Self-imposed Ghettos

Richard Ostrofsky
(May, 1998)
This column stems from a friendly argument between myself and a
customer, about important but objectionable authors. Four names were
mentioned – Freud and Nietzsche (to start with), and then Shakespeare and
Heidegger a little later. These writers, for present purposes, can stand for
hundreds of others. I was trying (unsuccessfully) to make the point that
reading only those authors that we find congenial is self-defeating. As a
book-seller, I have strong feelings on this point, and knowing that I had an
OSCAR article to write, we closed the discussion by agreeing that I would
write this column, and that she would write a rebuttal for the following
month. So here goes:
It is scarcely possible to write an important book without offending
some worthy group. I am not being snide here: people and groups are surely
entitled to their sensibilities and political agendas. But the problem is, to
probe beneath the surface of human experience and sensibility is to expose
the differences between people – and yes, their interests – as individuals,
and as group members. Outside the hard sciences, and sometimes even
within them, important books are important just because they probe at
sensitive areas where feelings run high, and opinion is divided. Thus, many
important books are offensive (to those they offend) on purpose, as it were,
because of their explicit, intended teaching. For persons of a humanist
persuasion, Heidegger is deliberately offensive. For classical rationalists,
Nietzsche is deliberately offensive. For persons who wish or need to believe
that the conscious mind is “master in its own house”, Freud is deliberately
offensive. In each case, a position cherished by those who cherish it is being
deliberately attacked. We must defend the freedom to write and publish
books (yes, even those that offend) because the alternative would be far
worse; but then the important ones have to be read and understood because
it is dangerous to be oblivious of your enemy’s position and arguments.
Where these are unsound, one must collect the ammunition to refute him.
Where these are sound, one must learn from him, in order to adjust and
strengthen one’s own position..
 On the other hand, people who write books – even great books – are
rarely entirely or homogeneously great. They have their areas of craziness,
pettiness and blindness just like everyone else. Inevitably, these areas bleed
through into their work on occasion, so that even very great books may be
in some respects crazy, or petty, or wrong. If I applied consistently the
principle that one should ignore people who are sometimes afflicted in these
ways, I could not talk to anyone at all; I could not even talk to myself!
Freud, as a matter of fact, had very little first-hand experience of sex.
Nietzsche was mortally afraid of women. Shakespeare was not above
titillating the sensibilities of his audience, and pandering to their prejudices,
in order to fill his theatre. Heidegger was a Nazi – not just a party member,
but an active and influential supporter – at an important stage of his career.
Are these facts relevant to a critical reading of these authors? Insofar as it
helps us understand them better – yes, of course. But do they stand as
sensible reasons for refusing to read and understand them at all?
One of the ways in which the experience of oppression injures people is
by making it impossible, or very difficult for them to feel and think beyond
their grievances. It is understandably difficult for women (like my
customer) to be enthusiastic about Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew, and
for some deeply ideological feminists to be enthusiastic about
Shakespeare’s oeuvre as a whole. It is understandably difficult for Jews
(like myself) to be enthusiastic about The Merchant of Venice,
understandably difficult for aboriginal peoples (perhaps) to be enthusiastic
about The Tempest. Except regarding the current dynasty, Shakespeare
never felt obliged to be politically correct. The concept did not even exist
when he was writing.
But I will focus on the case of Heidegger because, among the examples
mentioned here, he has the most to be forgiven for, and because I can speak
personally about the problem of reading him. Whatever one thinks of him
and of his work, he stands fairly clearly among the most influential
philosophers of the 20th century. Deservedly so. For better and for worse, it
is scarcely possible to understand the recent history either of philosophy or
of literary criticism without coming to terms with certain aspects of his
thought. If I refused to make this rather considerable effort of sympathy and
imagination, I would be cutting myself off from the possibility of an
historical understanding of recent intellectual life. In doing so, I would be
harming no one but myself – building a ghetto wall to keep the rest of the
world out, and succeeding merely in keeping myself IN.
It is not a question of forcing myself to accept a repugnant philopsophy.
It is a question of equipping myself to reject it intelligently. I certainly wish
to reject the anti-humanist drift of much post-modern thought – but how can
I do this to some effect without a working grasp of its appeals, its claims, its
arguments and (if any) its legitimate concerns? How (as in the present case)
would I set about persuading a woman who has unwittingly been
considerably influenced by the anti-humanist movement – its denial of the
fundamental unity of human experience and thought – if I were not aware
of the influence of Nietzsche (through Heidegger and then the French
existentialists) upon her?