“Né con Dio, né senza Dio. Cioran, il mistico” (Massimo Carloni)

Il cielo grigio senza nuvola 
costeggia l’aria grigia senza fine 
di coloro che non sono né per Dio né per i suoi nemici.

Beckett

In lotta con il divino
«È religioso chi può dispensarsi dalla fede, ma non da Dio»[1]. Così Cioran, prima di congedarsi definitivamente dall’idioma romeno, quasi a prefigurare la personale lotta col divino che lo porterà a battere le contrade più impervie alle diverse latitudini dell’Assoluto. Diversamente dall’amico Mircea Eliade, il cui procedere enciclopedico finisce per fare della religione un oggetto d’erudizione, da studiare ed approfondire in tutte le sue varie manifestazioni, Cioran drammatizza il rapporto con il divino, alla stregua di un combattimento corpo a corpo, senza esclusione di colpi, come un Giacobbe contro l’Angelo. La furia demolitrice che dispensa nello sterminare le contraffazioni statuarie incontrate lungo il cammino rivela un’esigenza iconoclasta di purificazione, contro la supponenza dei teologi, addetti stampa di Dio.

«Fino a quando ci sarà ancora un dio in piedi, il compito dell’uomo non sarà finito»[2], recita uno dei suoi ultimi aforismi. Il distacco esibito dallo storico delle idee religiose, colui che abbraccia con la stessa disinvoltura sciamanesimo e la più raffinata meditazione buddista, lascerebbe quantomeno perplessi quegli spiriti inquieti che, ad ogni costo, perseguono la salvezza: «Chi possiede una sensibilità religiosa non passa la propria vita a enumerare gli dei, a fare il loro inventario… Ho sempre visto nella storia delle religioni la negazione stessa della religione»[3].È pur vero che la ricerca di Eliade non è altro che l’espressione più alta d’una piaga culturale che ha contaminato, da Hegel in poi, tutto l’Occidente: l’insano impulso di voler compendiare, in una conoscenza universale, tutta la storia delle idee che ci hanno preceduto. Vana pretesa che, esaltando l’erudito, finisce per soffocare il mistico che riposa in ognuno di noi. Dopo averli soppesati e maneggiati tutti, quale Dio preferire, infine?

I vari capitoli del Sacro finiscono per equivalersi agli occhi del dotto, che li ha vivisezionati uno per uno: «Non s’immagina in preghiera uno specialista della Storia delle religioni»[4], incalza Cioran. La polemica personale non gli impedisce, tuttavia, di riconoscere una verità epocale quanto inconfutabile: la posizione intellettuale di Eliade anticipa e riassume quello di ogni occidentale dei giorni nostri. Giunti al capolinea della storia, volgiamo un ultimo sguardo alle illusioni che furono e colmarono d’ebbrezza divina i nostri antenati, ben sapendo che l’incanto non ritornerà più, e quel mondo, in cui l’estasi si confondeva col sogno, è svanito per sempre.

«Noi siamo tutti, Eliade in testa, degli ex credenti, siamo tutti degli spiriti religiosi senza religione»[5]…[+]

Anúncios

“The category of the religious in Cioran’s discourse” (Rodrigo I. R. Sá Menezes)

Anale Seria Drept, Universitatea Tibiscus, Timișoara, Romania, n° XXV, 2016, p. 49-80.

COPERTA_MAbstract: We aim at demonstrating the hermeneutic plausibility of reading Cioran as a heterodox religious thinker, a hypothesis that sits comfortably well alongside the assumption of him being a secular spirit–one with a concern for religious matters and an appeal for some ever-problematic transcendence. As the author puts it himself, all he ever thought and wrote stems from one and only feeling of existence, a feeling we shall qualify as being of a religious nature. Thus, we aim at analyzing such religious feeling of existence, demonstrating its manifold expressions throughout the works of Cioran, both Romanian and French. In a second moment, we shall confront the underlying connection between the category of the religious and that of the mystic in Cioran’s works, so as to show that they actually coincide in a deep, essential level of understanding. We shall further develop, in subsequent essays, the thesis of Cioran as a sui generis gnostic type of thinker: a modern-day Gnostic without any pretension to salvation whatsoever. If Cioran’s viewpoint with regard to the divine realm of a good, alien God (Hans Jonas) draws him close to an agnostic stance, his recurring statements about the world as a demiurgic Creation “submerged in evil” (History and Utopia) could not be more unequivocally gnostic. Beyond all skepticism, even though it cannot be overlooked, Cioran is a radically dualistic, metaphysical and religious thinker concerned with the problems of evil and nothingness when it comes to reflecting upon human existence and condition.

Keywords: Religious, Mystic, God, Absolute, Evil, Demiurge, Gnosticism, Dualism, Atheism, Redemption

[Full text]

“Mystique et sagesse” chez Cioran (Sylvie Jaudeau)

UNE THÉOLOGIE NEGATIVE

“Celui qui ne pense pas li Dieu demeure étranger à lui-même.” (Des larmes et des saints, p. 93)

“Peut-on parler honnêtement d’autre chose que de Dieu ou soi ?” (Syllogismes de l’amertume)

Se vivre dans l’exil entraîne inevitablement un questionnement sur une dimension interdite : Dieu ou le divin. Malgré des apparences qui la démentent, elle est au coeur de la pensée de Cioran. “Tous les nihilistes, reconnaît-il, ont eu maille à partir avec Dieu. Une preuve de plus de son voisinage avec le rien” (LS 75).

Avec lui, certes, les éternels debats philosophiques cessent de prevaloir, Il ne sert il rien d’ elaborer des preuves ontologiques, de disserter sur les causes quand les effets seuls suffisent. Dieu nous habite jusque dans la farouche ardeur que nous deployons pour le contester. Que son inexistence préoccupe suffit à lui rendre ses lettres de noblesse. Un debat sur l’ athéisme de Cioran ne serait pas de mise et fausserait les enjeux. Ce qui importe n’est pas l’existence de Dieu mais le seul fait qu’il nous hante et qu’il nous presente un miroir ou se fixent nos manques. Dieu en tant que nostalgie de l’absolu avive la conscience et le malaise d’être. Les imprécations qui lui sont adressées ne sont que des prières négatives où s’exprime le regret de sa perte. Cioran ne se remet pas d’ avoir perdu l’acces à l’absolu et d’avoir dû renoncer à Dieu faute de foi. TI prefere des injures contre un Dieu definitivement absent, “fonction de notre desespoir”, car “les injures elles mêmes sont plus proches de lui que la théologie” (LS 127)… [Pdf]

JAUDEAU, Sylvie. Cioran ou le dernier homme. Paris : José Corti, 1990, p. 92-117.

 

“Le moi cioranien, souffrant et créateur. Ambivalences spirituelles” (Yann Porte)

Parus dans Levure Littéraire

Naître comme vieillir, haïr comme aimer. Tout est souffrance. Etre uni à un destin et à un moi que l’on n’a pas fondamentalement choisi tout comme sentir que l’on en sera un jour dissocié pour que tout recommence autrement. Voilà l’un des premiers enseignements du bouddhisme. Pour échapper à ce que beaucoup considèrent comme une malédiction, il faudrait apprendre à se détacher du monde, à tuer tout esprit de convoitise en soi afin de sortir du cycle des réincarnations ou, du moins, trouver le moyen de renaître pour affronter un meilleur destin. Schématiquement résumés, ces quelques fondements du bouddhisme connaissent en Occident un succès d’autant plus équivoque qu’ils heurtent de front et avec un aplomb qui frôle l’inquiétante étrangeté le mode de fonctionnement des sociétés du spectacle consumériste. Le plus étonnant pour un occidental est que cette doctrine qui est autant une philosophie qu’une religion et dont les principes de base véhiculent une vision de l’existence qui a l’air pessimiste, parvienne à transfigurer ce tragique initial en une spiritualité dont les piliers sont l’acceptation, le renoncement, la sobriété, l’humilité. Autant de valeurs qui découlent d’une stricte analyse de l’ordre des choses effectuée à travers le prisme d’un principe de causalité tourné vers l’extinction de l’ego, vers une dépersonnalisation sublimée. Le plus étonnant, en apparence, est que cette doctrine qui fait du moi une illusion trouve une audience toujours plus large dans l’Occident contemporain, faussement hédoniste, consumériste par habitude et individualiste à la manière d’un désespoir qui s’ignore – pour ne décrire que quelques uns de ses traits les plus caractéristiques. Durant sa vie, Cioran essayera de faire le point sur sa confrontation permanente avec cette spiritualité à la fois si tentante et si impraticable pour lui :

Ce qui est impermanent est douleur ; ce qui est douleur est non-soi. Ce qui est non-soi, cela n’est pas mien, je ne suis pas cela, cela n’est pas moi. »(Samyutta Nikaya)

Ce qui est douleur est non-soi. Il est difficile, il est impossible d’être d’accord avec le bouddhisme sur ce point, capital pourtant. La douleur est pour nous ce qu’il y a de plus nous-mêmes, de plus soi. Quelle religion étrange ! Elle voit de la douleur partout et elle la déclare en même temps irréelle. (Oeuvres, Aveux Anathèmes, p. 1690)

Aussi fascinante qu’elle soit, l’impassibilité bouddhique ennuie « l’implacable in-délivré », cloîtré dans son expérience gnostique. Cioran est un claustrophobe cosmique emmuré à ciel ouvert et les tristes parois de son cachot ont les dimensions de l’univers entier. Enfin, il s’avoue inapte à pratiquer une religion qui s’acharne à mortifier le désir et la volonté, sans parler de l’exaltation ou des passions, ces nécessaires moteurs de toute entreprise humaine… [+]

“Why do anything? A meditation on procrastination” (Costica Bradatan)

“Gnostic thinking takes us to a privileged ontological realm: the state of perfection that precedes actualization. That which is yet to be born — be it the world, a person, a piece of furniture or a piece of writing like this one — may be nothing, but at this stage it is at its utmost. Its nothingness is fuller and richer than any ordinary existence. To fall into existence is to enter time, and with time comes decay, aging and death. Modern proponents of this idea are hard to come by, but the Romanian-born French philosopher E.M. Cioran is certainly one. For Cioran, who died in 1995, there was something incomparably worse than death — ‘the catastrophe of birth,’ and the ‘fall in time’ that comes with it. In his book The Trouble With Being Born, Cioran maps out the vast unfolding of nothingness that preceded coming into existence.” (Costica Bradatan)

18stone-master768
(Leigh Wells)

The New York Times (“The Opinion Pages”), 17 September, 2016

Have you heard the story of the architect from Shiraz who designed the world’s most beautiful mosque? No one had ever conjured up such a design. It was breathtakingly daring yet well-proportioned, divinely sophisticated, yet radiating a distinctly human warmth. Those who saw the plans were awe-struck.

Famous builders begged the architect to allow them to erect the mosque; wealthy people came from afar to buy the plans; thieves devised schemes to steal them; powerful rulers considered taking them by force. Yet the architect locked himself in his study, and after staring at the plans for three days and three nights, burned them all.

The architect couldn’t stand the thought that the realized building would have been subject to the forces of degradation and decay, eventual collapse or destruction by barbarian hordes. During those days and nights in his study he saw his creation profaned and reduced to dust, and was terribly unsettled by the sight. Better that it remain perfect. Better that it was never built.

The story is a fable, but its main idea — that a thing’s ideal state is before it comes into existence, that it is better to not be born — is equal parts terrifying and uncanny, especially today, when progress and productivity are practically worshiped. And it evokes a philosophical insight with ancient roots that is still worth investigating.

“The world,” we read in the Gnostic Gospel of Philip, “came about through a mistake.” The demiurge who made it “wanted to create it imperishable and immortal,” but eventually he “fell short of attaining his desire, for the world never was imperishable, nor, for that matter, was he who made the world.” The Gnostics believed nonexistence to be a mark of perfection, and coming into being a form of degradation.

Basilides, one of the most intriguing figures of early Gnosticism, believed that the highest attribute of divinity is its inexistence. By his own account, Basilides was a theologian of the “nonexistent God”; he referred to God as “he who is not,” as opposed to the maker of the world, trapped in existence and time.

Gnostic thinking takes us to a privileged ontological realm: the state of perfection that precedes actualization. That which is yet to be born — be it the world, a person, a piece of furniture or a piece of writing like this one — may be nothing, but at this stage it is at its utmost. Its nothingness is fuller and richer than any ordinary existence. To fall into existence is to enter time, and with time comes decay, aging and death.

Modern proponents of this idea are hard to come by, but the Romanian-born French philosopher E.M. Cioran is certainly one. For Cioran, who died in 1995, there was something incomparably worse than death — “the catastrophe of birth,” and the “fall in time” that comes with it. In his book “The Trouble With Being Born,” Cioran maps out the vast unfolding of nothingness that preceded coming into existence.

“I am lured only by what precedes me,” he writes, by “the numberless moments when I was not: the non-born.” From that perspective, he looks at the world with new eyes, and gains a deeper understanding of himself: “I have never taken myself for a being. A noncitizen, a marginal type, a nothing who exists only by the excess, by the superabundance of his nothingness.”

Cioran was a man of unusual tastes. He took a liking to the Thracians because they “wept over the newborn,” and to the Gnostic sect of Bogomils, who, “in order to justify God, held Satan responsible for the infamy of Creation.”

All of this raises an obvious question: Why do anything? Why multiply the cosmic failure, the “infamy of creation”?

Idleness, as we know, has a bad rap in Western culture, but it can be a philosophical experience in its own right. Bertrand Russell wrote a long essay in praise of it, and Oscar Wilde thought that “to do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world” as well as the most intellectual. The great, consummate idlers of literature (Ivan Goncharov’s Oblomov or Melville’s Bartleby) are figures of metaphysical quest: They exemplify ways of being human with unusual complexity.

Idleness, then, reveals an experience of nothingness. While nothingness tends to occupy a central position in Eastern traditions like Buddhism and Taoism, we in the West typically shun it; after all, one of the most characteristic branches of Western philosophy is ontology, the study of that which exists.

Yet, even if we do not choose to embrace nothingness, nothingness itself may choose to embrace us. It may not be that we don’t have anything to do, or that we’re bored, or that we would rather do it later, but just that we don’t see the point of it all. In our idleness we intuit a cosmic meaninglessness, which comes along with the realization that, with every action, we get only more entangled in the universal farce.

Perhaps the most intriguing form of idleness is one nearly all of us are intimately familiar with: procrastination. Idleness is difficult to find in a pure state. Indeed, in a certain sense, it eludes us because, at its most radical, idleness tends to devour its devotees (again, Oblomov and Bartleby). But procrastination is a different business altogether: It is not only more available, but also more dynamic, just as the procrastinator is a more dramatic figure than the idler, who is as ascetic and immobile as a pillar saint.

The drama of procrastination comes from its split nature. Just like the architect from Shiraz, the procrastinator is smitten by the perfect picture of that which is yet to be born; he falls under the spell of all that purity and splendor. What he is beholding is something whole, uncorrupted by time, untainted by the workings of a messed-up world. At the same time, though, the procrastinator is fully aware that all that has to go. No sooner does he get a glimpse of the perfection that precedes actualization than he is doomed to become part of the actualization process himself, to be the one who defaces the ideal and brings into the world a precarious copy, unlike the architect who saves it by burning the plans.

The procrastinator contemplates his deed and realizes all its future imperfection, but — fallen creature, “man of the world,” part of the “infamy of Creation” that he is — he must do it. The procrastinator is both contemplator and man of action, which is the worst thing to be, and which is tearing him apart.

What procrastination betrays is above all an anxiety of creation: It pains us unbearably to realize that, for all our good intentions, we are agents of degradation, that instead of creating something that stays whole and incorruptible, we by our very doing make it “perishable and mortal,” in the words of the Gnostic author of the Gospel of Philip. Procrastination and mourning are tied tightly together: for to procrastinate is to mourn the precariousness of your creation even before you bring it into the world.

We should perhaps spend more time dwelling on the rich virtuality that precedes the fall into existence. That is, after all, what true contemplation must be about: a commerce with the irreality of things, a learned habit to see them from the privileged perspective of their pre- and nonexistence. Rather than get caught up in the misleading appearance of the material world, we transport ourselves back to a moment when the world, with all its holes and imperfections, hasn’t happened yet.

“Controvérsias entre o pensamento de Cioran e o budismo” (José Rodrigo Sousa)

Fonte: Anais do XIV Simpósio Nacional da ABHR, Juiz de Fora, MG, 15 a 17 de abril de 2015

O pensamento budista

O Budismo surge na Índia em meio ao Hinduísmo, como também, a mudanças sociais e culturais, de uma estrutura camponesa para uma composição de vilas. É nessa inquietação de modificações que Siddhartha Gautama procura respostas para suas inquietudes, assim, ele sai dos domínios de seu palácio para adentrar em uma vida ascética. Segundo o que consta das diversas histórias sobre Gautama (o Buda histórico) ele teria deixado a condição de príncipe do clã Sãkya por sua sensibilidade espiritual em contraposição com os desejos sensuais e, consequentemente, pela instabilidade e mudança, como também pelo sofrimento que este afeta toda a condição humana.

A partir de sua percepção do estado no qual as pessoas se encontravam Gautama descobre a primeira nobre verdade, o sofrimento, dukkha, desse modo, é preciso renunciar a vida mundana, aos vícios que ela produz, por conseguinte, os vínculos familiares, a propriedade, a posição social, a procura desmedida pelos prazeres e a ambição que muitas das vezes é egoísta, nisto consiste na superação da condição do sofrimento no qual se está inserido.

As histórias sobre o Buda afirmam que ele teria dedicado cerca de seis anos de sua vida para estudar as práticas espirituais. Nas várias práticas ascéticas nas quais o Buda fez iniciação o mesmo identificou que essas práticas não eram totalmente satisfatórias.

O que se consta é que Siddhartha Gautama ao sair do palácio se depara com quatro situações a de um velho, um homem doente, um cadáver em decomposição e por fim um asceta. Dessas quatro impressões que Gautama teve quando saiu do palácio sob proibição de seu pai de que a vida de riqueza e prazer é inevitavelmente uma existência que não possui nenhum sentido. Assim, o Buda identifica que a última impressão que teve consistia na superação das demais e, consequentemente, ao perpetrar as práticas ascéticas identifica que elas não são suficientes e que a iluminação não poderia ser obtida por nenhum dos extremos, mas pelo caminho do meio.

Portanto, a iluminação que Gautama chega não se dá pelos exercícios ascéticos, mas pelo caminho do meio. E para se chegar a iluminação é necessário evitar os dois extremos, ou seja, está entre a auto complacência e o prazer, assim, é preferível estar entre a dor e o prazer e isto consiste O Caminho do Meio. O Buda alcançou sua iluminação a partir da prática de jhãna, que pode ser entendida como concentração ou meditação… [+]

“Ser ateu graças a Deus, ou de como ser pobre é não haver menos que o infinito: a-teísmo, a-teologia e an-arquia mística em Meister Eckhart” (Paulo Borges)

Eliade me disse que seu professor de filosofia, Dasgupta, que escreveu a maior história da filosofia hindu em inglês, lhe disse o seguinte: “O maior pensador do Ocidente é Mestre Eckhart.” Eu citei isto recentemente a um professor alemão e ele começou a rir, achando-o absolutamente estúpido: e, no entanto, é verdade. Pode-se dizer que Mestre Eckhart é o pensador mais profundo que já existiu no Ocidente. Não é nem um pouco um exagero ou uma aberração. Mas creio que o tipo de pensador como Mestre Eckhart é um caso único. E, de resto, Mestre Eckhart foi também um imenso escritor. (Cioran, Entretiens)

RESUMO: É nossa intenção comentar um dos sermões mais conhecidos e polémicos de Mestre Eckhart, o Beati pauperes spiritu…, onde nos parecem condensar-se os temas e as teses mais singulares, embora não absolutamente originais, do autor. Nele o mestre renano procede a uma meditação sobre a primeira bem-aventurança, surpreendente pela radicalidade das suas posições e pela profundidade da experiência espiritual que testemunham. É que, se haverá em Eckhart um “gosto das posições extremas”, ele parece decorrer do sabor intenso daquilo que mística e metafisicamente experiencia, aquém-além dos limites de conceitos e palavras, mas (e)levando conceitos e palavras a expressá-lo o melhor possível… [+]

Paulo Borges é professor do Departamento de Filosofia da Faculdade de Letras da Universidade de Lisboa, onde trabalha nas áreas de Filosofia da Religião, Filosofia em Portugal e Antropologia e Cultura e integra o projecto de investigação “A Filosofia e as Grandes Religiões do Mundo”. Membro e investigador do Centro de Filosofia da Universidade de Lisboa, onde coordena o projecto “Agostinho da Silva: estudo do espólio” e integra os projectos “A questão de Deus. História e Crítica” e “Arte e Religião”. Doutorou-se em 2000 com uma dissertação sobre Metafísica e Teologia da Origem em Teixeira de Pascoaes (do site do autor).