Untangling freedom with Jacques Ellul

 

In my conception, freedom is not an immutable fact graven in nature and on the heart of man. It is not inherent in man or in society, and it is meaningless to write it into law. The mathematical, physical, biological, sociological, and psychological sciences reveal nothing but necessities and determinisms on all sides. As a matter of fact, reality is itself a combination of determinisms, and freedom consists in overcoming and transcending these determinisms. Freedom is completely without meaning unless it is related to necessity, unless it represents victory over necessity.

To say that freedom is graven in the nature of man, is t o say that man is free because he obeys his nature, or, to put it another way, because he is conditioned by his nature. This is nonsense. We must not think of the problem in terms of a choice between being determined and being free. We must look at it dialectically, and say that man is indeed determined, but that it is open to him to overcome necessity, and that this act is freedom. Freedom is not static but dynamic; not a vested interest, but a prize continually to be won. Hie moment man stops and resigns himself, he becomes subject to deter* minism. He is most enslaved when he thinks he is comfortably settled in freedom.

In the modem world, the most dangerous form of determinism is the technological phenomenon. It is not a question of getting rid of it, but, by an act of freedom, of transcending it How is this to be done? I do not yet know. That is why this book is an Appeal to the individual's sense of responsibility. The first step in thi quest, the first act of freedom, is to become aware of the necessity. The very fact that man can see, measure, and analyze the determinisms that press on him means that he can face them and, by so doing, act as a free man. If man were to say These are not necessities; I am free because of technique, or despite technique,” this would prove that he is totally determined. However, by grasping the real nature of the technological phenomenon, and the extent to which it is robbing him of freedom, he confronts the blind mechanisms as a conscious being.

At the beginning of this foreword I stated that this book has a purpose. That purpose is to arouse the reader to an awareness of technological necessity and what it means. It is a call to the sleeper to awake.

               
 

Jacques Ellul

La Marierre , Teteac, Gironde, France January 1964

The Technological Society | translated from the French by John Wilkinson

Read book online

 

visual poetic prompt

A 1910 demonstration of the flammability of “non-flam” flannelette vs ordinary flannelette, courtesy of Wellcome Collection via Public Domain Review

 

Bound to roses with René Char

 

Man is but a blossom of the air held by the earth, cursed by the stars, inhaled by death; the breath and shadow of this coalition at certain times elevate him.

Our friendship is the white cloud preferred by the sun.

Our friendship is a free rind. It does not detach itself from oru heart's prowesses.

Where my spirit no longer uproots but replants and cares for, I begin to grow. Where the people's childhood begins, I love.

In the twentieth century man was at his lowest. Women became enlightened and moved about swiftly on a ledge where only our eyes had access.

To a rose I bind myself.

We are ungovernable. The only master favorable to us is Lightning who sometimes illuminates us and sometimes cleaves us.

Lightning and rose in us, in their transience, are added for our completion.

I am grass in your hand, my adolescent pyramid. I love you over your countless closed up flowers.

               
 

René Char

Companions in the Garden | translated by Charles Guenther

Read complete poem

 

visual poetic prompt

[Seated Model, Partially Draped] by Nadar via The Met

 

 

Fallen rain, caught / in asphalt cavities / betrays distant silhouettes / of strangled branches

Fallen rain, caught / in asphalt cavities / betrays distant silhouettes / of strangled branches

 
 

Writing in pen-and-ink with Emily Brontë

 

The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small—Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again to Catherine Linton.

In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw—Heathcliff—Linton, till my eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres—the air swarmed with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I discovered my candle-wick reclining on one of the antique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odour of roasted calf-skin.

I snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat up and spread open the injured tome on my knee. It was a Testament, in lean type, and smelling dreadfully musty: a fly-leaf bore the inscription—“Catherine Earnshaw, her book,” and a date some quarter of a century back.

I shut it, and took up another and another, till I had examined all. Catherine’s library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped a pen-and-ink commentary—at least the appearance of one—covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph,—rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith to decipher her faded hieroglyphics.

 

Emily Brontë

Wuthering Heights

Read full book

 

visual poetic prompt

'Yves Saint-Laurent, Twenty-eight years, exhibition at the Fashion Arts Museum' courtesy of Carnavalet Museum, History of Paris via Paris Musées

 

Weeping sweetly with Anna Akhmatova

 

A snake, it coils
Bewitching the heart.
Day after day, coos
A dove on the white sill.

A bright flash in frost,
Drowsy night-scented stock...
Yet, sure and secret,
It’s far from peace and joy.

It knows how to weep sweetly
In the violin’s yearning prayer;
And is fearfully divined
In a stranger’s smile.

               
 

Anna Akhmatova

Love | translated by A. S. Kline

Read more about Anna Akhmatova

 

visual poetic prompt

‘The Death of Cleopatra’ by Guido Cagnacci via The Met

 

Building abodes of horror with Wollstonecraft

 

Abodes of horror have frequently been described, and castles, filled with spectres and chimeras, conjured up by the magic spell of genius to harrow the soul, and absorb the wondering mind. But, formed of such stuff as dreams are made of, what were they to the mansion of despair, in one corner of which Maria sat, endeavouring to recall her scattered thoughts!

Surprise, astonishment, that bordered on distraction, seemed to have suspended her faculties, till, waking by degrees to a keen sense of anguish, a whirlwind of rage and indignation roused her torpid pulse. One recollection with frightful velocity following another, threatened to fire her brain, and make her a fit companion for the terrific inhabitants, whose groans and shrieks were no unsubstantial sounds of whistling winds, or startled birds, modulated by a romantic fancy, which amuse while they affright; but such tones of misery as carry a dreadful certainty directly to the heart. What effect must they then have produced on one, true to the touch of sympathy, and tortured by maternal apprehension!

 

Mary Wollstonecraft

MARIA or The Wrongs of Woman | After the edition of 1798

Read full book

 

visual poetic prompt

'She Never Told Her Love' by Henry Peach Robinson 1857, courtesy of Gilman Collection, Purchase, Jennifer and Joseph Duke Gift, 2005 via The Met

 

 

The mandrakes were first to die / dethroned by marionettes built of flesh and titanium bone.

The mandrakes were first to die / dethroned by marionettes built of flesh and titanium bone.

 
 

Defining the ridiculous with Dostoyevsky

 

I am a ridiculous person. Now they call me a madman. That would be a promotion if it were not that I remain as ridiculous in their eyes as before. But now I do not resent it, they are all dear to me now, even when they laugh at me — and, indeed, it is just then that they are particularly dear to me. I could join in their laughter — not exactly at myself, but through affection for them, if I did not feel so sad as I look at them. Sad because they do not know the truth and I do know it. Oh, how hard it is to be the only one who knows the truth! But they won't understand that. No, they won't understand it.

 

Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky

The Dream of a Ridiculous Man

Read full book

 

visual poetic prompt

'The Night Mare' by Laurede, courtesy of The Elisha Whittelsey Collection, The Elisha Whittelsey Fund, 1959 via The Met

 

Giving birth to butterflies with Mina Loy

 

We might have coupled

In the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment

Or broken flesh with one another

At the profane communion table

Where wine is spill'd on promiscuous lips

We might have given birth to a butterfly

With the daily news

Printed in blood on its wings

 

Mina Loy

‘Song III’

Learn more about Mina Loy

 

visual poetic prompt

'Nu féminin allongé sur un canapé Récamier' by Gustave Le Gray, courtesy of Gilman Collection, Purchase, The Horace W. Goldsmith Foundation Gift, through Joyce and Robert Menschel, 2005 via The Met

 

1 way to ride a steed on a comet with Tzara

 

And so Dada was born of a need for independence, of a distrust toward unity. Those who are with us preserve their freedom. We recognize no theory. We have enough cubist and futurist academies: laboratories of formal ideas. Is the aim of art to make money and cajole the nice nice bourgeois? Rhymes ring with the assonance of the currencies and the inflexion slips along the line of the belly in profile. All groups of artists have arrived at this trust company utter riding their steeds on various comets. While the door remains open to the possibility of wallowing in cushions and good things to eat.

 

Tristan Tzara

Dada Manifesto, 1918

Read full manifesto

 

visual poetic prompt

L'astronome allemand lâchant un fameux canard, from La Comète de 1857, published in Le Charivari, March 17, 1857 by Honoré Daumier. Courtesy of Edwin De T. Bechtel, 1954 via The Met

 

 

Now, the cavernous night succumbs to itself—

Now, the cavernous night succumbs to itself—

 
 

Writing weather forecasts with Anna Akhmatova

 

You will hear thunder and remember me,

And think: she wanted storms. The rim

Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,

And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,

when, for the last time, I take my leave,

And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,

Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

 

Anna Akhmatova

‘Thunder’

Learn more about Anna Akhmatova

 

visual poetic prompt

'Spiral of Lightning in a Thunderstorm' by Charles Moussette courtesy of Gilman Collection, Gift of The Howard Gilman Foundation, 2005 via The Met

 

How to get ready to exist like Fernando Pessoa

 

I'd woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist. I paced from one side of the room to the other, dreaming out loud incoherent and impossible things—deeds I'd forgotten to do, hopeless ambitions haphazardly realized, fluid and lively conversations which, were they to be, would already have been. And in this reverie without grandeur or calm, in this hopeless and endless dallying, I paced away my free morning, and my words—said out loud in a low voice—multiplied in the echoing cloister of my inglorious isolation.

 

Fernando Pessoa

The Book of Disquiet (1982)

Get a copy of the book

 

visual poetic prompt

'Montage of Ecclesiastical Figures Posed in Political Satire' courtesy of The Horace W. Goldsmith Foundation Fund, through Joyce and Robert Menschel, 2012 via The Met

 

3 lessons from 'The Laugh of the Medusa'

 

I shall speak about women's writing: about what it will do. Woman must write her self: must write about women and bring women to writing, from which they have been driven away as violently as from their bodies—for the same reasons, by the same law, with the same fatal goal. Woman must put herself into the text—as into the world and into history—by her own movement.

 

Hélène Cixous

The Laugh of the Medusa (1975)

Learn more about Hélène Cixous

 

visual poetic prompt

From High Frequency Electric Currents in Medicine and Dentistry (1910) by Samuel Howard Monell via Internet Archive / Francis A. Countway Library of Medicine