza or Leibniz.
Alexandr Dobrokhotov, in contrast, argues that there are deeper
philosophical reasons which impelled Plato to use the literary form.7
According to Dobrokhotov, this choice has to do with the specific
ontological nature of the “the realm of what is,” which is portrayed
as discovered by Socrates in Plato’s dialogues. Dobrokhotov’s sugges-
tion is especially interesting from the point of view of our discussion,
because it explains why it would have made sense for Plato to use the
form of literary fiction to communicate his philosophy. Dobrokhotov
argues that the forms are eternal and immutable not because they
represent some sort of principles of objective world order, but rather
because they represent the telos’es of the world. This means that they
do not represent the principles of the world as it is, but as it ought
to be. That is why, if they are acknowledged by a human soul, they
move the soul to act in a moral fashion. That is, the existence of the
forms can only be revealed through a moral call. This moral call is
something that must be “felt” by a living individual, rather than ex-
plained in an uninvolved manner in the form of a logical argument.
The genre of scientific treatise, which is written from the point of
view of a neutral and emotionally uninvolved author, is designed to
hide the subjectivity of its author. Plato, in contrast, needs the involve-
ment of the subjectivity of a thinker. The literary form allows him to
exhibit the subjective feelings which accompany the revelation of the
objective telos’es of the world. Plato portrays the feelings and character
of a person who “sees” the forms, as well as of his interlocutors who
remain either skeptical or become overly enthusiastic about the forms.
Literary fiction allows Plato to show the conflict of these characters,
their antagonism, sympathy, etc.

7
Александр Доброхотов, Категория бытия в классической Западноевропейской
философии, (Москва, 1986), 14–36.

64
 Thus according to Dobrokhotov it would be wrong to try to de-
tach Plato’s “theoretical” philosophy from its immediate exercise by
concrete people in his dialogues, because the forms can be recognized
only in the medium of the subjective feeling of a human individual,
i.e., the existence and the objectivity of the forms are can only be
demonstrated subjectively. Consequently it would not make any sense
for Plato to write a scientific treatise. In order to understand what the
forms are, we need to know what kind of man is capable of “seeing”
the forms and what he “feels” when he sees them.
Now we can turn back to the question of how Plato might have
thought that his dialogues can fulfill the practical task of making a
society more just. As I said above, he is not giving an account of the
final version of the universal constitution that should be introduced.
Instead, he is attempting to make the reader to feel that a just consti-
tution ought to be introduced. The feeling of this “ought” should make
the reader to “turn around” towards the Good, and this should make
him to act justly. In other words, if the reader feels the “ought” of the
justice discussed in the dialogue, then it is because in the course of
reading the text of a dialogue the reader is exposed to the images
which produce a certain disposition in the soul of the reader towards
understanding the form of the Good.
Thus Plato’s aim in writing dialogues was to fashion images that
would harmonize the souls of the readers with the ultimate reality of
the universe – the world of forms. He did not plan any direct changes
in the objective world; he wanted to create a passion for truth rather
than a passion for political revolution. When education becomes
turning the reader towards the form of the Good, politics becomes
philosophy. Plato does have a political aim in attempting “to make the
whole city happy,” however, his philosophy does not become politics
in the way Marx suggested. Rather, Plato has it the other way around:
true politics becomes philosophy.

Tõnu Viik 65
 R E S Ü M E E :฀“M I K S ฀P L AT O N ฀ D I A L O O G E ฀ K I R J U TA S ? ”

Artiklis tulevad vaatluse alla Platoni kirjutiste poliitilised motii-

vid ja ambitsioonid. Lähteküsimuseks on, millist ühiskondlikku mõju
lootis Platon oma dialoogidega saavutada? Selle vastamiseks käsitle-
takse Platoni hariduseteooriat, filosoofia olemuslikku tüli poeesiaga,
ning nende mõlema seost poliitilise korruptsiooniga polises. Autori
arvates põhineb Platoni haridusteooria ettekujutusel, et indiviidide
poliitilisi ja maailmavaatelisi hoiakuid mõjutavad oluliselt kollektiiv-
sed ettekujutused ehk “kujundid” (eidola; artiklis inglise keelde tõlgi-
tud kui images). Selliste ühiskondlike “kujundite” paradigmaalseks
näiteks on “poeetide” poolt loodud müüdid, mis moodustavad olulise
vahendi indiviidi sotsialiseerumises ja eetilises käitumises. Autori
arvates kirjutabki Platon dialooge selleks, et poeetide poolt loodud
ignorantsetele ja negatiivselt mõjuvatele “kujunditele” oma filosoofili-
selt kompetentsed ja pedagoogiliselt positiivsed kujundid vastu seada.
Järelikult ei saa Platoni dialoogide sisu võtta tegelikkuse dokumen-
taalse või soovitava kirjeldusega: Platon ei ürita kujutada ajaloolist
Sokratest – nii nagu ta tegelikult oli, ega propageeri totalitaristlikku
riigimudelit – seadusi, mis tuleks tegelikkuses rakendada. Ta loob kirjan-
duslikke kujundeid, mis peaksid suutma lugejat positiivselt ergutada
ja teda hüvele häälestada.

66 Tõnu Viik
 THE POWER OF DIALECTIC
Triin Kallas

Yuppie is visiting a farm.

“That’s funny – this cow has no horns!”
“There are two kinds of cows,” the farmer explains.
“The first kind has horns, the other does not.
This particular cow is hornless, because it is a horse.”

‘FAR FROM BEING one dialectical procedure among others /…/, is not
division the one which replaces all the other procedures from the
moment it appears, and gathers up all the dialectical power in favour
of a genuine philosophy of difference? Is it not simultaneously the
measure of both Platonism and the possibility of overturning Platon-
ism?’ These perhaps rhetorical questions by Gilles Deleuze (Deleuze
1994: 59) guide the following enquiry into the history of dialectical
argument, particularly its introduction in Ancient Greece and the
famous disagreement between the ‘founding fathers’, Plato and Aristo-
tle. We will look at Aristotle’s critical remarks on the Platonic method
and discuss the logical procedures in the light of more extensive
philosophical presuppositions that are often referred to as ‘Platonic’
or ‘Aristotelian’ by modern philosophers. What is the peculiar power
that Deleuze attributes to dialectic and when or why has it been lost?
From division we proceed to its counterpart – selection, i.e. the task
of choosing, in which the issue of suppressing hierarchies inevitably
arises. The need to choose imposes a certain moral weight: Platonism
is a moral vision of the world, as Nietzsche perceived. Now and then
voices emerge to warn people against the overturning of hierarchies,

Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4, 67

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
 as this action places them in danger of losing all road signs on the way
to truth and of getting lost in the groundless marsh of relativity. Is it
the same longing for security that makes totalitarianism attractive to
people? Could there be a midway between philosophical fascism and
philosophical chaos?
The most legendary Platonic tool is the dialectical method known
as ‘division’ or more accurately ‘collection and division’. It is the
method of identifying something by dividing a general and familiar
class (eidos or genos) into more specific sub-classes that are mutually
exclusive. The procedure is repeated until the sufficient characterisa-
tion of the thing is completed in all the successive divisions that have
been marked off. Aristotle’s criticism of this method is aimed at ‘all
those who used the method of division,’ (Aristotle I: 31, 46a 35) but it
has usually been interpreted as his account of Plato and the Academy.
It should be noted, however, that in the dialogues which serve as the
most vivid examples of division – namely, the Sophist and the Statesman
– the method is applied by an unidentified character: the visitor from
Elea, and not the usual mouthpiece of truth in Plato’s dialogues. The
true message of these transcripts that Plato wrote over 40 years later
(the plot is dated as spring 399 and the writing in the last period of
Plato’s life: between the years 360 and 348/7 BC) (Taylor 1960: 374
and 371) remains disputed.
Most commentators value these dialogues expressly as ‘an elabo-
rate exercise in the careful employment of logical method’ (Taylor
1960: 375). They say that the idea is to show ‘a supreme philosopher
at work’ (Cooper 1997: 235) (though borrowed from abroad this time)
and to mark him off from both characters that are assessed in the
dialogues – the sophist and the statesman. The visitor does not define
the philosopher, but personifies the two qualities that determine a
real philosopher: his devotion to truth, and the correct method of
analysis for achieving it. Both cited commentators give less credit to
the actual contents and conclusions of the dividing and thus favour the
process (division at work) over the result (the suggested definitions).
The supremacy of the method and Plato’s affection for it are not
questioned by these authors. The reason for taking Plato’s word for

68
it is probably that there are other Parmenidean teachings that are
explicitly addressed by Plato and shown to be wrong (in the Sophist
most famously the doctrine of being and non-being).
Deleuze, on the other hand, concentrates on what is being demon-
strated during the conversations, and points out the irony of the situa-
tion. We should not take the division of the Sophist seriously, he seems
to imply, because Plato is just ridiculing the method and by the end of
the defining procedure there is not much left to distinguish Socrates,
Plato’s philosopher par excellence, from any sophist, since the definition
states that the sophist is the ironist working in private by means of brief
arguments.1 If one takes seriously the superficial aspect of division
– that the purpose of dividing is to subsume the thing investigated
under the appropriate species – then Aristotle’s objection to dividing,
according to Deleuze, would clearly be in order (Deleuze 1990: 254).
It is obvious that Aristotle took it seriously, and thus we should dwell
on his objections for a moment and return to the irony later.
Aristotle transformed the method of division into the logic of
syllogistic structure, and formulated its principal mistake as ‘taking
the universal as middle’. Accordingly the logic of division involves a
petitio principii: from the premise All mortal animals are either footed or
footless and Man is a mortal animal, it only follows that man is either
footed or footless, and Plato’s reasoning that man is a footed animal
proves to be ungrounded. Aristotle lists the inadequacies of division
as follows:

by this method, it is not possible to

(a) refute a statement;
(b) draw a conclusion about an accident or property of a
thing, nor about its genus, nor in cases in which it is
unknown whether it is thus or thus, e.g. whether the

1
Deleuze, Logic of Sense, p. 256, and Difference and Repetition, p. 68. Deleuze ignores
the requirement that definition should incorporate all the attributes that have been
marked off during the dividing – a few lines below where the concept of sophistry is
‘woven together from start to finish and tied up’, the definition stands: “Imitation of
the contrary-speech-producing, insincere and unknowing sort, of the appearance-
making kind of copy-making, the word-juggling part of production that’s marked
off as human and not divine” (Sophist 268c).

Triin Kallas 69
 diagonal is commensurate or incommensurate; and
(c) if we assume its property or genus, we will assume that
which we should have proved. (Aristotle I: 31)

Here he takes for granted that Plato’s intentions coincide with the
objectives of Aristotle’s dialectical syllogism, which is distinguished
from the scientific syllogism by the fact that its premises are not true
and immediate but are merely probable (not only seemingly probable,
as in incorrect reasoning). While science operates by the deduction
of first principles, and false syllogism can be refuted, dialectics is the
only logical mechanism that is able to produce new knowledge, to prove
something. He admits that the differences are more profound than
what they have in common: that the dividers ‘pursue another method
altogether’, and concludes that the method of division ‘is not suitable
for every inquiry, nor useful in those cases in which it is thought to
be most suitable,’ (Aristotle I: 31, 46b 36) alluding once more to the
intentions of Plato.
The criticism of not proving misses the mark, because in Plato’s
dialogues there is no reference to any intention to prove an assertion
by making a division. The procedure of division should rather be
subjected to the same conditions that Aristotle uses for deduction:
the divider presupposes the first concept to be divided. Division, as
well as Aristotelian logic, is an instrument that does not give us an
acquaintance with the concepts that are analysed. The immediate
facts are given in a certain self-evidence that lies at different levels of
objectivity for Plato and Aristotle, but needs no proving in either case.
Aristotle’s criticism cedes, in the statement that the method of division
is not a process of inference at all, nor is the conclusion assumed. There
is no seeking for a conclusion, but ‘it makes us familiar with what the
thing is, if at all, in some other fashion.’ (Aristotle II: 5, 91b32)
Division does not fulfil the objectives that Aristotle prescribes for
Plato, but is still shown to be useful for other reasons. First of all, it
assures that the predicated attributes are analysed in the right order
and that nothing of an essential nature is omitted. It is the general re-
quirement for any demonstration to give a genus and divide it into its

70
infimae species, so that nothing is left out and so that it is the best and only
way of defining the subject matter. Aristotle gives an outline of how the
science should progress by giving the example of writing a handbook
on a subject that is a whole (Aristotle II: 13, 96b15). The author

1. assumes the genus of the subject;

2. divides it into its infimae species (atomon eidos);
3. endeavours to seize their definitions;
4. finds elements that are common to all species and gener-
alises them gradually into genera.

The final definition of the genus – the real, instead of nominal

prehension that was present at the beginning – will consist of at-
tributes that are compounded from the single definitions of infimae
species. Some attributes may be too large to embrace the essence of the
genus, e.g. the attribute ‘flying’ is an essential characteristic of birds,
but would not exclude butterflies. Then again, there are attributes
which are less essential than others. And some that would be totally
unsuitable (think of the tragic cut in the family of ants if the division
occurs at ‘flying’). Thus it is necessary to have all the attributes that
define the essence in the exact range of the concept, to have these in
the right order, and not to leave anything out. Here Aristotle concedes
a certain value in the Platonic method: while in chapter 5 he criticises
the fact that nothing prevents the dividers from positing something
additional, here they are credited with not omitting anything essential.
Hence it is a question of the right meros, of stopping when necessary.
It is by division that we arrive at the correct hierarchy of species and
genera, and understand whether it is proper to attribute ‘animalness’
to winged creatures, or ‘having wings’ to animals.2 Every dichotomia
can only belong to a certain genus or sub-genus, e.g. the differen-
tiation between whole-winged and split-winged can only fall into the
genus of ‘winged animal’, and not all ‘animal’. When the particular

2
Though Aristotle’s examples often involve animal species, he clearly indicates, in
the Parts of Animals (I 2–3), that in biological taxonomies his criticism of division
stands. Thus probably its positive use is restricted to logic.

Triin Kallas 71
 species is defined, the attributes that are common to the whole genus
will rank higher in the order of definition, and double classifications
will be left out: instead of ‘split-winged winged animal’, we say ‘split-
winged animal’. The method of division is also an aid in recognising
the moment when the definition of infimae species has been attained
and further divisions should rather be avoided. The perfect Aristote-
lian definition would articulate a balance between an excess of speci-
fications and omission of any essential attributes. Hence there can be
only one perfect definition for each thing defined, and the rank of
attributes builds up a natural hierarchy of species and genera (‘natu-
ral’ in the sense that the hierarchy rises from the nature of things and
is not applied by an outside classifier).
What is the problem that Aristotle is trying to solve with the aid
of the method of division? It is obvious that he is not proving a syllo-
gism, since this is the task for which his criticism of division proved
to be inadequate. The question here is related to the non-causal defi-
nition, which involves the dividing and re-composing of class concepts.
The task of the philosopher who defines is to find the right, essential
attributes among the countless characteristics of the thing defined.
The number of these essential attributes may differ, but there is only
one unique combination of attributes to define this thing. Therefore,
the problem involves selecting the proper attributes from among the
many possible. Here the weight shifts from division to selection.

‘The method of selection consists in laying down the common

genus of all our subjects of investigation – if e.g. they are ani-
mals, we lay down what the properties are which inhere in every
animal. These established, we next lay down the properties
essentially connected with the first of the remaining classes
– e.g. if this first subgenus is bird, the essential properties of
every bird – and so on.’ (Aristotle II: 14, 98a)

This procedure, also termed the ‘selection of analyses and di-

visions,’ is the concluding step in the process of defining as outlined
above. Just before the formal presentation of selection, Aristotle gave

72
an example of defining the notion of pride. It moves in the opposite
direction: we know some proud men (the knowledge comes from
endoxa, the common opinion) and by examining individual occur-
rences, try to establish what the uniform meaning is. Now it appears
that there is no common element in the types of pride that Aristotle
describes, since some of them depend on the circumstances of life and
others are akin to the person’s character (pride as the impatience of
dishonour). Accordingly, there are two genera of pride. This clearly
does not satisfy Aristotle, and he repeats that the definition must be
universal. Inductive reasoning has given no acceptable result, for we
intuit that there must be one single meaning of pride.
This reveals another disagreement between Plato and Aristo-
tle. Aristotle gives a hint of that problem in Metaphysics VIII 6, in a
discussion of the unity of definition. If the essence of something is
explained by the idea of participation, every substance would have to
participate in more than one Form (otherwise the Forms would just
duplicate this world). What is it then that makes the substance one
and not many, Aristotle asks (1045a 17). He proceeds to introduce the
conceptual pairs of form/matter and potentiality/actuality as solutions
to the problem of unity and difference that Plato failed to offer. Plato
had approached the same problem in Philebus 15 a-b: if we tried to
posit something as one, we would have to ask whether there was such
unity truly in existence, whether it was such eternally or only for the
time of discussion, and whether it found itself as one and the same in
one and many things at the same time. He associated the ambiguity
with language: ‘the sound that comes out of the mouth is one for each
and every one of us, but then it is also unlimited in number’ (17b).
Thus everything consists of one and many, ‘having in its nature limit
and unlimitedness’ (16d). Plato often accuses young boys (who have
come to dialectic too early) of tearing things into pieces3 in a game of
contradiction, and warns people to keep a balance between the one
and the unlimited, without omitting the intermediates. In compari-

3
E.g. in Republic VII, 539b where the game is compared to the dragging and tearing
of puppies, or Philebus 15e where arguments get turned, rolled and divided like
dough or wool.

Triin Kallas 73
 son with Aristotle, he is more tolerant of the different ways of contem-
plating and articulating the One. The incompleteness of the Many is
accepted and does not intimidate the domain of the One.
In most cases, the Platonic philosopher escapes the dilemma of
multiple prides by making a moral decision. Obviously, one of the kinds
of pride must be ‘less pride’ than the other, or perhaps both are mis-
taken, since we started from particular examples that resembled pride,
but never studied the concept as such. Plato made a radical difference
between the instances of ordinary language usage (names) and the
pure forms (concepts). “He … discoursed on the propriety of names,
and indeed he was the first to frame a science for rightly asking and
answering questions, having employed it himself to excess,” Diogenes
Laertius (III 79) writes about Plato in an insightful manner. The adjec-
tives ‘proper’ and ‘right’ imply a value judgement, the Platonic moral
absolutism that was not fully acceptable to Aristotle. Aristotle focuses his
criticism on horismos, the separation of the intelligible from the sensible,
the self-absorption of the in-itself-ness, as-such-ness, etc., where the
concept always refers back to itself only. It fulfils the ideal of purity,
but results in a detached and unfit approach to life, as in the example
that Diogenes gives as an occurrence of dialectic at its best: in Phaedo,
one of the proofs of immortality is given through the analogy with
the pure knowledge that opposites are generated by opposites – thus
death is produced by life and vice versa.4
Moral decision requires closer examination and it is time to re-
turn to the irony of the Sophist that was pointed out by Deleuze. He
describes two ironic ‘snares’ in the Platonic division. One of them
lies in the involvement of myth in the final phase of dividing (in the
Phaedrus and the Statesman), which surmounts the duality of myth
and dialectic. Myth introduces the model, the ground of division,
and the criterion for selecting suitable copies that come closest to the
model (Deleuze 1990: 254–255). Hence the second irony: division is
just a façade for what is really happening, a disguise to establish what
is authentic and what is not. Since all visible things can only be copies

4
Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, III 55. Reference is made to Plato’s
Phaedo 70e–71e.

74
of the real, the genuine Platonic motivation is to distinguish between
good and bad copies.

“The essence of division does not appear in its breadth, in

the determination of the species of a genus, but in its depth,
in the selection of the lineage. It is to screen the claims (pre-
tensions) and to distinguish the true pretender from the false
one.” (Deleuze 1990: 254)

The defining of the sophist is an exception, a paradox in the sense

that there is no model (no myth) and thus it is not a selection of the
best copies (as it would be in searching for the right statesman who
would most closely resemble the mythical god, the very ‘shepherd of
men’), but a defining of something that is always only a simulacrum,
a phantasm. This paradoxical un-grounding is where Plato ‘points
out the direction for the reversal of Platonism’ (Deleuze 1990: 256)
or even ‘overturns Platonism’ (Deleuze 1994: 68).
Let us focus on a passage of the Sophist that expounds one of the
most important parts of the definition of the sophist, or one of the
main lineages of his ‘blood and family’5. As shown in a schema in the
Appendix of this paper (p. 82), the dividing proceeds by stating the
object that is divided (discrimination that separates worse from better),
attaches the proper name to it (cleansing), and proposes the respec-
tive treatments for different kinds of deficiencies in cleanness. The
division culminates in the description of dialectical argumentation
as a means of treating the worst kind of ignorance: refutation of the
empty belief in one’s own wisdom, which results from the dispropor-
tion or ugliness of an unclean soul. The other branches of division
are not totally neglected, but serve as illustrative parallels to the main
line (thus analogies of the ways of purifying sick body and sick soul
– medicine/correction – or ugly body and ugly soul – gymnastics/teach-
ing – are built up). The uniform aspiration towards purification marks
these activities off for Plato as those which aim for the good, in contrast

5
A reference to the Iliad vi.211 in Sophist 268d.

Triin Kallas 75
 to ones that reside in simulation (cosmetics vs. medicine etc.); the il-
legitimate ones are not mentioned here.
This fully positive ‘family tree’ of cleansing seems to come as a
surprise to the speakers of the dialogue, who are, even so, convinced
that sophistry differs from philosophy in a significant way. A form of
expertise has been determined, but is it right to apply it to sophists?
Wouldn’t it perhaps be too high an honour for them?6 Theaeteus
disagrees. Yet there is a similarity between sophistry and the form of
argument that has just been described. The Visitor responds with the
famous simile of a wolf and a dog: there may be a similarity between
the wildest and the gentlest things on earth. This is the point in the
analysis where Socrates would fit in (not in the final divisions, as De-
leuze claimed), but this is precisely because the division is not about
sophistry any more. The dividers must have lost their way at an ear-
lier stage and thus find themselves in a totally wrong lineage (the one
that includes all the ‘good’ arts). Sophists do indeed educate people
(and this is what Socrates in his defence suggested he never did), but
there must be a more profound difference between their profession
and philosophy. We have come to describe the appearance of the ‘ani-
mal’ – which is quite similar in wolves and dogs – having missed the
reason for their inner being, the wildness or gentleness. The sophist
is an expert in refutation, ‘the principal and most important kind of
cleansing’ (230d), and this is what he has in common with Socrates.
Diogenes Laertius gives rather ridiculous (and logically unsound)
examples of the dividing7 that proceeds by contradiction and dispute,
and explains that Plato used it not for laying down positive doctrines
(dogmatizein), but for refutation. The other kind of reasoning that
he calls ‘induction by agreement’ proceeds either by way of the uni-
versal, or ‘proves the particular conclusion under discussion from a

6
The remark at 231a3 – m¾ me‹zon aÙto‹j pros£ptwmen gšraj – has been interpreted
in a number of ways; my translation here follows Taylor (p. 381n1). The literal, nega-
tive meaning of the sentence (we would not pay sophists too high an honour) as well as
the following remarks on our noble sophistry (231b7) must have been expressed with
a lot of irony.
7
He uses Aristotle’s word ‘induction’ (epagoge). Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent
Philosophers III 53ff.

76
particular.’ The former is proper to the dialectical, the latter to the
rhetorical argument. Hence, in his view, the refutation (and division
that is aimed at contradiction) is not part of dialectic per se, but is a
logical tool, the actual meaning of which depends only on how it is
used. The sophist contradicts specialists in every science in order to
bring them to silence and to generate the perception of being wiser
than anyone else. He does not clean souls of false opinions, but cre-
ates even more false opinions. This is exactly where our dividing went
off its course: the sophist cannot be a cleanser. And what is cleansing?
Separating the worse from the better.
There is nothing extraordinary about dividing as such; in fact
people make divisions in every uttered statement, in every identi-
fication. The Visitor enumerates common activities that we call by
‘names that house servants use’ – carding, spinning, weaving, etc.
– and states that all these are kinds of dividing (226b-c). For Aristotle,
house servants’ speech formed the basis of acknowledged opinion (en-
doxa), and the philosopher’s task was to provide systematic knowledge
in the form of true premises and propositions. Aristotelian division
confines itself to naming, i.e. establishing the notion or proposition
that is in closest concordance with reality – the best representation
of truth. “Dialectic loses its power when it remains content to trace
problems from propositions,” Deleuze asserts (1994: 157). Aristotle
limits dialectic to the domain of probabilities (Aristotle I: 14, 105b 31)
– as a way of proximation towards truth and not truth itself. Accord-
ing to the division of sciences that Plato envisaged in the sixth and
seventh books of the Republic, this kind of dialectic would fall under
the lower subdivision of investigating the intelligible: the one which
starts from images as hypotheses and aims at conclusion (510-511).
This is the kind of pure science that geometry best represents. For
Plato, dialectic is the understanding (epistēme) which, having got rid of
all sciences8 and done away with hypotheses, ‘systematically attempts
to grasp with respect of each thing itself what the being of it is’ (533
b-d). Glaucon’s question about the specific power of dialectic is given

8
It certainly presupposes that sciences are first mastered.

Triin Kallas 77
 an evasive answer. There are no more images to explain the further
path, thus no matter how eager I would be to lead you, Socrates says,
– you would not be able to follow me any longer. It is all vain to prove
what the truth is, but we must strongly maintain that it exists (533a).
(Once again we notice an intention which contradicts that of Aristotle,
whose definition answers the question of what a thing is (ti esti) and
does not say that it is (hoti esti).)
Unlike the sciences, dialectic has its ‘feet’ totally off the ground,
but this height is not attained through the effort of the dialectician,
but through some other power. Plato describes a turning-around of
a ‘barbaric soul’ that is gently pulled out of the buried state and led
upwards, almost as if against its own will (533d). Sciences, the step-
ping stones, can be taught; what follows the leap is a kind of divine
madness. The power of dialectic equals the power of the Good for
Plato: the One, which irrefutably pulls everything and everyone to-
ward itself. The counterpart of this power, however, is the creating of
a difference between the worse and the better, and the model of the
dialectician as a cleanser, a gold-digger. The inescapable discontent
with the impure, ugly, corroded, spoiled, the uneducated tyrant and
sophist, haunts Platonism from the start. Isn’t the Good good enough
to end the misery of this world?
The meaning of dialectic underwent a notable change between
Plato and Aristotle. For the latter, the dialectician appears in a double
mask: that of the representative of reputable opinions (those which
are accepted by everyone or by the majority or by the wise) (Aristotle
I: 1, 100b 21) and that of a ‘vain speechifier who is content to argue
plausibility about everything’ (Aubenque 1963: 260). This superior and
demeaning attitude is also evident in Diogenes’ writings and indi-
cates an altered reputation of dialectic. We have tried to show that
this common view of dialectic as a logical tool of analysis and refu-
tation is exactly that which Plato resisted. The dimension above the
logic of propositions – a realm of stating your own questions instead
of mastering already existing answers – remains untouched by the
Academics and Aristotle.

78
 ***

For Plato, the method of division provides the means for distin-
guishing copies-images from simulacra-phantasms. The latter create
an appearance of reality by distorting the actual proportions to get
a result which will look right; the effect, of course, works only from
a certain perspective. Appearances are not only of material objects
(as philosophy textbooks tend to claim), but all kinds of mistaken im-
ages, visual distortions of the mental ‘eye’ that arise from beings that
‘are not’ (i.e. are not right) and thus produce wrong opinions. The
so-called moral decision exceeds the limits of what we understand as
morality and stretches in every direction, including metaphysics and
epistemology. What is it about Platonism that calls for a reversal? The
problem of distinguishing between right and wrong cannot have lost
its actuality for the contemporary world, even if it has been limited
to the field of ethics and thus, in a way, marginalised. Could we state
it differently in the light of present problems, or is it the ways and
methods of approaching it that offer different answers?
To state the Platonic question in a contemporary manner, I would
turn to a subject that Umberto Eco addressed in an interview about
the Internet (Coppock 1995), which has continually reappeared in
his later essays. His first impression of the Internet had been very
positive – finally, we had an acephalous system, a genuine rhizome
without archetypes. On the other hand, it raised two problems. First,
how long could it maintain its headless shape? At some point the over-
loading of the network would impose some filtering and discipline.
The Internet could be an environment that ruled out the emergence
of any Big Brothers, but at the same time a Big Brother might be able
to occupy the main lines or the main network. The need and threat of
outside filters, which are intended to control all kinds of illegal busi-
ness, from pornography to terrorism, are discussed frequently, and
it is not hard to recognise the Platonic censorship of the Good under
this kind of intention. Eco’s second worry was that even if the Inter-
net remained acephalous, it would be overloaded with information
to the extent that the need for filters would become critical. Would

Triin Kallas 79
 people be mature enough to act as their own filters, or should some
professional filters help them to find necessary items from among the
abundant material?
The problem has taken new shape, but is still similar to Plato’s:
how can we recognise and tell the right from the wrong, useful from
the useless, etc.? It has taken new dimensions, evolving in extent
rather that depth. Eco gives the example of bookshops, which in the
1930s used to be quiet places that one could easily grasp and where
one could keep an eye on the changes on the shelves where one or
two books were added each week. The number of newly published
books has grown so much that today it is impossible to notice every
interesting new book without the help of book reviews. ‘My theory is
that there is no difference between the Sunday New York Times and the
Pravda of the old days,’ Eco declares. News items become irretriev-
able all the same, be it connected to the censorship of the One or
the abundance of the Many. Eco, a professor of semiotics, says that
he would be totally lost without filters. An undergraduate student
may have the advantages of youth and adaptability, but has to face
more phantasms that result from the lack of maturity filters. Filters
are becoming more and more noble: the rich can afford more filters,
e.g. hire stylists to get advice on the profusion of fashion trends and
learn the ‘right code’.
“We have to learn the art of decimation,” Eco declares. What
is that? He refers to his bookshelves, which grow by ten new books
every week. He would never be able to read through all these books
and has therefore created a method of decimation, based on his
former experience that there may have emerged about ten new
ideas in a certain research topic. He reads one book of ten and if it
has no novelties, passes to the next ten etc. The choice is certainly
not arbitrary, since he has a lot of professional experience. There
are certain signs that help to sort out some books from the start,
usually manifest after reading the conclusion and bibliography. It is
not a tragedy if he fails to notice some books as they are published,
because sooner or later other authors will quote these if they are
worth quoting. Experience is here combined with intuition, which

80
is very hard to articulate. We do not have the words to express that
intuition, but how could it be learned or taught? ‘We have to invent a
practice, a theory. A practice or training in decimation,’ Eco declares.
He does not have the key to do this – it still needs to be invented
– but he gives some guiding rules. For instance, you come across a
book with a bibliography drawing only on the years 1998 and 1999.
Depending upon the subject, this fact might be positive or negative.
If you are studying Kant’s philosophy, it means that the author has
used only secondary material. If it is a book on hypertext language,
it might be out-of-date, as new pieces on the subject are published
every day. If an American writer lists only books in the English lan-
guage, we might suspect that his view is too limited. But if the work
investigates analytic philosophy, English books would suffice. The
rules of selection would have to be quite flexible and adaptable to the
particular subject, but rules are needed. Otherwise we would be in
a position where censorship and excess of information become the
same thing. At present we are unable to distinguish between reliable
and insane sources, Eco maintains, and are in need of a new critical
competence, a new type of educational training.
The problem of distinguishing – and our position within distin-
guishing – is the same, and different. According to Eco, there are
simple rules that have to be flexible, depending on the situation and
object of investigation. When the distinguishing gets more complex,
we should rather speak of criteria. And with a certain degree of com-
plexity there is only intuition left to rely on. The ultimate task is to find
the criteria that can be used within the situation and not afterwards.
When I am reading a scientific article by an unknown author, what
should I keep in mind in order to grasp, as soon as possible, whether
the article contains something important or not? This is how far we
can go, because we can never really know before reading the article
to the end. And this is how far we should go. Otherwise, it would
involve asking what happens if we do not read the article and it con-
tains something extremely valuable? This is a pointless question. The
question is not about recognising what is true and what is false; it is
about creating the criteria of truth and falsehood.

Triin Kallas 81
 The common part of the question is twofold: 1) how to ask right
questions that matter to yourself; and 2) how to recognise that which
matters to you. Both, I suppose, involve some intuition and signs (insuffi-
cient, but necessary partners) and always getting what we asked for.

APPENDIX

Defining of a lineage in Sophist 226d–231:

discrimination
that separates

worse f rom better like f rom like

=CLEANSING

of body of soul

of nonliving of living of sickness of ugliness

(sponging (discord) (disproportion)
etc) =wickedness =ignorance
CORRECTION TEACHING

inside outside
part part
BATHING of lack of of not knowing,
learning but thinking
TEACHING that you know
OF CRAFTS EDUCATION
of sickness of ugliness (done in words)
MEDICINE GYMNASTICS

rough smoother
=cross-exami- =encour aging
nation (admonition)
(ref utation)

82
BIBLIOGR APHY

Aubenque, Pierre, Le Problème de l’Etre chez Aristote: Essai sur le prob-

lèmatique aristotélicienne (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France,
1963)
Coppock, Patrick, ‘A Conversation on Information: An interview
with Umberto Eco’, February, 1995 (http://carbon.cudenver.
edu/~mryder/itc_data/eco/eco.html)
Deleuze, Gilles, Difference and Repetition, trans. by Paul Patton (Lon-
don: Athlone Press, 1994)
Deleuze, Gilles, Logic of Sense, trans. by Mark Lester with Charles
Stivale (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990)
Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, trans. by R. D. Hicks,
2 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1972)
Plato, Complete Works, ed. by John M. Cooper and D. S. Hutchinson
(Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997)
Taylor, A. E., Plato: The Man And His Work, 7th reprint (London:
Methuen, 1960)
The Complete Works of Aristotle, ed. by Jonathan Barnes, Bollingen
Series 71:2, 2 vols (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984)

Triin Kallas 83
 IDENTITY, DIFFERENCE AND CULTURAL WORLDS
Rein Raud

THIS ARTICLE WILL try to do two things. First, it is an investigation into

the implications for the traditional notion of identity that are brought
about by the move from a static worldview to a dynamic one, from a
world of basically stable and self-identical things to the much more
unstable environment contemporary philosophy regards reality to
be. Since under the circumstances of inconstancy the entities we can
speak about can be seen to be grounded in the languages in which
we speak about them much more than an essentialist ontology would
admit, I secondly address the problematic of culturally constructed
living-worlds in which the rules for concept formation and definitions
of ‘thingness’ itself may vary, as the tenets of non-European philo-
sophical traditions make clear. I propose to compare such worlds to
possible worlds.
Concepts and conceptual frames elaborated on the basis of this
logic of possible worlds have already proved to be fruitful in various
fields of humanities (cf. Allen 1989). My argument is based on the
conviction that these concepts may also be put to good use in the
theory/philosophy of culture, namely, that there exists an analogy be-
tween diverse systems of cultural representations and possible worlds.
In other words, each comprehensive set of linguistic representations
corresponds to a possible world, which is determined both by the
circumstances that obtain in the actual world and by the capacities
of the language to express them. The possible worlds of this kind are
separated from each other by linguistic and cultural barriers which
are, indeed, not only objects of cultural study but also very real factors

84 Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4,

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
of our daily life that sometimes cause major problems in the func-
tioning of the actual world. Needless to say, the analogy between the
possible worlds of logic and the cultural worlds is not strict and any
conclusion drawn on either side has to be validated on the other before
it can be developed further. An investigation of the ‘cultural worlds’
also necessarily entails the recognition of the contingency of our own
linguistic representations of the actual world (but not the relativisa-
tion of the actual world itself) and should thus make us aware of the
limitations of our theoretical constructions, especially when these take
on ideological proportions. The language of such an analysis should
therefore strive to accommodate all imaginable models of represen-
tation and, naturally, recognise their right to diversity.

Strong, weak and actual identity

One of the most fundamental laws of classical logic is the law of

identity, which states that ‘everything is equal to itself’. In a popular
textbook of logic, Wilfrid Hodges writes that ‘according to taste, is
either the supreme metaphysical truth or the utmost banality. Since it
is true always and everywhere, we can’t deny it with consistency; any set
of sentences which does deny it must be inconsistent’. (1977/91: 164).
But in reality, things are not at all so unproblematic as they seem. The
same book states that ‘the word identical is normally used in English
to express close similarity rather than identity. For example, identical
twins are not the same twin, and two women who are wearing identi-
cal dresses are not wearing one and the same dress’ (ibid.). On the
other hand, it is probable that two identical twins are at one moment
of time more similar to each other than one of them to oneself at two
times with any considerable interval. Does that mean that ‘identical’
things may in fact be less similar to themselves than ‘similar’ ones?
The sentence ‘everything equals itself’ thus makes tacit assumptions
of what ‘everything’ or ‘every thing’ is, and maybe stronger ones than
we should necessarily admit at the outset. After all, classical logic was
developed against the background of Aristotelian-Newtonian views
of the world, which do not correspond to our ideas any more.
What a ‘thing’ is from the point of view of such logic can be

Rein Raud 85
 derived from the law of Leibniz, or the principle of the identity of
indiscernibles. As it is well known, this principle states that ‘if x and
y are indiscernible, in the sense of all properties x’s properties being
the same as y’s properties and vice versa, then x is identical with y’
(Grayling 1982/98: 84–85). This formulation allows for two interpre-
tations. If x and y are indiscernible, it does not indicate any property
inherent to x and y, but means that it is we who cannot discern be-
tween them. ‘All’ properties they have may indicate both all of these
properties through the analysis of which we try to discern between x
and y, or, alternatively, all properties that they might possibly have,
even such ones which we cannot find out, say, without a sufficiently
powerful microscope or because appropriate technology has even
not yet been invented. Consequently, the principle may be taken in a
strong sense (to include all properties) and in a weak sense (to include
only such properties that we can discern). In the strong sense the law
is reversible: if x and y are identical, then all their properties coincide.
In the weak sense this is not the case: if x and y are identical, then only
those of their properties coincide that we are able to discern, and a
scientific breakthrough, for instance, may change our point of view in
that respect. This can be illustrated by Hilary Putnam’s example. He
posits another, almost identical planet to Earth called Twin Earth, on
which there is a liquid called ‘water’ that is identical to earth water in
all respects except its chemical composition, which is XYZ instead of
H2O. This is something easily found out, and therefore it is not cor-
rect to say that earth water and twin earth water are identical. But,
Putnam asks, what about the state of affairs obtaining in 1750 when
the composition of water was unknown? At the time speakers on both
earths would have been unable to distinguish between their respective
waters, and yet they were not identical then either. (Putnam 1973/93:
151–53). In the present terms, however, ‘waters’ on both earths would
have been weakly identical in 1750, and not identical afterwards. Any
other twin earth that might have water which is identical in all respects
to ours as we know it now is still only weakly identical, because it is
possible that an additional property will be discovered of water in the
future. This also means that any sentence of the type ‘x is identical

86
to y’ is indexical just like ‘today is Wednesday’ – true at one moment,
false at another. Identity sentences are thus either doubly indexical
along the pattern ‘at time t1 it is true that x is identical to y at time t2’
or false. Times t1 and t2 may, of course, coincide, and in most cases t1
is a period, which contains t2. But this is by no means necessary.
It seems that the talk of logic about identities concerns only iden-
tity in the strong sense, so that when we discover a property of y that
is not a property of x, that means that they are not only no longer
identical, but that they have not been identical all along, and it is only
we who have held a false belief about their identity. From this point
of view, all strong identity statements must be either tautological or
definitions of terms. But weak identity statements necessarily have to
allow for more vagueness than is usually acceptable in the analytical
schools.
In debates about vagueness it is generally agreed that ‘Apart
from representation, whether cognitive or mechanical, there can
be no such thing as vagueness or precision; things are what they
are, and there is an end of it’ (Russell 1994: 62) and ‘the notion that
things might actually be vague, as well as being vaguely described,
is not properly intelligible’ (Dummett 1994: 111). The counterargu-
ment for the existence of vague objects usually only claims that there
are some exceptional objects with fuzzy boundaries, for example
clouds, but normally ‘objects’ are not vague. It seems, however, that
the opposite view is not difficult to defend after all. Elaborating on
the work of the British scholar Lewis Richardson, who in the 1920s
set out to measure the length of the coastline of Great Britain, Na-
kazawa Shin’ichi shows that the picture of the ‘real’ world is very
much dependent on the ‘scale’ of the map we use. The coastline of
a country appears to be of one clearly measurable length on a map
of a large scale, whereas a more exact map that would also show all
small bays, inlets and curves on the line would gradually make the
coastline longer, until it approaches infinity (1988/95: 79–80). It
should be added that the coastline is also changing all the time as
waves move. And what is even more important, this moving, self-
identical but always different or ‘fuzzy’ coastline is the only one we

Rein Raud 87
 can actually see, the unvague one on the map is a representation,
a pure abstraction. The same applies to all borders and surfaces
to some extent. Therefore, it could well be asserted that the vague
object is the paradigmatic case. To treat objects as unvague means
to subject our sense-data to certain corrections that enable us to use
them in abstract thought-constructions, but as such they are already
representations. Therefore it seems justified to say, as Michael Tye
does in a slightly different context, that ‘the world is, in certain re-
spects, intrinsically, robustly vague’ (1997/99: 293).
But that affects any identity statement we might make. We are
only able to assert the identity of any x and y in the weak sense (if we
do not already know with certainty that x an y are the same thing),
and strong identity with itself can be asserted of anything only for an
infinitely brief moment of time, because a truly powerful microscope
would probably disclose to us constantly ongoing changes in the
structure of the atoms of which the thing is composed, and show that
it no longer has all the same properties it had an instant ago. And
however precisely we time the instant of validity of an actual strong
identity-statement, it is always possible that in the future time will be
measured more precisely, which means that this statement will turn
out to be weak after all. In other words, strong identity statements can
be valid only at immeasurably short times, when nothing moves at all.
Whether the state of the world at such times is the proper domain of
logic is open to discussion, but it is at least certain that such a state of
the world is not accessible to normal experience and commonsensical
assertions can therefore not be made about it. Consequently, a logic
that operates exclusively with strong identity statements should not
really appeal to common sense.
One well-known way to circumvent the problem is to hold that
identity statements are made not about the world, but about linguistic
representations of relations that obtain in the world. Logic is, after all,
the study of arguments, not of the world, and we may as well accept that
ostensive statements, which may refer to reality directly, in its unstop-
pable ‘thatness’, lose their direct reference when they are integrated
into propositions. This clause can make identity statements strong,

88
but what is at most times conveniently forgotten is that it also makes
them linguistically contingent (i.e. the rules of the language necessar-
ily affect the way how these sentences are constructed and function),
unless we are prepared to accept that there exists an unproblematic
way of linguistic representation, an ideal metalanguage which is able
to express everything that can be summarily expressed by all natural
languages and at the same time translates into each idiolect without
residue. This is certainly not the case with any metalanguage, which
sets out to condense and transmit only the essential, discarding the
noise, because the difference between the essential and the noise only
exists in the representation, not in reality.
By translatability without residue I mean the situation where
everything that is expressed in the sentence of the source language
is also expressed in the sentence of the target language, which means
that they have to have corresponding grammatical categories. For
instance, the French sentence ‘La professeur est vieille’ does not trans-
late without residue into the English ‘The professor is old’, because
the English gives no indication of the gender of the professor, which
in French is expressed. On the other hand, the insertion of a quali-
fying attribute such as ‘female’ into the English sentence would place
a stress on the gender, which is not there in the original French. This
sentence thus cannot be translated without residue, because the source
and target languages have different notions of what is essential fac-
tual information. In addition to such purely factual content, natural
languages also express emotional states, modalities, speaker-recipient
power relations etc.etc., but each of them priorises some of aspects
of content at the expense of others. This does not necessarily entail
relativism, neither ontological nor cultural, because linguistic contin-
gency does not assert anything about the way things are nor about
how they are perceived – nevertheless every linguistic system differs
from some other by the structure of its categories and the semantic
fields assigned to the words it is made of. This does not evoke a strong
version of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis that claims that each culture
perceives the world differently, according to the rules of its language.
But, as Gordon Lyon has noted (1999: 508–9), in a weak sense the

Rein Raud 89
 hypothesis is trivially true, because one cannot translate the sentence
‘the colour turned from yellow to orange’ into a language that has a
word for ‘yellow’ but no word for ‘orange’ without introducing supple-
mentary elements into the sentence. A metalanguage that would satisfy
all languages of the world does not exist, – should it exist, it would be
too complicated to be of any use – and therefore we have to do with
linguistic contingency. This yields a version of what John R.Searle
calls ‘careful external realism’ and formulates as a belief in ‘that there
is a way things are that is independent of all representations of how
things are’ (1995/96: 182).
In such a case, the sign ‘x’ refers to the ‘thing’ x, as ‘y’ does to
y, and an identity statement ‘x’=’y’ asserts the strong identity of the
senses of the two signs, which in turn reflects the weak identity of
the two ‘things’ referred to. The way out of the predicament con-
sists in the fact that the sense of the sign can consist of a finite set of
properties and ‘all properties’ in that case signifies ‘all properties
included in the appropriate set’. Obviously a strong identity statement
may in such a case be made only on the level of signs that uniquely
determine a referent, i.e. proper names. In such a context it is also
possible to avoid the instantaneous character of identity statements
by defining the instant intralinguistically. This means that when
the validity of identity statements is restricted to the domain of
representations, then we can also deliberately set, in analogy with
photography, the ‘angle’ and the ‘shutter speed’ of the pictures we
take of reality in time. In each frame of the representation, noth-
ing moves, though everything moves in reality. The only properties
that count are those discernible in the picture. We might use a wide
angle, as of a telescope, or zoom in, as with a microscope. At very
slow shutter speed, we might observe the movement of mountains
from one frame to another to be as quick as the movement of rays
of light would be at very fast shutter speed. In reality as it is, inde-
pendent of our observation, there quite obviously is no such thing
as a ‘natural’ or ‘neutral’ ‘angle’ or ‘shutter speed’. These are always
observer-dependent. Unfortunately in discussions about logic in
this post-Einsteinian framework it is not always clear whether logic

90
should be one and always the same, valid at all angles and shutter
speeds, or perhaps there are mutually exclusive logics. The latter
alternative allows us to use different definitions of, for instance, what
an ‘object’ is as opposed to an ‘event’. In that case those who wish
to do so would be able to retain the current definitions, but must
acknowledge their limitation. At greater shutter speeds, however,
all objects would turn into events. At the shutter speed of 70 years,
a human life would pass as quickly as lightning in the direct sense
of the word.
For the present purposes it seems prudent to restrict the validity
of all sets of mutually coherent identity claims to a domain of repre-
sentations that are all made from one angle, at one shutter speed,
that is, under similar circumstances as the system of classical logic
was constructed. This move enables us to assert strong identity of
‘things’, if only intralinguistically, within the borders of a ‘cultural
world’. But even that does not remove the problem altogether and it
emerges again in the theory of possible worlds. As it is well known,
the assumption that each entity is identical with itself in the actual
world and all the possible ones means that this identity must be weak:
there have to be some (perhaps even discernible) properties that it
has in one of these worlds and not in others, or else all the worlds
would completely overlap. This means that all ‘things’ must have two
kinds of properties: essential ones that they necessarily possess in
all worlds, and contingent, ones that may vary from world to world.
The question remains of how one can determine which properties
are essential and which contingent. For example, is it possible that a
certain property could be essential to x in one world and contingent
in another? Is it perhaps also possible that the status of a property
changes from essential to contingent, and perhaps even within the
boundaries of one world? Another question that emerges in this
context is again that of vagueness. It is well known that some prop-
erties things might have are vague. Is it possible that some of these
vague properties might be essential to something? If so, could that
mean that the identity, not only the borders, of that ‘thing’ could
itself be vague?

Rein Raud 91
 One way to handle these problems is the so-called anti-descrip-
tivist theory of naming. The debate between the adherents of this
view (Saul Kripke, Ruth Barcan Marcus, Keith Donnellan) and the
descriptivists may be reduced to the question of whether names refer
to a ‘thing’ (which is available to us in representation) or its ‘thing-
ness’, a certain unalterable nucleus within the ‘thing’ that constitutes
its identity and remains unaffected by any alterations in its manifes-
tation. This ‘thingness’ in that view is not a set of essential proper-
ties, it is nothing but itself, nevertheless necessary for the thing to
be itself. The name Gödel, Kripke writes, which we know to refer to
the man who proved the incompleteness of arithmethics, will always
refer to the same man regardless of whether Gödel actually is the
author of this proof or not; moreover, in other possible worlds Gödel
will stay Gödel even if his description as ‘the man who proved the
incompleteness of arithmetics’ refers to somebody else (1972/1981:
83–84). Hence we may infer that there exists a certain ‘gödelness’
to which the name refers, and the name Gödel refers to whomever
is in the possession of it. The ‘thingness’ of a thing is constituted
by nothing else than the bestowing of the name in an act of ‘primal
baptism’ (1972/1981: 96). Thus Kripke advances a particular version
of the law of identity: ‘everything is identical to itself ’ becomes ‘the
designatum of a name is identical to itself in all possible worlds’ by
virtue of its ‘thingness’ that makes it the designatum of the name
in the first place. The views of other anti-descriptivists differ from
Kripke in technical details.
However, if things have no essential properties apart from their
unique ‘thingness’, then it should be possible that all their properties
change in transworld migration except that ‘thingness’, but it is of
little use to us to know that x is identical to y if they have absolutely
no properties in common. This is a variant of the well-know paradox
of the ‘ships of Theseus’, which has been advanced by André Gallois
(1986) to contradict Kripke’s assertion of the necessity of identity.
Gallois presents the example of two ships, which are called Mary
and Alice, and made of two distinct collections of planks C and C1.
In one world W Alice is produced out of Mary by replacing planks

92
from C with planks from C1 one by one, and if we are reluctant to
define the exact moment when Mary becomes Alice, we have to admit
that they are the same ship. This way of treating the sorites paradox
is obviously not at all unproblematic, but this issue is not of interest
in the present context. In another world W1, Mary1 and Alice1 are
produced simultaneously, and therefore not identical. Accordingly,
Gallois concludes, ‘Mary is contingently identical with Alice, and in
the contingently true identity sentence ‘Mary is identical with Alice’,
‘Mary’ and ‘Alice’ function as rigid designators’ (1986: 60). In his de-
fence of this thesis, Gallois ends up in distinguishing the properties
of ‘being identical’ and ‘being actually identical’, i.e. identical in the
actual world, a property that Mary1 and Alice1 also have, although in
their own world W1 they are not identical (1986: 74).
This view is grounded in the tacit assumption that the per-
spective of the actual world is somehow relevant in all the possible
worlds, though it is difficult to see why the inhabitants of W1 should
care about the theory that the two distinct ships Mary1 and Alice1 are
actually identical, because from their perspective their world is the
actual one. It should be remembered that a ‘world’ is posited by a set
of representations of reality and is not the same as ‘reality’ itself. The
distinction between the actual and all possible worlds here is made
from the point of view of an observer who claims to be in neither world,
but endorses the perspective of the actual one. In other words, what
is asserted is that statements about the actual world are themselves
reality, not representations of it.

Actual identity and cultural worlds

This view has a widespread equivalent in the theory of cultures,

which is, of course, not strictly concordant with this logical position.
If possible worlds are all seen as deviations from the actual, i.e. the
speaker’s own world, about which we can say how things ‘really’ are,
then ‘cultural worlds’ would also be deviant systems of world represen-
tation that differ from the true (f.ex.scientific) world representation in
a greater of lesser degree. The possible worlds of Gallois are closer to
or further from the actual world depending on how many things that

Rein Raud 93
 are ‘actually identical’ are also identical in them, which presumes a
hierarchy; similarly we can imagine a hierarchy of cultures depending
on how much of the scientific world-view they share. It goes without
saying that the latter view cannot be attributed to Gallois on the basis
of his argument.
The main problem of this view is obvious: it enables one to clas-
sify cultures into ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ ones and enables one to claim
the superiority of one’s own culture over others. The adherents of
such a view claim all their opponents to be ‘relativists’ who allegedly
deny that things exist in one single way. Although such people may
exist, their position does not follow from their rejection of a singular
true cultural model. The analogy with the logical position of Gallois
is extremely helpful to show the vacuity of such a claim.
Up to now I have used the notion of ‘cultural world’ analogically
with ‘possible world’ without trying to specify how these worlds ex-
actly come into being. The analogy is based on the view that a world
is posited by a set of sentences about reality, the validity of which
is determined both by circumstances that obtain in reality and by
other sentences of the set. I prefer to speak about the validity, not
truth-value of sentences in this context, because as long as we mean
by ‘language’ only natural and metalanguages, we can assume that
all their sentences are ‘true’ or ‘false’ in the same way, for instance,
by assigning truth-values only to those utterances that are translat-
able from any existing language into any other without residue.
This usage is not exceptional. As Ruth Ronen writes, ‘In any of its
current formulations the concept of truth is thus in a way an altered
logical standard in modern philosophy: from a metaphysical absolute
principle responsible for establishing the relation between language
and world, the standard of truth has changed into what one might
interpret as a semiotic-oriented principle in terms of which one
can describe the way a universe of discourse is constructed and is
operated’ (1994: 40). This is perhaps not too much, but it is the best
we can have. But if we mean, as we have to in the present context,
all cultural languages, that is, also other systems of representation
such as pictorial art, theatrical mimesis, ritual symbolism etc., then

94
we cannot speak about ‘true’ utterances any more, although we can
speak of their ‘validity’, i.e. their acceptability in the culture as cor-
rect representations of reality. Thus utterances that are ‘valid’ in
a cultural world correspond, in the present frame of reference, to
‘true’ sentences in a possible one.
The organisation of the set depends simultaneously on the rules
that govern the workings of reality and the rules that define how to
formulate new sentences that fit into the set. Such a set of sentences
differs from a language by the token that the validity of sentences is
determined only by its own rules. It is not important for a sentence
of a language to be true for it to be grammatical, and ungrammatical
sentences cannot be true or false at all. Not so in a world: a sentence
has to fit two sets of constraints to be valid in it, those set by reality
that is represented and those set by the language of representation,
such as the availability of signs and rules for their appearance. The
availability of signs and corresponding concepts is usually taken for
granted, but it need not be so: in the proper languages of a hen and
a computer, sentences that contain other numbers than 1 and 0 can-
not be formulated, but we can translate them into the language of the
computer by using an interface, whereas they have to remain beyond
the comprehension of the hen.
The world would be posited by a unique and definite set of rep-
resentations if both of these rule-sets would be rigid. As it happens,
neither of them is. Events that happen in the world are more probably
than not in greater part contingent, even if caused by previous events,
since these may also have been contingent, and various languages offer
broadly different devices for their representation. Both possible and
cultural worlds are results of this non-rigidity. We know that in logic,
‘possible worlds’ are the corollaries of counterfactual arguments, the
worlds that would have been if some contingent event had not hap-
pened. If Henry VIII had not been born, he would not have become
the king of England. Thus there is a possible world in which somebody
else ruled England at the time when he was the king in the actual one.
Cultural worlds arise similarly as projections of the representational
devices available in different languages, such as concepts and catego-

Rein Raud 95
 ries. This is not merely the problem of the linguistic form of abstract
thought, which forces us to construe artificial equivalents for terms
such as Aufhebung, svabhava or wuwei, which are easily intelligible to
the speakers of the languages in question, but also of simple, daily
matters – of whether something that ‘is’ in English should ‘estar’ or ‘ser’
in Spanish. These two words actually denote two different modes of
being, as do shi, con, you and zai in Chinese, which in English equally
actually do not make sense.
The word ‘actual’, it has been argued by David Lewis, functions
indexically and points out the world from within which arguments
are made, just as the word ‘present’ points out the moment when they
are made; other possible worlds are not actual in the same way as past
and future are not, but otherwise they are as real (1975: 84–91). Now
Henry VIII is not the king of England, and therefore now his being-
king is not actual. However, there could be possible worlds where all
historical events take place in the same succession, but with certain
intervals from their occurrence in our world – in one of such worlds
Henry VIII might now be the king. At the time of Henry VIII, this
possible world in its present state was the actual one. In that world,
our actual present would be distant future. If we do not wish to ac-
cept rigid predestination as Hugh Mellor does when he presents a
similar case (1981: 29), we have to accept that our actual world is in
that world itself only a possible one, because contingent events might
happen that would alter the course of history. The same manoeuvre
can be executed also for all possible worlds where some events did not
happen and where things are therefore otherwise. If these things had
‘actually’ not happened, these possible worlds would have become the
actual one. Therefore, for Lewis, all possible and mutually exclusive
worlds are real.
This position is analogous to a strong version of the Sapir-Whorf
hypothesis: incommensurable valid statements about reality can be
articulated for each cultural world, and things are ‘actually’ so in
any such world. In his article ‘Languages and language’ Lewis even
provides an expression of this hypothesis in the terms of analyti-
cal philosophy, when he claims to be able to ‘redefine relative to a

96
population all those semantic concepts that we previously defined
relative to a language’ (1983 I: 169). But this is precisely what the
opponents of the view that all languages are variants of the same
basic Ur-language are accused of believing, and it is not surprising
that critics of Lewis uphold the actualist view that in reality only
the ‘actual’ world exists. However, it seems not so difficult to steer
a middle course between the two extremes, through the ground
that accommodates Nelson Goodman, Hilary Putnam and John
R.Searle. Searle criticises Goodman for rejecting realism (1995/96:
163), although what Goodman rejects from his position of ‘irrealism’
is only strong ‘actualism’: ‘Irrealism does not hold that everything
or even anything is irreal, but sees the world melting into versions
and versions making worlds, finds ontology evanescent, and inquires
into what makes a version right and a world well-built’ (1984: 29).
Similarly, Hilary Putnam’s ‘internal realism’ assumes that ‘the mind
and the world jointly make up the mind and the world’ (1987: 1).
John R.Searle, who criticises both of them from the standpoint of
‘careful external realism’ is also anxious to show that his position
is compatible with conceptual relativity, which, in his view, actually
‘presupposes a language-independent reality that can be carved up
or divided up in different ways, by different vocabularies’ (1995/96:
165), and therefore is not an argument against external realism.
Regardless of whether we endorse any of these positions, we may
accept Searle’s view that conceptual relativity does not entail external
relativism, and if it were our aim to defend the latter, conceptual rela-
tivity would not be a sufficient argument. Since conceptual relativity
within one cultural world does not differ from conceptual relativity
between different cultural worlds, this argument is also the proof
of a weak version of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, which holds that
incommensurable statements about reality may be articulated for
each cultural world, but the validity-claims of these statements are
only accepted in those worlds if at all, whereas none of these worlds
is in exact correspondence with reality as it is. In other words, the
assertion that ‘reality as it is available to us is a cultural construction’
says nothing about reality itself.

Rein Raud 97
 Linguistic construction of ‘thingness’

There are two buildings in Japan that both pretend to the status
of the oldest one of their kind. One of them is the Ise shrine of the
Sun Goddess Amaterasu in Ise-shi, Mie prefecture, the other the
Hōryūji Buddhist temple near Nara. A part of Hōryūji is in truth the
oldest extant wooden building in the whole world, but the ‘oldness’ of
the Ise shrine is of an absolutely different kind. After every 20 years,
the buildings of the shrine are torn down and rebuilt exactly in the
same manner. What remains the same is the design and the place, as
well as the kind of building material that is used, what differs is the
actual material it is built of. Nevertheless the shrine is perceived to
be the same by the Japanese who visit it. In fact, many other Shinto
shrines are continuously rebuilt in the same fashion. This practice is
explained by the reason that the wood loses its purity with age and
the shrine is not suitable for housing its god(s) any longer.
These two buildings present us with two different ways of defining
their identity. To say that Hōryūji is self-identical means to assert that
the sameness of the building material is what determines whether it
is the identical building. In that sense, Hōryūji is identical with itself
in the years 1000 and 2000, but the Ise shrine is not. On the other
hand, a biological individual whose cells are gradually replaced would
not be either, not to speak about the ships of Theseus and Gallois.
Again, we could assert that it is an essential property of the Ise shrine
to be built no more than 20 years ago. It is itself, not in spite of, but
because of the fact that it is torn down after every 20 years, when the
building material has lost its virginal purity and the building is not
fit to fulfil its functions any more. The shrine, which exists at years
1000 and 2000, has this property at both times. Setting the ‘shutter
speed’ for measuring an instant at 20 years and claiming that age is
an essential property, we can assert that the Ise shrine is self-identi-
cal at each instant, whereas the Hōryūji temple is not: unlike the Ise
shrine, it is one ‘instant’ older at each next ‘instant’. It would also
not do to say that the way of defining the identity of the Ise shrine is
wrong (that it is not self-identical) and the Japanese who think that it

98
is the same shrine just do not know better. ‘The Ise shrine’ is a proper
name just like ‘Hōryūji’ or ‘the Tower of London’ and it designates the
one, concrete, self-identical shrine at each instant when it is used. In
order to save the theory one could claim that ‘the Ise shrine’ is not a
proper name. But ‘the Ise shrine’ is not referentially analogous to ‘the
king of France’, because each particular individual who would answer
to that description is not necessarily ‘the king of France’ and could be
somebody else in some other possible world, whereas the Ise shrine
can definitely never be anything else but itself. ‘The Ise shrine’ desig-
nates its referent rigidly at any given moment and since the Kripkean
position allows for the gradual replacement of properties in possible
worlds, there is not reason for denying it the status of a proper name
in that theoretical frame.
The way out of this predicament that I would like to propose is a
revision of the notion of ‘thingness’. If it is the essence of the ‘thing’
to which its proper name rigidly refers, it should not be conceived of
as ‘empty’. It might as well contain the rule of defining the identity
of that particular ‘thing’. In the case of the Ise shrine, its total re-
building after every 20 years is its essential property, in the case of
Hōryūji it is not. There might be buildings in the world, for which
the essential property is their building material, and others, for
which it is their layout. In each case the unrepeatable individuality
of the entity in question – its ‘thingness’ – is constituted by nothing
else than the definition of which of its properties are essential to it.
The ‘thingness’ of a thing is not an essence as a separate entity, but a
property of that thing, analogically as in the model of Ruth Barcan
Marcus: ‘No metaphysical mysteries. Such essences are dispositional
properties of a very special kind: if an object had such a property
and ceased to have it, it would have ceased to exist or it would have
changed into something else’ (Marcus 1971: 202). This should also
settle the question how to determine the essential properties of
things. We can imagine for each thing a theoretically endless list
of numbered property-variables we can discern of it. Each number
is followed by a mark that shows whether the property is essential
or contingent, and then the value of the variable for that particu-

Rein Raud 99
 lar thing. Kinds of various taxonomic levels are constituted by the
overlap of lists until a certain specified number, and things are
themselves distinguished by the particular values of the variables.
And the first item on this list is a set of numbers that specifies which
of the listed properties are essential for this particular thing. The list
has to be finite if we want the identity of the thing to be definite, it
may remain open, if we are prepared to accept vague identities. It is
our perception of reality that determines how to compose such lists,
but the rules for marking properties as essential and contingent are
cultural, thus there is no universally valid mechanism of bestowing
rigidly designating names. But does that mean that the ‘thingness’
of a thing is defined intralinguistically, within a culture? And even
there the mechanism might not necessarily be uniform – after all,
the identities of the Ise shrine and the Hōryūji temple are defined
differently in the same Japanese cultural world!
Indeed, this position would have us assume that identities are
worldbound, because the ‘thingness’ of the same ‘thing’ could be
constructed differently in another cultural world, which means that
even if the Japanese think that the Ise shrine is self-identical through
time, this does not automatically entail that it is self-identical for
Westerners also. But this is not necessarily a difficulty as long as it
is remembered that identity statements can only be made about rep-
resentations, not about things themselves, since the external reality
anyway stays self-identical only for an indivisible instant. What should
concern us is not the transworld validity, but the translatability of
such statements. A proper name is, in this view, a rigid designator
of the ‘thingness’ if it is translatable without residue from one lan-
guage to another. For most proper names, this is not a problem. But
there are problematic cases for which it is. For instance, during ap-
proximately one fifth of its existence the city now as well as initially
called St.Petersburg was called ‘Leningrad’. There might have been
any number of individuals who were born and died in Leningrad,
though this is not an essential property of this city. However, there
was the blockade of Leningrad, whereas the blockade of St.Petersburg
never happened. In the Soviet Communist cultural world, the hap-

100
pening of this blockade is an essential property of this city, and
there still are people with political views that make them continue
to call St.Petersburg ‘Leningrad’. This example shows, among other
things, that translatability without residue is not a property solely of
the utterances, but is determined at least in part also by the struc-
tural features of the languages between which we translate. Some
define more, some less essential properties of the things in question,
therefore some can adapt to changes more easily, while for others
change presents problems. Similarly, we can imagine possible worlds
in which some historical events are not contingent while others are,
as well as worlds governed by rigid predestination, in which other
possible worlds are not possible. Evidently, the flexibility of world-
defining rule-sets is a property of the worlds in which they obtain,
not of the reality they build upon.

Conclusion

I have tried to show that identity in a strong sense of the term

can be asserted only of something with itself during an indivisible
instant and is therefore not available to us in experience, which is
why all identity statements with which we can meaningfully oper-
ate pertain to the linguistic representations of things, not to things
themselves. This makes them linguistically contingent. In this view,
the problem of the identity of things in linguistically constructed
domains of representations is not unlike the problem of the identity
of things in different possible worlds. The analogy discloses the
similarity of the positions of ontological relativism versus actualism
and cultural relativism versus linguistic universality. In my view,
by distinguishing clearly between what is asserted of the external
reality and of its representations it is possible to avoid the unwanted
corollaries of either extreme. Neither do we have to admit that an
infinite multitude of possible worlds really exist and people who
speak different languages are fundamentally unable to understand
each other precisely, nor that there is only one correct way of seeing
the world and only one correct culture.

Rein Raud 101

 REFERENCES

Allen, Sture, ed. 1989. Possible Worlds in Humanities. Berlin and New
York: Walter de Gruyter.
Dummett, Michael 1997/99. Wang’s Paradox, in Keefe and Smith
ed. 1997/99.
Gallois, André 1986.Rigid Designation and the Contingency of Iden-
tity, Mind, vol.95, pp.57–76.
Goodman, Nelson 1984. Of Mind and Other Matters. Cambridge, Mass.
and London: Harvard University Press.
Grayling, A.C. 1982/98. An Introduction to Philosophical Logic. 3rd edi-
tion. Oxford: Blackwell.
Hodges, Wilfrid 1977/91. Logic. An Introduction to Elementary Logic.
Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Keefe, Rosanna and Peter Smith, ed. 1997/99. Vagueness: A Reader.
Cambridge, Mass. and London: The MIT Press.
Kripke, Saul A. 1972/1981. Naming and Necessity. Cambridge: Mass.:
Harvard University Press.
Lewis, David 1975. Counterfactuals. Harvard: Harvard University
Press.
Lewis, David 1983. Philosophical Papers. New York – Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Lyon, Gordon 1999. Language and Perceptual Experience, Philosophy,
vol.74, No. 290, pp.505–534.
Marcus, Ruth Barcan 1971. Essential Attribution, The Journal of Phi-
losophy, vol.LXVIII, No.7, pp.187–202.
Mellor, D.H. 1981. Real Time. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Moore, A.W. ed. 1993. Meaning and Reference. Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press.
Nakazawa Shin’ichi 1988/95. Seppen kyokusen ron. Tokyo: Chuo ko-
ronsha.
Putnam, Hilary 1973/93. Meaning and Reference, in Moore ed. 1993,
pp.150–161.
Putnam, Hilary 1987. The Many Faces of Realism. LaSalle, Ill.: Open
Court.

102
Ronen, Ruth 1994. Possible Worlds in Literary Theory. Cambridge:
Cambirdge University Press.
Russell, Bertrand 19997/99. Vagueness, in Keefe and Smith ed.
1997/99.
Searle, John R. 1995/96. The Construction of Social Reality. Harmonds-
worth: Penguin.
Tye, Michael 1997/99. Sorites paradoxes and the semantics of vague-
ness, in Keefe and Smith ed. 1997/99.

I D E N T I T E E T ,฀ E R I N E V U S ฀ J A ฀ K U LT U U R I L I S E D ฀ M A A I L M A D

Artikli esimene eesmärk on uurida euroopa filosoofias käibivaid

identsuskontseptsioone ja osutada, et tegemist on keelelis-kultuurilise,
mitte tegeliku nähtusega, sest mistahes ”asi” saab olla ka iseenesega
rangelt identne vaid mõõtmatult lühikese ajahetke vältel. Erinevate
keelelis-kultuuriliste nägemuste omavahelises suhtes võib näha
sarnasust analüütilise filosoofia võimalike maailmade loogikaga,
mis lubab meil rääkida ”kultuurilistest maailmadest”, mis on kõik
tegelikkuse keelelised mudelid, kuid ühtlasi ainsad inimesele kätte-
saadavad tegelikkused. ”Asja” määratlus kultuurilises maailmas on
artikli väitel nende tunnuste kogum, mida selles maailmas peetakse
asja määratlemisel oluliseks. Artikkel loodab ühtlasi näidata, et
paindlikkus asjade määratlemisel suurendab oluliselt kultuurilise
maailma avatust ja lubab temas viibides mõista teistes kultuurilistes
maailmades toimuvat.

Rein Raud 103

 GLOSSOPHOBIA IN RUSSIAN CULTURE*

Mihhail Lotman

Introductory notes

1. Dangers impending a researcher who deals with the semiotics of

fear in culture constitute a large spectrum between the poles of meta-
phoricity and reductionism. Allow me to make a personal comment.
When Juri Lotman saw Andrei Tarkovski’s “Solaris” which ended with
the sentence that salvation is not in fear, but in shame, the sentence
which has no direct analogue in Stanisław Lem’s story which was the
base for this film, but which clearly demonstrates that Tarkovski was
familiar to Juri Lotman’s paper on the semiotics of fear and shame
(Лотман 1970), he was both flattered and startled, since the treatment
of his conception as the global project of salvation of mankind seemed
to him a dangerous profanation.
These dangers can be clearly seen in many psychoanalytical stud-
ies devoted to fear in culture. Most of them proceed from the biological
mechanisms of fear in an individual and attribute them metaphorically
to the whole culture. Thus, e.g., it has been claimed about Russian
culture that differently from the “normal” fear of non-existence, in
Russian culture prevails the fear of existence. It has also been claimed
that castration complex constitutes the basis for Russian culture. In
psychoanalysis castration complex characterizes an individual, one
can only metaphorically attribute it to the whole culture.

* The present paper is a part of a bigger project concerning the semiotics of fear in
general and particularly in Russian culture. An introductory part of it was published
in М.Лотман 2001, a part devoted to spatial fears and space of fear in Russian culture
is in print.

104 Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4,

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
2. Before we start discussing the semiotics of fear in general, not to
speak of the semiotics of fear in some concrete (e.g. Russian) culture, we
should briefly consider the problem, whether fear has semiotic nature
or at least some semiotic specifics. This question is not trivial at all. E.g.,
it is proper to regard the origin of the opposition funny/frightful. In
contemporary societies this opposition is almost cultural universalia,
but many archaic cultures do not know it, tragedy is always older than
comedy. The given opposition is clearly asymmetrical, its members have
different nature. While humour characterizes only the human being and
to some extent higher primates, then fear is one of the basic emotions for
all animals, capable of emotions. Without descending to the details of
humour theory, it could be confirmed that funny is possible only on the
background of fear, while frightful does not need funny. Frightful is hid-
den in instincts, e.g., the self-preserving instinct. According to Heidegger,
fear is related to the basis of being. Further, although humour is not reduc-
ible to rational schemes, many of its forms are grounded on logic, others
are closely connected with language, etc. On this background alogicality
and speechlessness of fear are especially noticeable. Cf. Heidegger:

Anxiety1 reveals the nothing.<…> Anxiety robs us of speech.

Because beings as a whole slip away, so that just the nothing
crowds round, in the face of anxiety all utterance of the “is”
falls silent. (Heidegger 1977, 103)

It is characteristic how the opposition funny/frightful is neutral-

ized. The most common scheme is the reduction of frightful into
funny, whereby we might be dealing both with the neutralization of
fear by humour and with laughter as a release of fear, whereby the
latter always accompanies even the partial rationalization of fear, the
clarification of situation (“when we understood what it really was, we
started to laugh”). Much more rare is the opposite process, the transi-
tion of funny to frightful, whereby laughter is always irrationalized,

1
I am not sure that anxiety is a proper word. Considering the fact that Heidegger
proceeds from Kirkegaard, as well the general context of his writings, I suppose
that it would be better to translate Angst not as anxiety, but as horror.

Mihhail Lot man 105

 made primitive and automatic; laughter is separated from humour (e.g.
Nikolai Gogol, Mikhail Saltykov-Shchedrin or Leonid Andreev). Even
more important is the circumstance that humour is clearly connected
with a given culture, it has often national specifics, all this can not be
said about fear – at least not with the same certainty.

Fear, semiotics and the semiotics of fear

Thus, the semiotics of fear involves a number of problems.

1. Is fear a sign? If it is, then, first, what are the semiotical specifics
of this sign? Secondly, what is the meaning of this sign? Thirdly,
what kind of objects are denoted with this sign?
2. If fear is not a sign, but a meaning, then, first, what is the sign
of this meaning? Secondly, what is the semiotical specifics of this
meaning?
3. If fear is not a sign nor a meaning, but a consequence of some
semiotical process or activity, then what kind of activity is it and
how is fear connected with it? Can we speak of fear as locutionary,
illocutionary or perlocutionary act?

4. Is fear connected with code or message? Could we speak of the

language, the discourse or the text of fear?

We can not solve here all these questions, but we have to discuss
them at least briefly. It is essential to connect these problems both
with Peircean and Saussurean semiotical perspective. Let us begin
with the scheme of semiosis, but we will proceed not from Peirce
himself, but his disciple Charles Morris, as it is more convenient for
practical purposes.

Semiosis (or sign process) is regarded as a fiveterm relation

– V, W, X, Y, Z – in which V sets up in W the disposition to react
in a certain kind of way, X, to a certain kind of object, Y <…>,
under certain conditions, Z. The V’s in the cases where this
relation obtains, are signs, W’s are interpreters, the X’s are inter-
pretants, the Y’s are significations, and the Z’s are the contexts in
which the sign occur. (Morris 1964, 2)

106
 Each one of the components of semiosis forms the point of view,
according to which different semiotical phenomena can be treated.
When we regard fear, then the following aspects can be formulated:

• from the V aspect fear can be treated as the sum of its different
features or symptoms (whereby they are not necessarily in them-
selves scary);

• from the W aspect somebody, who experiences fear; if his disposi-

tion to scared reaction is excessive, has a chance to be called a cow-
ard; if it (reaction) is deficient, then brave or mad, according to Z;

• from the X aspect it is ascertaining of frightful qualities in Y,

whereby the observed objects themselves are not necessarily a
priori dangerous, on the contrary, they can be completely neu-
tral. Thus, fear can be not only an interpretant of a bandit or a
predator, who attacks the interpreter, but, e.g., the consequence
of the chemical analysis of soil or water, such fears are connected
with ecological thinking. Scary can be also an interpretant of
something sweet: a common motive in horror literature or movies
is a toy or pet which suddenly becomes a dangerous enemy.

• from the Y aspect objects and acts which cause fear, whereby it is
not important whether these are rationally treated actual dangers
or phobias caused by imaginary dangers;

• from the Z aspect, among the conditions of fear which can be

treated, especially interesting are the cases where namely the
context determines what is frightful and what is not (different
kinds of fears evolve in solitude and in crowd).

It is obvious, that from the standpoint of cultural semiotics the

most important aspects are X and Z.
Peirce pays a lot of attention to the classification of signs, espe-
cially important is the second trichotomy of signs: signs are divided
into icons, indexes and symbols (2.247). From the standpoint of fear
we can interpret them as follows.
Icon resembles the object the substitute of which it is (2.276), con-
sequently, an iconic sign which suggests fear must be frightful itself,

Mihhail Lot man 107

 since it resembles a scary object. Index is based on an actual connec-
tion between an object and sign, as a consequence of which sign refers
to its object (2.285-288), thus, the wolf’s howl refers to the closeness
of the wolf. Finally, symbol is a sign because it is a rule determining
the interpretant (2.292). Symbol can be connected with fear through
a number of conventions.
Such is the outline of the semiotics of fear from the view-point
of Peircean semiotics. Now we will make an attempt to apporach the
problem from the stand-point of Saussurean semiology. For Saus-
sure sign is not an object replacing another object. Sign is a bilateral
phenomenon which is related to other bilateral phenomena inside
the system of language. For us it means that when we speak of fear
from Saussurean view-point, we must speak of the system consisting
of components which are connected with one another, or, in other
words, of language of fear. We must specify the type of this language
and its connection with other types of languages.
One of the important merits of psycho-analysis is the treatment
of dreams as messages in a certain language. Freud called this lan-
guage symbolic (this name is not completely proper, since it evokes
associations with Peirce’s symbols). According to Freud and Fromm,
the language of dreams is close to the language of myths and also to
certain neuroses. The symbolic language is distant from the natural
language as well as the language of formal logic, it is not subject to
the law of causality, it is beyond the spatial-temporal relations. Instead
of external logic and probability based on common sense in symbolic
language, this place is occupied by the internal logic based on semanti-
cal embranchment of conceptual complexes. The more densely con-
nected the elements of this language are, the closer they are in texts
(e.g., in dreams). The logic of dreams described by Freud appears to
be similar to the regularities of “primitive thinking” discovered by
Lucien Lévy-Bruhl, who claimed that the most important principle
of this kind of thinking was participation (Lévy-Bruhl 1922).
Contrarily to Heidegger`s views, fear is related not only to silence,
as it is shown in Freud’s and Fromm’s researches, fear has also a spe-
cific linguistic dimension. Fear not only takes away awareness of all

108
what is going on, but it is also a very powerful generator of semantical
connections. It would be more correct to say that fear destroys rational
connections, but due to it the relations created by fear itself emerge
even stronger. The language of fear is closer to the language of dreams
than to the natural verbal language. It is no coincidence that hidden
fears appear more frequently in dreams than one is awake. Fears are
often more easily translated into visual images than into verbal text.
As well as dreams, verbal translation, if it does not destroy fears, at
least relieves them.
Hence, we can speak of fear as a specific mechanism of semiosis,
yet not in Peircean “substitutive” sense, but in terms of Saussurean
semiology: fear can fulfil the sign-function, connect the signifier and
the signified, unite single signs into complexes. While from Peircean
perspective fear can be engaged into semiosis as one of its components,
Saussurean treatment allows to speak of the creativity of fear. Rougly
speaking, while in Peircean semiotics frightful brings forth fear, then
in Saussurean semiology frightful is created by fear.

Glossophobia

The feeling that a foreign language (or languages) is in some respect

dangerous is a kind of xenophobia and is to some extent characteristic
of all the cultures, in any case it is not specific of Russian culture. What
is specific, are the forms that glossophobia takes in Russian culture, in
the first place, its spatial orientation. There are two main kinds of glos-
sophobia: the first becomes obvious in the notion that a foreign language
is dangerous to the native language and to the culture based on it, cf.
the fears of americanization in Western Europe, especially in France.
The other lies in the imagination that a foreign language is dangerous
to me, the carrier of mother-tongue. Glossophobia of the first kind shows
in different types of battles over the purity of language.
In Russian culture, the battle for the language is always a kind
of struggle for power, both politically and mentally. Government re-
alizes itself in constituting the norms of language, the more radical
are changes, the more clear are the shifts in language usage. Peter
the Great is the creator of the new Russia, the new language, the new

Mihhail Lot man 109

 alphabet and orthography, the new man, the new government, he
was codified in demiurgic images, with certain concession this can be
said about Lenin as well. Similarly, after Peter I, most Russian rulers
demonstrated different linguistic activities. Entirely exceptional was
the position (in fact, the metaposition) of Stalin, who tried to reform
not the language, but linguistics.
It is important to emphasize that the purpose of language policy
is not only to look for language, but to control its carriers. At the same
time the conscious institution of language by authorities is so-to-say
only the tip of the iceberg. Even Peter and Lenin could not control
the processes initiated by them.
Polemics over the language in culture have always an ideological
background (cf. the polemics between Karamzinists and Shishkovists
at the beginning of the 19th century, between the Slavophils and
the Occidentalists in the middle of the 19th century, etc). However,
although these discussions were quite tumultuous, they can not in
any way be compared to the situation in Moscovite Russia in the 14th
up to the 17th century, when the accusation of violating the Church
Slavonic language was equal to the accusation of heresy and brought
along criminal punishment (Успенский 1994). The split of Russian
Orthodox Church in the 17th century, which divided, on the one hand,
the followers of patriarch Nikon and, on the other hand, old-believ-
ers, was to a great degree related to linguistic factors (Успенский
1996, 480 ff).
While the glossophobia of the first type is, above all, character-
istic of governmental and cultural elites, the other type characterizes
masses. It is based on the archaic notion that mother-tongue, moth-
erland, traditional religion, etc constitute one inseparable complex.

Language

Now let us briefly regard the historical semantics related to

language.
Irina Makeeva in the special study devoted to this matter points
out the following most important meanings of the word “язык”
(language): (1) tongue – the organ of human being or animal; (2)

110
language, speech; (3) nation, tribe; (4) foreigners, pagans; (5) captive
captured in order to get information about the enemy; (6) prosecu-
tor and the witness of prosecution in court; (7) the tongue of the bell
(Макеева 2000, 131–132). There is one more important meaning for
us: (8) the flames.
It has to be stressed that all these meanings have negative asso-
ciations: language is related to strange and dangerous. It should be
added that differently from, e.g., English, in Russian language and
tongue, i.e. organ and sign system, can not be distinguished, whereby
namely the organ has primary meaning, as a medium of communica-
tion it has metonymical meaning.
(1) As an organ, tongue had negative connotations (Макеева
2000, 133), whereby it characterizes not only the usage in written
culture, but also in folk culture, e.g., in proverbs: my tongue is my en-
emy; don’t be afraid of a knife, but a tongue; tongue is like a razor; tongue is
like a sting, etc. Even a licking tongue is associated with danger, e.g.,
expressions like (8) licking flames are based on this association (etymo-
logically, Russian word язык is related to the word to lick). Tongue is
autonomous in respect to man, it is opposed to man’s will and mind
(Макеева 2000, 135). Cf. also language in the meaning (7); here we
are dealing with the reversed metaphorical move from bell to human
being: the bell-ringer in the meaning of babbler, to ring in the peasant
shoe is to create panic. It is characteristic of how easily language forms
compounds with negative meaning and how difficult is to create
compounds with positive meaning. Cf. злоязычие (evil language), but
красноречие (red speech, i.e. eloquence); косноязычный (with bone
on the tongue, i.e. tongue-tied), но златоуст (with golden mouth, i.e.
eloquent, from Greek Chrysostomos). Consequently, language is dan-
gerous, but these dangers can be neutralized, yet this neutralization
is in turn related to violence: tongue has to be held back, tied up, kept
behind the teeth, etc. A sharp tongue can be shortened or cut – the latter
metaphor was frequently realized, e.g., tongues of old-believers were
often cut off. However, as for language in meaning (5), tongue had
to be untied which, in turn, is related to violence.
(2) – (4) Language is, above all, a foreign language. To this con-

Mihhail Lot man 111

 tradicts neither the idea of sacredness of Church Slavonic language
in the Middle Ages, nor the worship of Russian in the Modern Times.
We are dealing here not with the simple opposition own/alien, where
own appears as a marked member of opposition (i.e. alien is above all
not one’s own), but in a secondary inverted form: own is produced by
being dragged out of the general line and by being opposed to it. Rus-
sian is not like other languages (i.e. the marked pole here is alien, but
own appears as not alien). Here the following circumstances have to be
mentioned. First, meanings (2) and (3) often melt together, whereby
language in the meaning of nation means usually a foreign nation.
Secondly, verbs characterizing language skill can not be connected
with Church Slavonic or Russian language: mother-tongue can not be
learned, known, understood, etc (Макеева 2000, 140). One can only
learn Russian or Church Slavonic writing. Thirdly, differently from
other languages, Church Slavonic language is beyond the sphere of
grammar, rhetorics and even logic: all the attempts to put Church
Slavonic into correspondence with grammar were interpreted as the
corruption of it (Успенский 1994, 10 ff).
Hence, tongue is alien and dangerous both as an organ and as
a medium of communication. What is then one’s own medium of
communication. First, foreign language is opposed to mother’s speech.
Secondly, language is opposed to word: the human being is a verbal
being, while language is related to the autonomy of tongue and is not
subject to reason, then word signifies the ability to speak namely in
connection with reason (Дегтев, Макеева 2000, 163). Word as a mean-
ingful speech is opposed to glossolalia, called speaking in languages
(говорение на языках) which is not subordinated to speaker’s control.
Glossolalia is related to speech defects, its senselessness, magic, as well
as prophecy: the absence of human reason is the consequence of the
hidden divine super-reason. Cf. also the constant caution which Rus-
sian culture has towards the absurd. On the one hand, nonsense was
associated with something improper and even dangerous, as under-
mining the grounds of society (e.g., in Soviet times absurd literature
was considered to be ideologically hostile). On the other hand, the cult
of yurodivyi was based on the absurd and the intuition that truth and

112
even the illocutive power of utterance are beyond reason (this intuitive
idea is diametrically opposite to analytical philosophy). Thus Suvorov,
the famous army leader, crying out an ecstatic nonsense, consciously
oriented his image towards two stereotypes: witch and yurodivyi.
Yurodivyi was not only a kind of saint, specific to Russian culture,
it initiated the whole style of thinking and writing. This style is charac-
teristic not only of Dostojevsky’s characters, but to a certain extent of
himself as well. Vassili Rozanov brings it to the philosophical discourse,
Nikolai Leskov creates a skaz on its basis. All these cases are not only
about the conscious decreasing of the author’s figure (or to put it in
a simple way, playing the fool), but about the special claim to truth
which is bigger than the speaker and his capacities to contain it.
The knowledge of (foreign) languages is dangerous, harmful
and in a way even senseless: if God wants, then even a jenny ass starts
to talk (Numbers 22, 23) and a human being in languages he/she
does not know. This idea evolved in the Middle Ages, but its reflec-
tions remain in one way or the other until nowadays. First, language
skill is dangerous for the soul. Especially it concerns Latin that was
associated not with nation, but with confession. Even just knowing
Latin connected the human being with Satan and caused irrepara-
ble damage to his/her orthodox belief (Успенский 1996, 486–493)2.
Secondly, the knowledge of foreign languages damages the Earth,
calls forth its rage and as a result drought and crop failure may occur
(Успенский 1996, 491). The ignorance in foreign languages among

2
In the 16th up to 17th century English witches also confessed during interrogations
that they pray to Satan in Latin (namely the Latin language is important, since
prayers themselves could have been correct); cf. Mother Waterhouse’s confession
before death on July 24, 1566:
And being demanded whether she was accustomed to go to church to the common
prayer or divine service, she said yea and being required what she did there she said she
did as other women do, and prayed right heartily there, and when she was demanded
what prayer she said, she answered the Lord’s Prayer, the Ave Maria, and the belief,
and then they demanded whether in latin or in english, and she said in latin, and
they demanded why she said it not in english but in latin, seeing that it was set out by
public authority and according to God’s word that all men should pray in the english
and mother tongue that they best understand, and she said that Satan would at no
time suffer her to say it in english, but at all times in latin. (Examination 1566)
As in Russia, we are dealing here with the confessionality of Latin, both for Agnes
Waterhouse and for Protestant researchers, Latin was related to Catholicism and
through it to Satan.

Mihhail Lot man 113

 clergy was interpreted as asceticism, but an analogical attitude was
characteristic, e.g., of the czar’s family, where the ignorance in foreign
languages expressed loyalty to Orthodox religion: it prevented czar’s
daughters from dynastical marriages, as a consequence they should
have converted themselves to other religions (Макеева 2000, 140).
Language/tongue lies. An epithet doubled-tongued means the same as
two-faced, hypocritical, deceitful.
As it has been said, language is not only connected with nation,
but also with country and Earth. Thus, for the merchant and traveller
Afanasii Nikitin staying in a foreign country means at least partial
renouncing of both the mother-tongue and Orthodox religion. It has
to be emphasized that for Nikitin the problem is not about learning
a language and then using it to communicate, or as an instrument of
perception and codification, but being in an alien and wrong reality
that can be expressed only in a language adequate to it, i.e. in a wrong
place it is right to use a wrong language. Characterizing Nikitin’s
position, Boris Uspenski writes:

Geography appears as a kind of ethical knowledge, thus,

movement in space is connected with moral judgement… The
deceitfulness, sinfulness of a place causes the wrong, “impure”
usage of language… Afanasii Nikitin compiles something
like a common language of oriental infidelity (busurman
language): Tatar, Persian and Arabian are united namely by
their wrongness (Успенский 1996, 395–396).

The same can be said about religion as well. At least subjectively

Afanasii Nikitin was no apostate, but in the Islamic world he is forced
to pray to Allah and to fast according to the Moslem law. Especially
important is, in this respect, the prayer composed by himself for the
protection of Russia (he meant not as much the state than the country,
land): in the wrong place the wrong language and the wrong prayer.
Boris Uspenski concludes:

When Afanasii Nikitin cries in despair: “Alas me, cursed,

because I have lost the right way and I don’t know where to

114
 go”, then it has both a religious and a direct geographical
meaning: religious meaning is here principally inseparable
from the geographical one (Успенский 1996, 399).

Uspenski brings an important typological parallel: “if anybody

gets lost in the forest, i.e. is captured by a wood spirit (леший), he has
to look like this spirit (Успенский 1996, 421). A number of cases even
reveal the restriction to pray or to make the sign of the cross, instead
of this one has to talk smut.
(5) In the meaning pagan, language is related not only to polythe-
ists or idolaters, but also to Western Christians, especially Catholics.
Catholicism was often called Latinism, which in turn emphasized its
linguistic, i.e. pagan character.
The opposition christian/pagan was connected with the opposition
Slavonian/Nemec, later Russian/Nemec (German). As it is known, Nemec
(German) is not as much the name of a representative of the concrete
nation, but rather the reference to his foreignness (if needed, the na-
tionality of a “German” could have been specified, e.g., English German
/аглицкий немец/, etc). Etymologically, the word Nemec is not completely
transparent, the most probable is its derivation from dumbness. The
latter was interpreted in wide sense, as tongue-tie and stuttering. This
interpretation is supported by folk etymology which opposes Germans as
dumbs to Slavonians, the latter being clearly related to word. But German
is not just any foreigner, but a foreigner with Western origin. Initially
there was no analogical general name to Eastern foreigners, after the
contact with the Islamic world in this function the word busurman was
used. But it has to be noted that in this opposition the marked one is the
Oriental direction: a German, French or Catholic could have been called
a busurman, but not an easterner a German.
Thus, the traditional glossophobia is in Russian culture clearly
related to spatial dimension. In the Modern Times this complex is
substantially transformed, which was to a great degree connected with
massive emigration: Russian loses its role of an attribute of homeland.
It is not automatically connected with it any more, vice versa, not land,
but language becomes the basis of Russian identity and language is

Mihhail Lot man 115

 codified in images of fatherland. Roughly speaking, the representa-
tives of the first emigration (in the 1920s) took in their medallions a
piece of Russian ground with themselves, the representatives of the
third and the fourth emigration (i.e. since the 1970s) took the Russian
language (the main relics they brought along were books).
The study of glossophobia in Russian culture allows to make some
specifications in the sphere of the semiotics of fear in Russian culture.
Fears in Russian culture are connected with the geographical position
in the axis of East and West (culturally, East and West do not neces-
sarily coincide geographically: often South is called East and North is
called West). Dangers related to West are principally different from
that of East. West is dangerous because of its rationality which destroys
individuality (Western authors often contrast the Russian collectivism
to Western individualism, from the perspective of Russian culture this
contrast is not correct). West is logical, blabbering and deceitful, Eastern
dangers, on the other hand, are speechless. On the one hand, the “yel-
low danger” is beyond reason and word, on the other hand, its nature
is like a nightmare, it is so horrible that one looses his speech.

REFERENCES

Examination 1566: The Examination and Confession of Certain Witches

at Chelmsford in the County of Essex, before the Queen Majesty’s Judges,
the 26th day of July Anno 1566. London. (http://history.hanover.
edu/courses/excerpts/260chelm.html (Ed. by Frank Luttmer)).
Martin Heidegger 1977. What is Metaphysics? Basic Writings. Ed. by
David Farrell Krell. Harper & Row, San-Francisco
Lucien Lévy-Bruhl 1922. La mentalité primitive (Bibliothèque de philoso-
phie contemporaine. Travaux de l’Année sociologique), Paris
Charles Morris 1964. Signification and Significance. A Study of the Rela-
tions of Signs and Values. The M.I.T Press, Cambridge, Mass.
Charles Sanders Peirce 1931–1958. Collected Papers of Charles Sanders
Peirce, vols. 1-8. Cambidge: Harvard University Press.
Barbara Rosen ed., 1991. Witchcraft in England, 1558–1618. Amherst,
MA: University of Massachussetts Press

116
С.В.Дегтев, И.И.Макеева 2000. Концепт слова в истории русского
языка. Язык о языке. (Ред. Н.Д.Арутюнова). Москва, «Языки
русской культуры»
М.Лотман 2001. Страх: семиотка культуры и феноменология (к
постановке проблемы). Peeter Torop, Mihhail Lotman, Kalevi
Kull (Eds.) Sign System Studies 29.2, Tartu University, Tartu
Ю.М.Лотман 1970. О семиотике понятий «стыд» и «страх» в
механизме культуры. Тезисы докладов IV Летней школы по
вторичным моделирующим системам, 17–24 августа 1970 г.
Тарту, Тартуский государственный университет
И.И.Макеева 2000. Языковые концепты в истории русского
языка. Язык о языке (Ред. Н.Д.Арутюнова). Москва, «Языки
русской культуры»
Б.А.Успенский 1994. Отношение к грамматике и риторике в
Древней Руси (XVI-XVII вв.). Избранные труды. Том 2. Язык
и культура. Москва, «Гнозис»
Б.А.Успенский 1996. Избранные труды. Том 1. Семиотика истории.
Семиотика культуры. Москва, «Языки русской культуры»

G L O S S O F O O B I A ฀ V E N E ฀ K U LT U U R I S

Kokkuvõte

Artiklis käsitletakse hirmu semiootika probleeme ja keelehirme

vene (põhiliselt keskaegses) kultuuris. Analüüsitakse hirmu semi-
ootilist spetsiifikat, seda nii Peirce’i semiootika kui ka Saussure’i
semioloogia perspektiivist. Vaadeldakse keelega seotud hirme vene
keeles ja kultuuris. Ehkki keelehirmud on nii või teisiti iseloomulikud
kõikidele kultuuridele, demonstreerib vene kultuur olulisi iseärasusi.
Ennekõike on see glossofoobia seotus ruumihirmudega: läänest ja idast
tulenevad keeleohud on põhimõtteliselt erinevad. Läänest tulenevad
ohud on seotud loogikaga ja identiteedikaotuse ohuga (analoogilisi
hirme näeme ka Euroopas antiamerikanistlikes ja antiglobalistlikes
arusaamadest). Idast tulenevad ohud võtavad tummaks, kõnevõime
kaob sootuks ära.

Mihhail Lot man 117

 3.฀K E E L ฀ J A ฀K I R J A N D U S

NIMISÕNADE LOENDATAVUS JA EESTI KEELE MÕISTATUS

Daniele Monticelli

1. Sissejuhatus

Artikli eesmärgiks on tuua esile ja püüda seletada mõningaid

iseärasusi loendatavate ja loendamatute nimisõnade kasutamisel
eesti keeles (par. 3). Selleks on kavas rakendada teoreetilist raami,
mille järgi nimisõnade loendatavus on erinevates keeltes semantili-
ne parameeter (par. 1.1). Uuringu meetod on seega kontrastiivne.
Teooria ja eesti keele iseärasuste esiletoomiseks on aga eelkõige vaja
keskenduda loendatavate ja loendamatute nimisõnade semantilise
erinevuse kajastamisele morfosüntaktilistes nähtustes, mida tehakse
teises paragrahvis ja mis jääb eelduseks ja taustaks eesti keele vastavate
nähtuste uurimisel.

1.1 Loendatavus kui semantiline parameeter

Mõistete loendatav ja loendamatu all eristatakse selliseid ni-

misõnu nagu tool, inimene, voorus (loendatavad) ja leib, veri, ausus
(loendamatud)1. Vastavalt tavaarusaamale, mida hakatakse artikli
käigus kahtluse alla seadma, osutavad loendatavad nimisõnad esem-
etele, mis on oma loomu poolest loendatavad, loendamatud nimisõnad
aga ainele, substantsile, mille koostisosi saab küll loendada, ent mis
on iseenesest loendamatu. Vältimaks algusest peale liiga tugevale
ontoloogilisele alusele toetumist, võime pigem öelda, et kui esemete
puhul on loendamise ühik selgesti määratletud (üks laud), siis ainete

1
Siinkohal võib tähelepanu pöörata asjaolule, et mõlemas kategoorias esineb nii
konkreetseid (leib, tool) kui abstraktseid (ausus, voorus) nimisõnu. Lingvistikas
kasutatavad ingliskeelsed vasted on count ja mass.

118 Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4,

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
puhul pole niisugune määratlemine võimalik (üks piisk, lusikatäis,
liiter, ... siirupit).2
Üldlevinud seisukoht loendamatute ja loendatavate nimisõnade
käsitlemisel on, et nad näivad mingil moel keeles peegeldavat viisi,
kuidas inimesed kognitiivsel tasandil struktureerivad neid ümbritse-
vat tegelikkust, välismaailma, korrastades oma aistingulisi kogemusi.
Niisugune arusaam pole üllatav, võttes arvesse, et loomulike keelte
semantikaga tegeldes tekib kognitiivseid ja ontoloogilisi küsimusi igal
sammul. Aga kas see, et keegi räägib meist erinevalt, tähendab ka, et
tema maailma aistinguline ja kognitiivne rekonstrueerimine toimub
teisiti? Alljärgnevas püütakse nimisõna loendatavust uurides muu
hulgas pakkuda argumente niisuguse järelduse tagasilükkamiseks.
Semantikat mõistetakse keele kõige universaalsema tasandina
(võrreldes näiteks süntaksi või foneetikaga) seetõttu, et keelendite
tähenduse taipamisele aluseks olevad üldisemad, näiteks loogilised,
kognitiivsed ja aistingulised printsiibid tunduvad olevat kõigile inimes-
tele ühised. Võin ükskõik millises keeles väita järgmist:

1) Kõik inimesed on surelikud;

lause tähendust mõistes peaksid kõik selle keele kõnelejad
nõustuma, et:

2) Selle artikli autor on surelik

(eeldades mõistagi ka, et selle artikli autor on inimene). Õig-
upoolest on siin tegemist universaalse tuletusskeemi näitega.

Võiks aga lähtuda seisukohast, et semantika ei toetu ainult üldis-

tele printsiipidele, mis kehtivad kõigi loomulike keelte kohta, vaid ka
“parameetritele”, mille abil tuuakse välja eri keeltes esinevaid erinevaid
semantilisi nähtusi. Idee on mõistagi pärit generatiivsest grammati-
kast, milles on välja töötatud süntaksi nn. “printsiipide ja parameetri-
te” teooria. Parameetri mõistega selgitavad generativistid universaalsel

2
Seega ei samastata antud artiklis loendamatuid nimisõnu ainenimisõnade ja loen-
datavaid nimisõnu asjanimisõnadega (seda tehakse näiteks EKG-s, 1993, II: 141).
Nagu järgmises paragrahvis selgub, tuleb lugeda loendamatuks näiteks nii veri
(ainenimisõna) kui ka mööbel (asjanimisõna).

Daniele Mont icelli 119

 grammatikal põhinevate inimkeelte olulisi erinevusi. Eesmärgiks on
näidata, et isegi need võimalikud variatsioonid on tegelikult piiratud
ja etteantud; parameetrit ei tohi seega valida ad hoc üksikute nähtuste
seletamiseks, ta peab vastupidi pakkuma seletust, mida saaks raken-
dada võimalikult paljude erinevate nähtuste kohta. Artikli eesmärk ei
ole selle idee üle sügavamalt arutleda, ehkki paljud viimase aspektid
jäävad kindlasti küsitavaks (alustades parameetri binaarsusest). Kasu-
tan siin parameetri mõistet lihtsa teoreetilise vahendina, et näidata,
kuidas võiks käsitleda loendatavate ja loendamatute nimisõnadega
seotud semantilisi probleeme, pakkumata seejuures lahendusi, mis
põhinevad seosel inimkeelte ja nende kõnelejate maailmavaadete
vahel, s.t. radikaalsel keelelisel relativismil a la Sapir-Whorf.
Üks oletatavatest semantilistest parameetritest võiks olla seotud
just nimelt loendamatute ja loendatavate nimisõnade esinemisega
maailma loomulikes keeltes. Oletame näiteks, et mitte kõigis loom-
ulikes keeltes ei esine mõlemad, nii loendamatud kui loendatavad
nimisõnad; võib-olla on olemas keeli, kus näiteks kõik nimisõnad on
loendamatud, või vastupidi, kõik on loendatavad. Erinevus viimase
ja esimese keeletüübi vahel oleks sel juhul puhtalt semantiline, sest
just semantilisel tasandil eristame me loendatavaid nimisõnu loenda-
matutest; sellel erinevusel on aga kaugeleulatavad morfosüntaktilised
tagajärjed. Kui kirjeldatud tüüpi keeli on olemas ja me eeldame, et
kognitiivne eristamisvõime eseme ja aine vahel on kõigil inimestel
ühesugune (nagu tunduvad näitavat psühholoogilised katsed3), peame
tunnistama, et keelte semantika aluseks ei ole otseselt mingi üldisem
– näiteks kognitiivne – mudel, vaid et semantikal on ka oma printsii-
pe ja parameetreid. Aga kas selliseid keeli on olemas? Ja kui on, siis
milliste hulka kuulub eesti keel?
Et nendele küsimustele vastust leida, peame eelkõige analüüsi-
ma loendamatute ja loendatavate nimisõnade kasutamisega seotud
keelelisi nähtusi. Tuleb uurida, mis vormis (morfoloogiline osa) ja
millises keelelises ümbruses (süntaktiline osa) loendamatud ja loen-

3
Soja, Carey ja Spelke (1991) näitavad, kuidas eelkeelelises faasis laps on aine ja eseme
erinevusest juba selgelt teadlik.

120
datavad nimisõnad võivad esineda, pidades alati meeles, et erinevad
kasutusviisid on tingitud nende sõnade puhtsemantilisest erinevusest.
Tegemist on nimelt juhuga, kus grammatiliste erinevuste seletamiseks
ei piisa süntaktiliste primitiivide kasutamisest, vaid tuleb pöörduda
semantiliste möistete (nt. osutuse) poole.

2. Loendatavad ja loendamatud nimisõnad

Kuigi ma kasutan selles paragrahvis objektkeelena eesti keelt, ei

aseta ma praegu rõhku antud keele omapärale, mille juurde tahan
pöörduda artikli kolmandas paragrahvis.
Loendamatute nimisõnade silmatorkavaim omadus (millest pä-
rineb ka nende nimetus) on nende võimatus esineda morfoloogilise
mitmuse vormis. Võib öelda, et nende mitmusevormid ei ole kindlasti
loomulikud, neid võib enamuses kontekstidest isegi valeks pidada:

* Selles laboris on veresid4 vs. Selles toas on toole

* Ausused on head vs. Voorused on head

Semantiliselt võime seda asjaolu iseloomustada erinevate hul-

gastruktuuridega loendamatute ja loendatavate nimisõnade puhul.
Oletades, et meie väikeses maailmas on olemas ainult kolm tooli a, b
ja c, võime erinevaid rühmitamisvõimalusi kujutleda järgnevalt:

(3) {a, b, c}
{a, b} {a, c} {b, c}
a b c = aatomid

Antud hulgad kujutavad asjade kõiki võimalikke kombinatsioone

(toolide hulgad), millest me selles väikeses maailmas saame rääkida.
A, b, c on meie maailma aatomid. Sõna tool osutab traditsiooniliselt
tooli aatomite hulgale:

|tool|5 = {a b c}

Milline on siis selle mitmuse ehk sõna toolid osutus, s.t. |toolid|?

4
Nagu generatiivses grammatikas kombeks, kasutan ma märki “*”, et tähistada fraasi
või lauset, mis ei ole grammatiliselt õigesti moodustatud.
5
| | näitavad, et tegemist on nende vahelise nimisõna osutusega.

Daniele Mont icelli 121

 Võime kujutada mitmust funktsioonina, nimetades seda MT, hulgast
hulgale, meie juhul |tool|-i hulgast |toolid|-e hulgale. MT(tool) võrdub
teisisõnu |tool|-i kõigi alahulkade hulgaga, s. t. hulk (3) - aatomid,
ehk |tool|:

(4) |MT(tool)| = {a,b,c}

{a,b} {a,c} {b,c}

(4) = (3) – |tool|

Pannes sõna tool mitmusesse, kustutasime lihtsalt meie maailma

võimalike toolide hulkade hulgast aatomid (üksikud toolid). Mitmu-
sefunktsioon rakendub seega aatomite hulkadele ja muudab need
vastavate hulkade hulkadeks. Kui ainsuses loendatav nimisöna nagu
tool on tõene üksiku tooli kohta, siis mitmuses toolid on tõene teatud
toolide hulkade kohta. Kui loendatava nimisõna osutus on niisugune,
milline on siis loendamatu nimisõna oma? Mis on |veri|? Võimalik
lahendus on järgmine: kui tool-i osutus oli meie toolide (aatomite)
hulk, siis sõna veri osutus tundub hoopis olevat kõigi võimalike ve-
rehulkade hulk. Meie maailma aatomid ei ole siin vered nagu enne
olid toolid; nad on näiteks “veretilgad”, “vere liiter”, jne, kus “tilk” või
“liiter” on klassifikaatorid, mis annavad verele atomaarsuse, muutes
selle loendatavaks. Kui meie väikeses maailmas on näiteks ainult kolm
veretilka a, b, c, võib sõna veri osutust kirjeldada nii:

{a,b,c} = |veretilgad|
(5) |veri| = {a,b} {a,c} {b,c}
a b c = |veretilk|

Loendamatu nimisõna osutab seega nii aatomitele kui kõigile

aatomite võimalikele hulkadele. Iga veretilk on veri ja iga veretilkade
hulk on ikka veri. Kui aga proovime nüüd meie mitmuse funkt-
siooni MT kaudu vere mitmuse osutust tuletada, satume oodatud
kimbatusse. Kuna meie |veri| on võrdne veretilkade kõigi võimalike
alahulkade hulgaga (nagu (3)), järeldub, et |MT(veri)| = (3) ehk
|veri| – |veri| = ∅. Niisugune tulemus on teretulnud, kuna sellega
on leitud semantiline seletus asjaolule, et loendamatud nimisõnad

122
osutuvad mitmusevormis mittegrammatiliseks. Positiivne väärtus
on hoopis funktsioonil MT(veretilk), nagu on näha hulgast (5).
Meie mudeli raames oleks seega loendamatute nimisõnade osutus
tuletatav tavalisest atomaarsest domeenist (nii nagu loendatavatel
nimisõnadel), vastupidiselt lähenemisele, mis seletab loendatavate ja
loendamatute nimisõnade semantilist erinevust kahe erineva kvan-
tifitseerimisdomeeniga mudeli kaudu (üks esemete ja teine ainete
jaoks) 6. Meie lähenemine sobib seletama ka seika, et samale maailma
osale võib osutada erinevates keeltes või isegi sama keele piires nii
loendatava kui loendamatu nimisõnaga:

loendatav loendamatu
Mündid peenraha
Coins change
Juuksed hair

Keel lihtsalt ei vaevu loendamatute nimisõnade aatomeid mää-

rama. Erinevate loendamatute nimisõnade puhul on aga tegemist
erineva umbmäärasuse astmega: võrdleme näiteks sõnu mööbel ja
veri. Loendatavate nimisõnade osutuse aatomid on vastupidiselt selgelt
määratletud ja nende tundmine kuulub kõnelejate ühiste taustatead-
miste hulka.7
Ülalmainitud tähelepanekute seletamiseks on G. Chierchia välja
pakkunud uue lähenemise, nn. siseomase mitmuse hüpoteesi (ingl. k.
“Inherent Plurality Hypotesis”), mis näeb kummalegi nimisõnatüübile
ette ainult ühe kvantifitseerimisdomeeni. Loendamatutele nimisõna-
dele on mitmuslikkus niisiis juba leksikonis “sisse kodeeritud” (vt. (5)),
mistõttu seda pole enam mõtet morfoloogilisel tasandil väljendada

6
Link (1998: 15) väidab näiteks, et “the set approach to plural objects does not carry
over to the case of mass terms /.../ Inherent in the notions of a set is atomicity wich
is not present in the linguistic behavior of mass terms”.
7
Tegelikult on üsna lihtne kujutada ette olukorda, kus asjad hakkavad selles suhtes
oma selgust kaotama. Kui me võtame näiteks tooli ja sellelt jalad ära kisume, võivad
meie arvamused üsna ruttu lahku minna küsimuses, kas ja millise piirini on meie
ese ikka veel tool. P. Austeri paranoiline tegelane, kes veedab oma päevi New Yorgi
tänavatel katkisi asju kogudes, tahab esemetele uued nimed anda, sest kas katkist
vihmavarju, mis ei kaitse meid enam vihma eest (on oma funktsiooni kaotanud),
saab enam nimetada “vihmavarjuks”? (Auster, 1969: 77–78)

Daniele Mont icelli 123

 (Chierchia, 1998a). Chierchia saab seega väita, et

/…/ the mass/count distinction does not appear to be reduceable to

any physical notion; it does not appear to be based on any pre- or
extralinguistic psychological feature of our cognitive system; it does
not discend from logic; it does not arise as a response to pragmatic
needs. It is hard to avoid the conclusion that we are dealing with a
domain-specific architectonic feature of grammar, resembling, say,
agreement or movement. But unlike agreement or movement, the
mass/count distinction seems to have to do with how reference is
set.8 (Chierchia 1998a: 99)

Võtame Chierchia idee siinkohal omaks ja lähtume sellest ka järg-

nevates vaatlustes ning eesti keele nähtuste analüüsis. Määratlegem
aga praegu veel süntaktilisi kontekste, kus loendatavad või loendama-
tud nimisõnad võivad esineda:
a) Arvsõnad võivad vahetult esineda ainult loendatavate nimisõ-
nadega:
* Kaks verd vs. Kaks tooli
* Seitse ausust vs. Seitse voorust

Arvsõnu kasutatakse loendamatute nimisõnadega ainult klassifi-

kaatori vahendusel:

Kaks liitrit verd

Seitse tüüpi ausust

Klassifikaatorite abil võivad nimelt loendamatud nimisõnad osu-

tada aatomite (liitrid, terad jne) hulkadele, mida saab lugeda. Klassifi-
kaator käitub täpselt samuti nagu loendatav nimisõna, millele saab
lisada arvsõna.
On ka teisi kvantoreid, mis võivad esineda ainult loendatavate
nimisõnadega:

Iga *veri, tool, voorus

8
Rannut asetab ka oma eesti keele osaaluse analüüsis kõrvuti “ainet tähistava sub-
stantiivi” ja mitmusevormi. Nende ühisomadust nimetab ta jaotatavuseks (Rannut,
1969: 36)

124
 Mõni *ausus, inimene, voorus
Mitu *mööblit, *piima, inimest
Kumbki *veri, tool
Mõlemad *ausused, inimesed
Ükski *mööbel, voorus

(b) Seevastu on olemas ka kvantoreid, mis esinevad ainult loen-

damatute nimisõnadega:

Kogu leib on otsas vs. Kogu *tool on katki

Anna natuke vett vs. Sooviksin natuke *tooli

Huvitav on siinkohal märkida, et kogu sobib ka selliste nimisõna-

dega nagu seltskond, mis on loendatavad (seltskonnad), aga mille ainsu-
sel on kollektiivne tähendus. Lähtudes ülalmainitud teooriast, saame
öelda, et kollektiivsetele nimisõnadele nagu seltskond on leksikaalselt
sisse kodeeritud ka mitmuslikkus ning see seletab, mispärast võivad
nende nimisõnade ainsuse vormid esineda süntaktilises kontekstis, kus
esinevad ka loendamatud, mitte aga loendatavad nimisõnad.
(c) On ka rida kvantoreid, mis esinevad nii koos loendatavate kui
loendamatute nimisõnadega:

Palju inimesi, verd, voorusi, ausust

Vähe inimesi, verd, voorusi, ausust
Enamus inimesi, verd, voorusi, ausust
Kõik inimesed, veri, voorused, ausus

Nende kvantorite puhul võib tuua välja asjaolu, et loendamatud

nimisõnad esinevad ainsuses seal, kus loendatavate nimisõnade juhul
on kohustuslik mitmusevorm; see toetab loendamatute nimisõnade
“inherent plurality” ideed.
Lisaks tuleb mainida, et loendamatut nimisõna saab erijuhtudel
kasutada ka süntaktilistes kontekstides, mis tavaliselt sobivad ainult
loendatavatele nimisõnadele. Näiteks:

Selles laboris on kolm verd = kolme sorti verd

Kaks õlut! = kaks klaasi õlut

Siin võib olla seletuseks, et tegelikult on neis näidetes klassifikaa-

Daniele Mont icelli 125

 torid (sort ja klaas) lihtsalt implitsiitsed. Nimelt on antud kontekstides
teatud ainekogu ühik täpsemalt määratletud, nii nagu see toimub
tavalises kontekstis esemete puhul (baariletil on üks õlu = üks klaas
õlut). Teisisõnu võimaldab keeleväline kontekst, pragmaatiline mõ-
jur, nendel juhtudel mittegrammatilisuse kustutada ja markeeritult
kasutatud väljendeid õigesti tõlgendada.
Teisest küljest saab ka loendatavaid nimisõnu kasutada teatud
kontekstides puhtloendamatult:

Nendes purkides on hapukurk

Nagu järgnevate arutluste käigus ilmneb, on viimasel asjaolul

oma tähtsus nimisõnade loendatavuse kui semantilise parameetri
ning eesti keele eripära seletamisel.

2.1. Loendatavate nimisõnadeta keelte omadused

Eelnevalt tõime välja olulised morfosüntaktilised omadused, mil-

les peegeldub loendamatute ja loendatavate nimisõnade semantiline
erinevus. Meie käsutuses on nüüd vajalikke vahendeid, et pöörata
tähelepanu artikli alguses esitatud küsimusele: kas on olemas keeli,
kus loendamatud või loendatavad nimisõnad puuduvad? Keeltes,
milles puuduvad loendamatud nimisõnad, peaks meie funktsioon MT
omama alati väärtust iga nimisõna jaoks, s.t. kõigil nimisõnadel oleks
morfoloogiline mitmusevorm markeerimata, arvsõnad moodustaksid
vahetult grammatiliselt korrektseid fraase kõigi nimisõnadega ja klas-
sifikaatorid nagu tilk, liiter, tükk osutuksid üleliigseks; selliseid keeli
ei ole ilmselt olemas.
Loendatavate nimisõnadeta keeleks peetakse aga näiteks hiina keelt
(Krifka, 1995). Hiina keeles puudub morfoloogiline mitmus ja arvsõnad
moodustavad nimisõnadega fraase ainult klassifikaatori vahendusel:

a. yí lì mi = üks tera riisi

b. liăng lì mi = kaks tera riisi
c. yí zhăng zhuōzi = üks (tükk) lauda
d. liãng zhăng zhuōzi = kaks (tükki) lauda

Kui oleme päris kindlad, et hiina keele kõneleja kategoriseerib

126
lauda objektina (ontoloogiliselt ja kognitiivselt), osutavad aga kõik nim-
isõnad hiina keeles semantiliselt niisugusele hulgastruktuurile nagu
see, mida kirjeldatakse meie näites (5): ilmneb seega, et aatomitele
saab hiina keeles osutada ainult klassifikaatorite abil (nagu tilk, tükk,
tera jne). Hiina keelt eristab loendatavate nimisõnadega keelest just
nimelt viis, kuidas teatud otsusteni jõutakse. Sama leiab aset nt. eesti
või inglise keeles sõnade peenraha, change vs. mündid, coins erinevuse
puhul. Hiina keeles esinevad lihtsalt kõik nimisõnad leksikonis loenda-
matuna. Tegemist on puhtalt semantilise erinevusega (parameetriga),
mis määrab, kas keeles on nimisõnade osutuse rühmitamiseks kaks
viisi (nt. inglise keel) või ainult üks (nt. hiina keel).
Morfosüntaktilise struktuuri tasandil on loendatavate nimisõna-
deta ehk hiinatüüpi keelte puhul esile toodud järgmised omadused:

(6) – Morfoloogilise mitmusevormi puudumine;

– klassifikaatorite ulatuslik kasutamine;
– nii määrava kui umbmäärase artikli puudumine;
– nimisõnad võivad esineda “paljastena” (bare nouns) ka
mittepredikatiivses positsioonis.

Esimese kahe omaduse seos loendatavate nimisõnade puudu-

misega teatud keeles peaks olema eelöeldu põhjal selge. Ülejäänud
morfosüntaktilised omadused on tihedas seoses nii eelnevatega kui
omavahel. Bare nouns või “paljad nimisõnad” on nimisõnad, mis esine-
vad ainsuses või mitmuses ilma igasuguse determinaatorita (artikkel,
kvantor, klassifikaator, jne). Keeltes, kus on olemas nii artiklid kui
loendatavad nimisõnad, ei esine viimased kunagi paljana ainsusevor-
mis. Näiteks inglise keeles:

(7) a) The cat is walking in the courtyard.

b) A cat is walking in the courtyard.
c) *Cat is walking in the courtyard.

Inglise keeles võib seda ette tulla mitmuses:

(8) Cats are walking in the courtyard

samas kui teistes loendatavate nimisõnadega keeltes – näiteks romaani

Daniele Mont icelli 127

 keeltes – on välistatud seegi võimalus:

(9) *Gatti camminano in cortile

Enne kui hakkame analüüsima eesti keele nähtusi, võiksime

siinkohal rõhutada, et ülaltoodud märkused näivad koonduvat nim-
isõnade definiitsuse ja indefiniitsuse ümber. Nimelt võime oletada, et
loendatavate nimisõnafraasidega peavad alati kaasnema definiitsust
või indefiniitsust markeerivad morfosüntaktilised elemendid (mitmus,
artikkel, arvsõna, kvantor, jt.), kuid loendamatute nimisõnafraasidega
koos peavad alati esinema ainult definiitsust markeerivad klassifikaa-
torid.9 Indefiniitsuse puhul on meil siis selline vahe:

(10) Toas on inimesi

(10a) There are some persons in the room
(11) Toas on vesi
(11a) There is water in the room

Romaani keeled lubavad paljaid loendamatuid nimisõnu:

(12) C´e‘ acqua nella stanza

aga mitte lause alguses:

(13) *Acqua gocciola dal lavandino

Inglise keel pole ka siin nii range, ja järgmine lause on täiesti

korrektne:

(14) Water is dripping from the tap

Hiina keeles, kus kõik nimisõnad on loendamatud, esineb nimisõ-

nafraas indefiniitsuse puhul alati paljana, definiitsuse puhul on aga
klassifikaator kohustuslik:

(15) Wò kànjiàn zhuōzi le

Ma nägin (mingit) lauda/ (mõningaid) laudu
(16) Wò kànjiàn liang zhāng zhuōzi le
Ma nägin kahte (tükki) lauda

9
Vt. ka Gil (1987)

128
3. Eesti keele mõistatus

Suuname oma tähelepanu nüüd eesti keele spetsiifikale ja alusta-

me seejuures punktis (6) loetletud nimisõnadeta keelte morfosüntak-
tilistest omadustest, jättes küsimuse nimisõnade loendatavuse kohta
eesti keeles praegu lahtiseks. Tundub, et paljad nimisõnafraasid on
eesti keeles täiesti tavaline nähtus nii ainsuse kui mitmuse puhul.
Mõlemad

(17) Kass kõnnib õues.

(18) Kassid kõnnivad õues.

on grammatiliselt täiesti õiged laused, kusjuures eestikeelsel lausel

(17) võib olla nii ingliskeelse lause (7a) kui ingliskeelse lause (7b) tä-
hendus. Paljaid nimisõnafraase (ainsuse nimetavas käändes) võib eesti
keeles tõlgendada seega nii definiitsete kui indefiniitsetena.10 Mitmuse
nimetav kääne markeerib aga eesti keeles kindlalt definiitsust, nagu
on näha lauses (18), mille indefiniitne vaste nõuab indefiniitsust mar-
keerivat osastavat käänet:

(19) Õues kõnnib kasse

mille funktsiooni täidab näiteks romaani keeltes umbmäärane artikkel:

(20) Dei gatti camminano in cortile

Inglise keele mitmuses esinevatel paljastel nimisõnafraasidel

on aga seevastu indefiniitsuse varjund (lause (8)). Loendamatute
nimisõnade puhul on eesti keeles ainsusevormis paljastel nimisõ-
nadel definiitne või indefiniitne tähendus sõltuvalt kasutatavast
käändest ja positsioonist lauses:

(21) Vesi tilgub kraanist / Kraanist tilgub vett

Võtame tabeli abil kokku keerulised suhted nimisõnade definiitsuse,

loendatavuse ja paljana esinemise võimaluse vahel erinevates keeltes:

10
S. Liiv kirjutab kuidagi umbmääraselt, et eesti keel “usually does not distinguish di-
rectly between a definite and indefinite object” (Liiv 1999: 98). See “directly” võiks
asendada selgema “ainsuse nimetavas käändes paljaste nimisõnade puhul”

Daniele Mont icelli 129

 + Definiitsus -

Ø kassid (18) Ø kass (17) +

eesti Loendatavus
Ø vesi (21) Ø vett (21) -

+
hiina Loendatavus
Ø zhuōzi (16) -

Ø cats (8) +
inglise Loendatavus
Ø water (14) -

+
itaalia Loendatavus
Ø acqua (12) -

Tabel 1

Tabelis valmistab meile tõsist peavalu just eesti keel. Inglise keele
võimalus kasutada indefiniitse tähendusega paljaid nimisõnu mitmu-
ses ei pane imestama, kui võtame arvesse paragrahvis 2.1 esile toodud
ühisjooni. Süstematiseeriva lahenduse järgi võiks eesti keele kohta
väita, et siin puuduvad nagu hiina keeleski loendatavad nimisõnad.
Sel juhul jääks aga seletamata, miks erinevalt hiina keelest saab eesti
keeles paljaid nimisõnu kasutada ka definiitses tähenduses. Selline
lahendus tundub olevat niikuinii välistatud ka teistel põhjustel, mille
juurde pöördume tagasi selle artikli lõpus; praegu jätkame punktis
(6) loetletud omaduste tuvastamisega eesti keeles.
Selles, et eesti keeles ei ole artikleid, võime veenduda igas selle
keele õpikus. Mida aga öelda mitmuse puudumise ja klassifikaatorite
ulatusliku kasutamise kohta? Esmapilgul tundub loomulik väita, et need
omadused ei käi eesti keele kohta: morfoloogiline mitmus on eesti keeles
täiesti olemas, klassifikaatoreid kasutatakse küll ohtralt, ent nende kasu-

130
tamist on raske võrrelda hiina keele kohta toodud näidetega. Sooviksin
siiski järgnevalt välja tuua mõningaid eesti keele süntaktilisi iseärasusi,
mis näivad tõestavat, et nimetatud omadused ei ole, vähemalt osaliselt,
eesti keelele nii võõrad, nagu see esmapilgul võiks tunduda.
Alustame morfoloogilisest mitmusest. Eesti keeles on mitmu-
sevorm loendatavate nimisõnade puhul alati võimalik, kuid sageli on
võimalik kasutada mitmuse tähenduses ka ainsusevormi, erinevalt
tüüpilistest loendatavate nimisõnadega keeltest.11 Alustame juhust,
kus ainsusevormi kasutamine ei ole mitte lihtsalt võimalik, vaid lausa
kohustuslik, s.t. arvsõnadega nimisõnafraasidest:

(22) Kaks inimest, kümne voorust, mitu tooli.

Kui vaadelda seda nähtust semantilisest küljest, siis eesti keele

osastava käände partitiivsest tähendusest lähtudes võiksime tõepoolest
kujutleda inimest samasuguse ainena nagu vesi, millest lauses (22) eral-
datakse kaks osa. Selle küsimuse juurde pöördume hiljem tagasi.
Teine iseäralik juhus, kus eesti keeles kasutatakse loendatavate
nimisõnade ainsusvormi mitmuse tähenduses, on välja toodud järg-
mistes näidetes:

(23) Täna võtsime kartulit

(24) Ema kasvatab tomatit

mis vastavad morfosüntaktiliselt täpselt loendamatute nimisõnadega

lausetele:

(25) Ma jõin vett

(26) Ema ostis piima

Inglise keeles on sellisel puhul ainus võimalus mitmusevorm:

(27) *Today I ate potato; today I ate potatoes

(28) *My mother grows tomato; my mother grows tomatoes

Sama nähtus esineb ka eesti liitsõnades: kartulipõld, loomaaed,

taimetoitlane, jne.

11
H. Sahkai võtab selle kokku toetudes Gil’i keeltetüpoloogiale. Eesti keel kuulub siis
nimisõnade mitmuse kohustusliku markeeringu seisukohalt segatüüpi, st et eesti
keeles ei pruugi mitmus olla nimisõnade puhul markeeritud (Sahkai, 2002).

Daniele Mont icelli 131

 Lähtudes Carlsoni (1980) tähelepanekutest inglise keele kohta,
võiks siin väita, et liitsõnade esimene ainsuses nimisõna viitab teatud
liigile. Liik ei ole siin rangelt teaduslikult kodeeritud samade tüpoloo-
giliste omadustega indiviidide hulk, vaid kontekstuaalselt kõnelejate
poolt fikseeritud kogum (pragmaatikat puudutav nähtus). Lausetes
(23) ja (24) on tomat ja kartul ka “mõisted”, mis osutavad omaduste
kogule (liik), mille järgi saame otsustada, millised x-d on tomatid
või kartulid ja millised ei ole. Kõnelejad mõistavad sel juhul tomatit
ja kartulit kui liiki, oluline on, mis sorti asja me võtsime või mis liiki
asja ema kasvatab, mitte aga võtmise või kasvatamise objektide hulga
väljaselgitamine, samuti nagu lause (25) puhul pole meil aimu vee
hulgast. Lause (23) tähendab siis midagi säärast nagu “me võtsime
kartuli liiki” või “me võtsime midagi sellest liigist” või “me võtsime
mõningaid näiteid sellest liigist”. Nii saab selgeks, miks sõna kartul
võib sellistes lausetes ainsuses kasutatuna viidata liigile, sellal kui see
on välistatud näiteks kruvi puhul:

(29) Ma ostsin kruvi

võib tähendada üksnes seda, et ma ostsin ühe kruvi; kruvi ei anna

liigina käsitleda12. Järgmised näited kinnitavad, et eesti keeles kasuta-
takse kombinatsiooni paljas + ainsuses nimisõna liigile viitamiseks:

(30) Eestlane on töökas inimene

(31) Karu on ohtlik loom

Inglise keeles võib liigile viidata ainult mitmusevormis:

(32a) *Bear is a dangerous animal

(32b) Bears are dangerous animals;

samas kui romaani keeltes tuleb seda teha ikka määrava artikli abil.
Kokkuvõtteks võime öelda, et kuigi eesti keeles on mitmusevorm
täiesti olemas, on kontekstid, milles võib kasutada ainsusevormi, märksa

12
Siin mängivad rolli ka mitmed pragmaatilised mõjurid. Näiteks saab küll sõnaga
koer tähistada liiki, ent ma ostsin koera tähendab, et ma ostsin ühe teatud koera. Lause
korrektse tõlgendamise tagab nimelt teatud kõne implikatuur (P. Grice tähenduses);
meie näite puhul teavad kõnelejad, et ostetakse tavaliselt üks koer korraga, ja kui
juhtub teisiti, tuleb seda kommunikatsiooni edukuse tagamiseks keeleliselt markeerida
(kaks, kolm, … koera). Niisiis on tegemist presupositsionaalse nähtusega.

132
ulatuslikumad kui tavalistes loendavate nimisõnadega keeltes (nt. inglise
keel). Ühest küljest tundub see nähtus olevat seotud osastava käände se-
mantikaga. Osastav kääne võimaldab käsitleda ainsusevormis loendatavaid
nimisõnu semantiliselt “ainetena”, mille hulk võib jääda määramatuks või
määratletakse samal viisil nagu tavaliste ainenimisõnade puhul (näited
(22)–(26)). Teisest küljest on aga võimalik sama tulemust saavutada
ainsuse nimetava käände abil (näited (30)–(31)), nii nagu see leiab aset
loendamatu nimisõnaga vesi lauses (21). Võime tulemused kokku võtta
väitega, et loendatavad nimisõnad käituvad morfosüntaktiliselt täpselt
samuti nagu loendamatud nimisõnad, juhul kui need viitavad keele-
väliselt määratletud liigile. See on nii, kuna liik osutab nimelt hulgale,
millel on loendamatute nimisõnade osutuse struktuur, kuid mille ühikud
on stabiilselt ja kontekstist sõltumatult määratletud (nagu loendatavate
nimisõnade puhul ikka). Kui karu osutab liigile viidates samasugusele
hulgastruktuurile nagu see, mille me tõime välja näites (5) sõna veri
puhul, oleksid tema aatomid sel juhul ise karud ja mitte mingisugused
karutükid. Seejuures tuleb mainida, et antud juhtudel osutab tavaliselt
nimetav kääne antud liigi maksimumhulgale (lauses (31) kõigile karu-
dele), samas kui osastav kääne viitab selle liigi osahulgale (lauses (23)
mõnedele kartulitele). Teadupärast on aga osalisus eesti keeles väga
keeruline nähtus, nagu ilmneb ka järgmisest lausepaarist:

(33a) Piruka sees on porgand

(33b) Piruka sees on porgandit

kus porgandiliigi suhtes on tegemist selge osalisusega mõlemal ju-

hul, nii nimetava kui osastava käände kasutamisel. Vahe tundub siin
puudutavat hoopis piruka sisu: kas seal leidub ainult porgand (33a)
või ka midagi muud (33b).13
Ülaltoodu on võimalik seletus mõnedele eesti keele eripäradele,
lähtudes põhimõttest, et antud keeles on olemas nii loendatavad kui
loendamatud nimisõnad. Eesti keel võimaldab lihtsalt laialdaselt
semantilist nihet, mis annab loendatavatele nimisõnadele loendama-

13
Käände vaheldumist alusfraasis ja selle tõlgendamist käsitleb pikemalt P. Nemvalts
(2000). Juba Rannut (1969) pakub oma artiklis üksikasjaliku ülevaate, tuues esile
olulise eksistentsiaallause mõiste.

Daniele Mont icelli 133

 tute nimisõnade osutuse. Otsustav tegur on siin osaliselt kognitiivne,
osaliselt pragmaatiline, andes nimelt võimaluse tõlgendada muidu
loendatavat nimisõna antud kontekstis liigile viitavana. Semantilise
nihke tagajärjena omandab loendatav nimisõna siis ka loendamatu
nimisõna morfosüntaktilised omadused. Pöörame aga nüüd tähelepa-
nu punktis (6) loetletud viimasele loendatavate nimisõnadeta keelte
omadusele ehk klassifikaatorite ulatuslikule kasutamisele, mis valmis-
tab eesti keele puhul jälle mõningaid üllatusi. Selge see, et eesti keeles
pole kohustuslik kvantorsõnadega loendatavates nimisõnafraasides
alati klassifikaatoreid kasutada. Öeldakse:

(34) kaks lauda

mis vastab tähenduse poolest hiina keele näitele:

d. liăng zhāng zhuōzi = kaks (tükki) lauda

Eelnevatele märkustele toetudes võiksime aga proovida seletada

fraasi (34) süntaktilist veidrust (nimisõna osastava käände ainsusevorm),
oletades, et selle fraasi süvastruktuuris14 esineb foneetiliselt nähtamatu
klassifikaator, mida hiina keel väljendab fraasis d. foneetiliselt zhăng-
iga. Niisuguse klassifikaatori jäljeks eesti lause pindstruktuuris oleks
nimisõna osastav kääne. Seda oletust näib toetavat asjaolu, et eesti
keeles käituvad vahel sarnaselt ka loendamatud nimisõnad:

(35) Kolm leiba palun!

(36) Ostsin täna kolm piima

Nende lausetes on klassifikaatorid jäänud ilmselgelt implitsiitseks

(tükk, päts, jne; liiter, pakk, jne). Käsitletud juhtudel on otsustav tähtsus
nimisõna osutuse atomaarse struktuuri määravatel kognitiivsetel
(laud) ja kontekstuaalsetel (piim) asjaoludel, täpselt nii nagu juhtus
ülalkirjeldatud liigile osutamise puhul. Eesti kõnekeeles esineb isegi
üks üsna levinud konstruktsioon, milles meie implitsiitne klassifikaator
saab loendatavate nimisõnade puhul nähtavaks:

14
“Süvasruktuuri” mõistet kasutan siin generatiivses grammatikas kasutatavas tähen-
duses. Mõningad süntaktilised elemendid, mille olemasolu on tingitud süvatasemel
sõnavarasse sissekodeeritud süntaktilistest nõuetest, võivad jääda selle lause fonee-
tilisel realiseerimisel väljendamatuks.

134
 (37) Mitu inimest seal oli? Kaks tükki.

Selles lauses on klassifikaatoril tükk asesõna ehk pronoomeni

funktsioon, ta täidab siin küsimuses esineva nimisõna inimese koha.
See paistab tõepoolest näitavat, et esimese lause nimisõna osastaval
käändel ongi klassifikaatori jälje funktsioon: selle nimisõna saab asen-
dada pronominaliseeritud klassifikaatoriga. Inglise keeles on selline
võimalus selgelt välistatud:

(38) ??? How many persons were there? Two pieces.

samas kui hiina keeles esinevad klassifikaatorid ka asesõna funktsioonis.

Võime siis väita, et vahe eesti keele lause (34) ja hiina keele lause
d. vahel on ainult näiline ja klassifikaatorite kasutamine on eesti keele
lause süvastruktuuris sellistel juhtudel sama ulatuslik kui hiina keele
pindstruktuuris (milles klassifikaator on ka foneetiliselt realiseeritud).
Implitsiitse klassifikaatori ideest võiks olla abi ka selliste eesti keeles
väga levinud nähtuste seletamiseks, mille puhul lause mitmuses alus
ja ainsuses predikaat ei ühildu, nagu näiteks:

(39) Õues kõnnib kasse

Predikaat on siin ainsuses just sellepärast, et ta ei ühildu mitte

nimisõnaga kasse, vaid selle implitsiitse klassifikaatoriga (mida võiks
antud juhul eksplitsiitsena esitada näiteks hulk või palju kujul). Idee
tundub toetavat ka Rannuti väidet, et mitmuse osastavas käändes esi-
nevatel nimisõnadel on alati kollektiivne ja mitte kunagi distributiivne
tähendus (Rannut, 1969: 34-35). Selline struktuur võiks aga sobida
kirjeldama ka teisi kontekste, milles eesti keeles ilmub lause alusena
osastava käände ainsusevormis loendatav nimisõna, nagu näiteks:

(40) Meest ei ole kodus

(41) On vaja naist
(42) Meistrit jagub igale poole15

15
Meie implitsiitse klassifikaatori idee sobib kokku Chierchia üldise märkusega, mille
kohaselt, “… the bare partitive construction appears to be impossible in languages
with bare arguments” (1998b: 391). Eesti keeles oleks osastavas käändes tegemist
tõepoolest vaid näiliselt paljaste nimisõnadega, tegelikult kuuluksid need siiski im-
plitsiitse klassifikaatoriga fraasi (DP).

Daniele Mont icelli 135

 Praeguseks on meil läbitud terve spektrum süntaktilisi olukordi,
kus eesti keeles toimub semantiline nihe, mille tõttu loendatavad ni-
misõnad omandavad loendamatute nimisõnade semantilise osutuse
ja morfosüntaktilised omadused. Nähtused võib graafiliselt kokku
võtta järgmiselt:

LOENDATAV >>> LOENDAMATU

p i Kass on kaval loom definiitsus

a m ainsus Kass kõnnib õues

l i Täna püüdsime kala indefiniitsus

j s

a õ

s n Kassid kõnnivad õues — definiitsus

a mitmus

Õues kõnnib kasse16 — indefiniitsus

d n See kass kõnnib õues Kaks kassi kõnnivad õues definiitsus

e i ainsus

t m Mingi kass kõnnib õues Õues on mitu kassi indefiniitsus

e+i

r s

m õ Meie kassid kõnnivad õues — definiitsus

i n mitmus

n. a Õues kõnnib hulk kasse — indefiniitsus

Tabel 2

16
Sõnajärjekord lauses muutub indefiniitsuse puhul selletõttu, et muutub ka lause
temaatiline struktuur. Kui tegemist on definiitse nimisõnafraasiga, siis kannab see
vana informatsiooni (teema), mis asetseb lause alguses; indefiniitne nimisõnafraas
annab aga edasi uut informatsiooni (reema; tegemist on eksistentsiaallausega, kus
märgitakse kõigepealt alussõnaga väljendatud mõiste olemasolemist) ja asetseb sell-
epärast tavaliselt lause lõpus. (vrd. EKG, 1993, II: 195).

136
 Tabel 2 näitab, kui ulatuslik on eesti keeles antud semantiline
nihe. Igas kontekstis, milles saab kasutada loendamatut nimisõna
(nagu veri), võivad esineda ka loendatavad nimisõnad (nagu kass),
mille osutus rühmitub ümber järgnevalt:

loendatav >>> loendamatu

{a,b,c}

|kass| = a b c >>> |kass| = {a,b} {a,c} {b,c}

a b c

4. Kokkuvõte

Milline keel on siis eesti keel? Kas ta on nagu inglise keel, s.t. keel,
kus esinevad nii loendatavad kui loendamatud nimisõnad, või nagu
hiina keel, s.t. keel, kus esinevad ainult loendamatud nimisõnad ja
loendatavate nimisõnade olemasolu on ainult näilik? Teine hüpotees
oleks väga intrigeeriv ent seda on raske toetada artiklis vaadeldud
argumentide, eelkõige morfoloogilise mitmuse selge olemasolu tõttu
eesti keeles. Sellele vaatamata kipuvad eesti keele loendatavad nimi-
sõnad käituma osutuse poolest loendamatult mitmetes kontekstides,
kus see tavalise loendatavate nimisõnadega keele puhul oleks välis-
tatud. Selles ei ole midagi veidrat, kui nõustuda ülaltoodud ideega,
et nimisõnade loendatavus on puhtalt semantiline nähtus, mis ei ole
seotud oluliste kognitiivsete või ontoloogiliste erinevustega, vaid vii-
siga, kuidas jõutakse nimisõnade osutuseni. Kui hiina keeles toimub
see ainult loendamatul kujul, siis Euroopa keeltes on see võimalik
kahel erineval viisil: loendatavalt ja loendamatult. Loendatavuse
semantilise parameetri järgi asetub eesti keel seega Euroopa keelte
hulka, evides seejuures aga omapärast mehhanismi, mida me nime-
tasime nimisõna loendatavuse semantiliseks nihkeks ning mis tekitab
paljudes olukordades “hiina keele efekti”.
Meie semantilise nihke ulatuslikkus seletab ära terve rea morfosün-
taktilisi veidrusi, mis puudutavad loendatavate nimisõnade kasutamist
eesti keeles. Eesti keel osutub sellest vaatepunktist väga huvitavaks

Daniele Mont icelli 137

 ja lingvisti süstematiseerimispüüetele raskesti alluvaks keeleks; ta
käitub kuidagi eklektiliselt ja teda on raske ühtede või teiste sekka
paigutada. Just sellepärast tundub perspektiivikas otsida eesti keele
grammatilistele iseärasustele seletusi kontrastiivse meetodi abil, mis
võimaldab eelkõige neid omapärasid täpsemalt määratleda.
Käesoleva uurigu jätkamiseks näen ma mitmeid võimalikke
arengusuundi. Eelkõige võiks põhjalikumalt uurida lausekon-
tekste, milles toimub loendatavuse semantiline nihe; see tundub
tihti olevat tingitud teatud predikaatidest (nn. liigipredikaatid).
Nimisõnade loendatavuse problemaatikat oleks aga huvitav uurida
ka diakrooniliselt ja kahel tasandil: keele ajaloo ning selle kaudu,
kuidas omandavad keelt väikelapsed. Keele ajaloost võiks otsida
meie probleemi puudutavaid nähtusi, mis on kaasaegses keeles
kaduma läinud või vastupidi just kaasaegses keeles tekkinud. M.
Hint on täheldanud, et ühildumisel põhinevad vormid levivad
indo-euroopa keelte mõjul eesti keeles üha rohkem ja see toob
kaasa ka mitmuse kasutamise paljudes situatsioonides, kus eesti
keeles oli traditsioonilisem ainsuse vorm (Hint, 1999). Keele oman-
damise kohta on aga olemas terve rida psühholingvistilisi teste17,
mida võiks eesti keele puhul ka läbi viia, et teha kindlaks, kuidas
hakatakse loendatavate ja loendamatute nimisõnade vahel vahet
tegema keele omandamise käigus.

K IR JANDUS

Auster, P. 1987. New York Trilogy. London, Faber & Faber

Carlson, G. 1980. Reference to Kinds in English. New York, Garland.
Chierchia, G. 1998a. Plurality of mass nouns and the notion of ‘semantic
parameter’. S. Rothstein (ed). Event and grammar. Kluwer Aca-
demic Publishers, lk. 53–103
Chierchia, G. 1998b. Reference to kinds across languages. Natural
Language Semantics 6, lk. 339–40

17
Vt. näiteks Soja, Carey ja Spelke (1991)

138
Erelt, M. jt. 1993. Eesti keele grammatika II. Tallinn, Eesti Teaduste
Akadeemia Eesti Keele Instituut.
Gil, D. 1987. Definiteness, Noun Phrase Configurationality and the
Count-Mass Distinction. E. J. Reuland, A. G. B. ter Meulen
(eds). The Representation of (In)definiteness. Cambridge, The MIT
Press.
Gillon, B. 1992. Towards a Common Semantics for English Count and
Mass Nouns. Linguistics and Philosophy, 15, 597–640
Hint, M.1999. The Estonian noun under Indo-European pressure.
Grammaticalisation aréale et sémantique cognitive: les langues fenniques
et sames. Colloque International du C.N.R.S. Tallinn, lk. 169–177.
Krifka, M. 1995. Common Nouns: A Contrastive Analysis of Chinese
and English. G. Carlson ja J. Pelletier (eds). The Generic Book.
Chicago, University of Chicago Press
Liiv, S. 1999. Contrastive analysis of English and Estonian nouns.
International perspectives on English and American language and lit-
erature. Tallinn, lk. 95–107.
Link, G. 1998. Algebraic semantics in language and philosophy. Stanford,
CSLI Publications.
Nemvalts, P. 1981. Nimisõnafraas. Nõukogude Kool 1981/12. Tallinn,
lk. 34–38.
Nemvalts, P. 2000. Aluse sisu ja vorm. Tallinn, Eesti Keele Sihtasutus.
Rajandi, H. ja Metslang, H. 1979. Määramata ja määratud objekt. ENSV
TA KKI. Tallinn, Valgus
Rannut, L. 1969. Täis- ja osaalus tänapäeva eesti kirjakeeles. Keel ja
Kirjandus, lk. 32–39.
Sahkai, H. 2002. Demonstrative Doubling in Spoken Estonian in a
Cross-Linguistic Perspective. (MA Thesis)
Soja, N. S. Carey ja E. Spelke. 1985. Ontological categories guide
young children´s induction of word meaning: objects terms and
substance terms. Cognition, 38, lk. 179–211.

Daniele Mont icelli 139

 ABSTR AC T

The goal of the present article is to describe some special features

in the use of mass and count nouns in the Estonian language and to
try to explain them. The main idea is to implement a theoretical frame-
work, like the one sketched in Chierchia (1998a), which would use only
one quantificational domain for both mass and count nouns. Chierchia
describes the denotation of the two kind of nouns as follows:

count: |chair| = {a b c}

mass: {a,b,c}
|blood| = {a,b} {a,c} {b,c}
abc

Mass nouns are “inherently plural” and the presence of both count
and mass nouns (as in English) or of mass nouns only (as in Chinese) is
explained by his theory as the consequence of a semantical parameter.
Estonian turns out to be a language with both count and mass
nouns, although it presents some morphosyntactical phenomena
typical of languages with only mass nouns: lack of articles, bare
nouns, use of morphologically singular nouns with plural meaning.
Analysis of the above-mentioned phenomena leads one to conclude
that in Estonian the denotation assumed for count nouns can always
be shifted into the denotation assumed for mass nouns, so that count
nouns show the same kind of morphosyntactical features as mass
nouns. Thus, in Estonian it is possible to say things like: kass on ilus
loom (cat is a beautiful animal), meaning that cats are beautiful ani-
mals; or: ema kasvatab tomatit (my mother grows tomato), meaning
that my mother grows tomatoes; or: mul on kaks kassi (I have two of
cat), meaning that I have two cats. The semantical shift of Estonian
count nouns can be described as follows ( kass means “cat”):

count >>>> mass

{a,b,c}
|kass| = a b c >>>> |kass| = {a,b} {a,c} {b,c}
abc
140
 As this case study shows, at the level of the syntactical analysis
Estonian turns out to be a somehow eclectic language. It is difficult
for a linguist to place some of its phenomena within the categorial
partitions elaborated, for example in the generative framework, in the
attempt to give a classification of human languages. The contrastive
method that the present article also uses, seems to be very promising
in the preliminary search for the peculiarities of Estonian grammar,
that have yet to be explained.

Daniele Mont icelli 141

 A NCIENT GREEK CHOLIAMBUS: ITS METRE, RHYTHM AND
SEMANTICS

Maria-Kristiina Lotman

0. Introduction.

This study attempts to provide a comprehensive description of

a verse metre which would include its metrical structure and most
important rhythmical tendencies, as well as its semantic halo. This
metre is the choliambus – an ancient verse form with a strange sound
that evolved in the archaic Ionian tradition as a variation of iambic
trimeter. For the analysis of metre, the methods of generative metrics
will be used (cf. Lotman 1996), the rhythmical analysis is based mostly
on the statistical data given by Marjolein van Raalte (1986: 262–311),
and the description of semantic structure proceeds from the works of
Mihhail Gasparov (1973, 1976, 1979, 1980, 1983), Marina Tarlinskaja
(1985, 1986, 1993) and Mihhail Lotman (1988, 1989).
Thus, choliambus, or scazon, is a version of iambic trimeter, where
the penultimate short position is replaced by the long one:

x∪ x ∪|  x   

As a result, a verse with a disturbed symmetry evolves, the rhythm

of which seems to "limp" (hence the name of this metre: the lame iam-
bus). Asymmetrical metres were not an exceptional phenomenon in
ancient poetry, cf., e.g., the structure of hexameter, in which the last
two feet differ from the previous four, or iambic trimeter, whose asym-
metry appears clearly on the rhythmical level (see Lotman in print).
However, in the case of the choliambus it is most obvious, emerging
on the metrical level and unbalancing its natural, anticipated flow.

142 Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4,

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
 The inventor of this meter is traditionally considered to have
been Hipponax, an archaic poet of Ionian origin, who was known
for his rude forms of expression and coarse vocabulary. One famous
choliambic author was Ananios, the immediate successor of Hipponax
(Knox 1993: 323), of whose life nothing is known and whose works
have disappeared almost completely, except for some fragments. Other
practitioners were the Hellenistic poets Callimachus and Herodas
– about the latter we have also no biographical information, but a note
by Pliny the Younger (Epistulae 4, 3, 3) makes it possible to assume
that Herodas and Callimachus were contemporaries (Cunningham
1993: 202).
Cf., e.g.,
Hipponax 59, 1:

DÕj cla‹nan `Ippènakti kaˆ kupass…skwn…

Ananius 2:
crusÕn lšgei PÚqermoj ¿j oÙdn t«lla.
Callimachus 1, 1:
’AkoÚsaq’ `Ippènaktoj: [o]Ù g¦r ¢ll’ ¼kw…
Herodas 1, 14:
Ñ phlÕj ¥crij „gnÚwn prosšsthken.

In the present work, principally the choliambus of Hipponax will

be analysed, while the verses of Callimachus and Herodas will be used
as comparative material.

1. Metre.

1.1. The Hipponactean choliambus.

Proceeding from the methodology of generative metrics, the

deep structure of choliambus could be presented as the following
pattern:
&&&AB&AB&&AB&AB&&AB&AB&&& &&&F&F&&F&F
&&F&F &L&

This structure is realised with the following correspondence rules:

Maria-Krist iina Lot man 143

 I. The syllabic correspondence rules.

(CR1) One syllable corresponds to the A position.

A x
(CR1a) As a result of resolution, positions A1 and A 5 can also be
filled with two syllables.
A1, A 5  x, x x
(CR2) One syllable corresponds to position B.
B x
(CR2a) As a result of resolution, positions B1-B3 can also be filled
with two syllables.
Β1-Β3  x, x x
(CR3) Two or three syllables correspond to a verse foot.
F1, F2, F3 and F5  x x, x x x
F4, F6  x x
(CR4) As a rule, resolutions occur only once, or, on occasion, twice
per verse, e.g., Hipponax 64:
¢pÒ s’ Ñlšseien ”Artemij, s d[ k] æpÒllwn…
Accordingly, the number of syllables per verse is limited: there
can be 12–14 syllables in a line.
L 12–14 syllables

II. The quantitative correspondence rules.

(CR5) One short (monomoraic) or one long (dimoraic) syllable

corresponds to position &&A.
&&A ∪
(CR5a) The first and the third anceps can also be filled with two
short syllables.
A1, A 5  ∪∪
(CR5b) One short syllable corresponds to positions &A 2 and
&A4.
A 2 , A4  ∪
(CR5c) One long syllable corresponds to position A6.
A6  —
This rule defines the difference between the choliambus and

144
iambic trimeter (in the case of the latter, a short syllable always oc-
curs in A6) 1.
(CR6) One long syllable corresponds to position B.
Β —
(CR6a) As a result of resolution, positions B1-B3 can also be filled
with two short syllables.
Β1-Β3  ∪∪
(CR7) A verse foot has three or four moras.
F1, F3, F5  3–4 moras
F2, F4  3 moras
F6  4 moras
(CR8) According to this, the number of moras per line is also
restricted:
L 19–21 moras

1.2. The Callimachean choliambus.

The choliambus of Callimachus is metrically considerably stricter

than that of Hipponactean. Above all, this applies to the occurrences
and locations of resolutions. Thus, the correspondence rules CR1 and
CR5 are as follows:

(CR1) One syllable corresponds to position A.

A x
(CR5) One short (monomoraic) or one long (dimoraic) syllable
corresponds to position &&A.
&&A ∪
(CR5a) There are no spondaic structures in the fifth foot, i.e., it
is not an anceps-position.

1
The phenomenon of the so-called iambic choliambs needs to be specified. Accord-
ing to Marjolein van Raalte about 7% (i.e. 115) of Hipponactean choliambi show the
iambic ending (van Raalte 1986: 262), of which she gives two examples: 36, 4 (kaˆ
pÒll’ œt’ ¥lla: de…laioj g¦r t¦j fršnaj) and 39, 4 (kukeîna p…nein f£rmakon ponhr…hj).
However, it should be mentioned that, e.g., A. D. Knox in his edition of Hipponactean
poetry has excluded 36, 4, as not belonging to Hipponax, while 39, 4 is presented
as kukeîna p…nwn f£rmakon ponhr […] oij<i> (in Knox’s edition 67, 4). In the case of
Ñlig¦ fron<š>ousin oƒ c£lin pepwkÒtej (72) he recommends o‰ ... pepèkasin (Knox
1993: 380). At the same time he accepts 69, 1 (oÜ moi dika…wj moicÕj ¡lînai doke‹).
There are no such verses in Herodas and Callimachus (van Raalte 1986: 262).

Maria-Krist iina Lot man 145

 A5 ∪
(CR5b) One short syllable corresponds to positions A 2 and A4.
A 2 , A4  ∪
(CR5c) One long syllable corresponds to position A6.
A6  —
The rules CR2 and CR6 regulate B position:
(CR2) One syllable corresponds to position B.
B x
(CR2a) As a result of resolution, positions B1 and B3 can be filled
with two syllables.
Β1, Β3  x, x x
(CR6) One long syllable corresponds to position B.
Β —
(CR6a) Positions B1 and B3 can also be filled with two short syl-
lables.
Β1-Β3  ∪∪
(CR3) As a rule, the verse foot is filled with two syllables
(CR3a) The first and the third foot can be resolved to trisyllabic
structures.
F1 and F3  x x, x x x
(CR7) The verse foot has three or four moras.
F1, F3  3–4 moras
F2, F4, F5  3 moras
F6  4 moras
Only one resolution can occur in a verse line. Thus, in the case
of Callimachus, CR4 is applied in the following way:
L 12–13 syllables.

1.3. The Herodean choliambus.

Metrically, the choliambus of Herodas is quite similar to that of

Hipponax (rhythmically it differs from the latter primarily in terms
of its larger proportion of resolutions).
Nevertheless, there are some differences.
In addition to position A1, which had already been resolved by
Hipponax, two syllables can also occur in A4.

146
 (CR1a) A1, A4  x, x x
(CR5) A1, A4  ∪∪
At the same time, the A position of the fifth foot is never re-
solved.
The anceps in the fifth foot can only, in exceptional cases, be
realised as a long syllable.

2. Rhythm.

The rhythmical analysis comprises: a) the occurrences and loca-

tions of resolutions, i.e. the structure of verse feet; b) the placement
of word-ends in verse, and above all the concurrence between word
boundaries and metrical boundaries.
The statistics of resolutions is presented in Table 1.2

Table 1. Resolutions in choliambi (real numbers)

Author &&&A B& A B&& A B& A B&& A B& A B&&&

Hipponax 3 3 0 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0
Callimachus 0 1 0 0 0 2 0 0 0 0 0 0
Herodas 6 18 0 18 0 17 1 2 0 0 0 0

Table 1 reveals that the rhythm in Hipponax and Callimachus

is, according to these data, quite similar. Hipponax’s poetry, like that
of other archaic lyrical poets, has a quite low incidence of resolutions
and the majority of them take place in the first foot. However, the
number of preserved lines is too small and the frequency of resolutions
too low to determine the main statistical regularities which would
form the secondary rhythm. Similarly, Callimachean rhythmics can
be characterised as stringent and almost unvarying, with very few
resolutions (analogous to the Hellenistic tragic iambic trimeter, cf.
West 1982: 159). In his case as well, we can not detect distinct statisti-
cal regularities, since the incidence of resolutions is even lower than
that of Hipponax. It should be mentioned, however, that Callimachus
resolves verse feet only in the same positions where resolutions are

2
The statistics are based on the analysis of Marjolein van Raalte (1986: 273).

Maria-Krist iina Lot man 147

 admitted by Hipponax and Herodas, i.e., in the B positions of the first
and the third foot, which are the most likely to resolve in the case of
iambic trimeter as well.
The statistics of word-ends is presented in Table 2 and Charts 1–3.

Table 2. Word-ends and metrical boundaries in the choliambus

Author &&&A B& A B&& A B& A B&& A B& A B&&&

Hipponax 5.2% 23.5% 45.2% 8.7% 71.3% 0.9% 37.4% 23.5% 30.4% 35.7% 0.0% 100.0%
Callimachus 9.1% 24.9% 43.6% 8.5% 75.2% 4.2% 40.6% 26.1% 35.8% 26.1% 0.0% 100.0%
Herodas 6.7% 29.1% 37.6% 18.1% 70.8% 5.6% 52.2% 23.9% 27.7% 51.0% 0.0% 100.0%

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It appears that all the observed authors have quite similar pat-
terns of word-boundaries, although Hipponax and Callimachus are
most similar. Thus, e.g., Hipponax and Callimachus avoid word-ends
after B positions more than Herodas does. It is interesting that, for
Herodas, B5 is almost the most likely position for word-ends to occur
(more word-ends occur only at the caesuras in the third and the fourth
foot). The contrastive placement of word boundaries is, in Hipponax
and Callimachus, especially distinct in the middle of verse, where
word-ends prevail after A 2 –A4, while after B2 –B3 the occurrence
of word-ends is low. The same tendencies are also characteristic of
Herodas, but the proportions are not as contrastive, e.g., after B2 the
occurrence of word-ends is 18.1% (in Hipponax and Callimachus
about 8%).
Nevertheless, there is an exceptional A position in the verse line,
after which word-ends do not accumulate, but rather are avoided so
strictly that a bridge with practically no word-boundaries evolves.
This position is A6 and, apparently, is the result of the restriction of
monosyllabic words at verse-end (such restriction characterises not
only choliambi, but is also one of the most universal rhythmical laws
of Ionian verse, thus determining the structure of the last foot, e.g., in
iambic trimeter (cf. Lotman 2000: 6) or hexameter (cf. de Neubourg
1986: 71)).

Maria-Krist iina Lot man 149

 3. Semantics.

The present section concentrates mainly on the relationship

between metre and thematics in Hipponax, but attention will also be
paid to the tropology of the more frequent themes. Since iambic and
choliambic poems have often been preserved only fragmentarily and
it is impossible to determine the more general context or theme of
the respective fragment, the thematic analysis will concentrate mainly
on observing the proportions of occurrences of elementary themes
and thematic motifs3. Comparative material includes other important
metres of the archaic period, i.e. hexameter and iambic trimeter4.
In the Hipponactean choliambi the thematics can be divided as
follows: themes mostly connected with the universe (22%), themes
connected with the human being (39%) and social themes (35%).
The detailed synopsis is presented in the following table (I marks the
themes related to universe, II to human and III to society5).

Table 3. Hipponactean thematics

Theme %
I Gods, heavenly 8.5
I Quarters 0.6
I Fire 1
I Nature 0.7
I Artificial landscape 2.2
I Fauna 5.2
I Smells 0.8
I Time 3.4
II Human development 0.8
II Human qualities and states of mind 12.2
II Human relationships 2.6

3
Even more problems are caused by the fact that sometimes the basis for conjecture
or even exclusions are purely metrical (cf., e.g., Knox: 341ff). Thus, even the corpus
itself is debatable.
4
The material includes the preserved Hipponactean choliambi, Archilochean, Semo-
nidean and Solon’s iambic trimeters and 500 hexametrical lines of the 18th book of
Homer’s “Iliad”.
5
The basis of it is the classification by Mihhail Lotman, which was put together to
analyse 19 th century Russian verse and has been adjusted for the present study, i.e.
the analysis of ancient verse.

150
 II Human relationships 3.4
II Defectiveness 0.5
II Dirt 0.3
II Nakedness 0.6
II Clothes 4.1
II Excrement 0.9
II Functional states 10
II Death 1.7
II Residence 1.7
III Religion 13.1
III Art 0.1
III Morals 3.4
III Institutions of justice 0.9
III Property 5.2
III Work 6.6
III Origin 0.6
III War 1.1
III Laws 2.5
III International relationships 1
III Leisure 0.3

Table 4. Tropes in analysed texts

Alle- Epi- Hyper- Irony Meta- Metony- Para- Simile

Author gory thet bole phor my phrase
Archilochus 6% 22% 34 % 13% 25%
Hipponax 39% 16% 24% 5% 16%
Homer 54% 1% 0.1% 16% 16% 9% 4%
Semonides 8% 20% 1% 46% 11% 2% 12%
Solon 29% 35% 18% 18%

Table 5. The tropology of the more important themes

Author Theme Ep. Hyp. Ir. Metaph. Meton. Par. Sim.

Homer Gods, heavenly 64% 14 % 8% 14 %
Qualities and states of mind 47% 1% 1% 15% 28% 10%
War 59% 1% 12% 16% 8% 4 %
Hipponax Gods, heavenly 89% 11%
Qualities and states of mind 67% 17% 17%
Archilochus Gods, heavenly 67% 33%
Qualities and states of mind 33% 33% 33%

Maria-Krist iina Lot man 151

 Semonides Gods, heavenly 33% 50% 17%
Qualities and states of mind 31% 4% 41% 14 % 10%
Solon Qualities and states of mind 100%

Thus, in Hipponactean poetry, themes prevail which are related

to, on the one hand, gods and, on the other hand, human qualities
and states of mind. At the same time, functional states and religion
are important as well. It has to be noted that gods in Hipponax do
not appear so much as independent personalities (e.g., as do gods
in epic poetry) but appear rather in appeals and supplications, e.g.,
Hipponax 62
ð Zeà p£thr Zeà qeîn ’Olump…wn p£lmu…6
It is interesting that the main gods in Hipponax are Hermes
(35.8%) and Pluto (20%): the latter does not even belong to the clas-
sical pantheon. Next in importance are Apollo and Athena, and only
then comes Zeus. The tropology of this theme is rather poor, the
main trope being epithet. Once we come across a metonymy (cf. the
general tropology in Hipponax in table 2). Even more frequent than
the thematics of gods are religion, including supplications (33.9%),
the motif of the scape-goat (37.4%) and prophecy (24.3%).
Human qualities and states of mind are the most important scope
of themes for Hipponax. Although misery plays a rather substantial
role (46.7%), besides negative categories we also come across positive
states and qualities (happiness, wisdom, pureness, and neatness). In
addition there are qualities which belong rather to the sphere of mor-
als such as profligacy (12%), or the negative qualities of men such as
stupidity (6.5%) – let us not forget that Hipponactean poetry has a
satirical and even offensive nature, e.g., Hipponax 1
T…j ÑmfalhtÒmoj se tÕn dioplÁga
œyhse k¢pšlousen ¢skar…zonta7.
As for tropes, the tropology of this theme is also poor: we can
find only epithets (66%), metonymy (17%) and metaphors (17%).

6
“Zeus, tsar of Gods Olympian, father…”
7
“What navel snipstress wiped you, dolt blasted, and, as you hoofed around, washed
you.”

152
The proportions are in accordance with the general tropology in
Hipponax.
The semantics of choliambi is to a great extent determined by
its association with lower genres – thus, there are copious semantic
nuances which almost never appear, for instance, in epic poetry. Such
motifs are dirt, filthiness, excrement, defectiveness, and especially fre-
quent is the thematics of human functional states (10% in Hipponax).
For example, in Hipponax 56
DÕj cla‹nan `Ippènakti, k£rta g¦r ∙igî
kaˆ bambalÚzw8.
It is interesting that in such themes the tropological structure
is quite different from the average data of Hipponax: there are no
epithets, while metaphors and metonymies, as well as one simile,
prevail.
Accordingly, the main features of the semantics of the Hippon-
actean choliambi are as follows: 1) the thematics of gods is important,
but it is realised differently than in higher genres: the most important
deities are Hermes – the god of traders and thiefs, and Pluto – personi-
fied wealth; 2) there are abundant motifs and themes characteristic of
lower genres, e.g. dealing with bodily functions. There are also threats,
invectives, criticism and mockery of negative human qualities, etc.
The distinct nature of the semantics of choliambi becomes espe-
cially obvious in comparison with other important Ionian metres, i. e.
dactylic hexameter and iambic trimeter.
Table 6 contains data on the thematics of hexametrical verses.

Table 6. Homer’s thematics

Theme %
I Gods, heavenly 12.4
I Fate 0.3
I Spirits of nature 6.8
I Cosmos 0.5
I Air/atmosphere 0.1

8
“Give Hipponax a great coat: chilly I am – I beg you I am right chilly and my teeth
chatter.”

Maria-Krist iina Lot man 153

 I Sea 1
I Air/sky 0.1
I Artificial landscape 0.5
I Fauna 0.7
I Time 1
I Earth 0.1
II Human being 0.1
II Faith 0.2
II Human qualities and states of mind 21.5
II Human relationships 2.9
II Family 3.7
II Defectiveness 0.3
II Hygiene 0.2
II Clothes 0.1
II Functional states 0.4
II Death 4.6
III Religion 1.5
III Art 2.8
III Morals 3.3
III Property 0.4
III Work 3.3
III Origin 0.5
III State, governing the state 7.5
III War 17.2
III Patriotism 0.9
III International relationships 4.9
III Mythology 0.3

In the group of hexametrical verses the themes can be categorised

in the following way: the thematics of universe – 23%, the themat-
ics linked to humans – 34%, social themes – 43%. It reveals that the
most recurrent themes in the analysed passage are a) supernatural
beings (gods 12.4%; spirits of nature 6.8%); b) human qualities and
states of mind (21.5%); and c) war (17.2%). Death (4.6%), as well as
governing the state (7.5%) and international relationships (4.9%) are
also of importance.
In the case of the theme ‘gods, heavenly’ we are mostly dealing
with divine personages, who, as a rule, belong to the classical pan-
theon: the main character is Hephaestus (who forges weaponry for

154
Achilles), but also important are Zeus, Athena and Ares. Only 1.8% of
the instances of this theme are not related to some divine personage,
but are realized in the subtheme ‘divine judging’.
The prevailing tropes are epithets (64.5%), cf., e.g., Homer 18, 227
…tÕ d da‹e qe¦ glaukîpij ’Aq»nh9.
There are also metaphors, paraphrases and, to a small extent,
metonymies. But if we compare these data to the average Homeric
tropology (table 4), we notice that in the analysed passage there are
no similes on the theme of gods, while the level of epithets is higher
than usual (cf. also tab. 5).
The other important theme in the 18th book of the Iliad is human
qualities and states of mind. A more detailed analysis showed that
negative emotions such as grief, sorrow, fear, anger, and regret prevail.
There are no positive states and the only positive qualities are wisdom
and eloquence. The tropology of the given theme is somewhat differ-
ent from that of the theme ‘gods, heavenly’: there are fewer epithets
than on average, cf., e.g., Homer 18, 97
T¾n d mšg’ Ñcq»saj prosšfh pÒdaj çkÝj ’AcilleÚj…10
At the same time, the occurrences of metonymies are remarkably
more frequent (27.7%), cf., e.g., Homer 18, 34
…deid…e g¦r m¾ laimÕn ¢pam»seie sid»rJ11.
In addition to that there are metaphors (14.9%), paraphrases
(9.6%) and, to a small extent, irony and hyperboles.
The third important sphere in the given passage is the military
thematics – it is an important difference from Hipponax, who has
almost no themes or motifs related to war. It appeared that the fol-
lowing subthemes dominate here: ‘encouraging to fight’ (20.5%),
‘going to war’ (17.4%), and ‘weaponry’ (16.4%). Also important are
‘success/failure in battle’ (12.5%) and ‘retreat’ (9.5%). As for tropol-
ogy, the most frequent trope is also epithet (59%), the second is
metonymy (16%), followed by metaphor (12%), paraphrase (8%),
simile and hyperbole.

9
“…which the grey-eyed goddess Athena had kindled.”
10
“Swift-footed Achilles, full of care, answered…”
11
“…he feared that he might cut his own throat with iron (i.e. knife).”

Maria-Krist iina Lot man 155

 All in all, the following features can be noted: 1) with the theme
‘gods, heavenly’ more epithets than the average rate in Homer occur;
2) in the case of ‘human qualities and states of mind’, the incidence
of epithets is low, while there are relatively more metonymies; 3) the
military thematics corresponds in every respect to the average indices
in Homer.
The thematics of archaic iambic trimeter is presented in Table 7.

Table 7. Themes in the archaic lyric trimeter.

Theme %
I Gods, heavenly 1.9
I Fate 3.5
I Evil spirits 0.1
I Spirits of nature 0.4
I Earth 1.0
I Landscape 0.5
I Wind 0.2
I Sea 2.1
I Mountains 0.4
I Flora 1.0
I Artificial landscape 0.6
I Fauna 4.2
I Smells 0.4
I Time 0.2
II Human smallness/inability 1.3
II Human suffering 1.7
II Human development 1.2
II Human qualities and states of mind 24.2
II Human relationships 0.3
II Woman/wife 27.9
II Beauty 0.7
II Appearance 0.2
II Defectiveness 0.5
II Ugliness 1.7
II Clothes 0.3
II Functional states 1.4
II Functional states? 1.6
II Death 2.4
III Religion 0.2

156
 III Art 0.5
III Morals 0.8
III Institutions of justice 0.3
III Property 0.8
III Work 1.8
III Origin 0.3
III State, governing the state 9.6
III Laws 0.9
III War 0.8
III Patriotism 0.7
III Leisure 0.7

The proportions of the themes are as follows: universe – 16%,

human being – 65%, society – 17%. Even superficial study reveals
important differences from the above-treated verse metres. Thus,
the centre of interest in the archaic trimeter is the human being
and themes related to him (most of all, human qualities and states
of mind – 24% and woman/wife – 28%; the latter is the favourite
theme in Semonides, in whose works one of the best preserved po-
ems deals with the typology of wives), while gods and other spiritual
creatures are treated to a considerably lesser extent. But the themes
which occur constantly in Hipponax in connection with humans,
for instance, functional states, negative human relationships like
quarreling, strife, invectives and even physical violence, are very
rare in iambic poetry.
Special colouration is achieved through various motifs of nature,
which occur more frequently than in hexametrical and choliambic po-
etry. Their percentage is not very high, but especially in Archilochean
poetry the recurrence of such motifs is very characteristic.
In comparison with hexameter, the incidence of social themes is
remarkably lower, although, due to Solon’s political poetry the per-
centage of themes related to the state and its governing is even higher
than that in Homer. At the same time the motifs of war are almost
completely missing (except for some fragments in Archilochus).
In Tables 8–10 the Archilochean, Solonic and Semonidean data
are presented separately.

Maria-Krist iina Lot man 157

 Table 8. Archilochean thematics

Theme %
I Gods, heavenly 4
I Wind 1.8
I Sea 5.1
I Mountains 1.1
I Flora 8
I Artificial landscape 3.3
I Fauna 4
I Smells 2.2
I Time 1.5
II Human development 8
II Human qualities and states of mind 12
II Human relationships 1.1
II Beauty 6.2
II Appearance 18
II Functional states 1.8
II Death 1.1
III Art 4.4
III Morals 6.9
III Institutions of justice 1.5
III Property 2.6
III Work 7.3
III Origin 2.2
III State, governing the state 1.1
III War 4.4
III Patriotism 2.2
III Leisure 4.4

In Archilochean iambic verses, the themes can be classified as

follows: universe – 31%, human being 32%, society 37%.
It appears that in Archilochos the theme of gods occurs somewhat
more frequently than in other iambographers. This is not realized in
divine personalities as in Homer, but the main motif is divine judging.
The prevailing trope is epithet, for example in Archilochos 48
…pa‹d’ ”Arew mihfÒnou…12
Differently from the above-treated authors, in this theme similes
can be found as well.

12
“…son of bloody Ares…”

158
 As already mentioned, the descriptions and motifs of nature are
recurrent features of Archilochean poetry: the subthemes of flora, as
well as fauna, sea, wind, etc, occur, for example in Archilochus 21
…¼de d’ ést’ Ônou ∙£cij
›sthken Ûlhj ¢gr…hj ™pistef»j13.
and Archilochus 23
yuc¦j œcontej kum£twn ™n ¢gk£laij...14
As for the theme of the human being, in this case his different
stages of development (youth, old age, etc; 8%) and qualities and states
of mind (12%) are important. Tropology is quite poor; to some extent
we can find epithets, metaphors and metonymies. Negative emotions
(grief) and negative qualities (laziness, stupidity) dominate, but at
the same time we come across joy as well. Similarly to Hipponax, in
Archilochus themes related to work, especially fishery and seafaring,
as well as payment (cf. in Hipponax the most frequent is seafaring
and then payment and money) also occur.

Table 9. Semonidean thematics

Theme %
I Gods, heavenly 2
I Fate 4.7
I Evil spirits 0.1
I Spirits of nature 0.6
I Sea 2.1
I Mountains 0.4
I Landscape 0.6
I Artificial landscape 0.3
I Fauna 5.1
I Smells 0.2
II Human smallness/inability 1.8
II Human sufferings 2.4
II Human development 0.4
II Human qualities and states of mind 30.2
II Human relationships 0.3
II Woman/wife 37.5

13
“But this isle stands like the backstone of an ass, crowned with savage wood.”
14
“with their lives in the arms of the waves…”

Maria-Krist iina Lot man 159

 II Defectiveness 0.7
II Ugliness 2.3
II Clothes 0.4
II Functional states 0.1
II Functional states? 1.9
II Death 3.1
III Religion 0.2
III Institutions of justice 0.2
III Work 1.2
III War 0.4
III Leisure 0.2

At the centre of Semonidean poetry is the human being, as the

following proportions show: universe – 20%, human being – 77%,
society – 2%. Human qualities and states of mind are the main themes
in Semonides: especially in the misogynic seventh poem, the satiric de-
piction of women, where the types of women have been distinguished
to describe their main features of character, which are mostly negative.
Moreover, women are compared to different animals (which is the
cause of the high incidence of fauna motifs in Semonidean poetry).
Accordingly, negative features such as laziness (7.6%), capriciousness
(10.8%), passivity (11.3%), etc prevail. To a small extent, positive quali-
ties such as manliness, respectability, and heroism can be found, as
well as positive states of mind (happiness, hope). The tropology is rich,
metaphors dominate (41.2%), and there are numerous hyperboles
(31.4%) and metonymies (13.7%). Similes and irony can be found as
well. Semonides does not use epithet, which was the main trope both
in Hipponax and Homer.
The theme of the gods is not very frequent in Semonides (as is true
in other iambic poets); the main motifs are divine abandonment and
judging. Zeus and Hermes are mentioned. Only a few tropes occur in
this theme: there are some metaphors, epithets and paraphrases.

Table 10. Solon’s thematics

Theme %
I Earth 7.1
II Human qualities and states of mind 3.8

160
 II Functional states 7.4
III Property 3.6
III State, governing the state 65.1
III Laws 5.9
III Patriotism 3

Solon, the statesman of Athens, composed poems about his own

political achievements, praising his statesmanlike wisdom and accom-
plished reforms. Thus, the central theme of his poetry is the state and
its governing (cf. the following distribution of themes: universe – 7%,
human being – 11%, society – 78%), but laws, property and patriotism
are also important. Indeed, such thematic preferences are very dif-
ferent from those in the other analysed authors: although for Homer
as well social themes were important, they were mostly realized in
military thematics, which are not found in Solon’s poetry. Solon is
the only analysed author who has no divine motifs and, differently
from other iambographers, themes linked to the human being are
insignificant in his work.

Conclusion.

The asymmetrical nature of choliambus becomes evident on the

metrical level, where in the last foot the anticipated short syllable is
replaced by a long one, and on the rhythmical level, where different
parts of the verse are subject to different correspondence rules. Moreo-
ver, the same tendencies are manifested also in the semantic structure
of choliambus: this disharmonic verse is associated with themes which
are also “disharmonic”: invectives, threats, filthiness, etc – such themes
rarely occur in other analysed metres. Thus, we can say that metre
here has a distinctive iconical function that becomes especially evident
in comparison with other archaic metres. For example, we saw that
hexameter, being a so-called longer verse metre than the choliambus
or iambic trimeter, marks great and important things such as war and
gods, and sublime emotions such as grief and loss, while the thematics
of iambic trimeter, which was considered the verse form most similar
to everyday speech, is more ordinary and neutral.

Maria-Krist iina Lot man 161

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метра в русской поэзии второй половины XIX века (А.А.Фет
и Н.А.Некрасов) Slowianska metryka porownawcza III: Semantyka
form wierszowych. Wroclaw etc., cc. 105–143.
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Maria-Krist iina Lot man 163

 SOME A SPECTS OF TRANSFIGURATION AND /OR TRANSCENDENCE
IN DINO CAMPANA’S L A CHIMERA

Ülar Ploom

THE PURPOSE OF this article is to study some aspects of the problem of

transfiguration and transcendence in La chimera, the keynote poem
(cf. e.g. Ramella 1997: 131) in Dino Campana’s cycle Notturni and
one of the most quoted examples of the whole corpus of the Canti
Orfici, first published in 1914.1 According to some critics, Campana is
the first significant forerunner or even representative of the hermetic
tradition in the 20th century Italian poetry (cf. e.g. Grana 1986; Jones
1986: 77, 79), a point of some debate in Italian literary criticism (Jones
1986: 77, 79), which will not be discussed here, whereas it is almost
unanimously approved that his lyric should be viewed in the tradition
of 20th century Orphic poetry2 .
In order to detect the historic roots of 20th century Orphism,
one should consider two main developments which give rise to its
conceptuality and form: mythological and transcendental poetry,
which was theoretically postulated by Schlegel and Novalis at the
end of the 18th century as a reflection on the nature of romantic
poetry,3 and French Symbolism in the latter half of the 19th century,

1
On the unfortunate loss of the original manuscript in 1913 (because of which the
poet had to reconstruct the whole corpus by memory, with changes of course) and
its rediscovery 60 years later cf. e.g. Falqui (AA.VV. 1973: 27–33); D. De Robertis
(AA.VV. 1973: 33–49); Bonifazi (AA.VV. 1973: 50–79).
2
For a somewhat different view cf. Grana 1986: 713ff. On the decidedly orphic nature
of Campana cf. e.g. Li Vigni 1983: 7–11 and passim.
3
For the definitions of romantic poetry cf. Schlegel`s Athenäums-Fragment 116
(Schlegel 1988). For a recent survey of the connections between romantic and tran-
scendental poetry and their philosophical sources cf. Euron 2002: 45–74.

164 Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4,

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
with Poe and Baudelaire as its forerunners. The most revolutionary
outcome of the form is the appearance of poetic prose (Baudelaire)
and free verse (Whitman, Kahn, Rimbaud, Krysinska etc.), which
apart from the liberty in verse schemes also meant innovations in
stanza and rhyme (cf. e.g. Zoboli 1997: 28ff.). On the other hand,
there was a peculiar, almost scientific, keenness in search of both
the new poetic word, the so-called “pure” word as related to the
unknown, and therefore different from the common word, as Li
Vigni mentions in reference to M. Blanchot (Li Vigni 1983, ch. I.),
and studies in sound symbolism, reaching their apex with Rimbaud
and Mallarmé.
In the second half of the 19th century the idealistic and romantic
spirit prepared the ground for some ideas of the Rosecrucians and
was both developed and contended by the Pantheistic Dionysian
philosophy of Nietzsche, who exercised a major influence on French
Postsymbolism around 1900 and characterizes the mainstream of
European Decadentism.4
As far as the case of Dino Campana is concerned, it is possible
to point out some concrete statements as to his fascination with or-
phic, Dionysian and cosmic ideas (cf. Del Serra 1973: 3ff), but he
has generally been considered by critics to have that sort of poetic
intelligence which does not make it possible to “measure him with
[any exact – Ü.P.] parametres of culture” (Jacobbi 1976: 39 – 40). In
fact, Campana himself has referred to his indebtedness to mainly Poe
and Whitman, whose collection of poetry he carried in his pocket,
but surely Carducci and D’Annunzio (in their turn influenced by
Novalis, Heine and Nietzsche), to some extent Leopardi, and the
mentioned French poets, have all conditioned his poetic development
(cf. e.g. Jones 1986: 203; Li Vigni 1983: 10). Of course, considering
such variety, almost anything could be postulated and, in fact, several
critics have expostulated with Campana about this kind of “many-
sidedness”and ambiguity. Yet if we consider the fact, that the poet is
not consistent in his myth symbolic either (Luti: 21ff), we cannot find

4
Cf. e.g. Del Serra 1973: 3ff. Del Serra refers to Raymond 1968.

Ülar Ploom 165

 fault with his “clichés”; we must either accept his own self-definition
as a representative of “poesia europea musicale colorita”5 (cf. Dante’s
“fictio rhetorica musicaque poita”6) or see in it an early sign of the
present-day “postmodern condition”.
I shall therefore, in a way, follow Dino’s example and make an
attempt to discuss La chimera in a wide perspective, tracing some
results of the critical views on 20th century Orphism to their remote
ideological roots in mythological and transcendental poetry, and also
consider La chimera’s connection to the problem of the other, known
from Levinas’ works.
Transcendental poetry (cf. e.g. Athenäums-Fragment 238), as a
conception, is the outcome of Kantian critical philosophy, which aims
not so much at conceiving the objects of the conscience but rather
the modes, conditions and possibilities of the conscious, that which
we might call the function of metaconscious (cf. Euron 2002: 46 – 52).
This type of “autoconscious”, for it “represents together with the
produced also the producer”(Athenäums-Fragment 238) is made the
object of lyrical representation. Accordingly, it concentrates rather on
the how, on the evolvement of the “inside” of the poet, making it the
what as its object. Therefore the outcome is not the classical mimesis
but the romantic transcendence. The inside of the individual being
infinite, transcendence results in the so-called progressive poetry, the
infinite movement. Each finite outside form is the representation of
the infinite inside movement.7
One of the main characteristic features of the 20th century
Orphism, as defined by Ramella (1997: 129 –131), is the birth of the
poetic word in the indistinct inside of the poet which reveals the es-
sence of the Universe, making it a superior conscious, suprerior even
to his human condition. The poetic word thus becomes the cognitive

5
Del Serra refers to Campana’s intuitive self-definition in Parini 1938: 25.
6
De vulgari eloquentia II, IV. Several direct and indirect allusions in the Canti orfici to
Dante testify to Campana’s fascination with his great forerunner.
7
In fact in Athenäums-Fragment 116 Schlegel maintains that romantic poetry is
capable of producing the highest and the most universal culture, and not only from
the inside towards outside, but also from the outside to the inside, as it organizes in
a harmonious way all the parts of that which in its outcome should be a Unity. Cf.
also Euron 2002: 49.

166
instrument, which does not convey reality in its utilitarian key, but
rather makes it possible to take a contemplative approach towards
the deterministic genesis or the divine origin of the whole cosmos.
Therefore it is the beyond (oltre) which is the point of reference of the
orphic poet, the connection with the “materia metafisica”(ibid. 130).
The principal method of the orphic revival is through memory. It
is orphic memory that links experienced data to the cosmic and the
transcendent (ibid.).
Of course, in order to avoid confusion, it is important to keep
in mind that the terms “transcendental” and “transcendent” are
actually different. The first relates to the conditions and modes
of the conscious (the how), the second one to that which surpasses
physical reality (the what), or the inside and the outside, but they
are necessarily connected. In fact, with Schlegel transcendental
poetry tends to become transcendent, for Schlegel, who, more
than by Kant, was influenced by Fichte, extends the possibilities
of intellectual knowledge to the self-conscious of the spirit, which
in this process of self-determination first goes out of itself and
then returns into itself (cf. Euron 2002: 47). As a result, the inside
seems to be conceivable as a yonder system existing before and
independently from its single elements, which are contained in it.
Therefore each poem is a finite element of the infinte movement
itself, the infinite whole, the absolute, something which cannot be
referred to in words, yet from which all that is said proceeds (cf.
Euron 2002: 49 – 52).
The question arises, what does it all have to do with Campana,
who most probably did not know much of Schlegel’s aesthetic? Yet
it seems to me that it will come in handy as a point of reference to
agree or disagree with, when closely reading some of Campana’s
lyrics, including La chimera. But first I would like to discuss some
views which deny any transcending nature of Campana’s poetry
whatsoever.
For example, Jones maintains that the key term to interpret
Campana’s poetic should not be transcendence but transfiguration
(1986: 196 and passim). Jones does not give any lengthy definitions

Ülar Ploom 167

 or explanations of either term, but mentions that Campana’s aim
is “to imply imaginatevily rather than to state conceptually the
lyrical truths inherent in modern society”(ibid. 194). Further on
Jones says that Campana’s poetry “essentially [...] amounts to noth-
ing more idealistic than a concrete transfiguration of events and
feelings”(ibid. 196) and that it “stops short of erecting metaphysi-
cal superstructures for transcending reality” (ibid.) Accordingly, it
would be erroneous to look for preconceived goals, as the poet’s
“true lyrical insight is always infinite process and response”, an
“endless delay in the final consummation of the orphic process
of attaining memorial omniscence, which normally results in the
hypostasis of the image through its ultimate orphic purification”
(ibid. 198).
Curiously enough it is exactly the same viewpoint which was
stressed by Schlegel in his conception of transcendental poetry as
progressive poetry and infinite movement, as was discussed before, the
only exception being that with Schlegel stability is secured by the
infinite yonder system.
Ramella, departing from the general historic conception of
orphism, observes in reference to La chimera that “the effort of remi-
niscence [...] turns out to be the occasion for de-corporating from
the historical experience of the “I”, through a series of analogical
associations, the poetic perception of the Absolute, the unknown, the
divine, the atemporal (1997: 131). And Ramella adds that “the poem,
both the means and the objective of the cognitive process, is realized
only in the chronological nullification, resulting in the mythical and
illuminating presence [...]” (ibid.).
There are two observations here which coincide with Schlegel’s
theory: the autoconscious feature which stresses the metalinguistic
function of transcendental poetic8 and the mythical transcend-
ing presence which is the outcome of the first (cf. Euron 2002:
73 –74).
It is possible to see that both Jones’s and Ramella’s views on

8
On this affinity of Schlegel’s viewpoint to Jakobson’s later poetic function cf. Euron
2002: 51.

168
Campana coincide with some of Schlegel’s views on transcendental
romantic poetry and its transcending character, which is surely one of
the sources for the oprhic tradition in the modern European lyric, the
difference being, however, that while Ramella takes transcendence to
be granted also in Campana’s case, then Jones denies the transcending
nature of his verse, preferring instead to speak of Dino’s imaginative
transfiguration as a method.
Therefore one necessarily wonders whether it is not a mere ques-
tion of different terminology rather than that of different approaches.
But Jones tends to stress the cognitive, visionary transformations in
Campana, which never reach any final spiritual stasis, but which re-
main the eternal becoming, so that the poet uses the material world
“for the purpose of ascending metaphorically instead of metaphysi-
cally “nello spazio, fuori del tempo” (“into space, out of time”) (Jones
1986: 207). Also Ramella, as we have seen, pointed out the atemporal
features of Campana’s poetry.9 The past is thus perpetuated in its
re-evocation in the present, whereby it loses its timely qualities and
becomes, instead, space, a device which is, for example, widely known
from Borges’ short prose. Under this perspective, the “then” and
the “now” might hypothetically be seen as the spatial equivalents of
“this” and “that”, which in turn submerge like chromatic differences
or different intensities of colours, which is one of the main devices of
Campana’s poetic.10
If and how these differences are erased or maintained, either
temporal, spatial or otherwise psycho-identical, is the precise objective
of my close-reading, on the basis of which I shall then judge whether
to opt for transfiguration or transcendence as the main underlying
device of the interpretation of La chimera.
In order to make it easier to follow my close reading, I shall give
the text in full,11 but I shall restructure it according to the principles
which I shall discuss below.

9
Li Vigni (1983: 8) even suggests both the “re-invenzione della dimensione a-spaziale
and a-temporale” (reinvention of the aspatial and atemproal dimension).
10
On the chromatic in Campana cf. e.g. Del Serra 1973.
11
The text is reported from Campana 1928.

Ülar Ploom 169

 A1
Non so se tra le rocce il tuo pallido
Viso m’apparve, o sorriso
Di lontananze ignote
Fosti, la china eburnea12
Fronte fulgente o giovine
Suora de la Gioconda :
O delle primavere
Spente, per i tuoi mitici pallori
O Regina o Regina adolescente : 9

A2
Ma per il tuo ignoto poema
Di volutta’ e di dolore
Musica fanciulla esangue,
Segnato di linea di sangue
Nel cerchio delle labbra sinuose,
Regina de la melodia :
Ma per il vergine capo
Reclino, io poeta notturno
Vegliai le stelle vivide nei pelaghi del cielo 18

A3
Io per il tuo dolce mistero
Io per il tuo divenir taciturno. 20

B
Non so se la fiamma pallida
Fu dei capelli il vivente
Segno del suo pallore, 23
Non so se fu un dolce vapore,
Dolce sul mio dolore,
Sorriso di un volto notturno : 26

12
According to Parronchi (2001) the initial variant of 1914, which was later simplified
by Campana for the sake of the editor, goes as follows: Non so se tra rocce il tuo pal-
lido/Viso m’apparve in sorriso/Di lontananze ignote/ O che la china eburnea [...]

170
 C
Guardo le bianche rocce le mute fonti dei venti
E l’immobilita’ dei firmamenti
E i gonfii rivi che vanno piangenti
E l’ombre del lavoro umano curve la’ sui poggi
algenti
E ancora per teneri cieli lontane chiare ombre
correnti
E ancora ti chiamo ti chiamo Chimera. 32

I do not know whether your pale face appeared to me among the

rocks, or whether you were a smile of unknown horizons, with your
inclined [shining] ivory brow, o young Sister of the Mona Lisa: O
Queen, o youthful Queen of past springs, by virtue of your mythical
paleness: but for your unknown poem of voluptuousness and grief,
o musical bloodless girl, marked with a line of blood on the circle
of your sinuous lips, o Queen of melody: but for your virgin reclin-
ing head I, poet of night, surveyed the vivid stars in the ocean of
heaven, I for your sweet mystery, I for your silent becoming. [I do not
know whether the pallid flame of the hair was the vivid sign of her
pallor, I do not know whether it was the sweet vapours, sweet upon
my pain, the smile of a nocturnal face. ] I gaze at the white rocks,
the silent founts of the wind and the impassivity of the firmament
and the swollen streams which weepingly pass by and the shadows
of human toil bent over the freezing hills, and still gazing through
tender skies at flowing and distant clear shadows, still I call you, I
call you Chimera.13

I think that Jones is absolutely right to recall, in connection of just

this poem, the scene of Orpheus descending into the Underworld to
retrieve Euridyce. And of course, in order to do so, Dino/Orpheus goes
beyond. However, there is something more, in both Orpheus’myth and
also in Campana’s poem, in question, which makes me wonder about

13
The English translation is Jones’ (1986: 213–214), except for the part in brackets,
which is mine.

Ülar Ploom 171

 the medium of his transgression, for in so doing, or rather in order
to do so, both Orpheus and also the lyrical “I” in La chimera make
an attempt at striving for the other, although this other in Campana’s
case is a very peculiar one.14
In Greek-Roman mythology the khimaira/chimaera is a monster
with the body and the head of a lion, a second head of a goat grow-
ing out of its body, and with the tail of a serpent. In the figurative
meaning it also stands for a vain dream, illusion, fantasy, utopia, but
also a fantastic, strange and capricious collision of ideas, fantasies,
images or styles. Therefore we may say that Dino, the orphic poet,
seeks for the other, yet – the other resulting in Chimera – he paradoxi-
cally also seeks for/finds a myriad of strange forms or nonsense or
even nothing.
If we consider the story of Orpheus’ descent into Hell in its lat-
ter part, beginning with his attempt at returning with Euridyce to
Earth until his death, we may discern three phases. The first one is
the phase of attempting to retrieve Euridyce, which culminates with
the backward look, the second one is Orpheus’ regret and solitude,
and the third one is the bacchanal phase of loss and peril when the
priestesses of Dionysios attack him and tear him to pieces.
In Campana’s poem there are also three phases with their cor-
responding spatial, temporal and psycho-identical characteristics. It
is according to this principle that I have restructured La chimera into
three main phases: A, B, C.
The first phase occupies a total of 20 lines (9+9+2), the second
one 6 lines (3+3) and the third one 6 (1+5) lines. I shall call phase
A the you-phase ( fase del tu), phase B the she-phase ( fase del lei) and
phase C the I-phase ( fase del io).
The first phase is the you-phase because it is “you” which is in
focus, or the relation of “I” to the gradual appearance of “you”. In
the she-phase there is a detachment from “you” which transforms
into “she”(cf. v. 21). In the third phase “I” is in focus in relation to
the absence of “you”.

14
I know that it might seem somewhat violent to use this Levinas’ ethical category
outside of its historical context, yet it seems to be relevant in this case.

172
 The first phase (you-phase) may be divided into three subsec-
tions A1, A2, A3.
A1 (verses 1-9) may be expressed briefly like this:

Non so se il tuo X m’apparve, o Y fosti.

(I do not know if your X appeared, or if you were Y)

A2 (verses 9-18) appears as follows:

Per il tuo Z vegliai le stelle

(For your Z I surveyed the stars)

A3 (verses 19-20) is the following:

Io per il tuo X
Io per il tuo Y
(I for your X
I for your Y)

The possible presence of the past can be studied only in phase

A, the you-phase. Here the orphic elements stand out clearly: the
de-corporation of forms, the de-coloration of hues, the silencing of
tones, the de-maturation of the whole essence of the eternal Femi-
nine. We actually witness a cross-wise movement. On the one hand
Chimera/Euridyce is retrieved from the past into the present, but on
the other hand Dino/Orpheus, with his song, retrieves himself into
the past. The attempt at the positive retrieval of the other is made at
the expense of the negative process of retrieval.15

15
Cf. Li Vigni’s (1983: 9) observation on the nature of orphic poetry and poesia pura:
“Orfeo ci ricorda come il parlare poeticamente e lo sparire dell’Essere appartengono
ad uno stesso movimento in cui attraverso la morte anticipata si cancella ogni certezza
dell’essere.” (Orpheus reminds us how poetic speaking and the disappearance of
Being belong to the same movement in which, through death, all certainty of being
is cancelled). I agree with the importance of negative retrieval, a kind of Mallarmean
“rien” or the “blancheur”, yet in Camapana’s case it simultaneously tends to produce
the positive nature of the beyond and the other, although this is then diminished to
next to nothing in the mutual absorption with the negative.

Ülar Ploom 173

 At this point, we might think of the method of the negative theol-
ogy professed by Pseudo-Dionysios and followed keenly in the earlier
stages of the Middle Ages. In order to reach the divine, all the contin-
gent layers which the mortals may think to apply in referring to Him
are torn off. And what remains is His true essence. Similarly Dino, the
orphic poet, first tears away the positive contingent layers in order to
discover the queen of the lontanzne ignote (unknown distances), delle
primavere spente (extinct springs), mitici pallori (mythical pallor) and
the ignoto poema (unknown poem), to grasp the essence of the fanciulla
esangue (bloodless girl) and celebrate her sweet mystery (dolce mistero)
and her silent becoming (il tuo diventar taciturno).
The negative method is necessary so that her positive pure nature
can appear: fronte fulgente (shining brow), Regina adolescente [delle
primavere spente] (adolescent Queen of extinct springs), ignoto poema
di volutta’ e di dolore (unknown poem of voluptuousness and pain),
musica fanciulla esangue, segnato di linea di sangue (musical bloodless
girl, marked with a line of blood), regina di melodia – per il tuo divenir
taciturno (Queen of melody – your silent becoming).
We see this sort of chiasmatic entwining of the two extremes
throughout the first phase (and also in the second phase) of the
poem.16 This is, structurally, clearly to be perceived also in the three
subsections of phase A, for

A1 – (Io) non so se... tu / I do not know if ...you (-)

is chiasmatic to

A2 – Ma per il tuo... io / But for your .... I (+)

The de-corporation and dis-intensification is to a certain extent

counterbalanced by the appeareance of the inside qualities, whereas this
juxtaposition is represented very clearly by the following two lines:

16
Schlegel has defined an idea as a concept which is carried out until irony, an absolute
synthesis of absolute antithesis, the continuous self-generating alternation of two
conflicting ideas. Cf. Athenäums-Fragment 121.

174
 Musica fanciulla esangue,
Segnato di linea di sangue

There are also some intensifying adjectives (fronte fulgente, v.

5, shining brow17, giovine suora, v. 6, young sister) to counterbalance
the regressive diasappearence of life.
But the acme of this cross-wise, chiasmatic shifting of the inside
out and the outside in, so that it is actually difficult to say at one point
what the direction is18, is caught in the powerful smile of the young
age-old Queen, the sister of Mona Lisa Gioconda (vv. 2– 5).
And as a final synthesis of the whole of phase A, the you-phase
ends with the balanced result in the two lines of A3:

A3 Io per il tuo dolce mistero, (0)

Io per il tuo divenir taciturno. (0)
(I for you sweet mystery,
I for your silent becoming.)

Again the you is focused in relation to the I, whereas the bal-

ance is accentuated by the oxymoron of divenir taciturno. At the
same time, the outcome is both positive and negative, actually
something of which it is difficult to say what it is, for it is both and
nothing.19
To come now to the posed question of either transfiguration or
transcendence, I think it is possible to agree with Jones partly, for

17
Which Jones has not translated, perhaps because his approach focuses on the regres-
sive.
18
The problem of negative theology in reference to the inside and the outside raised a
great polemic between Foucault and Derrida at the end of the 1960s in connection
of Blanchot and Bataille. Cf. Bradley 2002: 57–74.
19
Campana is an undeniable master of this kind of double symbolic. His antitheses are
no Petrarchan antitheses, for example, but a kind of mutual extinction of intensities
on both sides, which nevertheless gives rise to new forms. In fact, Campana has
himself said, “Nel fuggire la stretta oppressione dei contrari si crea l’arte” (By evad-
ing the restricted oppression of oppositions, art is created). Cf. Taccuinetto faentino,
VII. Cf. also some of his other remarks of the same kind, such as “Il motivo e la
forma del collegamento suppone l’imagine” (the image is produced by linking the
motif and the form) and “ad ogni poesia fare il quadro” (to create a frame for each
poem), in which De Robertis has juxtaposed the p and the q. Cf. Del Serra: 8.

Ülar Ploom 175

 there are strings of synechdoche which shift into each other: the
face, the smile, the forehead, the colours...
But, in the first place, there is here, through this pars pro toto, a
striking poetic proof of Schlegel’s thesis of the infinite yonder system
being expressed in finite forms which are but singular cases of that
infinite movement. In fact, we never get a full picture of the Chimera,
yet each given detail refers to her full entity, which is however never
really there except for her gradual silent becoming.
In the second place, transformation proceeds, as I have already
observed, in both directions, with forms being both subdued and in-
tensified, with the culmination in Gioconda’s smile, which is a smile
and perhaps not, the archismile, and in the discussed oxymoronic
divenir taciturno. In these elements, in the depicted zero smile and the
corresponding cross-wise linguistic usage, which tends to render the
poetic presentation of the past a lingering moment of transcendence,
is a tendency to nullify both time and space.
How about the space charcateristics? In phase A there are two
space markers: the seemingly finite spatial form is that of “between
the rocks” (tra le rocce) where the gradual appearance of “you” hap-
pens which may be juxtaposed to the infinite cosmos of the lyrical “I”
surveying “the stars in the ocean of heaven” (ma per ... vegliai le stelle
nei pelaghi del cielo). But the rocks as a space marker tend to be almost
as vague as the ocean of heavens. And the “you” of “extinct springs”
(primavere spente) is not only the marker of the quality of “you”, but
also of the fusion of times which tends to be fused with space.
But there is one more strange oppositional balance, caused by a
significant temporal split in the lyrical “I”. There is the Dino to who
the moment of seeing happens as a succession of present moments,
and there is the other Dino for who that presence is already the past,
which could be schematically expressed as

Non so se ..... X fosti.... Y fu...... io vegliai.20 presence vs past

(I do not know if .... you were X .... Y was ... I surveyed)

20
Of course, we may distinguish between Dino the cognizing “I” and Dino the reflect-
ing “I”.

176
 Even though the past is used with extreme parsimony, it does not,
however, abolish the crude temporal gap, enforced by the use of the
passato remoto, remote past, which does not have even such a connection
with the present as, for example, the passato prossimo (even though the
passato remoto as a shorter form is clearly more suitable for rhythmic
reasons). On the other hand, if I do not know if something happened,
did it happen? Another zero point. But even for that nothing, the
lyrical “I” surveyed the stars. Which is no zero point, but something
certain. Consequently there is a psycho-identical chiasm in the lyri-
cal “I”, which might also be seen as the difference of not “now” and
“then”, but “this” and “that”.
The second phase (she-phase) differs from the first phase mainly
because of its transitory, alienating nature. First and foremost, the
“you” is transformed into the less personal “her”in one single use of
the possessive pronoun segno del suo pallore (“sign of her paleness”).
On the other hand the second positive subsection of the first pahse
(A2) is turned upside down in turn, and the uncertain non so se is
revised in the first subsection of this phase (B1). In the second subsec-
tion (B2) there occurs a new chiasmatic subdual of the first subsection,
resulting in dolce vapore (sweet vapours), dolce sul mio dolore (sweet
upon my pain) and sorriso d’un volto notturno ( smile on a nocturnal
face), which counterbalances, even effaces, the smile painted in phase
A. With this expedient, the fugitive nature of the series of transforma-
tions is, on the one hand, accentuated, and on the other hand, the
loss of the transcending moment seems inevitable.21
Euridyce/Chimera disappears, if she ever was there, and the
past-present becomes gradually different from the present-present
in the third phase.
The third phase (I-phase) with no noticeable temporal or spatial
gap within the lyrical “I”, but with a psycho-identical void instead (for
the nostalgy of calling her again), is the most statical part of Cam-
pana’s poem, resulting in the heavy use of polysyndeton throughout
the third phase:

21
Keep in mind that at one point Campana presents himself in another cycle, La Notte,
as Faust.

Ülar Ploom 177

 Guardo.......
E l’immobilita’...
E i gonfi rivi...
E l’ombre....
E ancora....
E ancora.....

This heaviness is accompanied by some of the longest verse lines

of the whole poem and long and heavy lexical stock (e.g. immobilita’,
firmamenti), with which a much more concrete space is conveyed: the
sky, the rocks, the riverbanks, the slopes.
In this phase there are also moments of transfiguration, for scenes
proceed and replace each other, but not that kind of cross-wise trans-
figuration witnessed in the first phase of the poem, no possibility of
transcendence, only the melancholy yearning for it:

E ancora ti chiamo ti chiamo Chimera.

The last line is still phonetically pregnant with repeated mysteries.

For the uncertain non so se, with which the poem begins, may give
rise to wishing to discern in the last line such subjective sequences as:
chi amo (who do I love?) and Chi (m) era (who was it with me?).22
Finally, I feel tempted to offer one more, overall formula of
Campana’s poem:

Non so se /fosti, fu/ ............ ma vegliai.......... non so se fu.........

ma chiamo Chimera

or rather

I (-)…I (+)… I (-)…I (+) 0/?

I quite agree with Ramella (1997: 133) who points out that in the

22
I refer especially to Ferri 1985: 96.

178
Chimera, although I should rather say Euridyce-Chimera, we have to
look not only for the Eternal Feminine but also for Poetry in action
(cf. e.g.“il tuo ignoto poema di volutta’ e di dolore”), for a yearning
for the vain, the illusive, the fantastic and the utopian, the chimeri-
cal other in the outside/inside who the “I” meets in a string of nega-
tive/positive synechdochic epiphanies which both conceal/reveal and
nullify/question Her and himself, resulting in 32 lines of structurally
both interesting and strange poetry; poetry of transfigured yearning
for the transcendent moment and an attempt at liberating the spirit.23
Yet the moment does not stop and it all has to begin again.

***

That Dino Campana in further stages produced more chaotic

verses than La chimera [cf. e.g. Salgo (nello spazio, fuori del tempo) and
Genova] and that he, just as Rimbaud, later in his life fell into complete
silence (Dino because of his developing madness) might be seen as the
third phase of his personal orphic cycle, that of failing to trace the
other/himself, for once his spirit got liberated, when going beyond, it
may have had considerable difficulties in safely returning.

BIBLIOGR APHY

AA.VV. 1973. Dino Campana oggi. Atti del convegno (Firenze 18–19 marzo
1973). Firenze: Vallecchi.
Bradley, A. 2002. “Thinking the outside: Foucault, Derrida and nega-
tive theology” in Textual Practice 16(1), Routledge, pp. 57–74.
Campana, D. 1928. Canti orfici ed altre liriche. Opera completa. Con
prefazione di B. Binazzi. Firenze: Vallecchi.
Campana, D. 1960. Taccuinetto faentino. A cura di Domenico De Ro-

23
In a letter to Prezzolini, the editor of “La Voce”, Campana wrote, “Scelgo per inviar-
Le la piu’ vecchia e la piu’ ingenua delle mie poesie, vecchia di immagini, ancora
involuta di forme, ma Lei sentira’ l’anima che si libera […] (I choose to send you my
oldest and most innocent poem, old as to its images, still wrapped in forms, but you
shall feel the spirit which is liberated […]. Cf. Falqui 1960: 28–29.

Ülar Ploom 179

 bertis. Prefazione di Enrico Falqui. Firenze: Vallecchi.
Euron, P. 2002. “La Poesia Trascendentale” in Strumenti critici 98, S.
N.,Anno XVII, Gennaio 2002, Fascicolo 1, Bologna: Il Mulino,
pp. 45–74.
Del Serra, M. 1973. L’immagine aperta. Poetica e stilistica dei “Canti orfici”.
Firenze: La Nuova Italia.
Falqui, E. 1960. Per una cronista dei “Canti orfici”. Firenze: Vallecchi.
Ferri, T. 1985. L’infinito del sogno. Prefazione di N. Bonifazi. Roma:
Bulzoni.
Grana, G. 1986. “Gli orfismi europei e l’”orfismo” di Campana” in G.
Grana, Le avanguardie letterarie. Cultura e politica scienza e arte dalla
Scapigliatura alla Neo-avanguardia, vol. II. Milano: Marzorati.
Jacobbi, R. 1976. Invito alla lettura di Campana. Milano: Mursia.
Jones, F.I. 1986. The Modern Italian Lyric. Cardiff: University of Wales
Press.
Li Vigni, I. 1983. Orfismo e poesia in D. Campana. Genova: Il Melan-
golo.
Luti, G. 1984. “Dino Campana” in Un’idea del ‘900. Dieci poeti e dieci
narratori italiani del Novecento. A cura di Paolo Orvieto. Presen-
tazione di Mario Martelli. Roma: Salerno, pp. 15–36
Parronchi, A. 2001. “Ancora su Dino Campana” in La Rassegna della
letteratura italiana. Luglio-dicembre 2001, Firenze: Le lettere.
Parini, C. 1938. Vite non romanzate di Dino Campana e di Evaristo
Boncinelli. Firenze: Vallecchi.
Ramella, R.1997. “Sulle orme di Orfeo” in Il canto strozzato. Poesia
italiana del Novecento. Saggi critici e antologia dei testi a cura di
Giuseppe Langella e Enrico Elli. Nuova edizione aggiornata.
Novara: Interlinea.
Raymond. R.M. 1968. Di Baudelaire a surrealismo. Torino: Einaudi.
Schlegel, F. 1988. Krietische Schriften und Fragmente. Herausgegeben
von Ernst Behler und Hans Eichner. Paderborn: Schöningh.
Zoboli, P. 1997. “Punti di metrica novecentesca” in Il canto strozzato.
Poesia italiana del Novecento, cit.

180 Ülar Ploom

ÜBER DIE LITERATURPOLITISCHE SITUATION IN DEUTSCHLAND
IM FRÜHEN 19. JAHRHUNDERT ANHAND DES “LITERATUR-

BLATTS” UND DER LITERARISCHEN TASCHENBÜCHER

Aigi Heero

AM 6. JANUAR 1824 berichtet das Literatur-Blatt, damals eine der größten

Zeitschriften für Literaturkritik im deutschen Sprachraum, über die
Neuerscheinungen, die pünktlich zum Jahreswechsel erschienen waren.
Einige von diesen Büchern verdienten eine besonders bissige Kritik:

Mannigfaltigkeit ist ihre Tendenz. (...) Sie vermehren z.B. die

Diarrhée der Belletristik, und machen, daß dieselbe immer
mehr von Kräften kommt: aber sie bringen auch viel Geld
in Umlauf der literarischen Republik, und schaffen sogar
den Buchbindern guten Verdienst. Sie verderben zum Theil
den Lesern die Augen durch den kleinen Druck, und den
Geschmack durch schlechte Bilder und schale Erzählungen,
aber sie machen den Frauen Vergnügen, und schaffen ihren
Geistes- und Feder-Kindern ein leichtes und anständiges
Unterkommen. Um dieses reellen Nutzens willen läßt sich
der intellektuelle Schade wohl übersehen; und diejenigen,
welche den lezterwähnten zu Herzen nehmen, mögen sich
mit der Hoffnung trösten, daß die Kalenderperiode ihr Ende
haben wird, wie die Romanenperiode. (...) Der Fliegenwedel
der Kritik, auch wenn er es vermöchte, würde daher Unrecht
daran thun, diese bunten Insekten zu verseuchen. Man hat
prophezeien wollen, daß sie einander bald auffressen wer-
den. Nach und nach könnte es wohl geschehen, zumal das

Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4, 181

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
 Lesepublikum dahinterkommt, daß es fast in allen dieselben
Poeten und Erzähler wiederfindet. Aber wahrscheinlicher ist,
daß einmal plötzlich Ein Almanach alle übrigen verschlingen
wird. [LB 2 (1824), 8]1

Die so hart kritisierten Bücher trugen klangvolle Titel wie Miner-

va, Urania und Cornelia und wurden von ihren Verlegern als Frauen-
taschenbuch bzw. Taschenbuch der Liebe und Freundschaft bezeichnet und
sie vertraten eine besondere Form der Literatur.
Im frühen 19. Jahrhundert, im Zeitalter der Industrialisierung
entstand ein breiter Buchmarkt. Die Zahl der herausgegebenen
Buchtitel stieg sprunghaft, die Anzahl der Zeitungen ebenfalls,
gleichzeitig verkürzten sich die Erscheinungsintervalle. Von dem
Prozeß der Häufung zeugen auch viele literarische Almanache
und Taschenbücher, deren Erscheinen in 1820er Jahren geradezu
wuchernde Ausmaße annahm.2 Viele Verleger nutzten mit diesem
Medium geschickt den Ruhm der kanonisierten Klassiker und das
wachsende Interesse des Bürgertums an Kunst und Literatur. Verlegt
wurde in dieser Form alles mögliche, neben den “alten” Dichtern
auch Werke zeitgenössischer Autoren, qualitativ hochwertige, aber
auch solche, die auf einem primitiveren Sprachniveau stehen ge-
blieben waren.3
Das literarische Taschenbuch wendete sich an Leser aus allen
Gesellschaftsschichten, insbesondere an lesende Frauen.4 Dies bezeu-
gen beispielsweise Buchtitel wie Die Kunst, sich die Liebe seines Gatten zu

1
Die Zitate aus dem Literatur-Blatt werden im Text mit dem Sigel LB und mit der
Angabe der Nummer, des Erscheinungsjahres und der Seite versehen.
2
Einen Überblick hierzu bietet Fallbacher, Karl-Heinz (Bearb.): Taschenbücher im 19.
Jahrhundert. Katalog zur Kabinett-Ausstellung im Schiller-Nationalmuseum Mar-
bach, 14. November 1992 – 7. Februar 1993, Marbach 1992. Zur allgemeiner gesell-
schaftlichen Situation siehe z.B. Nipperdey, Thomas: Deutsche Geschichte 1800–1866.
Bürgerwelt und starker Staat, München 1983.
3
Pforte, Dietger: Die deutschsprachige Anthologie. Ein Beitrag zu ihrer Theorie,
in: Bark, Joachim/Pforte, Dietger (Hrsg.): Die deutschsprachige Anthologie, Frankfurt
a. M. 1969, Bd. 1, XIII–CXVI, hier XXXIV.
4
Vgl. Klussmann, Paul Gerhard: Das Taschenbuch im literarischen Leben der Romantik
und Biedermeierzeit: Begriff, Konzept, Wirkung, in: ders./ Mix, York-Gothart (Hrsg.):
Literarische Leitmedien. Almanach und Taschenbuch im kulturwissenschaftlichen Kontext,
Wiesbaden 1998, 47–64, hier 48–51.

182
erhalten; mit dem Motto: “Gesetze gibt der Mann; die Sitt’ ist Werk der
Frau’n” [erschienen in Leipzig 1824, erwähnt in LB 49 (1824),194].
Neben den Werken von klassischen Autoren wollte das Taschenbuch
durch Erstdrucke auch Neues und Authentisches anbieten, auch wenn
die Mehrzahl solcher Texte nur selten über Epigonalität und dilet-
tantisches Kunsthandwerk hinausreichte.5 So gaben einige Verleger
vielen begabten Dichterinnen die Möglichkeit, zum ersten Mal ihre
eigene Lyrik herauszugeben. Annette Freiin von Droste-Hülshoff etwa
begann ihre literarische Tätigkeit, indem sie in diversen Taschenbü-
cher ihre Gedichte drucken ließ. Auch wenn nicht alle Dichterinnen
den Ruhm Droste-Hülshoffs erlangten, erschienen von ihnen viele
literarisch hochwertige Dichtungen, z.B. Erzählungen von Josephine
von Perrin, geborne Freyin von Vogelsang [erschienen in Leipzig
1823, erwähnt in LB 28 (1824), 109].
Solche Fälle blieben jedoch eher eine Ausnahme. Die meisten
Dichterinnen sind in ihrem literarischen Schaffen vergleichbar etwa
mit einer gewissen Magdalena von J. H. von Wessenberg, deren Christ-
liche Gedichte 1824 in Konstanz herauskamen. Ein kleines Beispiel aus
ihrem Gedicht:

Entflohen war aus deinem Herzen

Der Unschuld heitre Ruh’
Und zwischen Sinnenlust und Reueschmerzen,
Ein Schilfrohr, wanktest du. [LB 44 (1824), 176]

Dieses Zitat verdeutlicht, warum solche Dichterinnen von den

Kritikern des Literatur-Blatts mehr kritisiert als gelobt wurden. So
heißt es über das Buch Opferblumen von Sophie Richard-Schilling: “Und
von allen Reizen, womit Taschenbücher die Modewelt anzuziehen
pflegen, hat vorliegendes Büchlein keinen, es wäre denn etwa der
in Kupfer gestochene Titel und eine Vignette. (...) Mit Sprach- und
Vers-Makeley verschonen wir billig die freye Schweizerin.” [erschienen
in Basel 1823, erwähnt in LB 25 (1824), 100] oder Romantische Erzäh-

5
Vgl. Bark, a.a.O., 448–453.

Aigi Heero 183

 lungen von Julie Nordheim. Hrsg. von Dr. Carl Barries: “Auch hätte er
[der Herausgeber, A.H.] seiner Dame die Artigkeit erweisen sollen,
ihre Werke nicht auf Löschpapier drucken zu lassen.” [erschienen in
Hamburg 1823, erwähnt in LB 27 (1824), 108].
Daß die lesenden (Haus)Frauen die größte Zielgruppe der
Taschenbuchverleger waren, zeigt auch die Bemühung, diese Publi-
kationen so farbig und verziert (eben weiblich!) wie nur möglich zu
gestalten. Die Rezensenten des Literatur-Blattes sahen dies manchmal
auch mit Humor: “Ich hab’ ein Exemplar vor mir mit einem gemalten
Einbande, der genau aussieht, als wär’ er von Meißner Porzellan (...)
Wer ihn noch prächtiger haben will, der lass’ ihn von Goldschmied
oder Jouvelier einbinden! Dahin wird’s wohl am Ende noch kom-
men: Almanachs in Gold mit Brillanten, das Stück zu 10. 000 Thlr.”
[über Orphea, in LB 4 (1825), 14] und Die Blumen und Blüthen von
Kraushaar “... haben zum Glück sehr wenig und sehr kleine Blätter
(112 S. kl. 8.).” [LB 23 (1825), 91]. Die hochwertigen Illustrationen
dagegen wurden anerkennend aufgenommen: Über das Taschenbuch
von der Donau auf das Jahr 1824 heißt es: “Ein neuer Wettläufer in
der fast überfüllten Bahn. (...) Die Gestalt des Büchleins ist artig,
Papier und Druck sind gut (...). Besonders verdient das Titelkupfer,
von Fleischmanns gewandter Hand, eine lobende Anerkennung.”
[LB 30 (1824), 119]
Neben lesenden Frauen hatten die Verleger auch andere Ziel-
gruppen im Blick. So sind beispielsweise die Trink- und erotischen
Lieder wohl kaum für die Frauen, sondern eher für die männlichen
Lesern bestimmt: “Das beste scheint uns das Schenken-Buch, die
Trinklieder. (...) Unter den erotischen Liedern sind mehrere echt
anakreontisch (...) Ihr preist ja den Champagner,| Je flüchtiger er
schäumet:| Was wollt ihr von der Liebe?” [LB 5 (1825), 20]. Aber auch
speziellere Interessengruppen wurden bedacht: Es gab beispielsweise
Taschenbücher für die Freimaurer, wie etwa Asträa, Taschenbuch für
Freymaurer a.d.J. 1824. Hrsg. von Friedrich von Sydow. Ilmenau 1824;
LB 22 (1824), 85.
Mannigfaltig waren nicht nur die Zielgruppen, sondern auch die
Konzepte solcher Publikationen. Dementsprechend bunt gemischt

184
waren auch literarische Formen in Taschenbüchern: Gedichte, Kurz-
geschichten, Reisebriefe und Konversationsnovellen standen neben-
einander. So berichtet das LB 43 (1827), 171 über den Literarischen
Almanach für 1827. So nützlich und angenehm, als unterhaltend und lustig
zu lesen: “Das Buch enthält allerley literarische Merkwürdigkeiten
und Curiosa, mit denen man sonst nicht bekannt wird, und deren
Sammlung verdienstlich ist. Die Auswahl ist nicht immer die beste
gewesen, doch geht das Uninteressante und Ungehörige mit dem
vielen Interessanten in den kauf.” Zu den literarischen “Curiosa”
sind vielleicht auch die Charaden und Rätsel zu zählen. Diese waren
in Anthologien und auch in damaligen Zeitungen keine Seltenheit,
das Rätselraten als Gesellschaftsspiel kam in die Mode. Das Morgen-
blatt für gebildete Stände etwa brachte fast in jeder Ausgabe Rätsel von
unterschiedlichem Schwierigkeitsgrad. Während zum Beispiel die
folgende Charade:

Mein erstes ist ein Schmerzenslaut

Und schüttert durch die tieffste Seele,
Mein zweytes winkt so hehr und traut
Vom Himmel in die düstre Höhle,
Mein Ganzes nennt des Festes Tag,
An dem der Tod in Fesseln lag.6

noch relativ einfach zu lösen ist (Ostern), konnte sich manch ande-
res Rätsel schon als etwas kniffliger entpuppen. Das Rätseldichten
war ebenso beliebt, auch wenn manchmal den übereifrigen Poeten
ziemlich peinliche Fehler unterliefen. So wird den Lesern des Litera-
tur-Blatts mitgeteilt: “uns [hat] die erste Charade (von Agnes Franz)
viel Kopfzerbrechens gekostet, und warum? Weil die Verfasserin den
zweyten Theil des Wortes Ballade – also lade – die zweyte Sylbe genannt
hat.” [über Minerva, in LB 74 (1825), 296]
Vermittelt wurden in solchen schön eingebundenen und illu-
strierten Werken hauptsächlich Werte wie Harmonie, Häuslichkeit,

6
Morgenblatt für gebildete Stände, 72 (1826), 288.

Aigi Heero 185

 Sitte, Friede im Schoß der Familie.7 Eine gewisse Sonderstellung
nahmen hier die Publikationen ein, die religiösen Inhalt hatten und
solche Werte gezielt vermittelten, etwa die zweibändige Biblische Ge-
schichten. Für die Jugend bearbeitet von Dr. J. P. Hebel [erschienen
in Stuttgart 1824, erwähnt in LB 32 (1824), 125] oder Feyerklänge.
Geistliche Lieder und Gebete von zweyen Predigern Süderdithmarschens:
Heinrich Schmidt und Carl Julius Aschenfeldt [erschienen 1823, erwähnt
in LB 2 (1826), 8]
Darüber hinaus setzte das Taschenbuch sich zum Ziel, möglichst
viele Leser zu inspirieren und zum Dichten zu ermutigen. Dazu gehö-
ren auch Publikationen, in denen die Regeln erläutert wurden, wie
man “richtig” dichtet. Jedoch erfährt Theorie und Literatur der deutschen
Dichtungsarten. Ein Handbuch zur Bildung des Styls und des Geschmackes.
Nach den besten Hilfsquellen bearbeitet von Dr. Philipp Mayer eine ver-
nichtende Kritik: “Da fragt sich denn vor allen Dingen: Was schreibt
Herr Mayer für einen Styl, und was hat er für einen Geschmack? Wir
können leider beyde nicht loben.” [LB 70 (1825), 279]
Außerdem wollten solche Anthologien eine unterhaltende Funk-
tion erfüllen und zum geselligen Gespräch über Kunst und Literatur
ein Basiswissen für eine gebildete Konversation liefern.8 Sie enthiel-
ten eine bunte Sammlung von Lexikonartikeln zu verschiedenen
Themen, von den Biographien berühmter Männer bis zu den
faktischen Angaben über Ureinwohner verschiedener Länder und
Erklärungen, was beispielsweise eine Sonate ist. Zu dieser Unter-
gruppe gehörten Publikationen wie Neues Conversations-Lexikon oder
encyclopädisches Handwörterbuch für gebildete Stände in zwölf Bänden.
Die Charakterisierung dieses Werkes im Literatur-Blatt könnte jedoch
auch für viele ähnliche Ausgaben zutreffend sein: “Das Publikum hat
angefangen dahinter zu kommen, daß das weit verbreitete Leipziger

7
Vgl. Bark, Joachim: Zwischen Hochschätzung und Obskurität. Die Rolle der Anthologien in
der Kanonbildung des 19. Jahrhunderts, in: Knapp, Gerhard P. (Hrsg.): Autoren damals
und heute. Literaturgeschichtliche Beispiele veränderter Wirkungshorizonte, Amsterdam/
Atlanta 1991, 441–457, hier 453–454; Klussmann, Paul Gerhard: Das literarische
Taschenbuch der Biedermeierzeit als Vorschule der Literatur und der bürgerlichen Allge-
meinbildung, in: Mix, York-Gothart (Hrsg.): Almanach- und Taschenbuchkultur des 18.
und 19. Jahrhunderts, Wiesbaden 1996, 89–111, hier 92–94.
8
Vgl. ebenda, 100–101.

186
Conversations-Lexikon (nach seinem Erneuerer und Verbreiter das
Brockhausische genannt) ungefähr so viele Lücken enthält, als eine
Classenlotterie Nieten. Natürlich kommt nun auch der literarische
Unternehmungsgeist dahinter, daß es eben nicht schwer ist, dasselbe
durch Vermehrung der Treffer (der Artikel) zu überbieten (...).” [LB
34 (1825), 135–136]
Die literarischen Taschenbücher sollten somit ihre Leser und
Leserinnen bilden, ihren Horizont erweitern, und nicht nur durch
kleine Artikel in Konversationslexika. Es erschienen viele Bücher zu
spezielleren Themen. Die Palette war hier breit: Es gab Bücher zur
Geschichte, wie z.B. Ritterzeit und Ritterwesen. Vorlesungen gehalten und
herausgegeben von Büchsing [LB 16 (1824), 63], zur “Länder- Völker-
und Alterthums-Kunde” wie Reise zum Tempel des Jupiter Ammon in der
lybischen Wüste und nach Ober-Aegypten in den Jahren 1820–1821, von
Heinrich Freyherrn von Minutoli [LB 72–75 (1824)], zur Mythologie
wie Einleitung in das Studium der griechischen Mythologie von E. R. Lange
[LB 23 (1825), 409ff], zur Kunstgeschichte wie Aesthetische Vorlesungen
über Goethe’s Faust als Beytrag zur Anerkennung wissenschaftlicher Kunst-
beurtheilung, herausgegeben von Dr. H. F. W. Hinrichs, ord. Prof. d.
Philos. zu Halle [LB 53 (1825), 211–212], zur Geographie und Länder-
kunde wie Taschenbibliothek der wichtigsten und interessantesten See- und
Landreisen von der Erfindung der Buchdruckerkunst bis auf unsere Zeiten.
Mit Landcharten, Planen, Porträts und andern Abbildungen. Verfaßt
von mehreren Gelehrten und herausgegeben von Joachim Heinrich
Jäck, königl. Bibliothekar zu Bamberg [LB 87 (1827), 347] oder zur
Literaturwissenschaft wie Die Poesie des Troubadours. Nach gedruckten
und handschriftlichen Werken derselben, dargestellt von Friedrich Diez,
außerord. Professor an der königl. preußischen Rheinuniversität [LB
40 (1827), 157–159].
Besonders beliebt waren unter Lesenden diverse Übersetzun-
gen aus unterschiedlichsten Sprachen, wobei man sehr auf die Qua-
lität der Vorlage achtete. Auch kümmerten viele Verleger darum,
daß das Werk von einem kompetenten und geeigneten Menschen
übertragen wird. So übersetzte Ludwig Tieck beispielsweise einige
Schauspiele von Shakespeare [Shakespeare’s Vorschule. Hrsg. und mit

Aigi Heero 187

 Vorreden begleitet von Ludwig Tieck; erschienen 1823, erwähnt
in LB 6 (1824), 21]; sehr gelobt wird von Literatur-Blatt auch Will.
Shakespeare’s Troilus und Cressida; übersezt von Beauregard Pandin, Berlin
1824 [LB 11 (1824), 41]
Nicht nur aus dem Englischen wurde übersetzt, sondern auch
aus dem Französischen, [Auserlesene Gedichte von Alphonse de Lamartine,
metrisch übersezt von Gustav Schwab, mit beygefügtem französischen Texte,
Stuttgart und Tübingen 1826, erwähnt in LB 41 (1826), 161–163],
Italienischen [Dante Alighieris lyrische Gedichte. Italienisch und Deutsch
herausgegeben von Karl Ludwig Kannegießer. Leipzig 1827, erwähnt
in LB 28 (1827)], Spanischen [Cervantes sämmtliche Werke. Aus der
Ursprache neu übersezt [sic]. 1–4 Bändchen. Quedlinburg 1825,
erwähnt in LB 59 (1825), 235], Russischen [Poetische Erzeugnisse der
Russen. Ein Versuch von Karl Friedrich von der Borg. Riga 1823, er-
wähnt in LB 60 (1825), 237] und sogar aus dem Chinesischen [Werke
des thinesischen [sic] Weisen Kung-Fu-Dsü und seiner Schüler. Zum ersten
Mal aus der Ursprache in’s Deutsche übersezt und mit Anmerkungen
begleitet von D. Wilhelm Schott. Erster Theil. Lün-Dü. Halle 1826,
erwähnt in LB 73 (1826), 289-291].
Unter Übersetzungen gewannen eine ungeheure Popularität
die Werke von James Fenimore Cooper und Walter Scott, die immer
wieder neu verlegt, und leider auch manchmal plagiiert wurden: Mit
etwas ironischem Unterton wird berichtet über das Buch Der Vexirte.
Walter Scott’s nächster und neuester Roman, das sich als eine Parodie
des Stils und der Themen von Walter Scott erweist: “Nur beyläufig
und gleichsam wie von ungefähr, tritt der Satyr mit seinem Bocks-
fuße die deutsche “Walter-Scotterey” auf die Zehen.” [LB 57 (1825),
227–228]
Zu erwähnen sind hier auch die Übersetzungen aus den antiken
Sprachen, dem Lateinischen und Griechischen. So loben die Kritiker
des Literatur-Blatts die neuesten Homer-Uebersetzungen: Homer’s Ili-
as, prosaisch übersezt von Professor J. St. Zauper, Prag 1826 und Homer’s
Heldengesänge, übesezt von Carl Georg Neumann. Erster Band. Ilias.
Dresden 1826. [LB 70 (1826)]. Dagegen erfahren Horazens Oden,
in Deutschen Reim-Versen von Dr. Joseph Nürnberger eine vernichtende

188
Kritik, u.a. wegen der Selbstherrlichkeit des Übersetzers: “(...) daß
sich Horaz selbst nicht ausgedrückt haben würde, wenn Er sich
der Sprache seines Uebersetzers bedient hätte.–” [LB 41 (1825),
161]. Dieses Beispiel zeigt auch, daß trotz aller Bemühungen der
Verleger um die Qualität der Übersetzung den Redakteuren immer
wieder solche Malheurs passierten. Und nicht nur in Bezug auf die
Übersetzungen. Auch bei der Herausgabe der muttersprachlichen
Literatur arbeiteten die Verlagsangestellten manchmal wohl nicht
so gewissenhaft: Über die Gedichte von Friedrich Hesekiel vermerkt
das Literatur-Blatt: “Manche Dunkelheit inzwischen mag wohl dem
Setzer und Corrector zur Last fallen, die offenbar weit nachlässiger
gearbeitet haben, als es sonst bey Göschen [der Verlag, A.H.] ge-
wöhnlich ist.” [LB 69 (1825), 276] Solche Negativbeispiele kommen
jedoch relativ selten vor.
Eine bildende Funktion hatten auch die Werke der deutschen
Klassiker zu erfüllen. In Taschenbuchformat erschienen in kleinsten
Abständen die Dichtungen von Goethe, Schiller, Jean Paul u.a. Dies
wurde vom Literatur-Blatt begrüßt: Solche Publikationen würden aus
der grauen Masse herausragen, dem Leser einen wahren ästhetischen
Genuß bieten und somit seinen Geschmack richtig bilden. So wird
Wahrheit aus Jean Pauls Leben. Zweytes Heftlein. Breslau 1827 wie folgt
beurteilt:

Da nun Jean Paul ein sogenanntes Vita-Buch mit einer großen

Menge Aphorismen, Bemerkungen und Einfälle handschrift-
lich hinterlassen hat, so glaubt der Herausgeber des vorlie-
genden Werkes sowohl seiner Pietät gegen den verewigten
Dichter, als dem Wunsch des Publikums Genüge zu leisten,
indem er wenigstens eine Auswahl aus jenem Vita-Buch mitt-
heilt. Man kann gegen ein solches Unternehmen im Grunde
nichts einwenden. Auch der unbedeutendste Einfall von Jean
Paul ist immer noch so viel werth, als die abgeschmackten
Gedanken, die wir mit jeder Messe zu hunderttausenden
gedruckt erhalten, [LB 58 (1827), 232]

Aigi Heero 189

 Ähnlich heißt es über Goethes Ueber Kunst und Alterthum. Sech-
sten Bandes erstes Heft, Stuttgart 1827: “(...) aber selbst in diesen
Kleinigkeiten spricht sich der alles umfassende Genius Goethe’s aus.”
[LB 54 (1827), 215]
Eine Sonderstellung nahmen unter solchen Anthologien die
Mustersammlungen für Gymnasien ein, die vor allem Fabeln, reli-
giöse Betrachtungen und vaterländische Gesänge enthielten, um
den Literaturunterricht in der Schule zur moralischen Belehrung
zu nutzen.9 Die Titel wie Der Tugendspiegel. Züge aus dem Jugendleben
guter und edler Menschen. Zur Nacheiferung für die Jugend gesammelt vom
Verf. d. Werkes: Selam oder die Sprache der Blumen [LB 4 (1824), 16] be-
dürfen keines Kommentars. Diese Anthologien sollten außerdem die
Geschmacksbildung des Schülers “richtig” leiten, wie aus dem Vorwort
einer Sammlung von Franz Joseph Seber hervorgeht:

Daß man in den gelehrten Schulen auch deutsche Klassiker

aufnehmen müsse, daran zweifelt kein Sachverständiger. (...)
In ihnen sind die trocknen Sprachregeln zur lebendigen
Anschauung gebracht; im Umgange mit ihnen gewinnen
sie [die Schüler – A. H.] genaue und tiefe Einsicht in den
eigenthümlichen Geist der deutschen Sprache, und was ge-
wiß auch der Beachtung werth ist, sie sehen mit Augen, wie
willig sich diese jedem Gedankenstoffe füge; wie schön und
treffend sich in ihr die Ideenwelt abformen lasse. So wird
in ihnen allmählich der Trieb erweckt, ihre Gedanken auf
gleiche Weise auszuprägen; und wird dieser Trieb richtig
geleitet, so entwickelt sich daraus die Fertigkeit einer klaren,
und richtigen, geordneten und kunstmäßigen Sprachdar-
stellung. Ein Vortheil, der nicht genug beachtet werden
kann. Denn die Zöglinge der gelehrten Schulen sollen zu
Männern gebildet werden, die einst ihre Mitmenschen zum

9
Vgl. Wais, Roderich: Lyrikanthologien für den Deutschunterricht an höheren Schulen im 19.
Jahrhundert, in: Bark, Joachim/ Pforte, Dietger (Hrsg.): Die deutschsprachige Anthologie.
Ein Beitrag zu ihrer Theorie und eine Auswahlbibliographie des Zeitraums 1800–1950,
Frankfurt a. M. 1970, Bd. 2, 267–272, siehe auch Fallbacher, a.a.O., 17–19.

190
 ewigen Quell des Wahren, Guten und Schönen zu führen
vermögen.10

Hinter diesen Worten steht schon die damals aktuelle Polemik

gegen die Belletristik als eine Reaktion auf die wuchernde, nicht son-
derlich niveauvolle Taschenbuchliteratur. Diese würde angeblich dazu
beitragen, daß der Leser den Bezug zur Wirklichkeit verlieren und
dadurch seine gesellschaftlichen Pflichten vernachlässigen konnte.11
Deshalb, begründet Seber, habe er aus seiner Sammlung alle Texte
ausgeschlossen “von denen ein nachtheiliger Einfluß auf die zarten,
noch nicht zur vollen Selbständigkeit gereiften Jünglinge zu befürch-
ten seyn möchte.”12 Ob Sebers Sammlung in damaligen Deutschland
weit verbreitet war, ist nicht bekannt. Tatsache bleibt jedoch, daß z. B.
auf dem Zwickauer Gymnasium in den Sitzungen eines literarischen
Zirkels Belletristik, d.h. Taschenbuchliteratur und vergleichbares nur
begrenzt gelesen wurde: Am 14. Januar 1827 wurde entschieden,
daß “herz [-] u. geisttödtende Romanlectüre ganz wegfallen soll.”13
Wahrscheinlich jedoch wurde die Lektüre der Schüler überall streng
überwacht, damit “die frivole Leserei von schlechten Romanen und
ähnlichen Sachen immer mehr beschränkt werde.”14 Ungeachtet
solcher Bemühungen wuchs die Popularität der “belletristischen”
Taschenbücher (nicht nur unter Schülern) und führte bald zu einer
Überproduktion.
Fassen wir zusammen: Die literarische Landschaft in Deutschland
wird im frühen 19. Jahrhundert zum großen Teil von Publikationen
bestimmt, die ein möglichst breites Publikum anziehen wollen und

10
Seber, Franz Joseph: Sammlung von Mustern deutscher Dichter für Gymnasien, Köln 1817,
III–V.
11
Vgl. Jäger, Georg: Der Deutschunterricht auf dem Gymnasium der Goethezeit. Eine An-
thologie. Mit einer Einführung in den Problemkreis, Übersetzung der Zitate und
biographischen Daten, Hildesheim 1977, 17.
12
Seber, a.a.O., IX.
13
Schoppe, Martin: Schumanns “Litterarischer Verein”, in: Appel, Bernhard/Herm-
strüwer, Inge (Hrsg.): Robert Schumann und die Dichter. Ein Musiker als Leser.
Katalog zur Ausstellung des Heinrich-Heine-Instituts in Verbindung mit dem
Robert-Schumann-Haus in Zwickau und der Robert-Schumann-Forschungsstelle
e.V. in Düsseldorf, Düsseldorf 1991, 17–23, hier 23.
14
Zitiert nach Jäger, Der Deutschunterricht, a.a.O., 22.

Aigi Heero 191

 gleichzeitig eine bildende bzw. eine moralisierende Funktion haben,
die jedoch weitgehend unpolitisch bleiben. Ein solcher Literaturbe-
trieb scheint sehr stark von oben gelenkt und mit Direktiven bestimmt
zu sein. Was war es dann für eine Politik, eine gesellschaftliche Ord-
nung, die eine literarische Situation wie diese entstehen ließ?
Deutschland, zu jener Zeit kein einheitlicher Staat, sondern ein
Konglomerat von kleineren und größeren, zerstrittener Fürstentü-
mern, gehörte damals zum Deutschen Bund, einem Staatsgebilde
unter Österreichs Leitung und somit unter Leitung von Clemens
Wenzel Lothar Fürst von Metternich (1773–1859). Als Gegner der
Demokratie und des Liberalismus errichtete Metternich in Österreich
einen Polizeistaat, zu dem Zensur und Spitzelwesen gehörten. Am 10.
September 1810 erschien eine neue Vorschrift im Zensurwesen, die
sogar die Werke der deutschen Klassiker nicht außer acht ließ. Im §6
dieser Vorschrift hieß es auch über die Literatur:

Broschüren, Jugend- und Volksschriften, Unterhaltungs-

bücher müssen nach der ganzen Strenge der Zensurgesetze
behandelt werden. Hier muß nicht nur alles entfernt wer-
den, was der Religion, der Sittlichkeit, der Achtung und der
Anhänglichkeit an das regierende Haus usw. geradezu oder
mehr gedeckt entgegen ist, sondern es sind auch alle Schrif-
ten zu entfernen, welche weder auf den Verstand noch auf
das Herz vorteilhaft wirken und deren einzige Tendenz es
ist, die Sittlichkeit zu wiegen. Es soll daher allen Ernstes ge-
trachtet werden, der so nachteiligen Romanlektüre ein Ende
zu machen.15

Nach der Gründung des Deutschen Bundes 1815 verbreiteten

sich solche Vorschriften auch nach Deutschland. Verschärft wurden
sie nochmal 1819 mit sogenannten Karlsbader Beschlüssen (“Bun-
des-Universitätsgesetz”, “Bundes-Preßgesetz” und “Bundes-Untersu-
chungsgesetz”). Besonders durch das “Bundes-Preßgesetz” wurde der

15
Zit. nach: http://www.kaisergruft.at/kaisergruft/zensur.htm.

192
freie Gedankenaustausch in der Presse und v.a. die schriftstellerische
Freiheit erheblich eingeschränkt. Im §1 dieses Gesetzes heißt es:

So lange als der gegenwärtige Beschluß in Kraft bleiben

wird, dürfen Schriften, die in der Form täglicher Blätter oder
heftweise erscheinen, deßgleichen solche, die nicht über 20
Bogen im Druck [ca. 320 Seiten, A.H.] stark sind, in keinem
deutschen Bundesstaate ohne Vorwissen und vorgängige
Genehmhaltung der Landesbehörden zum Druck befördert
werden.16

Mit diesem Beschluß setzte Metternich auch einen richtigen Verfol-

gungsapparat in Gang. In jedem Bundesstaat wurde eine Oberaufsicht
gegründet, die die gesamte Presse überwachen sollte. Alle zwei Monate
mußten kleinere Ortskommissionen ihr einen Bericht erstatten, ob
irgendwelche zweifelhaften Schriften entdeckt worden sind, Schriften,
die “der Würde des Bundes, der Sicherheit einzelner Bundesstaa-
ten oder der Erhaltung des Friedens und der Ruhe in Deutschland
zuwiderlaufen”17 und was man dagegen zu unternehmen plante.
In solcher drückenden Atmosphäre konnten somit nur “politisch
korrekte” Publikationen erscheinen. Viele bewußtere Schriftsteller
wollten sich natürlich mit der Situation abfinden und lernten, ihre
politischen Ansichten und die brisanteren Gedanken in ihren Texten
durch die Blume auszudrücken. Es scheint jedoch, daß manchen
periodischen Publikationen eine gewisse Freiheit blieb; womöglich
konnten die Zensurbehörden auch nicht alle einzelnen Ausgaben
jeder Zeitschrift genau unter die Lupe nehmen. So klingen auch bei
den Autoren des Literatur-Blatts hin und wieder ironische Töne. In
LB 4 (1825), 14 werden die als Taschenbuch erschienenen Gedichte
Ernst Raupachs (eines weitgehend unpolitischen Dichters) verrissen
und zuletzt mit dem Kommentar: “...und die politische Moral darin
ist vortrefflich” versehen.

16
Bundes–Preßgesetz (20.09.1819), in: http://www.documentArchiv.de/nzjh/bdprsges.
html, Stand 9.9.2002.
17
Ebenda, §6, Abs.2.

Aigi Heero 193

 An sich durften Texte politischen Inhalts erscheinen, sofern sie
“Ruhe und Ordnung” im Staat nicht gefährdeten. Beispielsweise
waren beinahe sämtliche Deutsche glühende Anhänger der philhel-
lenischen Bewegung. Durch den Philhellenismus, die europäische
Hilfsbewegung für die unterdrückten Griechen, die ab 1821 gegen
die Türken für ihre Unabhängigkeit kämpften, erhielt der Grie-
chenmythos eine unverhoffte Attraktivität und Wirksamkeit. Ein re-
gelrechter Boom des Griechischen brach aus, die älteren Ideen der
Verwandtschaft der Griechen und Deutschen vermischten sich mit
dem Wunsch, wenigstens durch Gedichte am Freiheitskampf beteiligt
zu sein.18 In Lyrikbänden erschienen Gedichte über tapfere Hellenen,
neben ernstzunehmenden Griechenliedern wie die von Goethe, Wil-
helm Müller oder Wilhelm Waiblinger entstanden unzählige Texte
der Taschenbuchautoren, die die Redakteure des Literatur-Blatts mehr
oder minder verurteilen: “Zwar sind wir mit Griechenliedern reich
gesegnet, denn unsere liebe Jugend ist überfroh, Stoff zum Dichteln
von dort her zu erhalten, wo Pindar dichtete, Algäus begeistert in
die Saiten griff und Sappho liebend schmachtete.” [LB 30 (1825),
11819] Wie recht sie hatten, zeigt die zweite Strophe aus den Früh-
lingsblumen des Dr. Maßmann. Er schildert die Blumen im gefallenen
Missolunghi20 wie folgt: “Sie sind mit heil’gem Heldenblut begossen,|
Der Boden ist mit Christenblut getränkt, | O daß sie jeden Frühling
blutig sprossen,| Damit der Brüder man dabey gedenkt.”21 Viele
Autoren der Trivialliteratur verlegten die Handlung ihrer Geschich-
ten nach Griechenland, wie beispielsweise der Autor des Claurens
Vergißmeinnicht, eines Taschenbuchs von 524 Seiten, das drei Erzählun-
gen enthält: “Die zweyte heißt Vielliebchen, und ist noch nicht fertig:
blos eine erste Abtheilung, welche jedoch eine zweyte erwarten läßt,

18
Über Philhellenismus siehe Miller, Norbert: Europäischer Philhellenismus zwischen
Winckelmann und Byron, in: Wischer, Erika (Hrsg.): Propyläen Geschichte der Literatur.
Literatur und Gesellschaft in der westlichen Welt, Bd. 4, Berlin 1988, 315–366; Konstan-
tinou, Evangelos (Hrsg.): Europäischer Philhellenismus. Die europäische philhellenische
Literatur bis zur 1. Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts, Frankfurt a. M. 1992.
19
Über das Buch Gedichte. Herausgegeben zum Besten der Griechen von Heinrich
Stieglitz und Ernst Große, Leipzig 1823.
20
Heute Mesolongion, wurde am 22. 04. 1826 von Türken erobert.
21
Morgenblatt für gebildete Stände, 160 (1826), 640.

194
deren Schauplatz im neuen Griechenland seyn wird.” [LB 8 (1825),
29] Manche “Literaten” verlockte die Popularität des Griechischen
zum Plagiieren: Das Literatur-Blatt Nr. 23 vom 19.03. 1824 berichtete
über eine neu entdeckte Ode der Sappho, abgedruckt in der Wiener
Zeitschrift für Kunst, Literatur, Theater und Mode. Jedoch vermuteten die
Redakteure einen Betrug, der einige Monate später auch bestätigt
wurde. Die neue Sapphische Ode war tatsächlich modern und wurde
ins deutsche übersetzt aus einer Publikation mit dem Titel Grainville’s
Hymnes de Sappho nouvellement découvertes et traduites pour la première fois
en francais [LB 60 (1824), 239]22, in Zeiten der Nachahmung natürlich
nichts besonderes. Welche Ausmaße diese Art von Dichtung letztlich
annahm, stellt das Literatur-Blatt beim Kommentieren einer Gedicht-
sammlung eines türkischen (!) Schiftstellers fest: “Dankenswerth
aber ist es, daß wir zu gleicher Zeit, wo die griechische Volkspoesie
durch Mitteilungen und Uebertragungen bey uns eingeführt wird,
auch die Verdeutschung des nationellsten, türkischen Dichters (...)
erhalten.” [LB 45 (1825), 17723] Winckelmanns Idee der Synthese
von griechischem und deutschem Wesen hatte sich somit in eine Flut
von lyrischen Sympathiekundgebungen der Taschenbuchautoren ver-
wandelt. Möglich ist auch, daß viele Literaten, die über die Situation
in ihrem eigenen Staat nichts sagen durften, versuchten, durch das
Griechenlandbild ihre Ansichten zum Ausdruck zu bringen.
In 1830er und 1840er Jahren begann jedoch eine politische lite-
rarische Richtung sich zu formieren, die sich “Jungdeutschen” oder
“Das junge Deutschland” nannten.24 Sie kritisierten öffentlich die
Mißstände in den deutschen Staaten, was natürlich nicht ohne Folgen

22
Solche Verfahrensweisen waren damals keine Seltenheit, wie beispielsweise aus einem
Beitrag im Literatur-Blatt hervorgeht: Eine Publikation mit dem Titel Dichtkunst:
Britisches Museum für Deutsche, hrsg. in Aachen 1825 wird als Plagiat von Jacobsens
Briefe an eine deutsche Edelfrau entlarvt: “Wir wollten übrigens die Leser blos vor dem
Freybeuter warnen, und hoffen, (...) daß diesem Unwesen der Nachdrucker endlich
ein Ende gemacht werde.” [LB 12 (1825), 48]. S. auch oben die Angabe über den
angeblichen Roman von Walther Scott.
23
Über Baki’s, des größten türkischen Lyrikers, Diwan. Zum ersten Male ganz verdeutscht
von Joseph von Hammer u.s.w. Wien 1825.
24
Heute kennt man diese Bewegung vorwiegend unter den Namen “Vormärz-Dich-
tung”. Angespielt wird in dieser Bezeichnung die Märzrevolution von 1848, die die
Metternich-Ära beendete.

Aigi Heero 195

 bleiben konnte. Schon 1835 beschloß der Deutsche Bundestag, per
Erlaß solchen “Umtrieben” ein Ende zu setzen:

Nachdem sich in Deutschland in neuerer Zeit, und zuletzt

unter der Benennung “das junge Deutschland” oder “die
junge Literatur” eine literarische Schule gebildet hat, deren
Bemühungen unverhohlen dahin gehen, in belletristischen,
für alle Klassen von Lesern zugänglichen Schriften die
christliche Religion auf die frechste Weise anzugreifen, die
bestehenden sozialen Verhältnisse herabzuwürdigen und alle
Zucht und Sittlichkeit zu zerstören: so hat die Deutsche Bun-
desversammlung – in Erwägung, daß es dringend notwendig
sei, diesen verderblichen, die Grundpfeiler aller gesetzlichen
Ordnung untergrabenden Bestrebungen durch Zusammen-
wirken aller Bundesregierungen sofort Einhalt zu tun, und
unbeschadet weiterer, vom Bunde oder von den einzelnen
Regierungen zur Erreichung des Zweckes nach Umständen
zu ergreifender Maßregeln – sich zu nachstehenden Bestim-
mungen vereinigt:
1. Sämtliche deutsche Regierungen übernehmen die Ver-
pflichtung: gegen die Verfasser, Verleger, Drucker und Verbrei-
ter der Schriften aus der unter der Bezeichnung “das junge
Deutschland” oder “die junge Literatur” bekannten literarischen
Schule, zu welcher namentlich Heinrich Heine, Karl Gutzkow,
Heinrich Laube, Ludolf Wienbarg und Theodor Mundt gehö-
ren, die Straf- und Polizeigesetze ihres Landes, sowie die gegen
den Mißbrauch der Presse bestehenden Vorschriften nach ihrer
vollen Strenge in Anwendung zu bringen, auch die Verbreitung
dieser Schriften, sei es durch den Buchhandel, durch Leihbi-
bliotheken, oder auf sonstige Weise, mit allen ihnen gesetzlich
zu Gebote stehenden Mitteln zu verhindern.25

Außerdem ließ der Staatskanzler Metternich mit Hilfe von Ge-

25
Zit. nach: http://www.ammermann.de/hambachfolgen.htm.

196
heimagenten, die sich oft als liberale Schriftsteller ausgaben und zum
Teil das Vertrauen der Vormärz-Dichter besaßen, das literarische Le-
ben in Deutschland überwachen. In frühen 1840ern geriet besonders
der Dichter Georg Herwegh ins Blickfeld der Zensur. Sein Schicksal
dient als typisches Beispiel für viele Vertreter seiner generation. Über
ihn wird etwa am 27.3.1842 aus Frankfurt folgendes berichtet:

Ich habe schon in früheren Berichten auf die Wichtigkeit

der politischen Poesie aufmerksam gemacht und komme
heute, da mir nahe Veranlassung gegeben wird, auf diesen
Gegenstand zurück. Unter den der jüngeren Schule angehö-
rigen Poeten steht Georg Herwegh obenan. Sein Haß gegen
die Aristokratie (...) ist ohne Grenzen – sein Glaube an den
endlichen Sieg der liberalen Sache die festeste Überzeugung.
Seine Gedichte zünden leicht, namentlich bei empfänglichen
Gemütern, und die Gedichte eines Lebendigen26 wurden in meh-
reren Auflagen verschlungen. In solche Frische und vollen-
deter Poesie hatte das deutsche Ohr noch keine politischen
Gedichte gehört. Herwegh elektrisierte selbst besonnene
Leute, und trotzdem die Gedichte eines Lebendigen in Frankfurt
verboten sind, wurden sie in dem Museum teilweise vorge-
lesen, wurde das eine oder andere in den hiesigen Blättern
(...) abgedruckt. Herweghs Poesien dringen auch schon in die
Brust der gebildeten männlichen Jugend ein und bald wird sie
jeder Tertianer27 kennen. Sie können leicht das werden, was
einst die Körnerschen28 der Jugend waren. Herwegh ist aber
kein Poet, der auf halbem Wege stehen bleiben will, er will
nicht bloß singen, er will auch handeln, und begabte jüngere
deutsche Dichter zu seinen Gleichgesinnten machen...29

War dies Panikmache, Verfolgungswahn oder Übereifer eines

26
Gedichtsammlung Herweghs, erschien 1841 in der Schweiz.
27
Schüler der dritten Klasse des Gymnasiums.
28
Theodor Körner, deutscher politischer Dichter, nahm an den Befreiungskriegen
gegen Napoleon teil.
29
Zit. nach: http://www.ammermann.de/geheimberichte.htm.

Aigi Heero 197

 besonders tüchtigen Geheimagenten? Keinesfalls, Herwegs Gedichte
waren auf höchste Weise politisch, er drückte unverblümt die brisan-
testen Gedanken aus. So stellt er beispielsweise im Gedicht Leicht Ge-
päck (geschrieben 1840) die Figur eines mittellosen jungen Mannes
dar, dem seine Freiheit das höchste Gut ist und der nicht bereit ist,
sie zu opfern:

Ich bin ein freier Mann und singe

Mich wohl in keine Fürstengruft,
Und alles, was ich mir erringe,
Ist Gottes liebe Himmelsluft.
Ich habe keine stolze Feste,
Von der man Länder übersieht,
Ich wohn ein Vogel nur im Neste,
Mein ganzer Reichtum ist mein Lied.30

Er verzichtet nicht auf seine Freiheit, obwohl ihm dafür einiges

angeboten wird: Essen, Geld, Paläste, sogar ein staatlicher Posten:

Ich durfte nur, wie andre, wollen,

Und wär nicht leer davongeeilt,
Wenn jährlich man im Staat die Rollen
Den treuen Knechten ausgeteilt;
Allein ich hab nie zugegriffen,
So oft man mich herbei beschied,
Ich habe fort und fort gepfiffen,
Mein ganzer Reichtum ist mein Lied.

Auch die Liebe eines Mädchens kann ihn nicht dazu bewegen,
eine Stellung innerhalb dieser Gesellschaft anzunehmen, d.h. sich zu
etablieren und systemkonform zu werden:

30
Georg Herwegh: Leicht Gepäck, aus: Die Gedichte eines Lebendigen, Zürich/Winterthur
1841, zit. nach: http://www.fh-augsburg.de/~harsch/germanica/Chronologie/19Jh/
Herwegh/her_gl11.html#g2

198
 Nach dir, nach dir steht mein Verlangen,
O schönes Kind, o wärst du mein!
Doch du willst Bänder, du willst Spangen,
Und ich soll dienen gehen? Nein!
Ich will die Freiheit nicht verkaufen,
Und wie ich die Paläste mied,
Laß ich getrost die Liebe laufen;
Mein ganzer Reichtum sei mein Lied.

Als Kontrast sei an dieser Stelle ein Gegenbeispiel gebracht: Ein

politisch korrektes Gedicht, das vorzüglich die Ruhe und die Ord-
nung im Staat reflektiert, verfaßt von Clemens Wenzel Lothar Fürst
von Metternich selber:

Leise streicheln Nebelschleier

über Flur und Wiesen hin,
blaue Veilchen blüh’n am Weiher,
duftig träumet der Jasmin.

Helle strahlt der Mond hernieder

in bezaubernd stiller Pracht,
und der Nachtigallen Lieder
tönen durch die Maiennacht.

Elfe tändelnd keck und lose

küßte rote Knospe sacht,
und die Knospe ward zur Rose
in der lauen Maiennacht.31

Obwohl diesem Gedicht ein gewisser literarischer Wert zugespro-

chen werden kann, ist es wohl eher mit den Worten eines Redakteurs
von Literatur-Blatt über eine andere Publikation zu charakterisieren:

31
Maiennacht, vertont von Max Reger (aus Schlichte Weisen op.76); zit. nach http://www.
recmusic.org/lieder/ m/metternich/reger76.15.html.

Aigi Heero 199

 “Daß hier der literarische Krebsschaden unsrer Zeit liegt, bedarf kei-
ner Erörterung.” [über Orpheus. Eine Zeitschrift in zwanglosen Heften;
LB 5 (1824), 18]
Somit gab es in der deutschen literarischen Szene im frühen 19.
Jahrhundert eine außerordentliche Vielfalt an literarischen Formen
und Gattungen. Wegen der metternichschen Gesetzgebung jedoch
waren viele progressive Schriftsteller gezwungen, ihre wirklichen
Empfindungen durch metaphorische Bilder ausdrücken, ihre Bot-
schaft zu verschleiern. Einige von ihnen verstummten ganz, einige
(wie z. B. Heine) emigrierten ins Ausland. Nur wenige hatten den
Mut, ihre Werke außerhalb der Heimat zu verlegen, um dann diese
heimlich nach Deutschland zu bringen und zu verbreiten. Andere
Dichter folgten die offizielle Linie und versuchten gar nicht, dem
System Widerstand zu leisten. Unter ihnen muß man natürlich un-
terscheiden zwischen Dichtern, die trotz allem wunderbare Werke
schufen, und zwischen Taschenbuchautoren, deren lyrischen Ergießun-
gen die Vermassung im Literaturbetrieb verursachten. Erst nach der
Märzrevolution 1848 vereinheitlichte sich das Bild in der literarischen
Landschaft, indem starke Vertreter neuer literarischen Strömungen
(wie z.B. Realismus) hervortraten.

200 Aigi Heero

 JAKOB MÄTTIK JAAN KROSSI “KEISRI HULLUS”:
JUTUSTAJAST TEGELASEKS1

Eneken Laanes

MITMED KRIITIKUD ON juhtinud tähelepanu Krossi ajaloolise proosa

ühtsusele ja terviklikkusele (Talvet: 75), mõeldagu selle all siis kujun-
disüsteemi, jutustamiskunsti individualiseerivaid jooni või arenda-
tavaid teemasid. Krossi proosa terviklikkuse üks tahke on kindlasti
ka sarnane peategelasetüüp, mis läbib erinevaid tekste. See on eesti
soost mees, kes on tõusnud kõrgemale neist positsioonidest, mis talle
päritolult kohased – aadlike või linnakodanike elusfääridesse – ja kes
otsib seal oma kohta, olgu siis sakslaste, venelaste või rootslaste keskel.
Sellisteks peategelasteks on Balthassar Russow, Berend Falck, Johann
von Michelson, Kristjan Jaak Peterson, Otto Wilhelm Masing, Friedrich
von Martens ja tegelane krahv Sievers. Võiks isegi öelda, et kogu Krossi
ajaloolises proosas esineb vaid üks peategelane, ükskõik millist nime
ta konkreetses romaanis ka ei kannaks. Tema ümber on koondunud
sarnaste teemade ja probleemide võrk, mida Kross ikka uutes ja uutes
variatsioonides läbi mängib ja millele lahendust otsib. Erinevates teostes
ei ole lahendused ühesugused, aga kõik need tekstid on sarnased selle
poolest, et seda otsivad. Sõnastaksin selle küsimusena, kuhu kuuluda.
Sellest dilemmast ei saa üle ega ümber ei Russow ega Falck, sest nad
vajavad vastust kui tegevusjuhist. Michelson on otsuse langetanud ja
üritab trotslikult sellele kindlaks jääda. Martensit tuleb see küsimus
ootamatult kummitama, kui ta vaatab tagasi oma elule.

1
Artikli aluseks on 2002. aastal Tartu Ülikoolis kaitstud magistritöö Jutustamise
tematiseerimine Thomas Manni Doktor Faustuses ja Jaan Krossi Keisri hullus 3.
peatükk.

Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4, 201

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
 Küsimus, kuhu kuuluda, on aga midagi enamat kui pelgalt üks
teemadest, mida Kross ajaloolisi tegelasi ja sündmusi kujutades käsitleb.
Jüri Talvet juhib tähelepanu Krossi ajaloolise proosa laiemale funktsioo-
nile eesti kultuuris, öeldes, et “See on saaga Eesti saamisest “natsiooniks”
nii etnilises kui ka poliitilises tähenduses, ent üle kõige ettehaarav ku-
jund Eesti iseseisvuse taastamisest rahvusriigina” (Talvet: 80). Niisiis
on Krossi proosal tähtis roll kultuurikoosluse olemise lahtimõtestamisel
ja kujundamisel. Ka Maire Jaanus näeb Krossi proosas teemasid, mis
võiksid olla eesti veel kirjutamata filosoofia keskseteks tõdedeks (Jaanus:
145). Aga tähtis on mõista, et eesti kultuuris on kirjandus rohkem kui
muud diskursid alati olnud see koht, kus seda filosoofiat on kirjutatud.
Rein Veidemann näeb Krossi loomingu kuulumises diskurssi, mis
on eesti kultuuris alati tähtis ja erutav olnud, peamist põhjust tema
klassikustaatusele (Veidemann: 7). Minu arvates on ka küsimus, kuhu
kuuluda, üks osa eesti kultuuri olemis- ja identiteediprobleemidest.
Sellest on kantud nii Uku Masingust lähtuv soome-ugriliku olemise
versioon kui ka Noor-Eesti loosung “Olgem eestlased, aga saagem ka
eurooplasteks”. Kord arvame end kuuluvat Itta, kord Läände, kord
arvame end olevat skandinaavlased, kord keskeurooplased.
Kross kasutab Keisri hullu ülesehituses maailmakirjanduses le-
vinud võtet, pannes von Bocki lugu jutustama fiktiivse jutustajakuju
Jakob Mättiku. Nii asetub romaan ühte ritta selliste maailmakirjan-
duse suurteostega nagu Thomas Manni Doktor Faustus, Conan Doyle’i
Sherlock Holmesi lood ja Umberto Eco Roosi nimi. Gérard Genette’i
narratiiviteooria terminites on Jakob homodiegeetiline tunnistaja-ju-
tustaja, mis tähendab seda, et ta on osaline loos, aga ei esita mitte tema
enda, vaid kellegi teisega juhtunud sündmusi (Genette: 245). Seda
tüüpi jutustajaga tekstides on jutustamise akt peaaegu alati esiplaanil.
Jutustaja ei ole ebamäärane hääl, mis asub mingis ajalises ja ruumilises
ähmasuses. Lugeja on tuttav tema nime ja elulooga, jutustamise aja,
koha ja asjaoludega. Keisri hullu jutustamissituatsiooni muudab veelgi
konkreetsemaks see, et romaani fiktsionaalses maailmas on Jakobi
jutustuse näol tegemist kirjaliku tekstiga, tema päevaraamatuga.
Me võime vaadelda Keisri hullu teksti kui Jakobi päevaraamatut selle
kirjaliku kuju konkreetsuses.

202
 Tunnistaja-jutustajaid iseloomustab sageli rõhutatud tagasihoid-
likkus ja keskpärasus nende poolt jutustatud lugude peategelastega
võrreldes. See kehtib nii Doktor Faustuse Zeitblomi, Roosi nime Adso kui
ka Mättiku kohta. Sageli jäävadki nad jutustatavate lugude tähtsuse ja
dramaatilisuse tõttu tahaplaanile. See aga ei tähenda, et nende jutus-
tamisele ei peaks tähelepanu pöörama. Manfred Frank rõhutab Doktor
Faustusest inspireerituna, et “implitsiitselt või ka selgelt eksponeeritud
jutustajasubjekt romaanis on alati ka meie tähelepanu objekt. Eriti on
see nii juhul, kui jutustaja esineb romaanis kui jutustatu, kui ta on
vähem kroonik ja pigem selle ajaromaani eksemplaarne aines [Sujet]
selle sõna topelttähenduses (Frank: 13). Frank juhib selle märkusega
tähelepanu asjaolule, et jutustajakuju ei ole pelgalt teksti struktuuri-
element, vaid tema jutustamise lugu on vähemalt sama tähtis kui pea-
tegelase oma. Kasutades seda tüüpi jutustajat, tematiseerivad autorid
jutustamist ja vaagivad sellega seonduvaid probleeme. “Keisri hullu”
jutustamissituatsiooni üheks huvitavaks tahuks on see, et Jakobi päeva-
raamat on tõsieluline narratiiv, mille eesmärgiks on jäädvustada tule-
vastele põlvedele võimalikult tõetruult Timotheus von Bocki elulugu.
Seega tematiseerib Kross biograafilise jutustuse temaatikat. Seejuures
on tähelepanu keskmes see, kuidas isegi biograafilise projekti puhul
kandub rõhk pelgalt eluloo vahendamiselt selle mõtestamisele, ja esi-
plaanile tõuseb jutustamise funktsioon jutustaja enese jaoks; kuidas
jutustamine saab osaks loost ja hakkab mõjutama selle käiku. Minu
arvates ei ole von Bocki lool Jakobi jutustamiseta tähendust. Timo
ja tema krooniku Jakobi ning nende vastavate lugude sümmeetria
on Keisri hullu keskne struktuuriline ja sisuline element ja just selles
tasakaalus seisneb selle romaani üks suuremaid võlusid.

Tegelane Jakob: identiteediprobleemid

Kuigi Jakobi roll romaanis on esmapilgul eelkõige jutustaja oma,

hõlmavad autodiegeetilised kõrvalepõiked, kus Jakob tutvustab end
kui tegelast, ootamatult suure osa tekstist. Lugeja saab aimu Jakobi
haridusteest, tegevusaladest, perekonnaseisust, ühiskondlikust po-
sitsioonist ja iseloomust justkui muuseas, paralleelselt sellega, kui ta
jutustab Timo lugu. Kes siis on Jakob?

Eneken Laanes 203

 Päevaraamatut alustades on ta 37-aastane. Ta on sündinud 1790.
aastal Holstre vallas Kannuka talu perepojana. Tänu õde Eeva eba-
tavalisele abielule baltisaksa aadliku Timotheus von Bockiga saab ta
aadlinoormehele kohase hariduse Otto Wilhelm Masingu juures. Ta
õpib õemehe vanade kooliraamatute järgi. Masing õpetab Jakobile ka
joonestamise ja planeerimise aluseid. Oma haridusteed iseloomustades
ütleb Jakob: “Ma olin endale nelja aastaga küll gümnaasiumitäie raa-
matutarkust sisse pressinud, ja kuna see oli sündinud erksas, aga ikkagi
juba täiskasvanud eas (ma olin nüüd kakskümmend seitse täis), olin
ma oma iseäraliku olukorra tõttu raamatutarkuse kõrval ka paraja jao
elu- ja inimesetarkust omandanud. Aga t e h a ei mõistnud ma sellega
õieti mitte midagi” (Kross: 24). Pärast Masingu juurest lahkumist asub
Jakob elama õemehe mõisasse ja on õe perekonnaliige. Ta kavatseb
hakata pärast Timo ja Eeva abiellumist nende mõisavalitsejaks, kuid
see plaan ei teostu. Nagu ka Timo idee võtta Jakob endale kirjutajaks
– enne jõutakse Timo vangi panna.
Timo vangisoleku ajal on Jakob sõjaväes. Jakobi väide, et ta on
“kaheksa aastat kroonut teeninud” (Kross: 194) tuleb lugejale õieti
üllatusena. Päevaraamatus ei räägi Jakob sellest ajalõigust oma elus
kordagi pikemalt. Juhuslikest märkustest ilmneb, et ta oli major
Tenneri rühmas kaartide kopeerijaks. Aga alati, kui juhtub midagi
tähtsat Timo elus, on Jakob Tenneri juurest puhkusel. Pärast kroonust
vabanemist pöördub Jakob tagasi õe majja. Päeviku kirjutamise ajal on
ta “aplaagris alamväelane” (Kross: 191). Ta on vallaline, tal ei ole õiget
tegevust, ametist rääkimata ja ta on pooleldi oma õe ülalpeetav.
Jakobile on endalegi ebaselge, kes ta nii rahvuselt kui ka seisuselt
õieti on. Päritolult on ta Holstre mõisa päristalupoeg. Talle ostetakse
priikirjad ja ta saab hariduse. Aga ta ei leia oma uues elus mingit
rakendust ega hakka ka kunagi kuuluma Timo seltskonda. Tema
olukorra vastuolulisust kajastavad enesemääratlused nagu “minu-
taoline saksapükstes prantsuskeelne külakas” (Kross: 36), “das zweite
Wunderexemplar” (Kross: 148) või “sõnnikuvankrist ühe mitmekordselt
skandaalse mõisnikupere ääre peale kukkunud isand” (Kross: 68).
Sünnilt on Jakob eestlane. Seda, et see ei tähenda mitte ainult
rahvust, vaid ka seisust ja teatud arusaamu ning mõtteviisi, näitavad

204
järgmised mõttekäigud: “Timo kui balti kõrgaadlist pärineva mehe
jutt ei saanudki paraku teistsugune olla, kui see oli [---] see jutt oli
minule v õ õ r a s , [---] m i d a g i seal sees oli põhjani ja üdini vale”
(Kross: 38) või “Sest minu arusaamine säherdustes asjades oli – ja on
– suurelt jaolt ikka veel see, mille järgi meie isa oma elu oli elanud
– Holstre päristalupojast ja kutsarist kuni Kolga-Jaani Rückeri prii-
saunikuni välja” (Kross: 85).
Samas tunneb Jakob, et tagasitee päritolule vastava elu juurde on
tema jaoks ära lõigatud. Vaadelgem järgmist mõtteavaldust: “minu
võimetus ennast inimestega üheks tunda ei ahista mind sugugi ainult
praegu ja nende pleegitaja-naiste suhtes või naiste suhtes iseäranis,
vaid ahistab mind õieti ammu ja igal pool. Ka moonameeste seas,
kui nad põllu ääres või reheväraval o m a v a h e l tihedasti troppis
on ja leiba võtavad, tolmused, higised, mullased, ja mina neile mööda
astudes kombe pärast sõnakese lausun (mulle paistab, kord ülemäära
semuliku, kord tühise, kord kõrgi ja igal juhul kohatu), kusjuures
ma tean, et nad mind silma all härraks, aga seljataga juppjunkruks
kutsuvad...(Nojah, küll ka lihtsalt Äärbäri-Jaagupiks, aga ma ei tea,
kas enamjaolt nii või naa” (Kross: 77).
Jakob ei kuulu eestlaste hulka, aga nagu järgmisest märkusest ilm-
neb, jääb ta ka Timo seltskonnale alati võõraks. Peeter von Manteuffeli
silmade läbi näeb Jakob end kui Timo sõnnikust naisevenda (Kross:
240). Ta ei tunne end võrdsena isegi Timoga. Analüüsides oma käi-
tumist Timo suhtes, mõtleb Jakob: “võib-olla oli selles kübe moona-
kalikku sabaliputust sees, kurat teab” (Kross: 81).
Jakobi olukorra vastuolulisuse võtab kokku tema järgmine arut-
lus: “Kui Eeva ja Timo on septembris viimaks õnnelikult põgenenud.
Võisikul pole mul siis enam midagi teha. Isegi kui ma tahaksin, lastaks
mul vaevalt seal edasi olla. Aga ma ei tahaks ühelgi juhul. [---] Sest
ma olen seal v õ õ r a s [---] Ja Palukal niisama, Ei, Palukal mitte nii
võõras muidugi. Palukal ikkagi palju omasem. Aga just sellepärast
palju valusamalt võõras.” (Kross: 195).
Jakobi pidetusest, oma elu puudumisest ja õe ning õemehe elu
elamisest annab tunnistust ka see, et ta räägib oma elust, mõtetest ja
tunnetest alati meie-vormis. Järgnevate tsitaatide puhul tasub tähele

Eneken Laanes 205

 panna, et see tundub ka Jakobi enda jaoks imelik: “Ja siis tabas meie
jalgealust – ma mõtlen Eeva ja teatud määra ka minu enese jalgealust
– teine maavärisemine” (Kross: 85), “Ja ainus, mis meil – või see tä-
hendab Eeval – on, on Timolt pulmakingiks saadud kullast kaelakee
ja käevõru ja sõrmused” (Kross: 86), “kas peame meie Eevaga n e n d e
ometi ju pentsikuvõitu probleemidepundart ka tõsiselt võtma – meie
endi probleemide kõrval, mis on võrratult rängemad ja üldisemad
ja asetsevad ju otse elu ja surma veelahkmel – või ei pea meie seda
mitte...?” (Kross: 168), “Kui meile ju a m e t l i k u l t kõigi meie meele-
heitlike pärimiste peale tõesti pole mitte midagi teatada suvatsetud! Ja
kui me oleme kõik, mis me teame, ainult raasukesekaupa, usutamiste
ja altkäemaksude ja husaariviguritega teada saanud?!” (Kross: 220).
Jakob käsitleb enda omana nii Eeva elu, tema perekonda kui
probleeme. Ta samastab end Eeva ja Timoga ka kui mõisaomanike
ja aadlikega. Nii räägibki ta “meie uuest härrastemajast” (Kross: 11),
“meie valitsejaisand Alexander Lamingust” (Kross: 18), “meie eelmi-
sest valitsejast Klarfeldtist” (Kross: 18), “meie viiekümnest lehmast ja
viiekümnest mullikast” (Kross: 59). Jakob samastab end ka Timoga,
justkui oleks ka tema riigikukutaja, vang ja hull. Vaadelgem järgmisi
tsitaate: “Pakikandjad olid tegelikult muidugi selleks seal, et meil
Peterburist Võisikuni oma feldjäägri juhtimisel silma peal pidada. Et
meie ettenähtud tee pealt kõrvale ei satuks [---] Või et meie mine tea
kellele kirjasid ega sõnumeid ei saadaks ega kõrvaliste inimestega
ei kõneleks, riigivalitsusevastaseid asju muidugiteada” (Kross: 9) või
“Mina küsisin: / “Ja kes siis n ü ü d meile kõrvaks peaks pandama?”
(Kross: 66).

Jakobi saladus

Võttes kokku selle, mida Jakob päevaraamatus enda kohta räägib,

võib öelda, et ta asub sisemise kriisi olukorras. Tal ei ole oma perekon-
da ega ametit, tunnustatud ühiskondlikku positsiooni ja seoses sellega
ka üheselt määratletavat rahvust. Ta elab positsioonitu ja rollituna
oma õe perekonnas. See tekitab temas pidetuse ja ebamugavustunnet.
Thomas Salumetsa arvates on vale öelda, et Jakobil puudub identi-
teet. Tema arvates on identiteedi käsitlemine fikseeritu ja muutuma-

206
tuna vananenud ja seda tuleb vaadelda pigem pidevas muutumises
(Salumets: 181). Ta näeb Jakobi kujus Krossi panust postmodernse
olukorra ja sellele kohanduva voolava identiteedi kujutamisse. Jakobi
päevaraamatust ilmneb aga selgesti, et ta ei tunne end selle piiridel
asuva identiteediga kindlalt ja püüdleb ühemõttelise enesemäärat-
lemise poole. Salumets arvates on selle põhjuseks asjaolu, et Jakobil
puudub piisav tolerants ambivalentsuse suhtes, et ta ei taha leppida
paratamatusega (Salumets: 181). Nagu aga psühhoanalüüs on meile
õpetanud, on kriisid ja muutused identiteedis alati seotud ebamuga-
vustundega, mida püütakse ületada, ja postmoderne olukord koos
hübriidsete, piiripealsete, pidevas muutumises olevate identiteetidega
vaevalt kellelegi turvatunnet pakub, nagu seda näib väitvat Salumets.
Seetõttu on täiesti mõistetav, et Jakob oma olukorrale lahendust otsib.
Minu arvates leiab Jakob sellele pidetusele ja paigatusele vastukaalu
päevaraamatu pidamise näol. Päevaraamat on päris tema oma elu.
Selle pidamise käigus saab selleks ka lugu, mida ta sinna kirja paneb,
pakkudes Jakobile nii võimaluse enesekinnituseks.
Seoses päevaraamatu pidamisega torkab silma Jakobi äärmine
konspiratiivsus. Teksti see osa, kus ei jutustata otseselt Timo lugu,
tiirlebki peaasjalikult päeviku salajasuse, varjamismanöövrite ja ava-
likuks tuleku hirmu ümber.
Jakob rõhutab päeviku salajasust kohe selle alguses, kuigi lugejale
jääb selgusetuks, milles see seisneb. Jakob määratleb oma kirjatööd
kui “täiesti salajane päevaraamat” (Kross: 7) ja nii mõndagi söandab
ta kirja panna vaid eeldusel, et keegi päevaraamatut tema eluajal ei
loe. Ja esialgu ei olegi selles midagi salajast. Varjamisväärsest kirjutab
Jakob alles pärast külaskäiku Pahleni juurde, alates memorandumi
ümberkirjutustest. Nii on esialgu saladus päevik ise, selle olemasolu
ja pidamise fakt. Isegi päeviku varjamisvajadust mõistes tunduvad
järgmistes tekstilõikudes ilmnevad salatsemine ja haiglaslikud hir-
mukujutlused liialdusena: “Nüüd pean ma seda päevaraamatut v e
e l hoolsamalt varjama kui seni. Sest seal, kus kõrvad majale vägisi
külge kasvavad, ei jää küll silmadki sigimata“ (Kross: 83) või “Ma
heidan hirmul pilgu oma vaheukse ülemise piidalaua poole ja mul on
tunne, nagu hakkaksid mu saladused seal taga sedamaid nähtavalt

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 läbi selle kuuselaua kumama ja nagu oleks laud pihuks pudenemas ja
mu peidiku saatuslik sisu kokkukorjamatult maailma laiali lendamas”
(Kross: 137).
Jakobil on päeviku varjamiseks peidikud kõigis kolmes paigas, kus
ta selle pidamise ajal elab. Ta jutustab üksikasjalikult, kus need asuvad
ja millised nad on. Võisiku härrastemajas hoiab Jakob päevikut tema
toas asuvas laepeidikus, mis on sinna jäänud Timo ajast. Ta kirjeldab
üksikasjalikult selle ehitust. Kui ta koos Eeva ja Timo majapidamisega
Kivijalga kolib, meisterdab ta endale sarnase peidiku uute ruumide
vaheukse piida sisse. Põltsamaal hoiab Jakob oma saladust põranda-
laua all. Salajane koht on ka Jakobi tuba, kui ta seal parajasti päevikut
kirjutab. Seda kaitsevad lukus uks ja ettetõmmatud kardinad.
Päevaraamat, selle peidikud ja Jakobi tuba ongi ainsad asjad,
mida Jakob võib päris omaks pidada. See on tema isiklik elu. Lähtu-
des Gaston Bachelard’i väitest, et “Peidetu inimeses ja peidetu asjades
kuuluvad ühte topoanalüüsi” (Bachelard: 81), võib Jakobi saladusele ja
varjamisele anda laiema tähenduse. Bachelard kirjutab: “Kapp oma
riiulitega, kirjutuslaud oma sahtlitega ja kirst oma topeltpõhjaga on
salajase vaimuelu tõelised organid” (Bachelard: 78). Jakobi peidi-
kud, mida ta nii meelsasti ja üksikasjalikult kirjeldab, on tüüpilised
intiimsuse kujundid. Aga intiimne ruum ei piirdu ainult peidikutega,
see kvaliteet on ka Jakobi tubadel, eriti Võisiku katusekambril2. Just
nende kaudu seostub Jakobi saladus tema identiteediotsingutega.
Jakob peidab päevaraamatut, sest see sisaldab ümberkirjutusi Timo
memorandumist ja jäädvustab muid riigivõimu seisukohalt lubamatuid
sündmusi ja mõtteid, aga varjamise sügavamaks põhjuseks on see, et
päevik on tema enda salajase psühholoogilise elu organ. Nii väites ei
pea ma silmas Jakobi armuseiklusi puudutavaid ülestähendusi. Jakobi
salajane psühholoogiline elu seisneb päevaraamatu pidamises ja on

2
Lisaks sellele leidub päevaraamatus veel teisigi intiimsuse kujundeid. Need on alati
seotud kellegi saladusega. Anna ja Jakobi saladust varjab jõe “haljaste kaislaseintega
kamber” (Kross: 197), selle “rohelised rooeesriided” (Kross: 198) ja Jakobi rohelise
paadipuldan, mis on “päikesevari. Ja inimestevari ühtlasi” (Kross: 197). Masing
räägib Timole ja Eevale nende abiellumise eel täiuslikust usaldusest, mille “sisse võite
teie kõige jama eest kõrvale minna otsekui... otsekui oleks see täiuslikult kerakujuline
pärlmutrist karp” (Kross: 23) ja hiljem jutustab Jakob Masingu tühjast laekast, milles
olevat olnud tema eesti keele sõnaraamat (Kross: 296).

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otseselt seotud Timo memorandumi ja tema looga. Pole ilmselt juhus,
et Jakob varjab päevaraamatut sellessamas peidikus, kus Timo hoidis
oma memorandumit ja kust Jakob selle ka leiab. Päevikul on ülehin-
damatu roll Jakobi elus. See tasakaalustab tema pidetut olemist ühis-
konnas ja annab sellele mõtte. Ühest küljest on sellel sotsialiseeriv roll,
jutustamise käigus ja toel kujundab Jakob oma kultuurilise ja sotsiaalse
identiteedi. Timo eluloo jäädvustamine muudab Jakobi tõekspidamisi
ja enesekäsitlust ning selle kaudu ka tema elu. Jutustamine mõjutab
otseselt lugu, saab osaks sellest. Muutused Jakobi elus, kolimine Anna
juurde on otseselt ajendatud päevaraamatu pidamisest ja selle käigus
kujunevatest seisukohtadest. Teisest küljest aga annab päevaraamatu
pidamise fakt, Timo kogemuse jäädvustamine tulevastele põlvedele,
iseenesest Jakobi elule mõtte.

Jutustaja Jakob: Timo lugu

Jakob põhjendab päevaraamatu pidamist moraalse kohustusega

jäädvustada Timotheus von Bocki tähelepanuväärne elulugu. See
lugu ei ole aga midagi, mis oleks kuskil valmiskujul olemas, oodates
vaid hetke, mil Jakob seda vahendama asub. Kuna Jakob jutustab
teise inimesega toimunud sündmustest, on loo lünklikkus ja kaugus
temast, õieti selle olemasolu vaid üksikute sündmuste ja faktide kujul,
eriti võimendatud. Nii võibki öelda, et jutustama asudes Jakob alles
hakkab Timo lugu looma. Ta valib välja ja püüab määratleda selle
tähtsündmused, täita loogilised lüngad, tuua välja põhjuslikud seosed
ning anda kogu järgnevusele rõhkude asetamise kaudu tähendus.
Kross tematiseerib Jakobi praktikat eriti värvikalt seoses Timo sur-
maga. Jakob esitab selle kohta mitmeid versioone ja vaagib tähendusi,
mis erinevad versioonid loole annavad. Kross näitab, kuidas moraalse
jäädvustamiskohustuse ettekäände varjust tõuseb üha enam esile Jakobi
enese sisemine vajadus Timoga toimunut mõista ja anda sellel tähendus
tema enda jaoks. Teda tõukavad kirjutama mitte ainult tsaaririigi usku-
matuna näiv ja mõistetamatuks jääv režiim ning füüsilised ja vaimsed
vägivallateod oma alamate kallal, aga ka Timo põhimõtete ja käitumise,
ajendite ja otsuste hõlmamatus. Kross toob esile tahu, mis on igasuguse
jutustamistegevuse puhul alati olemas, aga mida kipume või püüame

Eneken Laanes 209

 sageli unustada – nimelt et jutustamine on alati maailma tõlgendamine
ning mõtestamine meie endi jaoks ja kõik jutustused kannavad oma
jutustajate pitserit. Järgnevalt näitan, kuidas Jakob Timo lugu mõista
püüab ja milline roll on sellel tema enda elus.
Nagu juba öeldud, on üks suuremaid küsimärke selles loos Timo
ise, tema käitumise motiivid. Nimelt püüab Jakob kirjutamise käigus
selgusele jõuda, kas Timo on hull või mitte. Lisaks mitmetele minevi-
kuseikadele ja päevaraamatu pidamise ajal toimuvatele sündmustele,
mis Timo hulluse küsimusele poolt või vastuargumente pakuvad, otsib
Jakob sellele vastust ka Timo memorandumist, kirjutades seda päeva-
raamatusse ümber ja lisades oma kommentaare. Järgnevalt selgitan
mõnede näidete varal, mil määral on Timo keisrikiri Jakobi jaoks
mõistmise vahend, kuidas ta seob selles sisalduvad mõtteavaldused
toimunud ja toimuvate sündmustega ja kuidas see lugu mõjutab. Nagu
ilmneb Jakobi märkustest, ei ole memorandumilõikude valik ja nende
teksti lülitamise hetk sugugi juhuslik: “Jaa, ma olen Timo paberid
jälle oma lauale toonud. Sest see, mis meiega ülemineva reede õhtul
sündis (ma mõtlen jutuajamist härra La Trobe’iga) ja kõik, mis meiega
päevast päeva sünnib, ulatub juuripidi neisse koltunud pabereisse”
(Kross: 114). Kui Timo avaldab Jakobile kartust, et ta ei ole vaimselt
terve, ütleb Jakob talle oma arvamuse just pärast mõningast konsul-
teerimist memorandumi tekstiga (Kross: 180). Vahepeal jätab Jakob
Timo paberid unarusse, aga kui Timo keeldub põgenemast ja Jakobil
tekib uus kahtlus tema meelemõistuses, haarab ta taas memorandumi
järele: “Ma laotasin Timo käsikirja oma paberipahmakate vahel jälle
kord siia enese ette. Sest Eeva jutt Elsy kahtlustest Timo suhtes kiusab
mind seda uuesti lehitsema” (Kross: 280).
Jakob osundab või kommenteerib Timo memorandumit ulatusli-
kumalt kümnel korral. Jälgides Jakobi kommentaare, ilmneb, kuidas
tema suhtumine memorandumisse ja Timo hullusesse muutub.
Rääkides memorandumist esmakordselt, on Jakob selle just äsja
leidnud ja selle sisu ehmatab teda väga. Ta paneb vaid imeks enese ja
teiste heausklikkust Timo kirjatöö sisu suhtes. Ta peab memorandumi
kaaskirja ülbeks ja selle pöörsete ridade kirjutajat hullude hulluks.
Oma kommentaarides näitab Jakob üles harrast keisritruudust: “Aga

210
see ei ole ju muud kui keisri ä h v a r d a m i n e selgemast selgemal
moel!” (Kross: 96) või “Oh jumal, mistarvis jälle niisugused sõnad
keiserlikkude persoonide kohta, mistarvis?!” (Kross: 96).
Aga juba sama sissekande raames sugeneb Jakobi kommentaari-
desse ka uusi noote nagu näiteks: “See on ju jube küll – ja see võib ju
kõik tõsi olla, eks ole... (Ja see ongi kõik muidugi tõsi ning ainult osa-
kene tõest)” (Kross: 98). Jakob möönab, et mitmed Timo paljastused
on ka temale teada, sellest hoolimata peab ta seda, kes neist keisrile
kirjutab, hulluks ja mõistuseraasuta inimeseks.
Esimese memorandumisissekande lõpus turgatab Jakobile pähe
võimalus, et Timo kirjutas selle kirja keisrile vastavalt antud tõerää-
kimisevandele. Lugejale näib see ilmselt iseenesestmõistetav. See, et
Jakobile tundub see võimalus ebatõenäoline, isegi uskumatu, näitab,
kui eitavalt suhtub ta Timo memorandumisse, aga eriti seda, kui
kaugel on teineteisest Timo ja Jakobi eetilised tõekspidamised. Jakob
peab Timo idioodiks ja lapseks (Kross: 101).
Jätkates ka edaspidi hädaldavas stiilis ja Timo ikka hulluks nime-
tades sugenevad Jakobi kommentaaridesse siiski uued mõtted ja mõist-
mised nagu näiteks: “Imestada saab ehk ainult seda, k u i pentsikult
hullus ja selgus minu õemehe meeles ja vaimus segi on segatud. Ja
mitte üksnes hullus ja selgus. Ka asjade nägemise parunlik piiratus ja
inimlik laius” (Kross: 114). Veel suuremat mõistmist näitab mõttekäik,
mida Jakob arendab vastuseks Timo talupoegade ja mõisnike vahelise
armastuse ideele. Jakob on seisukohal, et “kuuesaja aastaga talupoja ja
mõisniku vahele kaevatud kuristikku ei silda enam ükski taevane ega
maapealne võim [---] Ja ikkagi... Minu õemees on rajanud vähemalt
oma isiklikus elus silla üle kuristiku [---] tema teost sigib kõigisse ta
sonimistesse üks imelikult kaitsetu ja ometi ärasalgamatu õiguseiva...
Naeruväärne muidugi, aga m i n g i l moel mahatallamatu” (Kross:
116–117). Kui Jakob osundab Timo poolt ettepandud põhiseaduse
punktidele, peab ta neid suurejoonelisteks, kuid võimatust võimatu-
maks. Lõpuks jõuab Jakob otsusele, et “kõik, mis Timo kirjutab, on
puhas, kui mitte kõigile, siis igatahes paljudele teadaolev tõde. Vale
on ainult see, mis ta sellega tegi” (Kross: 180). Memorandumi põhjal
otsustab ta, et Timo ei ole hull.

Eneken Laanes 211

 Päevaraamatu pidamise toel otsustab Jakob mitte ainult Timo
hulluse või selguse üle. Selle kaudu tõstatuvad tema jaoks ka uudsed
kõlbelised kategooriad nagu autunne, patriotism ja sõnapidamine,
mille suhtes tal tuleb seisukoht võtta. Nii sunnib päeviku pidamine
Jakobit otsima selgust mitte ainult Timo loos, vaid ka iseendas.

Jutustamise roll jutustaja jaoks: Jakobi lugu

Jakobi päevaraamatu pidamine on vahetult seotud tema kul-

tuurilise ja sotsiaalse identiteedi otsingutega. See on protsess, mille
tähendus avaneb liikumises. Järgnevalt tahan illustreerida Jakobi
eneseotsinguid tema memorandumilugemiste ja samal ajal toimuvate
või samasse konteksti lülitatud minevikusündmuste kajastamise najal.
Memorandumi pidev ülelugemine on tingitud toimuvatest sündmus-
test ja vastupidi – toimuvad sündmused memorandumi olemasolust.
Timo keisrikirja kommentaarides peituv mõtteareng on seetõttu
mõistetav vaid toimuvate sündmuste kontekstis.
Jakob hindab Timo memorandumit ja sellest ajendatud sündmusi
küll keisri hullu, küll balti aadli ja ametliku ajalookirjutuse seisukohalt,
aga kõige muu kõrval siiski ka omaenese vaatenurgast. Nii sisalda-
vad tema kommentaarid vahel ka isiklikke arvamusi ja märkusi teda
puudutavatel teemadel. Jakobi sekkumise ajendiks on peamiselt üks
teema – eesti talupoegade ja mõisnike vahelised suhted ja talupoegade
vabastamise küsimus. Selles asjas võtab Jakob omaks eesti talupoja
vaatepunkti: “et suurvürst julges nimetada aadlimehi härgadeks…
Kulla härra hõim – kas sa siis ei tea, et su enese sugu hüüab su kalli
Eeva tõugu kuussada aastat lojusteks?... Või peame meie seda viimati
ka niimoodi võtma hakkama, et me sellest solvatud oleme?” (Kross:
96). Erinevalt Jakobi tavalisest solidaarsustundest Timo vastu, võtab
ta talupoegade küsimuses sisse oma päritolule vastava positsiooni ning
on Timo arvamuste suhtes oponeeriv, irooniline ning alistunud.
Sarnasel viisil naerab Jakob välja Timo talupoegade ja mõisnike
vahekordi puudutavad tulevikuvisioonid. Timo pooldab talupoegade
ja aadli aususel, lugupidamisel ja armastusel rajanevat liitu keisri vastu.
Jakob peab seda ideaali lapsikuks ja elukaugeks.
Nende memorandumilugemiste kaudu on Jakob esmakordselt

212
sunnitud mõtlema eesti talupoja, seega oma rahva mineviku ja tu-
leviku üle. See on üks esimesi valdkondi, mis memorandumi Jakobi
jaoks omaseks muudab. Ilmneb, et ka tema on segatud sellesse, mis
siiani näis olevat vaid Timo ja tema keisri vaheline asi. Memorandumi
sisu hakkab järjest rohkem puudutama ka Jakobit, ärgitab teda kaasa
mõtlema ja kaasa vaidlema. Kui alguses istub Jakob laua taga, me-
morandum ees, loeb, kirjutab ümber ja kommenteerib, siis edaspidi
meenuvad Timo mõtted Jakobile keset sündmusi. Ta tõmbab paral-
leele Timo erinevate mõtete, tema mõtete ja tegude, memorandumi
ja toimuvate sündmuste vahel. Jakobi süvenev huvi ja seotus kujuneb
pikkamööda, päevikusissekanded on märgid sellest protsessist.
Tunnistuseks uuest kvaliteedist on Jakobi sissekanded 16. märtsist
ja 14. aprillist 1828. Pealtnäha seosetult lülitab Jakob oma päevaraa-
matusse kirjelduse lähedalasuvast Rõika peeglivabrikust. Sissekandest
ei ilmne, et selle ajendiks oleks mingi sündmus loos. Seda üle mitme
lehekülje ja läbi kahe sissekande ulatuvat kirjeldust põhjendab vaid
Jakobi meeltes tekkinud seos Rõika peeglivabriku ja Timo memo-
randumis sisalduva kolmanda seisuse idee vahel: “Ja seal torgataski
mulle meelde, k u s t k o h a s t korjatud tähelepanekuist Timol see
ootamatu mõte pärit võib olla, mille ma tema memorandumist leid-
nud olen. [---] siitsamast, oma kodukandi muljetest pidi Timol ju vist
olema tekkinud ka küsimus, et kas polnud siinsamas Liivimaal, eesti
rahva alles koguni kindlaks tegemata omaduste juures ja sakslaste
ning venelaste kaasatorkimisel seesinane kolmas seisus juba mõnda
aega t e k k i m a s?” (Kross: 185–186).
Paralleelide tõmbamine näitab täiesti uut suhtumist memorandu-
misse: kaasamõtlemist, arusaamist, aktsepteerimistki. Sellest hetkest
saab Timo hullumeelne demokraatia-utoopia Jakobi jaoks millekski
käegakatsutavaks, kodukandiliseks, tedagi puudutavaks.
Ka Tiina Kirss peab Jakobi peeglivabrikusissekandeid murde-
punktiks tema päevaraamatupidamises: “Peeglivabrik, millest jutus-
tab Jakob Mättik “Keisri hullus”, on kohaliku ajaloo sümbol ja selle
uurimisest saab murdemoment Jakobi kujunemises päevikukirjutajast
kronistiks.” (Kirss: 113). Kirsi käsitlus pakub erilist huvi seetõttu, et see
on üks väheseid, kus tähelepanu keskpunktis on Jakobi jutustamine.

Eneken Laanes 213

 Kirss näeb Jakobi päevaraamatupidamises protsessi, mille käigus saab
Jakobist täieõiguslik ajaloolane, sest ta teadvustab endale “niihästi
historiograafilist seisukohta kui analüütilist meetodit” (Kirss: 116).
Samas tuleb aga ka rõhutada igasuguse jutustuse tinglikke suhteid
reaalsusega ja selle tõlgendavat ja maailma loovat kvaliteeti. Jakobi
elu- ja ajalookirjutuse puhul on eriti selgesti näha selle tõlgendamise
tähendus jutustaja enda seisukohalt. Jakob peab päevaraamatut Timo
loo jäädvustamise ja ajastu-kroonika koostamise kõrval peaasjalikult
selleks, et mõista ennast ja mõtestada oma positsiooni maailmas.
Otsesest seosest Jakobi päevaraamatupidamise ja identiteediproblee-
mide vahel annab tunnistust tema järgmine mõtteavaldus: “Ma pean
otsustama, kas ma saan siia majasse elama jääda – kui ma oma päeva-
raamatut säilitada tahan. Ja kas ma saan siia jääda, kui ma nõustun
teda ära põletama” (Kross: 241).
Aga Kirsil on õigus, kui ta näeb peeglivabrikusissekandes murde-
punkti Jakobi jutustuses. See annab tunnistust otsustavast muutusest
Jakobis kui tegelases. See on märk tema rahvuslikust, kultuurilisest
ja ühiskondlikust ärkamisest. Timo loo ja memorandumilugemise
kaudu lähevad Jakobi jaoks liikvele tema seni staatilised vahekorrad
maailmaga: oma rahva, selle ajaloo ja ühiskonnaga. Jakob jutustab
meile ja avastab selle käigus isegi, kuidas Timo suhe oma isamaa ja
Jumalaga on määranud tema saatuse. Timo on küll baltisaksa aadlik
ja keisri lähikondlane ning tema isamaa ei ole Jakobi isamaa, aga
Timo suhted oma isamaaga panevad Jakobit mõtlema ka tema enda
vastavate suhete üle. Timo loo jutustamise kaudu saab Jakobist Timo
õpipoiss ka laiemalt au, kohusetunde ja patriotismi küsimustes.

Jakobi ühiskondlik ärkamine on ainult üks tahk tema muutumi-

ses. Ei ole sugugi juhuslik, et sellesama Rõika peeglivabrikust rääki-
va sissekande sabas mainib Jakob esimest korda ka Annat, kes toob
muutuse tema isiklikku ellu.
Neli sissekannet edasi ja loo ajas ligi kaks kuud hiljem jutustab
Jakob vanemate juures Palukal veedetud nädalast. See sissekanne
on kõige üksikasjalikum ja valulisem aruannet Jakobi vastuolulisest
positsioonist perekonnas, ühiskonnas ja maailmas. Siin võtavad need

214
vastuolud kriisi kuju. Jakob võtab Paluka muljed kokku nii: “tulin
järeldusele, mida ma olin ette aimanud, aga mis tegi mulle ometi
tuska: k o d u ei oleks mul ka vanade juures teps” (Kross: 194). Nii
külarahvas kui tema enese vanemad võõrastavad teda. Jakobil on
vilets ja lõhkine tunne, ta on nõutu: “Ja Rõikale ma muidugi ei sõida.
Aga ma tean juba, et mul pole ka kuskile mujale minna. Ja et kuskile
pean ma ju minema” (Kross: 195).
Järgmises sissekandes jutustab Jakob lugejale tema ja Anna
ainukesest pesapaigast, paadist ja nende suvisest salaelust jõel. Selle
käigus seob Jakob ühte oma kaks saladust: päeviku saladuse Timost
ja saladuse Annast. Ka Annat armastab Jakob nii, nagu kirjutab päe-
vikut, “aknariided tihedalt ees, uks lukkus” (Kross: 196).
Jõel mõtleb Jakob oma elu üle järele ja talle meenuvad järgmised
Timo memorandumis avaldatud mõtted: “Mul pole tarvidust otsida
oma õnne väljaspool kodu… Noh, mina peaksin siis ütlema väljaspool
seda paati, seda õõtsuvat omaette-maailma… Ja kui ma olengi, kirjutab
Timo, kogenud mõnikord tänamatust ja solvanguid, on mind vastutasuks
seal headusega ja sõprusega üle külvatud, kus ma pole osanud seda loota
– ja kui ma kaotaksingi usu kogu inimsoosse – (Tõepoolest, inimene võib
juhtuda olukordade sisse, kus niisuguse usukaotuse võimalus tuleb tal
tõesti pähe – nagu minul ju Jette ja Lamingi pärast juhtus…) – kui ma
kaotaksingi usu kogu inimsoosse, leiaksin ometigi troosti igas haljas lehes, igas
rohulibleski” (Kross: 199). Siin tõmbab Jakob taas paralleele enese ja
Timo vahele. Eriti oluline on aga järgmine kõrvutus: “Muidugi, Timo
kirjutab sealsamas, et tema ei saa siiski piirduda koduõnne, rohulible-
troosti ega teaduse- või kunstinaudinguga – sest peale selle olevat tal
Jumal ja isamaa…/ Mina olen mõtelnud: olgu Jumalaga kuidas tahes
– isamaaga ei lase ma ennast häirida. Sest ma olen ju näinud, mis
t ä i e l i k isamaateenimine kaasa toob.” (Kross: 199). Siin eitab Jakob
võimalust, et isamaa talle korda läheks. Kuid päevaraamatu jooksul
ilmneb selgesti, et Jakob laseb end häirida nii isamaast kui kõigest
muust Timo poolt kirjapandust. Sellest annab tunnistust ka asjaolu,
et ta jätab päevaraamatu Timo pojale Georgile, mõeldes seejuures:
“Kui Jüri mu päevaraamatu ära hävitab, ei ole maailmal lootust. /
Kui ta selle alles hoiab, on maailmal lootus olemas. / Väga meeldiv, et

Eneken Laanes 215

 ma teada ei saa, mis ta teeb! / See annab mulle võimaluse loota isegi
siis, kui lootust ei peaks olema” (Kross: 335). Sellest, kui väga Timo
lugu Jakobile südamesse läheb, annab tunnistust muuhulgas ka see,
et Jakob saab endale Timo inkvibid.
Muidugi ei saa Jakobist kunagi selliste põhimõtetega inimest nagu
Timo, kuid kui ta otsustab kooselu kasuks Annaga, saab temast just
selle kolmanda seisuse esindaja, kellest Timo oma memorandumis
unistab. Jakobi eluala jääb kuni lõpuni ahtaks, nagu seda on ka kol-
manda seisuse kandepind loo ühiskonnas (kaardistamistööd napib),
kuid ka tema ehitab omaenese eluga silla üle kuristiku, nagu seda
tegi Timo ja viib nii täide tema unistust. Maire Jaanus näeb Jakobi
taganemises kodanlikku eksistentsi põgenemist Timo põhiprobleemi
– Balti rahvaste koloniseerituse probleemi eest (Jaanus: 154). Tema
arvates ei suuda Jakob mõista Timo käitumist, tema ellujäämis- ja
kohanemistehnika põhituuma, mis seisneb kindlaks jäämises endale
ja oma ihadele. Ta ei näe kolimises Rõikale lahendust Jakobi olemis-
kriisile. Jakob hävitab endas ainsa tõelise armastuse Jette vastu, mis
oleks võinud saada aluseks tema iseolemisele. Tõsi, sellest, et kooselu
Annaga seda ei asenda, annavad tunnistust asjaolud, et Laming osutub
ka Anna isaks ja Jakobi ja Anna poeg sureb. Aga sellest hoolimata on
Jakobi kidur eksistents kolmanda seisuse esindajana liikumine uue
ühiskonna poole, välja koloniseeritusest ja seega omamoodi vastupa-
nu- ja ellujäämistehnika.

Kross kui ajalookirjutaja

Von Bocki ja Jakobi lugude paralleelsus on Keisri hullu keskne

ülesehituslik põhimõte. Jakobi jutustamise lugu on jäänud retseptsioo-
nis sageli tahaplaanile. Minu arvates ei ole aga von Bocki lool Jakobi
jutustamiseta tähendust.
Ühest küljest liidab Jakobi loo esiletoomine Keisri hullu Krossi
ajalooliste romaanide tervikusse. Jakobi kuju kaudu lahkab Kross
eestlaseks olemise küsimust. Just tänu Timo loo jutustamisele kerkib
Jakobi jaoks tema kultuurilise, rahvusliku ja sotsiaalse identiteedi
küsimus ja leiab selle käigus ka lahenduse. Päevaraamatu lõpuosas
mõistab ja räägib Jakob ise Timo päri- või pärapidi Mefisto-rollist

216
sellest, et “ma olen inimeseks saanud – niipalju kui ma olen selleks
saanud” (Kross: 323).
Teisest küljest annab Jakobi jutustamine tähenduse Timo loole
ja mõtte tema elule ja kannatustele. Jaanus märgib, et “Timo ja Eeva
viimaseks ja otsustavaks saavutuseks ongi see uus teadlikkus, mis tekib
jutustajas” (Jaanus: 154). Jäädvustades Timo ja enda kogemuse ning
jättes selle Timo poja Georgi isikus tulevastele põlvedele, hoolitseb
Jakob selle eest, et Timo kannatused ei oleks asjatud.

Tulles tagasi Krossi ajaloolise proosa rolli juurde kultuurikoos-

luse olemise mõtestamisel, kerkib Jakobi eluloo- ja ajastukroonika
kirjutamise ja tõlgendamise analoogina paratamatult küsimus ka
Krossi jutustamise rollist eesti ajalookirjutuses. Krossi 80. juubeli ajal
võis lugejatega tehtud tele- ja raadiointervjuudes kuulda vastuseks
küsimusele, miks nad loevad Krossi romaane, sageli väidet, et nii
saab õppida tundma eesti ajalugu. Ka kriitika on sageli rõhutanud
Krossi romaanide ajalootruudust, hoolikat tutvumist ajastut ja tegelasi
puudutava faktimaterjaliga. Minu arvates on selline arutelu fookusest
väljas. Krossi romaanid, toetugu nad pealegi faktidele, on väljamõel-
dud lood, kus faktidele antakse vajalik tähendus. Vaadeldagu kas või
Krossi tegelaste – olgu see Russow, Mättik või Martens – üdini sarnast
hingeelu ja kõlbelisi dilemmasid. Seega on arutelu Krossi romaanide
ajalootruuduse ümber selles mõttes kohatu. See ei tähenda aga, et
neil puuduks side eesti ajaloo ja eestlaste ajaloolise mäluga, aga see
on märksa keerulisem.
Salumets märgib, et Krossi proosas “ilmutab eesti ajalugu end
tõelisemana kui seda lubas kaua aega valitsev Ida ja Lääne elukutse-
liste ajaloolaste diskursus” (Salumets: 173). Salumets näib väitvat, et
Krossi ilukirjandus mõtestab ajalugu paremini, kui historiograafia,
aga on ilmne, et sellise käsitluse puhul ei peeta silmas faktitruudust
või reaalsuse objektiivsemat kajastamist. Krossi proosa seose olemus
eesti ajalooga avaldub siis, kui vaadelda seda Talveti väite, et Krossi
ajalookujutuse eesmärk on kirjutada tagasi- ja, mis eriti oluline, ette-
ulatuvalt eestluse saagat, valguses (Talvet: 80). Ajalugu Krossi proosas
tundub meile nii tõeline sellepärast, et ta sõnastab rahvuse, kultuuri ja

Eneken Laanes 217

 riigi olemise alustalad, mõtestab need lahti ja arendab edasi, näidates
nii suunda tulevikku. Aga kui toimuvad nihked meie kultuurilises või
ühiskondlikus identiteedis ja ilmuvad jutustajad, kes neid muutusi ja
nende valguses ka eesti ajalugu uuteks lugudeks vormivad, siis hak-
kavad ka Krossi lood tunduma meile vähem ajalootruud.

K A S U TAT U D ฀ K I R J A N D U S

Bachelard, Gaston 1999. Ruumipoeetika. Tõlk Kaia Sisask. Tallinn:

Vagabund.
Frank, Manfred 1980. Kaum das Urthema wechselnd. Die alte und
die neue Mythologie im Dokor Faustus. – Fugen I: Deutsch-
französisches Jahrbuch für Text-Analytik. Hrsg. von Manfred
Frank, Friedrich A. Kittler, Samuel Weber. Olten, Freiburg i. B.
S. 9–42
Genette, Gérard 1995. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method.
Trans. Jane E. Lewin. Ithaca: Cornell University Press
Jaanus, Maire 2000. Eesti ja valu: Jaan Krossi Keisri hull. Tlk Kajar
Pruul. Vikerkaar, nr 11–12, lk 138–155
Kirss, Tiina 1991. Optika Jaan Krossi ajaloolistes romaanides. – Loom-
ing, nr. 1, lk.113–120
Kross, Jaan 1978. Keisri hull. Tallinn: Eesti Raamat
Salumets, Thomas 2000. Jaan Kross: Negotiating Nations. – Interlit-
teraria 5: Culture and Nation at the Turn of the Millenium. Ed
Jüri Talvet. Tartu: Tartu Ülikooli Kirjastus, lk 171–185.
Talvet, Jüri 2000. Paigallend ehk eesti (üles)ehitamine Jaan Krossi
proosas. – Keel ja Kirjandus, nr 2, lk 73–83.
Veidemann, Rein 2000. Jaan Kross ja eesti müüt. – Eesti Päevaleht,
19.02., lk 7.

218
SUMMARY

Jaan Kross’s novel The Czar’s Madman is built on a device wide-

spread in world literature: the story of the protagonist, Timotheus
von Bock, is told through a fictional narrator figure, Jakob Mättik.
The diary form of the novel makes it possible to foreground both the
story of von Bock and the narrating of that story, Mättik’s project
of biography-writing. Kross shows that the story of von Bock, in the
form it reaches the reader through the diary, is to a great extent
Mättik’s creation, his endeavour to make a meaningful whole out of
the frequently unconnected multiple facts and events. At that, Kross
especially emphasises the impact of narrating on the narrator himself.
Through the process of narrating, Mättik is seeking to solve his own
identity problems. Von Bock’s principles and the tragedy of his life
events induce him to contemplate his ethnic, cultural and social affili-
ations. Through his narrating, he undergoes changes as a character
– previously without a job, lacking clear ethnic or class identity, Mättik
becomes an Estonian and a Bourgeois. The figure of Mättik in The
Czar’s Madman demonstrates how narrating can interplay with story
and change its course.
The parallelism between Mättik’s and von Bock’s stories is the
central structural and thematic principle in The Czar’s Madman.
Without Mättik’s narration, von Bock’s story would remain meaning-
less. His suffering is compensated firstly by the new consciousness
that the telling of his story prompts in Jakob, and secondly by the fact
that Jakob records his experience for future generations. These two
aspects give his otherwise tragic story what might even be considered
a happy end.

Eneken Laanes 219

 LEGITIMACY AND FLUIDITY: CENTRAL EUROPEAN NARRATIVES
OF PERSONHOOD1

Piret Peiker

THIS PAPER WILL try to approach the issue of contours of legitimacy in

Central Europe through the prism of and with the tools of literary
analysis. I will focus on the genre of Bildungsroman, or coming-of-age
novel, and its development in Central Europe. The genre originates
in 18th century, and according to an early but widely repeated defini-
tion, it is a novel where a young protagonist “discovers himself and
his social role through experience of love, friendship and the hard
realities of life” (Wilhelm Dilthey; quoted by Labovitz 1988: 2). I will
show that the Central European Bildungsroman is in some aspects quite
different from its West European models, and that both in its structure
and motifs actually more resembles the formations of Bildungsroman
outside Europe, in the so-called post-colonial world.
As a rule, Central Europe is assessed through socio-cultural or
socio-political analysis, so some comment about my perspective and
its aims are appropriate. I do not think literary works, even novels,
could be read unproblematically as allegories of national or social
situations – they are too particular for that on the one hand and have
far greater potential for generalisation on the other.
Rather, the interest in literary narratives concerned with par-
ticular fictional individuals, even for someone who is not interested

1
Presented at “The Contours of Legitimacy in Central Europe: New Approaches in
Graduate Studies” Conference. European Studies Centre, St Antony’s College, Ox-
ford 24–26 May 2002

220 Kult uuri maailmad. Act a Collegii Humaniorum Est oniensis 4,

© Eest i Humanit aarinst it uut , Tallinn 2004.
in literature as such, would be, that these narratives bring into focus
unexpected aspects of what the internal mechanics of the personal and
political inter-relationship constitutes in Central Europe, thereby of-
fering new insights into the region’s cultural sensibilities and thought-
world. First and foremost, of course, I have a literary aim – to work
towards comparative frameworks in the region in order to gain richer
insight into the literary works themselves.
Theorists of the English and German Bildungsroman associate the
genre with initiation into adulthood, as such, as it exists in some form
in all cultures, and further, specifically with West-European modernity,
with the changed approach towards and demands for coming-of-age
in the 18th century; i.e. with the construction of the concept of youth
as an apprenticeship. In a Bildungsroman the protagonist negotiates
his/her (more often his) way in relation to modern society, resolving in
some form the basic modern oppositions between change and tradi-
tion, and between individual and system. The typical sujet would be
that a young individual leaves home, frequently with a conflict between
generations involved; he goes into the wider world, often travels from
province to metropole, there he experiences and learns a lot, develops
and matures as an individual, and is then reconciled with society, or
at least consolidates his attitude towards it. At the end he goes back
home to show that he has done well and is recognised as adult member
of society with legitimate agency (Nyatetu-Waigwa 1996). The tradi-
tional Bildungsroman’s poetics is teleological and historicist in the
sense that whatever happens serves the final good and self-fulfillment
of the protagonist – his rational progress in the world (Swales 1978).
Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship and Dickens’s Great Expectations
are classical examples, while Heinrich Böll’s The Bread of Those Early
Years (1955) and David Lodge’s Paradise News (1991) can be mentioned
among many other contemporary developments. The negative varia-
tions of this Grand Narrative of Enlightment and Romanticism – e.g. a
social mobility novel where the protagonist develops a critical attitude
towards the system he has climbed –, still follow the same structure of
progressive development and maturation.
Central Europe’s relation to modernity and the narrative of

Piret Peiker 221

 Progress has been a far more troubled one (Schöpflin 2001). The dif-
ference between Western Europe and Central Europe – and most of the
rest of the world –, where modernity was imported or superimposed
by varying degrees of force, is that in Western Europe the Enlight-
ment metaphysics became the metaphysics, the ‘normal and natural’
way to interpret the world and human history in it. It thus provides a
relatively predictable world, even in conditions of rapid change, as one
could rely on a firm sense of self and belief in its rational agency. In
many other places in the non-West where collective knowledge, moral
expectations and the relationship between individual and collectivity
were different from the West, the arrival of this metaphysics was alien
and dislocating. Non-Western elites have been engaged in a continu-
ous endeavour to secure their own sense of self and to construct their
own indigenous models of modernity. Thus it is not surprising that
the Bildungsroman as a genric model has been profoundly popular
outside Western Europe, while its poetics generally differs from its
West-European counterpart.
I will start with a “Bildungspoem” by Czesław Miłosz (Miłosz
1983: 8–9)1, as it introduces in a condensed form several of the key
motifs, which the novels deal with in a ramified manner and bring
to various different kinds of resolutions.
This is the quintessential Bildungsroman story of a young man
leaving the periphery and going to the metropole, dazzling as a per-
fect ideal of universal modernity. In this case, however, it is not just
a journey to a metropole, it is a journey to a foreign metropole. The
foreignness of the universality is not easy to ignore, the empowering
‘necessary illusion’ – that becoming an adult in modern society is in
some sense a coherent journey – is lacking. Adapting to the alien world
is thus not projected as growth in terms of one’s previously adopted
values (a ‘bettering oneself’); it is not an evolution but a total caesura,
or a revolution. At that point one cannot possibly return to one’s
home and one’s father as a legitimate reformer. If one is to return as
an agent of change one must come back as a revolutionary – note the

1
See appendix.

222
metonymic symbolism of the geographical names in the poem.
As it is, the final part of the poem proclaims disillusionment with
the universalist project – with the idea that there is ‘a capital of the
world’, one single place where modernity, maturity and full person-
hood can be reached. It counterposes a different world-view – under-
standing of the world as one of multiple centres of moral worth. At
that Paris itself is particularised, seen not as a capital of universalism
but as a rather self-absorbed place of baguettes and lemons. Yet, the
recovery of the ‘natural world-order’ is thoroughly tainted by the sense
of guilt and loss condensed in the motif of the killed water-snake. The
bitterness of the poem goes far beyond disappointment in French
ideas. The sacralised axiology of the protagonist’s home culture has
been violated and he finds himself in a broken world.
If the West-European Bildungsroman ‘uncovers’ or constructs the
concealed order or wholeness of life, the Central European one regis-
ters a journey towards such an order (quite often perceived as existing
‘elsewhere’, like in Paris), but then with a second move restates scepti-
cism about the existence of such an order, or at least a scepticism about
the possibility of achieving it. It is this trajectory that Central European
Bildung-narratives share with non-European post-colonial ones.
Bypassing Rue Descartes is saying exactly this, as it mentions Sai-
gon and Marrakesh in the same breath as Wilno and Bucharest, and
the similarity of its journey to, for example, V.S. Naipaul’s Mimic Men
or Derek Walcott’s Omeros (to mention two widely-known works) is
obvious, although in the latter cases the metropole is London rather
than Paris.2
It has to be stressed that the ideals and the disappointments
do not merge into a synthesis, there is no ‘the hero returns sadder
but wiser’ conclusion, and the narrative remains haunted by figures
conveying a sense of fragmentation, guilt, loss, and possibly anger.
Hence, Central European narratives of personhood generally convey

2
I discuss this in greater detail in ‘Post-colonialism and Postcommunism: similari-
ties and contrasts’. In “Slovo”, SSEES-UCL Graduate Conference “Faith, Dope and
Charity. Purity and Danger in East European Politics and Culture, 16–18 November
2001”, forthcoming 2004.

Piret Peiker 223

 the great psychological stress of living without the ability to construct
a coherent self, as they associate it with feelings of immaturity, in-
completeness, and impotence in dealing with what appears to be an
equally fluid world. Their counter-strategies employ either irony or
self-pity, or most commonly some combination of the two.
Witold Gombrowicz’s Ferdydurke, a magnificent anti-Bildungsro-
man, written in 1937 faces all the described motifs head on. To my
mind, it is wholly free of self-pity but its delight in irony and paradoxes,
the contradictions and gaps that it uses, make it very much a part of
the tradition.
The first-person-narrator is an adult writer, who is turned into
a schoolboy by a patronising professor, and who gradually comes to
accept the role. The novel has been read as being about degeneration
under alien powers; to my mind, however, it is far more ambiguous and
complex than that. As the narrator conveys it, the ‘mature’ people in the
book are not very different from himself: they all continuously ‘make
faces’ and participate in various strange intricate games and rituals to
construct or consolidate identities in the fluid world, only they do not
seem to analyse it as the narrator does, or even be aware of it.
Ferdydurke thinks its way through the familiar modern oppositions
of authenticity/inauthenticity, tradition/change, adulthood/adoles-
cence, and does it entirely in its own terms – by dramatising their
ritualised interplay. The novel, not surprisingly, has recently been
called postmodern, but these ‘postmodern’ features can just be inter-
preted as a relaxed but profound description of non-West-European
life-experience, description of life without a belief in Grand Narratives
– and in this case also without sadness because of their absence.
Milan Kundera’s Life is Elsewhere, a Künstlerroman from the Soviet
period in Central Europe, is a parody of the traditional ‘artist biog-
raphy’ and a angrily sarcastic account of the Romantic world-picture.
The artist figure, Jaromil, is unable to mature and pull loose from
his domineering mother who has decided that he is to be a great poet
almost before he is born. He is constantly nagged by a sense of un-
satisfaction and fear that real, authentic life is elsewhere. Looking for
heroic purpose in the dizzying fluidity of his society, he throws himself

224
in the adventure of communist revolution and subsequently becomes
a collaborator of the Secret Police. Finally, in a parodic refiguration
of a mature hero’s return home, he dies from a trivial cold in in his
Mother’s arms. For Kundera, the Narcissistic unifying world-vision
of Romanticism is the ultimate immaturity, equalised with the desire
to return to the mother’s womb.
Having discussed narratives in Soviet and pre-Soviet time, it would
be important to consider, what, if anything, has changed now. My ex-
ample is an Estonian novel – Border Country (1993) by Emil Tode.
The protagonist and narrator of the novel is a translator of French
poetry, and becomes yet another young East European to go to Paris,
Miłosz’s ‘capital of the world’, to see “how the humans live” (Tode 1993:
131).3 This time it is the Paris of the early 1990s, a ‘postmodern place’,
where the Univeral Pinnacle of Civilisation, is embodied in the welfare
state. Other universal belief systems seem to have faded: and whereas
a Western character half-heartedly complains about the disappearance
of Real History, the post-Soviet narrator sees all capitial-initialed his-
tory as apocalyptic and ‘uncomfortable’ by definition (140).
The translator-narrator is a true borderline figure, a traveller
across and in the void of different timespaces evoked by the narra-
tion, who feels marginal or invisible on all sides. The narration is
fragmented, blending motifs from the Parisian metro, pre- and early-
modern rural landscapes and Soviet factories and panel-houses and
the reader cannot be sure how much of the account ‘really happened’.
It also remains ambiguous whether the story is narrated by a man or
a woman, or what the narrator’s exact origins are - s/he only refers
to it as ‘the country I come from’, ‘Eastern Europe’, ‘up there in the
North as they say here’ – or as to ‘the Lost World’.
Indeed, not to be treated “as a relative of the dear departed” (85),
as at a funeral, the narrator frequently (and successfully) pretends to be
Swedish. Yet the nameless Lost World returns in sudden memories or
Proustian sensory associations and dominates the narrator’s often very
vivid dreams and nightmares. Furthermore, it is this half-repressed

3
All quotations from “Piiririik” are my translation.

Piret Peiker 225

 baggage of memories and feelings that indirectly triggers the murder
history at the centre of the sujet.
Death – the crossing of final borders – is a persistent figure in
Border Country. Up there in the North, “death is a great temptation,”
(11) narrator says; Eastern Europe is “a row of poor and dark coun-
tries powerlessly lamenting their still-born history” (13), and Paris
may be equally dead, only mummified, and therefore looks better.
The counter-force to death, mummification, forgetting and final loss
of self in fragmentation is in the power of narrativisation, in being
able to tell one’s story to someone. The story of self, which makes up
most of Border Country, is written for the narrator’s imaginary Other,
called Angelo. The reader first ‘sees’ the narrator when Angelo says to
him/her: “You have strange eyes – as if you were observing the world.
You are not French, are you” (5). Thus, as the narrator creates Angelo,
Angelo in turn creates the narrator, even if the narrator’s identity can
only be expressed in partial and negative terms.

Conclusion

The texts discussed were obviously rather restricted because of

the time limit. Yet one can conclude that all works considered are
united by a variety of motifs. There is the perception that the rec-
ognised legitimate trajectory to adulthood is alien and presupposes
estrangement from ‘home’. The fragmentation and non-resolution of
the protagonists’ life-path points towards the ever-present counter-
agencies that impede a development that the Western Bildungsroman
takes for granted. Further, the protagonist’s youthful dreams that
an authentic, “true” trajectory is available, always end in grave dis-
appointment. In other words, all these texts share a perception of
fluidity, fragmentation of self, constraint on legitimate agency and
of non-acceptance by a stylised Other. There is also a family resem-
blance in the manner in which these works, varied in space and time
as they are, conceptualise and rationalise this life-experience. All of
these – Gombrowicz’s human comedy on the mechanisms of identity
construction; Kundera’s poisonous account of Romantic Grand Nar-

226
ratives; Miłosz’s and Tode’s hybrid inconclusive life-journeys – in
some form deny the Enlightment-Romantic Historicist model of self-
fullfillment. For them, if one manages to construct a ‘story of life’ of
some coherence, it is a record of stressful negotiations through many
particularised small narratives, rather than teleologically uncovering
one Grand Narrative. It is this that makes the Central European idea
of Bildung structurally (if not necessarily always in content) similar
to that outside Europe. Consequently, post-colonial literature and
studies could be of considerable interest to scholars presently drafting
frameworks for Central European Comparative Literature.

BIBLIOGR APHY

Patricia Ann Alden Studies In Social Mobility. Gissing, Hardy, Bennett and
Lawrence, Ann Arbor, Mich.: UMI Dissertation Services 1994.
Witold Gombrowicz Ferdydurke, New York: Grove Press, Inc. 1978.
Milan Kundera Life Is Elsewhere, New York: Alfred. A. Knopp, 1974
Esther Kleinbord Labovitz The Myth of the Heroine: The female Bildungsro-
man in the twentieth century: Dorothy Richardson, Simone de Beauvoir,
Doris Lessing, Christa Wolf, New York: Peter Lang 1988
Alfred J. Lopez Posts and Pasts. A Theory of Postcolonialism, New York:
State University of New York, 2001.
Franco Moretti The Way of the World: Bildungsroman In European Cul-
ture, London: Verso 1987
George Schöpflin ‘Nationhood, Modernity, Democracy’, conference
‘Manifestations of National Identity in Modern Europe’, Univer-
sity of Minnesota, May 2001.
Martin Swales The German Bildungsroman from Wieland to Hesse, Prin-
ceton: Princeton University Press 1978
Emil Tode Piiririik, Tallinn: Tuum 1993.
Wangari wa Nyatetu Waigwa The Liminal Novel: Studies In the Francoph-
one-African Novel As Bildungsroman, New York: Peter Lang 1996

Piret Peiker 227

 APPENDIX

Bypassing Rue Descartes

Czesław Miłosz

Bypassing Rue Descartes

I descended towards the Seine, shy, a traveller,
A young barbarian just come to the capital of the world.
We were many, from Jassy and Koloshvar, Wilno and Bucha-
rest, Saigon and Marakesh,
Ashamed to remember the customs of our homes,
About which nobody here should ever be told:
The clapping for servants, barefoot girls hurry in,
Dividing food with incantations,
Choral prayers recited by masters and household together.
I had left the cloudy provinces behind,
I entered the universal, dazzled and desiring.
Soon enough, many from Jassy and Koloshvar or Saigon or
Marakesh
Were killed because they wanted to abolish the customs of
their homes.
Soon enough, their peers were seizing power
In order to kill in the name of the universal beautiful ideas.
Meanwhile, the city behaved in accordance with its nature,
Rustling with throaty laughter in the dark,
Baking long breads and pouring wine into clay pitchers,
Buying fish, lemons and garlic at street markets,
Indifferent as it was to honour and shame and greatness
and glory,
Because that had been done and transformed itself
Into monuments representing who knows whom,
Into arias hardly audible and into turns of speech.
Again I lean on the rough granite of the embankment,
As if I had returned from travels through the underworlds
And suddenly saw in the light of the reeling wheel of the
seasons

228
Where empires have fallen and those once living are now
dead.
There is no capital of the world, neither here nor anywhere
else,
The abolished customs are restored to their small fame,
And I know the time of human generations is not like the
time of earth.
As to my heavy sins, I remember one most vividly:
How, one day, walking a forest path along a stream,
I pushed a rock down onto a water snake coiled in the
grass.
And what I have met with in life was the just punishment
Which reaches, sooner or later, everyone who breaks a
taboo.

Piret Peiker 229

 AUTORID

Aigi Heero (D.Phil, University of Freiburg 2001) is Professor of Ger-

man studies at the Estonian Institute of Humanities (EIH).

Triin Kallas (MA in Continental Philosophy, University of Warwick

2002) is researcher and doctoral student at the department of
Philosophy, EIH. Her reseach topic brings together philosophy
with translation studies.

Eneken Laanes (MA in comparative literature, Tartu University 2002)

is lecturer of Comparative literature at EIH, and PhD student at
Tartu University. Her research interests include theory of nar-
rative, historiography and contemporary literature, postcolonial
theory. Her current reseach is on the creation of cultural identity
with the help of narrative in contemporary Estonian literature
and historiography.

Mikko Lagerspetz (Dr rer pol, Turku University 1996) is Professor

of Sociology at EIH, visting professor at universities of Turku,
Helsingi, Jyväskylä and Uppsala. His reseach focuses on social
problems, social constructivist theory, social change and third
sector. He has published Constructing Post-Communism. A Study
in the Estonian Social Problems Discourse (Turku 1996), edited and
co-authored Social Problems in Newspapers: Studies Around the Baltic
Sea (Helsinki 1994), a number of articles. He also composes and
arranges music.

Maria-Kristiina Lotman (PhD in Classical Philology, Tartu University

2003) is lecturer of Classical Philology at Tartu University. She
has studied versification systems, metrical boundaries, semantics
and rhythm of ancient verse as well as Estonian verse.

Mihhail Lotman (D.Phil at Tartu University 2000) is senior researcher

at Tartu University and Professor of Semiotics at EIH. He has
over 150 scientific publications in different languages on semiot-
ics, poetics, theory of verse and literature, including Structure and

230
 Typology of Russian Verse (Tartu 2000). Fields of research: general
semiotics and semiotics of culture; text theory; Russian literature
(esp. poetry of the 20th century); poetics and rhetoric; general,
comparative and Russian versification; film analysis.

Daniele Monticelli (MA at University of Milan 1995) is lecturer of

Romance studies at EIH and PhD student of Semiotics and cul-
turology at Tartu University.

Piret Peiker (MA in Comparative literature, Tartu University 2001)

is lecturer of English and comparative literature at EIH. She
has written on post-colonial studies from an interdisciplinary
perspective.

Ülar Ploom (D.Phil in comparative literature at University of Helsinki

2001) is Professor of Romance studies at EIH. He has also lec-
tured at Tartu and Helsinki Universities. He has mainly studied
the poetic of late medieval and renaissance Italian authors from
the Sicilians to Petrarch. Besides research, he has translated
Italian literature into Estonian. He has also published essays
and poetry.

Rein Raud (D.Phil., University of Helsinki 1994) is Professor of

Japanese Studies, University of Helsinki, Finland, and Professor
of Asian and Cultural Theory at EIH. His current research is
focused on the relations between language, logic and culture;
Asian cultures undergoing the process of modernisation; and
intertextuality in Classical Japanese poetry. Raud’s monograph
The Role of Poetry in Classical Japanese Literature: A Code and
Discursivity Analysis was published in the same series in 1994.
His most recent articles are “Objects and Events: linguistic and
philosophical notions of ‘thingness’” (Asian Philosophy , vol.12, No
2, July 2002); “‘Place’ and ‘being-time’: spatiotemporal concepts
in the thought of Nishida Kitaro and Dogen” (Philosophy East and
West , vol. 54, No.1), and “The Genesis of the Logic of Immediacy”,
(Asian Philosophy, vol.13, No 2-3: 131-144). He has aslo published
a number of essays, novels, and poetry.

231
 Riho Saard (D.Theol, Turku University 2000) was Professor of Esto-
nian cultural history at EIH from 2001 to 2003.

George Schöpflin is the Jean Monnet Professor of Political Science

and the Director of the Centre for the Study of Nationalism at
the School of Slavonic and East European Studies, University of
London. He is the author of “Politics in Eastern Europe 1945-
1992” (Oxford: Blackwell, 1993) and “Nations, Identity, Power”
(London: Hurst, 2000) as well as of many other works, including
numerous articles on ethnicity and nationhood. He is co-editor of
and contributor to “Myths and Nationhood” (London: C. Hurst,
1997). His principal area of research is the relationship between
ethnicity, nationhood and political power, with particular refer-
ence to post-communism.

Tõnu Viik (PhD in Philosophy, Emory University, Atlanta 2003) is

Professor of Philosophy at EIH since 2003 and Rector of EIH
since 2004. His main research topic has been Hegel’s phenom-
enology of culture.

232