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PORTAL
LEOPARDS
IN THE TEMPLE
TABOOED DISCOURSE
Leopards break into the temple and
drink the sacrificial chalices dry;
this occurs repeatedly
again and again: finally it can be reckoned upon
beforehand and becomes a part of the ceremony.
And
pearls are like poets' tales; disease turned into loveliness.
This essay, based upon a Zen koan-like
poem
fragment
by
Franz Kafa and a short story by Isak Dinesen, will discourse
upon religion, philosophy, literature and criticism. It is
dedicated to Alexandra Johnson.
I. Religion
When I first wrote this essay the first American
war was raging over Iraq. It is,
perhaps, tabooed discourse, to bring the present to bear upon the
past, and oneself into objective scholarship. But I can not
blot from my mind an English school room, a war-deafened
schoolchild in it, for the first time allowed to sit in the
front row, instead of the back of the room, just before the
11 plus examination, studying images of the lapis lazuli and
gold artifacts, learning of Hamurabi's and later Moses' law
codes, of cuneiform becoming Hebrew script through Abraham's
journeying from Ur of the Chaldees to the Promised Land of
Canaan, then of the Israelites' further pilgrimages and
exiles to Egypt and back to Babylon, those countries of the
birth of western writing and learning being Iraq, Israel and
Egypt. Writing came to Europe from Asia and Africa.
Once the stories
became written they assumed a sanctity not unlike that of the
dead. Shakespeare's tomb declares: 'Jesus Christ, forbeare, to
dig the dust that lies enclosed here'. Plato in the Phaedrus, and Dante in the
Inferno (VIII.127)
spoke of the
deadness of what is written against the livingness of what is
spoken - and yet how what has been written, scritta morta, can
transcend time and space, being paradoxically both dead and
immortal. There is a way to make the dead speak, Odyssey XI terrifyingly
tells us, that of having them drink blood.
There seem to be cycles in religions between authority and
rebellion, between stasis
and movement, between the past and the present, between death
and life. The moment between the Egyptian worship of a
theriomorphic idol, a Golden Calf, in the Wilderness, with
Aaron's Dionysian encouragement, and that of Moses' Apollonian
Ten Commandments upon stone is a movement that becomes a
stillness. But it was also a return from the accretions and
syncretism wrought by the Israelites' presence as slaves in
Egypt, where statues of gods in animal forms, sphinxes, bulls
and others, were worshipped, to a remembrance of the Chaldean
written law codes. These returns to the simplicities of past
forms from the complexities of present ones constantly recur in
religion. That they can recur is due to the eternity of writing
and its stor[i]ed memory.
A similar return and revolution was from the 'Thou shalt nots'
to the 'Love of God and of neighbour' sealed in blood, of the
Jewish 'heresy', Christianity. The succeeding 'heresy', Islam,
likewise sought to return to the Book, calling these three
religious entities, of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, the
Peoples of the Book. The Greco-Roman world had required blood
sacrifices at the base of phallic pillars upon which stood
statues of gods or emperors. For Christianity there was
Leopard-like contamination from the Greco-Roman world, allowing
it to violate the second Commandment against graven images, a
Commandment but half-observed in the Middle Ages when statues
stood in niches as part of the architectural structuring, then
completely defied in the Renaissance with such works as
Michelangelo's free-standing uncircumcised liberationist David.
Yet again there was a return to the severity of the written word
from the Leopard-like contamination of pagan images with the
Reformation which swept away icons of the Madonna and Child,
returning to Judaism copied in Islam. Paradoxically, the Madonna
and Child's iconographical archeology had embraced the
life-restoring Isis, Osiris and Horus figures from Egypt. Our
Eucharist of bread and wine was first given to nomadic Israelite
Abraham by agricultural Palestinian Melchisadek. Our religions
are so much 'borrowed gold from the Egyptians', from the
Chaldeans and the Hebrews and the Canaanites, our literature so
much borrowed gold from the Greeks and the Romans.
One of the more extraordinary movements, prior to the
Renaissance, had been the shift from Romanesque to Gothic, the 'sweet new style' of the
twelfth through fifteenth centuries. Erwin Panofsky shows us how
in painting an iconology was used which presented scenes from
the Hebraic and Hellenic worlds in Romanesque, scenes from
Christianity in Gothic, as 'Oldness' and as 'Newness'. Yet this
represents an illogical arabesque in Christian propaganda. For
the Gothic style, here presented as the super-Christian style,
was really the Crusaders' response, coming from their chunky
massive Romanesque to the delicacy of the Islamic world and its
superior architecture, which they co-opted and about which they
lied. It is borrowed gold from Egypt and Baghdad; but where the
borrowing has gone unacknowledged it becomes instead thieving plagiary.
The shift in the paradigm of the 'sweet new style' transformed
not just architecture but also script, the roundness of
Romanesque lettering becoming spiky, angular and fussy, Bibles
coming to parody Torahs and Korans. It became the fashion to
continue to use Romanesque lettering for pagan texts, Gothic for
Christian ones. Then the Renaissance in turn, in its revival of
the dead past, chose the Romanesque forms for its manuscripts
and printed books, which we now read, using those forms again
for Christian as well as Classical texts, returning to the
simplicity of the past - and the dead writing - rather than the
complexity of their living present.
Mary Douglas, the anthropologist, has spoken of the dialectic
between purity and danger in culture, and she argues for the
danger option over that of purity, even to the extent of
advocating the uses of nuclear power. I would argue, instead,
for an awareness in our archeologies of cultures of these
pendulum swings and of their inherent contradictions, how we can
come to value the beauty of the pearl of great price forming
around the irritating foreign body, and how we can come to
appreciate the Isis and Athena ancestry in images of the Madonna
and Child and structures such as the Parthenon and Chartres. If
we truthfully acknowledge our sources and if we truthfully say
we lie, our borrowing and our fictions enrich us at the same
time that they honour, instead of impoverish, our lives; if we
do not do so we lie and we steal criminally, sacrificing our
integrity and our wisdom. I make this argument because the
return to past severity is exclusive, rather than inclusive, and
because it discriminates by race and by gender. On the other
hand, I make this argument concerning syncretic accretions
because I find that frequently the plagiary of another culture
is based upon a lie that cannot be considered beautiful and
which carries with it despair, destruction and death.
Concurrent with Gothic form and style had been the founding of
the medieval universities of the Latin West. They came from
Arabic and Jewish models where a greater knowledge of Greek
texts, particularly of Aristotle prevailed. This learning of the
Arabic world was next co-opted by the Christian as its Leopards
in the Temple, Thomas Aquinas baptizing Aristotle in his Summa contra Gentiles and Sunna Theologiae. That, in
itself, is admirable. But what is not admirable was that this
mode of learning taken from the concurrent Arabic and Jewish
worlds as well as the dead world of the Greek past was next used
by the Inquisition against Muslims, Jews, Cathars, Wycliffites
and women, especially women who could read, all whom it saw as
'danger' rather than as 'purity'. Prior to the Universities in
the West, Christianity had been the religion of liberation, of
'women and slaves', women equally in their convents studying
theology as did men in their monasteries. But in adopting the
Greco-Arabic misogynist model of the University, at Paris, at
Oxford, for the official teaching of theology by the
Church, women came to be rigorously excluded from
lecture halls. Aristotle's misogyny, morphed through Aquinas,
against the 'other', who is paradoxically the self, undid
Christ's inclusive Gospel. To have done this was an act of
treason, Julien Benda's 'trahison
des clercs', and bad faith, Sartre's 'mauvaise foi', of lying,
especially to oneself. In this instance
the denied strategy has been one of entrapment, of setting a
thief to catch a thief, of polluting the Temple by enticing
into its inner sanctum and poisoning the beautiful Leopard.
The Nazi Holocaust was an even more twisted continuation of that
lie. It sought to stamp out the race which brought it literacy
and burned books written in Gothic fraktura and Roman/Romanesque type in its
struggle to deny its historical truth, killing both books and
flesh and blood people who conveyed the culture of books and the
Book.
II. Philosophy
Long ago, I came to see that education,
wisdom, the 'love of knowledge' that is 'philosophy', is
the un-learning of childhood ignorance, prejudices, that
hatred I was taught as a war-tide child from newspapers
of the enemy Germans through cartoons of violence.
And who were my teachers? There was Sir Richard
Southern, then R.W. Southern from Oxford, Visiting
Professor at Berkeley, who taught us women to undo our
hatred and contempt for ourselves, giving us women and
Jews to study, Heloise,
Christina of Markyate, Petrus
Alfonsi. There was Etienne Gilson, similarly Visiting
Professor at Berkeley, teaching Aquinas, teaching us to
love Aquinas. At Princeton there was the
lecture by I.F. Stone on the 'Trial of Socrates',
teaching us from having taught himself Greek in his
seventies, that Plato and Socrates hated the word
'freedom', 'eleutheria' (ελευθερία),
and were instead Sparta lovers, monarchists, oligarchs,
not democrats not republicans. Later, my colleague at
Boulder, Aaron Seyvetz, loaned me Karl Popper to read,
with its argument, likewise, that Socrates, Plato,
Aristotle, Hegel, Marx, were against the 'Open Society'
and for an elite, they were proto-Fascists, proto-Nazis.
It was at Boulder I heard Michel Foucault lecture on
'parrhesia', (παρρησία,
παρρησιάζομαι), the
obligation to speak the truth for the public good at
personal risk, coupling Socrates' negation of that
principle with Shakespeare's espousal of it in King Lear. I had
already lectured in Attica
State Prison on Dante using Foucault's Discipline and Punish.
Stone
and
Foucault
taught
to audiences in denial that Socrates' condemnation was
for his treason to Athens, to her freedom and to her
democracy. At Princeton the Classicists had hissed at
I.F. Stone. At
Boulder I studied Plato's Symposium
in Greek under the very beautiful Haroula Evgen, deconstructing
the text, women coming into its midst, flute girls dragged in by
Alcibiades, Diotima worshipped by Socrates.
I learned as I was leaving each place where I studied
and where I taught, Sussex, San Jose, Berkeley, Quincy,
Princeton, Boulder, to take with me a language or two: in
England,
French
and
Latin; at San Jose, Spanish; Berkeley
requiring
French
and
Latin and one other, which I chose to be Italian, for
the doctorate; Quincy, where as professor I started to
study Greek under Father Hermengild Dressler O.F.M.;
then, Princeton, where I took intensive Russian in order
to be on the Quaker Delegation to Wait upon the Heads of
State; and Boulder, where I took the Seminar in Classics
on Plato's Symposium,
as well as Portuguese; Hebrew and New Testament Greek I
taught myself in my convent back home again in Sussex,
studying between the hours of four in the morning until
six when I rang the Angelus to waken the older Sisters.
I never managed German. Perhaps because an eminent
German Jewish professor of hearing disorders, Dr. Moses,
pontificated at me at Stanford when I was a V2
bomb-deafened undergraduate student at San Jose,
'You vil navair learn ze foraign languages'. I was
condemned by him, by my deafness,
to live in the shadows of Plato's Cave. Sometimes, I
thought I stole languages, like stealing the
keys of one's prison cell. I know, once, I stole my
family's war-time sweet ration to give it to the German
soldiers, prisoners-of-war, mending our road, because I
was so shocked at realizing they were fellow human
beings, like ourselves, not the terrifying horned and
tailed monsters the newspaper cartoons had them be. I
was like Huck Finn freeing Jim the slave. Feeling
tremendous guilt for this law-breaking. But, really, in
freeing others, we truly free ourselves. We should not
step furtively out of the cave, alone, from its
distorting shadows, but instead openly lead all with us
into the sunlight. Including the
Leopards.
III.
Literature
Religion tends to be based on sacred texts, endowed with
presumed self-evident truth, while literature is seen as
a fiction, as a lie. Homer (Odyssey XIX.359-69) and Vergil (Aeneid VI.893-900)
related
their
works
to
dreams which use portals of ivory rather than gates of
horn. Religious Scriptures are canonical and correct.
Even where they are texts which are clearly allegorical
rather than factual, being prophetic dream visions,
speaking in a censored way against political and
religious oppression as in Ezechiel and the Apocalypse.
Even where vast energies have to be expended by an
Origen or a Bernard to enclose within the sacred the
profane of the Song of Solomon - the pearl formed about
the grain of sand. All these texts can be contained
within the realm of purity and truth. They enter through
gates of horn.
Literature, however, carries about itself a whiff of
danger. Novels are published with disclaimers, 'Any
resemblance to living person is to be assumed a
coincidence and is not the author's intent', even where
this is clearly a lie and the novel a roman à clé. These
are the 'Secular Scriptures'. They may become canonical
texts versus
an apocrypha in turn, but in a shadow world to that of
Sacred Scripture. They are what Maria Corti speaks
of as the 'Anti-Model', playing off the 'Model',
and what Mikhail Bakhtin has shown to be of 'Two
Worlds', in the Middle Ages, one official and in Latin,
the other of the rebellious folk who parody it in the
vernacular languages of their everyday secular lives,
turning it inside out and upside down. Clifford Geertz
has observed this to be the function of the Cock Fight
in Balinese culture, to present that culture back to
itself in mirror-reversals, in opposite turns of the
screws, releasing unbearable tensions. The paradoxes of
the Greek Pythagoreans, of Buddhist koans and of
Hassidic rabbinical tales behave similarly. Such parody
medieval texts, having it both ways, could be
'romances', written in Romance and then Germanic
languages, but not Latin. Much of what literature does
is in the realm of Johan Huizinga's Harvest of the
Middle Ages (mistranslated as 'Waning') and
Plato's Laws' worlds of play, while the domain
of religion, like war, is more typically of seriousness.
But sometimes the world of poetry and that of religion
become palimpsested. This is the case with the earliest
extant poem in English sculpted in runes in Scotland on
the Ruthwell Cross, the 'Dream of the Rood'. It, in
fact, plays off two religions, the old Germanic one with
such gods as Oğinn and the new imposed Judeao-Christian
one. Runes
came to the pagan Germanic cultures by way of the
Phoenicians. One finds them throughout Europe, for
instance, upon Etruscan inscriptions at Fiesole, and as
far away as the Ultima Thule that is Iceland. They are
related to the Hebrew and Greek alpha/beta, the
Greek being adopted likewise from Semitic forms, the
word 'alphabet' not being Greek at all, but reflecting aleph and beth. The task of
learning the magic, the technology of writing, is
usually seen as a sacred task, acquired by great
sacrifice. In the Germanic culture Oğinn
hangs
himself
upon
the tree Yggdrasil for nine days and nights to learn the
runes of life, a Promethean act. The Icelandic/Finnish Havamal gives these
lines. They are embedded upon the Ruthwell
Cross, now said of Jesus instead of Oğinn,
but
nevertheless
palimspsesting
the two gods one upon the other, metamorphosing the one
into the other, a conversion. In
this text the strategy has been to pinion the Leopard
upon the Gallows.
In the Song of Roland Charlemagne
dreams of Leopards and Lions, prophesying disaster, and
is associated with the Temple he built at
Aachen/Aix-la-Chapelle in imitation of that at
Jerusalem. This poem, said to have been sung at the
Battle of Hastings in 1066 and whose earliest and best
text is written after 1130 in Anglo-Norman and which is
still in England, is formed in a Norman matrix of
illegitimacy and bastardy, pirating for itself sanctity
and legality. Charlemagne was crowned on Christmas Day,
800. At that time the ancestors of the Normans were
still pagan Vikings and not yet on French soil. A
quarter of a millenium later they appropriated the tale
originally chronicled by Einhard of a Breton Count
Hrolandus ambushed by Christian Basques or Gascons on
Charlemagne's departure from Spain, to which he had gone
in aid of one Muslim ruler against another. In this horn
version we learn that the Franks could not avenge the
death of Hrolandus because the guerilla enemy had
disappeared again into the mountains of the Pyrenees.
Today, the epic comes to us through a scrim of French
orthodox nationalism, having been required reading of
all French schoolchildren between the wars.
But it was upstart Normans who turned that brief
paragraph of horn in Latin in Eginhard into an ivory
epic, a vast panorama of propaganda against Islam,
palimpsesting that chanson
de geste against the Bible's final book, the
Apocalypse, and its juxtaposition of idolatrous Babylon
with its beasts, such as Leopards, and godly Jerusalem,
with its paschal Lamb. In the telling Roland becomes as
if Christ, Charlemagne as if God, and an Oliver, along
with the ivory Olifant, and ivory chesspieces, is
fabricated. Now ivory in Greek, as Homer and Vergil
knew, means to lie, to deceive. It is as if the
propaganda of the poem contains within its coding the
message that it is a beautiful - or horrendous - lie. We
even know of a gift sent to Charlemagne from Haroun al
Raschid of an elephant - Abu'l-Abbas - from whose tusks were
made ivory chess pieces and perhaps a horn. Yet this
Norman tale, which will proliferate throughout Europe
and is told to this day in once-Norman Sicily, was
constructed to create war fervour against Islam in
Spain, in Sicily, in Jerusalem and in Egypt, against the
Baghdad of Haroun al Raschid and of Saladin. That is
because its function and its strategy is to support the
Reconquista and the Crusades, to win back first Spain
and then Jerusalem from Islam and for Christendon. The
poem, as it were, arabesques history, twisting its
truths into lies, justifying Christian bloodshed of
Muslims. And worse. When the Chanson first is heard in Europe it is
being used to equate us, Anglo-Saxons in England, with
them, the Muslims of Baghdad, by the Normans to justify
our Conquest and their Crusade. The
Leopards are heraldically rampant.
Next we have the mouvance
of the Tristan and
Isolde romance. Whether it is told in Britain,
in Germany, in Iceland, in Italy, it plays games with
the sacred, inverting and arabesquing the pilgrimage to
God into that of to the lady. Living as a chaste hermit
in the wilderness becomes that of a ménage à deux.
Christian injunctions to either charity or marriage
become a pagan celebration of adultery. Its
outrageousness - its outrage
- is that it makes of the model of religion, based upon
charity, a counter or anti-model that celebrates its
opposite, self-centred, selfish, sexual lust, cupidity.
Yet the name of its hero, 'Tristan', warns us as much as
does the Olifant, that this poem is not to be trusted to
be truthful or to bring salvation. Tristan's name is his
fate, that of sorrow and despair. Paradoxically, we
learn that medieval marriage bedspreads could be
embroidered with the scene of Tristan's tryst with
Isolde in the walled garden, Mark peering from the tree
and being reflected in the stream, its iconography being
like God the Father conjoined with the Serpent, and Adam
and Eve in the Garden of Eden at the Fall of Man. Here the Leopard is in the garden, in
the bedroom, in the hermitage in the forest and
amongst the lepers.
Next we meet the Leopard in the
Wilderness between the Delectable Mountain and the
entrance to Hell, impeding Dante upon his
pilgrimage to the temple of his vow and pushing him back
to where the sun falls silent, into the realm of the scritta morta, of
the realm of lies. Where Virgil is guide. Not yet
Beatrice.
Or there is literary transvestism: where Mary Anne Evans
becomes George Eliot; Charlotte, Anne and Emily Bronte
become Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell; Aurore Dudevant
becomes George Sand; while men become heroines: where
Daniel Defoe becomes 'Moll Flanders'; Gustave Flaubert,
'Madame Bovary, c'est
moi'; Lev Tolstoy, 'Anna Karenina'; James
Joyce, 'Molly Bloom'. Amongst critics this also happens,
men carving out for themselves territorial imperatives
over women, among their subjects, Julian of Norwich and Elizabeth
Barrett Browning. 'Noli mi tangere'
they declare, 'for Caesar's I am'. Here the Leopard changes its spots,
cross-dresses, changes its gender.
And in the case of anti-slavery novels, Fanny Trollope's
Jonathan Jefferson
Whitlaw, Richard Hildreth's The Slave, Harriet
Beecher Stowe, Uncle
Tom's Cabin, Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn, we meet the Leopard in chains.
Fanny also writes Michael
Armstrong, Factory Boy, showing in the
illustration by her colleague Auguste Hervieu, starving
children working in English factories diving into pig
swill to find nourishment, a scene she and Hervieu
actually had witnessed. While the alternate title to Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw
is Lynch Law,
again a book illustrated by Hervieu. She and he
witnessed slavery first-hand together in Natchez. They
were the earlier version of Susan Sontag's work on the
photography of atrocities.
While women through time have not woven with chains of
iron but threads of flax: in the Odyssey (XIX.560-565) and
the Oresteia
the recognition scenes coming about often through
recognizing embroidery; the widow recognizing the
drowned corpse in Riders
to the Sea from its Arran knitting designs, her
own work, designs that are in in Sweden, in Norway, on
Iceland, as well as in Ireland, travelling like runes,
but on the distaff side. Then we come to the agape of Isak
Dinesen's Babette's
Feast. Where Leopards
are in the Temple sharing the Melchisadek Eucharist of
bread and wine with all.
IV. Criticism
Religious texts may not be taught as such in state
universities, being tabooed discourse; only literature
can be sanctioned. Yet literature, playing off religious
scriptures, requires that knowledge for its own
decoding. Here the strategy is to
study the Leopard and its spots when it is shot full
of tranquillizing drugs and has been carefully taken a
good safe distance from the Temple. It is not
so interesting when removed from its surroundings of
danger and sanctity. Its meanings become flabby,
sanitized, deodorized, censored, shallow, incomplete and
untruthful. It needs to be studied in situ. The first
universities were in temples, synagogues, mosques and
cathedrals.
Harold Bloom in Kaballah
and Criticism came very close to the perception
of Literature as related to Religion, the task of the
critic in literature being as the task of the exegete to
the sacred text. Northrup Frye has spoken of literature
as 'Secular Scriptures'. What Roland Barthes has said
about fashion, that it is the desire to shock by
ugliness, to introduce the polluting Leopard, next
incorporated into the Temple of haute couture, is
true as well of fashions in religion, in philosophy, in
literature, in criticism, Mikhail Bakhtin and his circle
have spoken of the need for 'making it strange', as the
means for giving art power and meaning. Norman Mailer
has written on graffiti
as art. I have seen in Belgium, painted on a barn side,
graffiti in
letters of gold upon purple, as in imperial Gospels. One
knows oneself the danger and yet the delight of making
one's students wake and think by saying what would shock
them. Parrhesia (παρρησία),. Eleutheria (ελευθερία).
Leopards in the Temple.
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