The Dilemma of The Romantics- John Berger (1959)

The term Romanticism has recently been taken to cover almost all the art produced in Europe between about 1770 and 1860. Ingres and Gainsborough, David and Turner, Pushkin and Stendhal. Thus the pitched battles of the last century between Romanticism and Classicism are not taken at their face value, but rather it is suggested that the differences between the two schools were less important than what they both had in common with the rest of the art of their time.

What was this common element? To take a century of violent agitation and revolt and then to try to define the general, overall nature of its art, is to deny the very character of such a period. The significance of the outcome of any revolution can only be understood in relation to the specific circumstances pertaining. There is nothing less revolutionary than generalizing about revolution. However, a stupid question usually gets stupid answers. Some try to define Romantic art by its subject matter. But then Piero di Cosimo is a Romantic artist along with George Morland! Others suggest that Romanticism is an irrational force present in all art, but that sometimes it predominates more than at other times over the opposite force of order and reason. Yet this would make a great deal of Gothic art romantic! Another observes that it must all have had something to do with the English weather.

No, if one must answer the question – and as I’ve said, no answer is going to get us all that far – one must do so historically. The period in question falls between the growing points of two revolutions, the French and the Russian. Rousseau published Le Contrat Social in 1762. Marx published Capital in 1867. No two other single facts could reveal more. Romanticism was a revolutionary movement that rallied round a promise which was bound to be broken: the promise of the success of revolutions deriving their philosophy from the concept of the natural man. Romanticism represented and acted out the full predicament of those who created the goddess of Liberty, put a flag in her hands and followed her only to find that she led them into an ambush: the ambush of reality. It is this predicament which explains the two faces of Romanticism: its exploratory adventurousness and its morbid self-indulgence. For pure romantics the two most unromantic things in the world were firstly to accept life as it was, and secondly to succeed in changing it.

In the visual arts the two faces reveal themselves in a sense of new dimensions on the one hand, and in an oppressive claustrophobia on the other. They are Constable’s clouds formed by land and water we can’t see, and there is the typical romantic painting of a man being buried alive in his coffin. There is Géricault looking calmly and openly at the inmates of an asylum, and there are the German Romantic painters in the Mediterranean painting the hills and sky such a legendary blue that the whole scene looks as though it could be smashed like a saucer. There is Stubbs scientifically comparing animals and looking into the eyes of a tiger, and there is James Ward reducing Gordale Scar to a rock of ages just cleft for him. There is a new awareness of the size and power of the forces in the world – an awareness which invested the word Nature with a completely new meaning, and there is the breathlessness of the new superstitions that protected men from the enormity of what they were discovering: above all the superstition that a feeling in the heart was somehow comparable with a storm in the sky.

Naturally the focal centres of Romantic art varied a great deal according to time and place. In England the provocation was the Industrial Revolution and the new light (literal and metaphorical) that it threw on landscape; in France the predominant stimulus was the new mode of military heroism established by Napoleon; in Germany it was the mounting compulsion to establish a national identity. Naturally, too, the political predicament I’ve described often presented itself in indirect forms. More Romantic artists were directly influenced by the literary cult of the past when life was thought to have been ‘simpler’ and more ‘natural’, than they were by, say, Chartism. Newtonian science was also relevant to Romanticism. The Romantics accepted the way science had freed thought from religion, but at the same time were intuitively in protest against its closed mechanistic system, the inhumanity of which seemed to be demonstrated in practice by the horrors of the economic system. The complexities of the situation are immense. Certain artists of the time, precisely because they were not affected by the Romantic predicament, should not be classed as Romantics even though they borrowed from the Romantic vocabulary: e.g. Goya and Daumier.

Yet, despite the complexities, this historical definition is the only one that will make any general sense at all. It is confirmed by the fact that after 1860 when the predicament was no longer real because the knowledge and experience with which to overcome it were available, Romanticism degenerated into effete aestheticism. And it is confirmed most strikingly by the work which represents Romanticism at its height: Delacroix’s Massacre at Chios.

The sub-title of the picture is A Greek Family Awaiting Death or Slavery. It is an acknowledged masterpiece and contains brilliant passages of painting. Its political gesture was important and also undoubtedly sincere. But it remains a gesture. It has nothing to do with any true imaginative understanding of either death or slavery. It is a voluptuous charade. The woman tied to the horse is a languorous sex-offering, the rope round her arm like an exotic snake playing with her. The couple in the centre might be lying in a harem. Indeed all the figures (with the possible exception of the old woman) are exotic. They belong to art dreams and literary legends, and have only been placed in an actual context for the sake of being ‘ennobled’ further by also belonging to an historical tragedy.
Delacroix records how he talked to a traveller just back from Greece and says that on one occasion this man ‘was so much impressed by the head of a Turk who appeared on the battlements that he prevented a soldier from shooting at him.’ Elsewhere Delacroix raves about a painting by Gros and says, ‘You can see the flash of the sabre as it plunges into the enemy’s throats.’ Such was the romantic view of war: you could stop or start it like a film. It was a sincere view, but it was a compromisingly privileged view. And between the privilege and the reality lay the predicament.

The Argument that can win it all, but matters little

Yes, we know, we are meagre souls, fighting against all the great forces of history. We are sometimes led to believe that change takes place at levels higher than us. But,remarkably,we can write. And, it is in that vein that I begin to describe the most substantial argument that I feel defines our generation- the argument of the sceptic! It merely consists of deflating the logic of our existence. Let me pose examples. Within the context of my country. India. The argument against the foreign Direct Investment (FDI) in retail. Let us look at the sceptical argument against it. It merely consists of the following: Now, if foreign retailers come in, they will envelope the scope of sale within the existing indigenous retail sector, but, furthermore, they define the nature of products we buy. Meaning. I can oppose FDI in retail as such. in the sceptical terms. retail as such is a phenomenon that does not acknowledge choice, but, instead, chooses to perpetrate a fictitious assembly of products that are neither useful nor progressive, hence, the scope of my satisfaction does not acknowledge their existence. The sceptic argues that we must oppose FDI in retail not because it allows private corporations in enhancing their monopoly over consumer goods in a particular goods, in a country, but, instead, because, it allows for the replication of consumption at a mass scale that isolates the individuality of the concerned consumer. Two problem with this, first, how does one distinguish the isolation of the individuality vis-a-vis the product, second, how does one define the nature of exploitation that it seeks to establish. The crux of exploitation is with the consumer who believes in plural production realms, as opposed to homogeneous realms of production.

Saadat Hasan Manto's Prayer

Dear God, master of the universe, compassionate and merciful: we who are steeped in sin kneel in supplication before your throne and beseech you to recall from this world Saadat Hasan Manto, son of Ghulam Hasan Manto, who was a man of great piety.

Take him away, Lord, for he runs away from fragrance and chases after filth. He hates the bright sun, preferring dark labyrinths. He has nothing but contempt for modesty but is fascinated by the naked and the shameless. He hates sweetness but will give his life to taste bitter fruit. He will not so much as look at housewives but is in seventh heaven in the company of whores. He will not go near running water but loves to wade through dirt. Where others weep he laughs, and where others laugh he weeps. Faces blackened by evil, he loves to wash with tender care to make visible their real features.

He never thinks about you but follows Satan everywhere, the same fallen angel who once disobeyed you.

A fasting companion knows of hunger...

A fasting companion knows of hunger,

a dying friend-weeps for memory,

inside terror-ridden bars

the shriek of anguish awakens rust-laden manacles

and, I stand apart,

with iotas of tears,

at each misquoted hanging,

gathering spirit in longer weeps

for it grows into bigger tears

each time, each moment

I hang my head in shame

as the tide swells

with salted cries

all around

I breathe fresh air,

warming myself to the task ahead

and the tears don't stop,

the tsunami of abbreviated sadness

is awaiting-

and it strikes-

for in the jungles of kipling

there were savages

whispering instinct at each breath,

and nowhere was there soul

(but in the truth of their mind and heart)

-and the tears swell

and I ride waves, until

I weaken-

my boat rocks, and I drown,

can't sleep at night,

can't breathe fresh air,

the drowning begins

scorching sun strengthens my belly

and technical mystery

marvels at its new value

but should I shake out,

and pursuit that naggine ache-

of what is the

MALADY of our generation.

I will listen,

No Talismans of purity,

a wholesome cancer of injustice,

within, without,there exists

not-bottles of white rum

not- cycles in autumn

but the fate of a generation

to teach posterity

I must raise head from the sea of tears,

stand tall in dignity-

and proclaim

I am human, I hunger,

and must you!

And cancer withers,

as the labour begins,

the manacles soften

as the scorching sun calms,

and the might is mine,

and so it will be yours

But never will you

take away the joy

of a smile

or the right to laugh

because in it is not

selfish escapism

it is not mine,

It is a wish to create for all

a dream, a vision,

maybe a mirage

of beautiful worlds

of naked kindness

of nascent truth

And, it will be yours,

mine,

and the comrade who sits

on a cold floor, with waning light

and it belongs to our children

so they will say

My father was a happy man,

a gentle man,

And a JUST man,

and he Smiled

when tides would sweep other mere mortals.

-Rohan Mathews

FACES IN THE STREET- HENRY LAWSON

They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone
That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
My window-sill is level with the faces in the street --
Drifting past, drifting past,
To the beat of weary feet --
While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;
I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street --
Drifting on, drifting on,
To the scrape of restless feet;
I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky
The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by,
Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet,
Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street --
Flowing in, flowing in,
To the beat of hurried feet --
Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight,
Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late;
But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat
The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street --
Grinding body, grinding soul,
Yielding scarce enough to eat --
Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down
Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town,
Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street,
Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat --
Drifting round, drifting round,
To the tread of listless feet --
Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.

And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away,
And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day,
Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat,
Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street --
Ebbing out, ebbing out,
To the drag of tired feet,
While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.

And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end,
For while the short `large hours' toward the longer `small hours' trend,
With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat,
Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street --
Sinking down, sinking down,
Battered wreck by tempests beat --
A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.

But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes,
For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums,
Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet,
And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street --
Rotting out, rotting out,
For the lack of air and meat --
In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.

I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure
Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?
Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat,
When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,
The wrong things and the bad things
And the sad things that we meet
In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.

I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still,
And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill;
But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet,
They haunted me -- the shadows of those faces in the street,
Flitting by, flitting by,
Flitting by with noiseless feet,
And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.

Once I cried: `Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure,
Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.'
And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street,
And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
Coming near, coming near,
To a drum's dull distant beat,
And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.

Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,
The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,
And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat,
And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street.
Pouring on, pouring on,
To a drum's loud threatening beat,
And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.

And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course,
The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse,
But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet
Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street --
The dreadful everlasting strife
For scarcely clothes and meat
In that pent track of living death -- the city's cruel street.

WISE MEN IN THEIR BAD HOURS- ROBINSON JEFFERS

Wise men in their bad hours have envied
The little people making merry like grasshoppers

In spots of sunlight, hardly thinking
Backward but never forward, and if they somehow
Take hold upon the future they do it
Half asleep, with the tools of generation
Foolishly reduplicating
Folly in thirty-year periods; the eat and laugh too,

Groan against labors, wars and partings,
Dance, talk, dress and undress; wise men have pretended
The summer insects enviable;
One must indulge the wise in moments of mockery.
Strength and desire possess the future,

The breed of the grasshopper shrills, "What does the future
Matter, we shall be dead?" Ah, grasshoppers,
Death's a fierce meadowlark: but to die having made
Something more equal to the centuries

Than muscle and bone, is mostly to shed weakness.
The mountains are dead stone, the people
Admire or hate their stature, their insolent quietness,
The mountains are not softened nor troubled
And a few dead men's thoughts have the same temper. 

DIALECTIC- G.A. COHEN

In Hegel's theory of knowledge, there is an epistemological ascent in three stages. The point of departure is sensuous consciousness, the summit is reason, and understanding lies along the route between them. The initial position is the most primitive encounter between mind and the world, predating any form of reflection. The mind does not experience itself as divided from the world, and is incapable of distinguishing things and aspects in what lies before it. The elements of the object are merged, and the subject is merged with them. Understanding is the sphere of analysis: the subject asserts a distinction between itself and the object, of an absolute kind, and is able to discriminate parts and features of the object. Understanding is a necessary phase in the acquisition of knowledge, but it must be surpassed by reason, which maintains understanding's distinctions, yet also recognizes deeper unities beyond understanding's competence. Reason recaptures the integration understanding suspended, without renouncing the achievements premised on that suspension.

Epistemology is not the only area Hegel trisected in the manner just sketched. While I do not seek endorsement of his procedure in epistemology or in general, I do submit that the rhythm realized in the progress exhibited above sometimes occurs in a person's development. With respect to categorially various items to which a person may be related-his spouse, his family, his country, his job, his role, his body, his desires-it seems possible for him to sustain something like each of the three attitudes we have separated. He may fail in significant ways to distinguish himself and what he is from the other to which he is related; he may possess a strong sense of its otherness, so that it seems alien to him; or he may have that sense, yet find it compatible with close engagement. What is more, it sometimes happens that he occupies the three positions successively, in the order Hegel thought canonical in epistemology and elsewhere.

A domain offering examples of the sequence Hegel favored is that of marriage. In its early stages a person may feel his interests and purposes to be identical with those of his spouse. Both may feel that way, and thus combine their lives to an extent which from outside looks artificial or moronic. But then one or both may revolt against fusion, and become hostile to continued connection. Finally, a new harmony may supervene, not through relapse into complete mutual absorption, real or pretended, but by discovery of a unity which is not antagonistic to the individuality of each.

Referring to this sequence in intimate relations, Hegel wrote in his fragment "On Love" that "the process is: unity, separated opposites, reunion."2 He thought the course of true love always has this structure, but we need not agree when we acknowledge that there is such a structure, and that it deserves attention. The term "dialecticar' will hereafter be applied to processes of the envisaged kind. I shall say that a subject undergoes a dialectical process if it passes from a stage where it is undivided from some object, through a stage where it divides itself from it in a manner which creates disunity, to a stage where distinction persists but unity is restored. I shall label the successive stages "undifferentiated unity," "differentiated disunity," and "differentiated unity."

(Cohen, G.A. (1974), Marx's Dialectic of Labour, Philosophy and Public Affairs, Vol. 3, No. 3, pp. 235-37)