What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Mark all mathematical heads, which be only and wholly bent to those sciences, how solitary they be themselves, how unfit to live with others, and how unapt to serve in the world.
—Roger Ascham, The Scholemaster
“For almost two centuries, the European mind has put forward an unprecedented effort to explain the world, so as to conquer and transform it.”1 Only recently has this European mind—at least commonly—become aware that something may be amiss in this desire for conquest, dominion, and possession. Yielding in part before the growing evidence of its own impotence, we are beginning to realize that the expression and implementation of this desire is the mark of a particular epistemological inflection that is far from the only one possible, or even available. Forms of thought and the desires accompanying them are open to study and to the clarification of what they may seek to hide. They can be changed. Generally speaking, whatever may be the modalities of action with which we endow it, we place the moment of our particular inflection somewhere within the period in the West termed the “Renaissance.” Anchoring itself principally, though not only, in the close consideration of a “literary” corpus, the following study will be concerned with that moment when two separate modes of conceptualization become visible. It will seek to follow the production of what I will call one “class” of discourse from within another. It will attempt to describe the gradual domination of the earlier by the later, to show how the separation itself becomes functional in discourse, how it is elaborated, and how the domination occurs. It will try to reveal some of the necessary ramifications and consequences of that domination.
Such a project is clearly a highly motivated one. I will be tending to reduce the episteme preceding that with whose rise to dominance I am chiefly concerned to the rule of a single class of discourse. I will not try to argue that such a move is anything but a heuristic tactic, and one that conduces, I confess, to telescoping a thousand years of complex development and to flattening out the enormously rich variety expressed especially by the thinkers of the eleventh-thirteenth centuries (though this variety itself, I argue, occurs under the sway of a single discursive dominance). It is indeed perfectly possible that several classes of discourse coexist in the Middle Ages: difficulties and slowness of communication, the separation of the educated clerical stratum from that of the politically dominant feudal aristocracy, and of both from the popular or village culture, seem to ensure that such would be the case. But that there may be several classes of discourse vying, so to speak, for power is not the main point here. Such struggle will doubtless always exist, but what the present essay aims to show is the accession to dominance for our modernity of a single discursive class. That dominance replaces another, and the fact that other discursive relationships may blur the transition must remain for my purposes a secondary consideration, as must also the possibility that a prior break of some kind may have occurred around the eleventh century—though both matters will be discussed briefly and my choice justified in Chapter 2.2
I will argue that a discourse of ‘resemblance’ produces from within itself a certain kind of analytical system. When this becomes a conscious process viewed as promising a ‘truly objective’ knowledge of the ‘real order’ of things, then it is seen as superior to the earlier structure that bore it. An initial displacement is therefore speedily followed, as an essential part of the same process, by a complete replacement. What I will call an “analytico-referential” class of discourse becomes the single dominant structure and the necessary form taken by thought, by knowledge, by cultural and social practices of all kinds. This dominance still exists today, and I would suggest that it is only by revealing the occultations, the repressions, the willingly accepted ‘traps’ of the newly dominant discourse that we can hope to understand fully its consequences for ourselves. Only by studying the specific discursive response to what was viewed (by such as Galileo, Bacon, Descartes, and Hobbes) as a particular crisis of discourse can we ourselves hope to respond to what is perhaps a similar crisis in our time.
Three events of considerable symbolic significance lie at the doorway of what Alfred North Whitehead called “the first century of modern science.” The first, in 1600, was the burning of Giordano Bruno, the thinker who in so many ways represents an effort to combine two different modes of thought, two classes of discourse: “In his execution there was an unconscious symbolism: for the subsequent tone of scientific thought has contained distrust of his type of general speculativeness.”3 By the time he was sent to the stake, Bruno was a figure known throughout Europe, both by his writings and by his extensive travels.
During the same year occurred another event of great importance, though it lacked the striking impact of Bruno’s death or the massive symbolic significance of the third event. Sometime in the course of 1600 William Gilbert published in London his De magnete. P. Fleury Mottelay writes that “the work created a powerful impression at the time,” though less in England than on the Continent, where Galileo among others seems to have greeted its appearance with enthusiasm. Richard Foster Jones has somewhat modified that estimation by remarking that though Gilbert’s “reputation was high with those who were qualified to appreciate his work,” it was otherwise “never widely noticed.”4 Be that as it may, the work explained an instrument, the compass, that not only possessed some symbolic value by virtue of its obvious connection with the voyages of discovery (with which it was often credited), but that was also one of the three ‘inventions,’ along with gunpowder and the printing press, which writers of the age constantly urged as evidence of superiority against those who would disparage the moderns. Indeed, the immediate significance of the book lay more in the strong stance it took against the ancients and in its concrete practical demonstration of an efficacious experimentalism than it did in the discoveries in electricity and magnetism recorded there. Certainly the De magnete had been preceded years earlier by the experimental anatomical work of Vesalius, and was very soon to be joined by that of Harvey. Gilbert, however, happened to publish at a particularly auspicious conjuncture.
Still, whatever the importance of the Englishman’s work from this point of view, it was not to produce the same shock as the third event: the publication, just a decade later, of an even more celebrated work, as much polemical pamphlet as record of ‘scientific’ observations. In the latter half of 1609 modern technological thinking was provided with its most eloquent metaphor, as Galileo interposed the distance of the telescope between the human mind and the material world before it, the object of its attentive gaze. It goes without saying that the interposition and the space are both simultaneous creations of the metaphor: the one presupposes the other. They will become the transparent instrumentality of a supposedly ‘neutral’ and ‘objective’ scientific discourse. The metaphor is itself the mark therefore of a particular epistemology created by the discursive activity into which it is inserted. The metaphor was to become distinctly literary and haunt, directly or indirectly, much of the imaginative writing of the following century once the scientist had written it down and published it as the Sidereus nuncius in 1610.
The reaction to the appearance of this text was, as Gérard Simon has recently remarked, a general one “of curiosity, incredulity and stupefaction.”5 Yet Galileo’s telescope only confirms a visual distancing whose entrance into consciousness is especially marked by this metaphor. At least since the considerations of Nicolaus Cusanus and others upon perspective, the abstractions of a continuous interpretation of the material signs (‘signs’ and ‘objects’ being taken as ontologically equal) were reduced by a certain visualization. What Father Ong has been able to write of Ramus’s ‘reduction’ of the linguistic order to visual image, Jean Paris and Michel Beaujour could claim as already the case in Rabelais’s writing.6 Nancy Struever can show how Cusanus opposes, in his very writing, the figurai to the abstract as the “radical” to the “traditional.” At first this corresponds to a replacement of a kind of potential ‘wholeness’ of knowledge (concluded in the divine Word) by a perspectival and incomplete process of knowing. It opposes an “infinite essence” to a finite semiotic process: an opposition that is the mark of an incommensurability viewed by Cusa “as the proper foundation of all inquiry: ‘finiti ad infinitum nulla est proportio.’”7 We will see this opposition at work in precise manner in More’s Utopia.
Cusanus, Rabelais, and others represent, as we will also see shortly, a critical moment of passage. But this passage is soon countered and replaced by a new certainty. Once the telescope metaphor becomes generalized, it increasingly comes to preempt other possible forms of sign-functioning. A passage in Frege concerning conception and meaning, in which the telescope aimed at the moon is used as an extended illustrative simile, helps to confirm the importance and implications of the metaphor for the modern episteme and as a symbol for the functioning of signs in its discourse. For the metaphor is thereby demystified, and at a moment (the late nineteenth century) perhaps as critical for the by then long-dominant discourse of analysis and reference it symbolized as the sixteenth century had been for its inception. At almost exactly the same moment, as we will see especially in my concluding chapter, Freud hypostasizes and ‘internalizes’ the metaphor as a true description of the psyche’s relation with the external world and as a means of understanding real mental functioning. In a sense, Galileo, Frege, and Freud symbolize the limits a quo and ad quem of analytico-referential discourse: a leitmotiv that will recur in this study and be considered more fully, as I say, in Chapter 12. The first represents the moment when what had been the scattered elements of crisis congeal unmistakably into a potentially precise discursive direction. The second two mark a moment when the dominance of that discourse had been cast into ineradicable doubt, even though it maintains to this day a considerable vivacity.8
The telescope may therefore be taken as a fair representation of what happened to the linguistic sign itself, increasingly able to be defined as an arbitrarily selected transparent instrument placed between concept and object. This ‘fact’ is of particular interest to the present study because it is chiefly concerned with ‘literary’ texts, and because it is widely assumed that literary discourse, in some sense and degree, emphasizes its own status as a linguistic operation. It is indeed precisely in writing a “baroque” rhetoric/poetic that Emanuale Tesauro, a mere fifty years after the Sidereus nuncius, reverses Galileo’s metaphor, though quite without any historical effect.
The conceit of the very title of Tesauro’s treatise, Il cannocchiale aristotelico (1654), is that metaphor is itself a telescope (cannocchiale). The presence of ingegno, writes Tesauro, is the mark of all superior literary texts. Its constituents are clever conceits and subtle metaphors: which are really all forms of metaphor in general. And this is to be divided into two aspects: perspicacia and versabilità. “Perspicacity,” he affirms, “penetrates the farthest and most minute circumstances of every subject.” At the same time, “versatility [but also “reversibility”] speedily compares all these circumstances among themselves and with the subject: it connects and separates them; increases or diminishes them; derives one from the other; outlines the one with the other or with marvellous dexterity puts one in place of the other as the juggler does his stones.”9
Tesauro emphasizes that what is called ‘truth’ is therefore in its essence a ‘lie’: for what is ‘known’ of any object is but the consequence of these activities of mind. The telescope is nothing but metaphor. An object may be unambiguous inasmuch as it is but an object to be observed, but as soon as it becomes a suggetto of understanding it is, precisely, subject not object. As Ezio Raimondi has remarked, the meaning given to the object of such activities is entirely contingent upon the whim of the operator and the power of the metaphor: “The result of such a view of things becomes, like the human body of which the first pages of the Cannocchiale speak, ‘a page always ready to receive new characters and to erase them’: a great encyclopedia of images and ideas [nozioni; also, meanings], which, embellished with the inventions of art, arouses ‘wit’s lust.’”10
Only fifty years later, then, the metaphor of the telescope was powerful enough to withstand being stood on its head. Tesauro’s treatise is a commentary on a discourse which, I claim, has by that time become hegemonous, and it is rapidly relegated to the ranks of the unread. One of the (minor) indications of that hegemony is the fact that until very recently indeed Tesauro’s seven-hundred-page treatise was considered worthy of little more than the passing footnote, if that, even in the most extensive literary histories published in Italy. Its existence and the silence which rapidly enveloped it are both indications that it is the mark of a certain passage: a passage from one discursive space to another.
In what follows, the name discourse will refer to a rather large and somewhat ill-delimited definitional field taken over, at least partially, from the studies of Michel Foucault. Firstly, discourse—here—is a coherent set of linguistic facts organized by some enunciating entity.
Such a statement elicits at least two comments. In the first place it is clear that by the use of the term discourse must be meant any semiotic system as practiced, not necessarily a simply ‘linguistic’ one in any narrow sense (as the term has been generally used). I assert that such a broader definition is essential: language, in other words, is but one of the possible materials through and in which discursive order manifests itself. The narrower statement simply refers to the corpus studied here. It enables me to avail myself of certain simplifications—for it is clear that other signifying material and processes cannot necessarily be analyzed in the same way. In the second place the term entity may seem an odd way of talking about the production of sense and in need of some explanation.
I dare not write some such phrase as ‘enunciating subject’ because that immediately implies a particular class of discourse: a class based on the assumption of the identity of an I, the discursive order I will be calling the “analytico-referential.” It has yet to be shown that such a class of discourse is universal, and what follows disputes any such a priori assumption. The term entity should be relatively ‘safe,’ in part because of its very strangeness. It does not, of course, mean to indicate any incontrovertible origin of discourse. It merely supposes that the practice of discourse, any discourse, appears to depend on a supposition of ens, of ‘being,’ even though such ‘being’ is of necessity itself produced by discourse. Entity is taken here as a meaning produced by all discourse, a meaning which is at the same time the producer of discourse. It is, if you will, an empty metaphor marking the production of discourse (at once produced and producing). The telescope, for example, is one particular way of filling that ‘emptiness.’ Once given specificity (as an I, for example, in the case of the telescope metaphor), the mark becomes a mask, sign of an occultation as well as the form the occultation takes: the 7 of a cogito for which the mark of the seizure of knowledge (concept; concipere; begriff) becomes a neutral, transparent sign. It becomes the index of a discursive class that conceals the necessity, as Foucault puts it, of conceiving “discourse as a violence that we do to things, or, at all events, as a practice we impose upon them”: a practice, he continues, in which “the events of discourse find the principle of their regularity.”11
In all discourse not only are the linguistic (semiotic) facts, the signifying elements, organized by some entity, but we may assume that they are not aimless. They show some goal. Ernst Cassirer would have it that they are always a mediation between 7 and the world, but such a view takes the separation of 7 and the world as an a priori and reduces all discourse to the same intentionality. Such a view is therefore entirely indicative of the particular discursive hegemony which the following study will seek to elucidate.
Secondly, then, if discourse speaks of phenomena (no matter what precise inflection one may wish to give to the word ‘phenomena’), it orders them. By this is meant simply that discourse and the material in which it is manifest are never the elements of what might be taken as a neutral mediation. That is so even assuming that discourse may, according to its “class,” serve a primary function as mediation of things, for example, as opposed to mediation between enunciators. Foucault remarks in this connection that it is not a matter of “treating discourses as groups of signs (signifying elements referring to contents of representations) but as practices that systematically form the objects of which they speak. Of course, discourses are composed of signs; but what they do is more than use these signs to designate things. It is this more that renders them irreducible to the language [langue] and to speech.”12
Third, elaborated discourse therefore always has a ‘reference’ of some kind, even if it may only be ‘apparent’ to a ‘reader’ accustomed to a different discursive class. Such would necessarily be the case for a discourse whose own elaboration is its reference. (Is this what is being sought by a Jacques Derrida? or by a Roland Barthes—in his last writings?) In one sense, because reference is always the creation of discourse, such is always the case. But the analytico-referential at any rate assumes an exterior and marks that assumption in its own elaboration. Indeed, this reference is always in some sense grasped by discourse. It is—and I insist on the ambiguity of the word because it enables us to use it of discourse in general—it is the relation of discourse. This relation, what Foucault calls the more of language, will have to be given a status ‘beyond’ the language which is but one of its possible materials. This relation is the way in which semiotic systems are used, organized (though it goes without saying that such systems can only be studied in that use and organization: they do not preexist).
The relation of which I am speaking varies, and that variation makes it possible to speak of different classes of discourse. Two such variations immediately come to mind, partly because both have been studied at some length and partly because they appear to correspond to the epistemic change this study aims to describe in some detail. I am thinking of a relation of narration, assuming some commented exterior whose existence as a knowable reality is taken as prior to that of discourse (the discourse of analysis and reference, of historicism, of experimentalism), and of a relation of the ‘formation of patterns’ (the placing of things by their resemblances, by their similarities, for example—though such notions themselves need to be made precise). Lévi-Strauss has suggested that the discourse of the modern natural sciences (a ‘type’ within my analytico-referential) is an ordering of the world by the mind, while what he calls “mythical thought” is an ordering of the mind ‘by’ the world (bricolage).13
The first of these two, narration, is a ‘telling’ (relating) of exterior things and events. It is thus that in the De augmentis scientiarum (especially book II, chapters 1–3) Sir Francis Bacon calls the individual sciences “histories” (and we still speak, of course, following his practice, of “natural history”). The second of Lévi-Strauss’s two discourses is a kind of patterning which refuses the ontological and epistemological distinction made in the first between an interior and an exterior, which assumes therefore that all ‘objects’ are ‘signs,’ all signs objects (though the distinction is obviously not one it can make). It assumes that discourse is a part of the ‘world’ and not distinct from it. It gives no special privilege either to the enunciator of discourse or to the act of enunciation.
Gérard Simon, in his recent study of the conceptual foundations of Kepler’s thought (as he terms it), remarks that what gave rise to his researches was the striking similarity between the episteme of resemblance (what I will be calling the “discourse of patterning”) and what Lévi-Strauss calls “the savage mind.” He comments of astrology that it operates, once it has been constituted as a form of knowledge, as a “system of transformations” whose function is to “guarantee an ideal convertibility between the celestial and the terrestrial (meteorology), the universal and the individual (genethlialogy), nature and history (universal apotelesmatics).”14 I am struck by the same similarity: indeed, my own textual analyses and the fundamental theoretical schema to be set forward here were completed well before Simon’s researches were available. My argument then will be that there is a gradual disappearance of a class of discursive activity, a passage from what one might call a discursive exchange within the world to the expression of knowledge as a reasoning practice upon the world. This last initially emerges simply as a new and perhaps unfamiliar element within a still dominant class of discourse. Over a period of time other elements gather around this ‘first’ one and come to form a discursive order capable of producing meaningful constructs that are quite new. Such consolidation eventually results in the dominance of what has now become a different discursive class.
Analytico-referential discourse, in the sense I use the phrase here, seems largely the creation of the European sixteenth century. (Chapter 2 will deal with the question of whether such a discursive class existed earlier.) Its name is composed from what may be seen as the fundamental scheme of its functioning, the basic process through which it enables thought and action to occur. During the period of which I will be speaking, a discursive order is achieved on the premise that the ‘syntactic’ order of semiotic systems (particularly language) is coincident both with the logical ordering of ‘reason’ and with the structural organization of a world given as exterior to both these orders. This relation is not taken to be simply one of analogy, but one of identity. Its exemplary formal statement is cogito—ergo— sum (reason—semiotic mediating system—world), but it is to be found no less in the new discursive “instauration” worked out by Bacon (to be considered in Chapter 6). Its principal metaphors will be those of the telescope (eye—instrument—world) and of the voyage of discovery (self-possessed port of departure—sea journey— country claimed as legitimate possession of the discoverer).
Simultaneously with this claim of logical identity, various devices are elaborated enabling a claim for the adequacy of concepts to represent objects in the world and for that of words to represent those concepts. The outcome is that the properly organized sentence (a concern dominant among grammarians of the second half of the century) provides in its very syntax a correct analysis of both the rational and material orders, using elements that refer adequately through concepts to the true, objective nature of the world. Such is the basic ordering process of analytico-referential discourse.
What appears to have been initially important is that the awareness of the sign’s arbitrary nature grows to a point where that arbitrariness becomes conceptually ‘usable.’ It will be possible to assign a ‘signification’ independent of the object but which, in its denotative precision, allows a belief in its referential adequacy—or, rather, allows a claim for such adequacy to be developed. When the word was felt to inhere in some way in the thing, it was possible to gloss it endlessly. Indeed, no other kind of knowledge was possible. To accumulate bits and pieces of meaning, a variety of nozioni, was to approach understanding of the thing, of its place and that of the glosser in some divine plan—or world soul, as it became in the early European Renaissance. The greater the accumulation of such meanings, the nearer the approach to a wisdom conceived as knowing participation in a totality (as we will see with respect to Paracelsus and Kepler himself).
Between the ‘new’ word and the object to which it is applied there is now no ‘give’—indeed, no give and take. The thing is frozen in its name. The very arbitrariness of the word permits the assimilation of the phenomenon it denotes to a mental order, to a discursive system in which it can be assigned a position and within whose symbolizations and relationships it may be known.15 It allows the world of phenomena and of concepts (any phenomena and concepts supposed as outside the discourse being used to denote them) to be serialized into a grammar, and to be analyzed by virtue of the signification given to each element in that grammar. Such an operation is impossible when noun (name) and object are perceived as essentially inseparable (as is the case, we will see, in the discourse of patterning, of resemblance). Paracelsus will be able to say that it is by the inherent signs (signatures) that “one may know another—what there is in him.” One must understand that all things have “true and genuine names.”16
In such a discourse name and object are themselves part of an order of which the enunciator is also a part. Paracelsus will call such an enunciator the “signator,” of whom there are three different levels: “Man, Archeus, and the Stars.” The names they ‘give’ are not in the least bit arbitrary, and he writes, for example: “it should be remarked that the signs signed by man carry with them perfect knowledge and judgment of occult things, as well as acquaintance with their powers and hidden faculties.” It is Adam himself, “the Protoplast,” who was the originator of all “skill in the science of signatures.”17 Such a class of discourse places the enunciator within the same structure as englobes name and object as well. Its elements may thus be available to a continuous interpretation, but they cannot be grasped as a whole from within and thereby known in the same sense as they may be by a discourse based on a practice of difference and alterity. The patterns of such a discourse suggest an essence that escapes its enunciator as a whole must its parts. That may explain why, at the very moment of the changing discursive practice, Ramus criticizes Platonic ‘Forms,’ themselves suggestive of just such an essence, with the remark that by Idea “nothing else was meant in Plato but logic.”18 The essence in question becomes but the product of discourse. The remark indicates an attempt to reduce one class of discourse to the norms of another.
Ramus, indeed, views Platonic discourse as one of resemblance or of patterning. He criticizes Plato precisely for his assumptions concerning the identity of things, forms, and the words which relate them. It is in such terms that he opposes Plato to Aristotle: Aristotle, “says that the mind of man has not made present in our bodies, as Socrates has sometimes argued, a knowledge of all things but rather the faculty and power of knowing them, just as our eyes do not bring with them from our mother’s womb the species of color but only the power of seeing them.”19 Interpretation, which is alone possible in the class of discourse Ramus intends here to criticize, cannot be equated with what we now term ‘knowledge’ or, more precisely, ‘scientific knowledge.’ That is indicated, for example, by the four stages of medieval criticism, terminating as they do in the anagogic, pertaining to the unknowable Truth, Essence, Idea, Logos, or, as it becomes for such as Paracelsus or Kepler, World Soul. This question of medieval patterns will, as I say, be discussed at greater length in Chapter 2. For the present I want to deal more particularly with the emergence of a new dominant discourse and with what appears to have immediately preceded it during the European Renaissance.
I have suggested that the reductive metaphor of the telescope was of considerable importance: it stood for the emergence of a new kind of conceptualizing practice. Nonetheless, like Tesauro later, Galileo himself always recognized that signs (whether mathematical or linguistic) fall in between what is taken as the conceptualizing mind and a world of objects. They fall, to keep the metaphor, in the space of the telescope itself. They can be identified neither with the mind nor with the world, but they are subject to the organization of the former. Such a division of elements is essential to our modern episteme. It is the order of the cogito—ergo—sum: mind—signs— world. But Galileo himself always emphasizes that knowledge is a sign-manipulating activity. This is why he argues that a star seen through the telescope is not the same object as the star seen with the naked eye, or that changing the length of the telescope gives us a different instrument and therefore yet again a different object.20 The terms used by Galileo to describe the scientist’s acquisition of knowledge are always those of violence.21
For Galileo discourse represents not the object itself but the distance between the object and the mind perceiving and then conceiving it. For a similar point of view, though Bacon and Descartes both remain ambiguous on the matter, we have to jump (once again) to the late nineteenth century and the discussions of Helmholtz and Hertz—in the context of a crisis in the very discourse Galileo’s work helps to install. The grave problems of representation that such an idea of knowledge poses is squarely faced by Galileo: for we cannot, he affirms, translate into discourse a conception that is an individual, and therefore unusable, representation of a thing perceived as though it were the thing, as Bacon calls it, “in itself.” That assumes as a consequence that the scientific knowledge of objects is nought but the result of sign-manipulation, and that their ‘truth’ is merely their utility for the betterment of men’s lives. One might say that this awareness within discourse of the individual’s ‘enunciative responsibility’ is an indication that the analytico-referential discourse is as yet but emergent, and still far from dominance. It will in fact take Locke’s discussions about private and public concepts and private and public language before the ‘objectivity’ of such discourse can be finally and formally ‘justified,’ before the presence in discourse of enunciative responsibility can be dispensed with.
In Bacon the solution to the epistemological problem thus posed (for a science wishing to be ‘objective’) is sought in what he terms “a gradual and unbroken ascent”—in effect, an endless chain of reasoning. Experimental discourse is not at first an attempt to describe the thing itself so much as a description of the human sighting of the thing, of a particular discursive relationship (Bacon) between an object clearly defined in space and time and the mind perceiving it under the same restrictions. There is always the tacit implication that these restrictions are themselves a product of the discourse (mind) that inscribes the description in question. Discourse stands for distance, and it is just that distance that poses the problem. It is largely ‘overcome’ by Descartes.
There is no question but that Descartes, from the Regulae on, is far more radical than this. He chooses to reject ocular evidence altogether, or we should rather say, perhaps, ocular propositions. He prefers to reconstruct them from ‘first principles,’ as he does in the Monde and in the Traité de l’homme. The effect ultimately is to impose an intellectual structure upon the perceived world. Like Bacon, Galileo, and Hobbes, Descartes’s avowed aim is possession and utility. That this is a stage in the development suggested as already underway in Rabelais’s writing seems clear. There, for instance, the Pic-rocholine war, started by a minor quarrel between buyers and sellers, expands by a kind of discursive naming process into an immense conquest of empire. Past, present, and future merge in the deliberations of Picrochole and his lieutenants into a vast nomination of possessions—the entire world: after France, Spain, North Africa, and the Mediterranean basin, “it will be better for you first to conquer Asia Minor, Caria, Lycia, Pamphilia, Cicilia, Lydia, Phrygia, Mysia, Bythinia, Charazia, Adalia, Samagaria, Castamena, Luga, and Se-baste, all as far as the Euphrates.” As the conversation proceeds the invasion and conquest of the rest of Europe and Asia Minor will be, is being, has already been, achieved. The troops are now waiting at Constantinople. Jean Paris remarks with justice: “To name is the wondrous equivalent of possession. To enumerate provokes a kind of hypnosis whereby the distance between the real and the fictional evaporates.”22
The systematic discourse that names and enumerates becomes, replaces, the order of the world that it is taken as representing. In Rabelais’s text, however, the discursive practice remains ambiguous, because the enumeration is a simple accumulation of adjectives, of substantives, of verbs and adverbs: and that simple accumulation prevents the use of a syntax as the analysis of that to which it would refer. In a sense the ‘real’ here becomes a fiction. And whether Rabelais is here parodying a certain discourse or not makes no difference: such a parody would still indicate the existence of what is being parodied. Faced with this kind of discursive practice, our own is likely to find itself at a loss. This syntactically ‘unrestrained’ accumulation is quite foreign to us. Terence Cave has thus recently commented that Rabelais’s writing confronts us with “a narrative so plural that no commentary can control it.”23 ‘Pieces’ of the real, so to speak, are seized within a process whose discursivity is not only not concealed but is indeed emphasized as a system of transformations. The similarity with Paracelsus’s signatures is evident. One would be tempted to argue on the other hand that in later Cartesianism, if not in Descartes himself, a ‘fictional’ system becomes the real (that is indeed what happens in the Monde). And if this opposition between the two modes corresponds to that made by Lévi-Strauss between mythical thought and scientific thought it is obviously not accidental.
The Galilean trinity of mind/discourse/phenomena, which opens up various distances within the order of which Rabelais’s text is still to some extent representative, is reduced by later Cartesianism to a dichotomy. Language reveals thought, and inasmuch as that thought can be taken as referring directly to objects (in perception) language can operate as a perfect stand-in for both. To be sure, it is not the object itself, but it is a sufficiently accurate representation for the purposes of discourse, into whose analytical process it can be inserted. When the Port-Royal theories of language and thought argue that the verb is an affirmation of things rather than a simple statement of perception, they are arguing that grammatically speaking (and for them, epistemologically) the affirmation of things contains the statement of perception and subsumes it. This is because the signified (concept/percept) is seen as congruent, if not in fact identical, with the referent (percept/thing). Port-Royal has already traveled some way from the still ambiguous practice of Descartes himself to the certainty of Cartesianism. Word and thing are brought to coincide in the sense that the former is a completely adequate and transparent representation of the latter. Possession by and in the discourse of analysis and referentiality is made possible.24
Instead of an ‘ideal’ exchange between the scientist’s encoding of nature and his perception of it, which would call for a constant readapting of the codifying practice, of discourse (such as Galileo appears to seek), the Cartesians, and the empiricists likewise, will assert their possession of the domain to which any given discourse refers. This was achieved thanks to the establishment of a discursive class (to which such given ‘types’ of discourse belong) determined as true, objective, and the permanent manifestation of universal common sense. This marks a denial, an occultation, of the acknowledgment that the human view of the world is necessarily a ‘perspectival’ one. It marks the assertion of such a view as absolute. To be sure, the problems raised are not immediately simple of resolution. The silence of Cyrano’s narrator at the end of the Voyage dans le soleil might well be interpreted as a recognition of his inability to resolve the manifold questions he has raised (see Chapter 9). But by the beginning of the eighteenth century things will have solidified to such a degree that even a critique of the now-dominant discourse will fall within the same limits.
It is only at the end of the nineteenth century that the analytico-referential discourse of assertion and possession, of permanent and universal human reason, and of absolute objective truth comes to be opposed by another. Michel Foucault is able to remark, for example, that in the analysis of finitude then undertaken, discourse will once again be marked by its own discursive nature. ‘Knowledge’ will be the process of enunciation itself, not the object of that enunciation: “To be finite, then, would simply be to be trapped in the laws of a perspective which, while allowing a certain apprehension—of the type of perception or understanding—prevents it from ever being universal and definitive intellection.”25
The accession to dominance of a single discursive order is naturally visible in all the discursive practices of the age, though some, no doubt, are more exemplary than others. A good case is that of the development of probability theory. As Ian Hacking has observed, this is an important example of such effects as those being discussed.26 It assumes the possibility of the direct application of an abstract mathematical calculus to concrete phenomena in the world, and it assumes at the same time that a single structure of order is common to an unlimited number of such phenomena. In the literary discursive development to be followed in this volume it is by no means indifferent, therefore, that such a ‘theory’ should become an important element in Cyrano’s novels. (Though I will only discuss it with regard to the Voyage dans la lune, probability seems to be behind the changing form of the ‘tree people,’ for example, in the Voyage dans le soleil.) It is quite possible, indeed, that its appearance in Cyrano’s novels preceded its more formal elaboration by Hobbes, Pascal, and the later seventeenth century. The possibility of elaborating a theory of probability is axiomatic in the analytico-referential discourse of representation. Though in a nonmathematical form, it will have become central to epistemology and to the very concept of the human by the time of Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding in 1690: a probabilistic theory of knowledge and human action based upon the statistical reliability of the accumulation of particulars.
Such, too, is the case for the linear narration of causality, the very model, no doubt, of analysis for this discursive class. Its most simple and schematic literary form will become that of the modern detective novel: as I will suggest later with regard to Cyrano and Defoe, this is really but a simplification of earlier novel forms as it is also an almost programmatic fulfillment of the structure of experimental-ism. Literary ‘effects’ of this kind are by no means marginal or mere digressions. They are exemplary of the elements fundamental to the institution of the dominant discourse of analysis and reference. Their presence in ‘literary discourse,’ however, is especially significant: it is worth reminding ourselves that the very concept of ‘literature’ in the sense it has today is not simply a growth of the new order, but is also one of its ideological foundations.27 In this connection, one example of the effect of this discursive elaboration is of particular interest, and I will glance at it briefly: that of literary criticism.
The very priorities I have been underscoring seem apparent in the ‘Malherbian’ systematization of a literary code (for example) that seeks to provide an adequate representation of a (human) nature claimed as permanently one with itself, the same everywhere, and objectively knowable. That systematization was to be carried out with a vengeance in the second half of the seventeenth century by such as La Mesnardière, d’Aubignac, de Pure, Rapin, Dacier, Valincour, and Boileau in France, by such as Dryden, Rymer, Dennis, Pope and Addison in England. Yet it is perhaps of more interest to know that it was simultaneously with the scientific and philosophical work of Galileo, Bacon, and Descartes that the need was felt in France for a word that would express the ‘inexpressible’ as an objective, describ-able something. The very fact of discourse, which for Galileo expresses the exchange between mind and matter (once that division has been asserted), should make such a need irrelevant. Yet E. B. O. Borgerhoff was able to note a first substantival use of the phrase je ne sais quoi in 1628.28 This will be consecrated in the second half of the century as the object of discussions on the sublime, which will become in turn the foundation of discussions on taste and of the new science of aesthetics in the eighteenth century.
All discourse is now a descriptive instrument capable of being regularized into geometrical, algebraic, and even, perhaps, précieux forms. Literature, it will be argued, is at once an order identical to that of the world (both human and natural) and an exact representation of that world. Hence the attraction of critics to literary rules (initially undermined somewhat by the concept of the sublime, which was itself however to become the object of a scientific discourse) whose possible analogy with an experimental discourse proves so attractive to the eighteenth century. This is clear from Hobbes, and becomes even more so in a critic of the late seventeenth century such as Thomas Rymer, who can write of Aristotle:
The truth is, what Aristotle writes on this Subject [tragedy], are not the dictates of his own magisterial will, or dry deductions of his Metaphys-icks: But the poets were his Masters, and what was their practice, he reduced to principles. Nor would the modern Poets blindly resign to this practice of the Ancients, were not the Reasons convincing and clear as any demonstration in Mathematicks. ‘Tis only needful that we understand them, for our consent to the truth of them.29
This position will be taken to its logical extreme in the course of the following century: as an object for critical study, literary discourse will be equated rigorously with the natural (and ethical) order insofar as its status regarding veracity, actuality, and reality is concerned. The metalanguages that deal with it (grammar, poetics, rhetoric, aesthetics) will thus become the sciences which progressively reveal the knowledge contained in the (discursive) order of literature. In this way, just as Newton was able “to trace out a series of truths bound each to the next” and thus to establish a true physical science by the observation of nature, so too for every other metadiscourse:
Just as good grammars and good poetics were composed only after there had been good prose and verse writers, so it happened that the art of reasoning was known only in proportion as we had good minds which reasoned well in diverse manners. You may suppose by this that this art has made its greatest progress during the 17th and 18th centuries. Indeed, the true method is due to these two centuries. It was first known in the sciences, where ideas are formed naturally, and determined almost without difficulty. Mathematics are the proof. ... If the Tartars wanted to form a poetics, you may be sure it would be a bad one, because they do not have any good poets. The same is true of logics composed before the seventeenth century. There was then only one way of learning to reason: that was to consider the sciences in their origin and progress.30
Scientific discourse was destined to remain the model and exemplar of all discourses of truth—of all knowledge—with few doubts until the last third of the nineteenth century and even, though with increasing attacks, to the present.
Hobbes sought to apply Galileo’s method to moral and political philosophy and to criticism. The Cartesian cast of Rymer’s affirmation is apparent and quite typical of such efforts to demonstrate the identity of the functioning of the laws of nature and of “these fundamental Rules and Laws of” literature.31 This, too, is the significance of the appearance of the so-called normative grammars toward the end of the seventeenth century. Leonard Bloomfield dismisses the grammarians responsible as contradicting linguistic principles,32 but it is clear that any correspondence between the discourse and an order taken as outside discourse could have no meaning if the linguistic side of the equation could not be fixed. That fact would seem to be behind, for example, Boileau’s criticism of pastoral on the grounds that it used words in such a way as to multiply their meanings and so to make them incomprehensible—a practice which Tesauro had seen as essential to all great literature: for Tesauro the danger was not incomprehensibility but the belief in objective representation. As Foucault puts it: “It is thus part of the very nature of grammar to be prescriptive, not by any means because it is an attempt to impose the norms of a beautiful language obedient to the rules of taste, but because it refers the radical possibility of speech to the ordering system of representation.”33
A practice of discourse that uses words as though they are in some way essential and inherent in the object can do with a relatively loose verbal structure. It can undermine its own syntactic forms. It can play with grammar. This kind of discourse is manifest in Rabelais’s text. Utopia, we will see, strives in vain to reach a practice of this sort through rather different techniques. Things have a structure of their own: a material manifestation of the ‘divine soul of the world,’ they may be subject to the interrogation of human discourse, but they cannot be organized by it. Rather, they ‘organize’ it. The new practice requires a tight discursive system because things otherwise become incoherent. For the mind that works in this way, writes Gaston Bachelard (from the vantage point of analytico-referential discourse), “every phenomenon is a moment in the theoretical mind, a stage of discursive thinking, a prepared-for result.”34 Bachelard calls it the “formal imagination.” He opposes it to the “material imagination,” a mode of thinking that uses the immediate images of things as its code: those very experiences that Galileo scorns as utterly useless. It is what Lévi-Strauss refers to as mythical thought, what I will be calling the “discourse of patterning.”
Analytico-referential discourse assumes that the world, as it can be and is to be known, represents a fixed object of analysis quite separate from the forms of discourse by which men speak of it and by which they represent their thoughts. This is the case whether the difficulties of analysis then be posed in terms of the world which is to be seized (idealism) or in those of its representation (empiricism). This assumption is basic to all the discourses of neoclassicism. Equally basic is the assumption that the proper use of language will not only give us this object in a gradual accumulation of detail (referen-tiality), but will also analyze it in the very form of its syntactic organization. Moreover that syntax not only analyzes the world but also presents (performs, even, according to Port-Royal) the mental judgment taken to be coincident with that process of analysis in syntax. The assumption of this coincidence of universal reason and general grammar was essential.
After its installation neoclassical discourse does not include within its functioning, within its practice, what we may call the responsibility of enunciation. The assumption of objectivity and the consequent exclusion of whatever cannot be brought to fit its order are necessarily accompanied by the occultation of the enunciating subject as discursive activity and, therefore, of its responsibility for the status of the objects of which it speaks: Galileo’s I becomes Descartes’s we and the objectivity of “common speech” from Locke to Lavoisier. It is not simply the formal ordering of language, obviously common to all discursive practice, that is in question. It is the fact that after the Renaissance such ordering is taken as isomorphic with the (unique) order of phenomena, whether natural, social, or ethical, and so able to provide (not invent or create) an adequate and even precise knowledge of that order.
It may be that this analytical discourse is only a particular twist in a dialectical discursive search (as Lévi-Strauss calls it) for some form of pragmatic knowledge that does go back to ancient Greece. Husserl argues this way when he affirms that what he calls Western “thinking” since the Aufklürung is an aberration.35 The present study will question such an interpretation and such a claim. The evidence seems convincing that before the modern advent of analytico-refer-ential discourse some other class of discourse was dominant, that its mode of functioning was quite different from our own, and that it was from within that functioning that the discourse of analysis and reference was produced.
When the linguistic sign was felt to inhere in the thing or to be coextensive with it, it was at once the subject and the object of an interpretative reading of the signatura rerum. Paracelsus (1493–1541) can claim, for example, to be teaching a science “in which there are two kinds of operation, one produced by nature itself, in which there is a selected man through which nature works and transmits her influence for good or evil, and one in which she works through other things, as in pictures, stones, herbs, words, or when she makes comets, similitudes, halos or other unnatural products of the heavens.”36 Here man is at once a part of ‘nature’ and an intermediary for the effecting of nature’s ‘influence.’ Words and all other signs are in just the same situation: they can be read, while at the same time they produce the reading. “Form and essence,” writes Paracelsus, “are one thing”: “Whatever anything is useful for, to that it is assumed and adapted. So if Nature makes a man, it adapts him to its design. And here our foundation is laid. For everything that is duly signed its own place should properly be left; for nature adapts everything to its duty.” And this is how the signature is provided, “which has to do with the signs to be taken into consideration, whereby one may know another—what there is in him. There is nothing hidden which Nature has not revealed and plainly put forward.”37 As Ian Hacking observes of the series of signs quoted just previously, the members of the set mentioned by Paracelsus are no longer for us “a ‘natural kind,’ namely a collection between which there are manifest family resemblances. The resemblances between words and stones, herbs and comets, are now lost to us.”38
The case is exactly similar for our and Kepler’s different conceptions of the planet Mars, which nonetheless remains for each of us unambiguously the same object inasmuch as it is ‘something’ we can observe in the sky. Gérard Simon notes that “what has changed is the manner of classifying it.” Indeed, he remarks later that for Kepler the medical theories advanced by Paracelsus were at the same level of progress as the reformed religion and Copernican astronomy. And Kepler viewed that last as inseparable from astrology.39 The scientist has no doubt whatsoever that the earth is endowed with a soul whose existence is proved by “the generation of metals, the conservation of terrestrial heat, the exuding of vapors intended to give birth to rivers, rain, and other meteorological effects. All these things prove that its form is not simply conservative, as is the case for the stars, but well and truly vegetative.”40 He therefore argues that all things participate in a whole (the earth itself being part of a greater vital harmony: hence his faith in astrology) and that all things are signs of the same totality. All reasoning from cause to effect is, under such circumstances, only a special case of analogical reasoning, as metonymy can be read as a special case of metaphor. Given this participation in a whole, reasoning can only be the search for resemblances, the accumulation of patterns: thus the need for men who “have had experience in the art of signature” and who can discover the “genuine names” and natures of things.41
In Paracelsus, as elsewhere in what Hacking terms the “low sciences” of the age (astrology, medicine, alchemy, mining), no distinction is to be made between a verbal sign and any other kind of sign in nature. All are equally valid manifestations of the relation between man and nature, between the universal and the individual, between the natural and the supernatural: their organization into patterns of resemblance allows these aspects to be transformed into one another. Paracelsus is able to affirm that Nature “indicates the age of a stag by the ends of his antlers and it indicates the influence of the stars by their names.” Once again Hacking remarks, “in our conceptual scheme the names of the stars are arbitrary and the points of the antlers are not. For Paracelsus both are signs and there are true, real, names of things.” And lest we should be tempted to take Paracelsus for an extreme case, we are wise to turn to a work with less universal pretensions—say, Georgius Agricola’s De re metal-lica (1556). There, too, the very same scheme is found: “Agricola is telling us how to read aright, and how to find the Sentences on the earth’s surface that say what minerals are down below.”42 Here again Paracelsus has his say:
None can deny, then, that by means of chiromancy all minerals and metallic bodies of mines, which lie hid in secret places of the earth, may be known from their external signs. That is the chiromancy of mines, veins, and lodes, by which not only those things which are hidden within are brought forth, but also the exact depth and richness of the mine and yield of metal are made manifest.
Even when we meet with an author whose concerns seem immediately practical (but what, after all, are Agricola’s?), the assertions are at least ambiguous. In Vannoccio Biringuccio’s Pirotechnia, for example, considered the first treatise on metallurgy, we seem to meet only with natural signs indicative of the presence of various kinds of ore, but which are very different from Paracelsus’s signatures (not only natural and human, but also given by the Archeus and by the stars). And Biringuccio remarks that he finds the reading of signatures “a fabulous thing.” Yet he hastens to add that though he has “never heard that it is practised,” such a method may in fact be a true means to reach the earth’s mineral secrets.43 Still, Pirotechnia appeared in 1540, the year before Paracelsus’s death and only three before Copernicus’s. The latter’s death was simultaneous with the publication of his De revolutionibus orbium coelestium, and in the same year, 1543, Vesalius published his seven books on the human body— a work that very clearly heralded a quite different and experimentally oriented way of inferring knowledge from ‘signs.’
We may then be forgiven for viewing Biringuccio’s attitude as a harbinger of a new discourse, as an indication that texts like those of Paracelsus are already residual—despite the fact that Kepler is still to come, who presents even more clearly, as we will see, a moment of change. In spite of himself, it is the Imperial Mathematician who will finally undermine the dominance of the discourse of patterning, but in Biringuccio it already appears as something of a dying whimsy. Already we catch a glimpse of Bacon, who, in The New Organon, clearly distinguishes between “the Idols of the human mind and the Ideas of the divine. That is to say, between certain empty dogmas, and the true signatures and marks set upon the works of creation as they are found in nature” (book I, aphorism xix).
Despite his vocabulary here, Bacon is distinguishing between genuine “ideas,” which signify for us the ‘objective meaning’ of things, and those “idols” which are the unjustified and unfounded figments of the human imagination (unfounded, that is to say, in “particulars” and “works”). Bacon is of course writing more than three-quarters of a century later, after the blurring of the period of Biringuccio, Copernicus, and Vesalius has been much clarified. This clarification was not simply the consequence of theorizing by a Galileo or Bacon himself, but followed upon such experimental achievements as those recorded in Gilbert’s De magnete in 1600, or in the Lumleian lectures that William Harvey started giving in 1616, due to culminate in the De motu cordis of 1628, after Bacon’s death. This publication was “universally acknowledged,” write the translators of the lectures, “to be the first brilliant demonstration of modern scientific method.”
Like others, Harvey had started out a “confirmed Aristotelian,” and the Lumleian lectures, created in 1582 and from the first distinguished by their obligatory inclusion of human dissection, were nonetheless always supposed to be based on the authority of the ancients.44 Medical practice in England remained for a long time behind what could be found in certain Continental centers, so it is not astonishing that we can remark in Harvey’s lecture notes from 1616 on a gradual passage from the old to the new, as though he were heeding Bacon’s rousing (and as yet unpublished) call to strip the mind bare and erect a new logical construction. Texts such as those of Harvey and Kepler show in their very elaboration a moment of change (though it will not be consolidated for many a year). Still, the potential for and the necessity of that coming change is already apparent in Biringuccio, Copernicus, and Vesalius.
Like Gérard Simon, I will affirm that the discursive practice analyzed by Lévi-Strauss in its manifestation through the material called myth (itself revealed in the latter’s work only in linguistic formations) is the same relation as that indicated here by the references to Paracelsus, Agricola, Rabelais, and Kepler. In Lévi-Strauss’s analysis “mythical thought” is not a content but a way of ordering content. That leads to a potential confusion that I will try to avoid: ‘mythical discourse’ as a relation is not to be confused with ‘myth’ as the material of that relation. This is why I am calling the relation one of “patterning.” It is nonetheless the case that various studies of the discourse in which myth appears as such material may help us to an understanding of this relation.
And we can do with all the help we can get. For our discourse is the serial one of analytico-referentiality, while that of patterning depends on the operation of an entirely different ordering process. One may perhaps call it, with intentional ambiguity, an order of the formation of complexes, and it is a seemingly nonconceptualized ordering (by definition, if such a term may be applied at all, because it does not seek to separate concept and object). We are confronted therefore with an obvious difficulty: the analysis of such an order, of such a patterning, will tend to endow it with the meaning of a different type of discourse. The analysis will necessarily formulate it in terms of our own discursive order. The difficulty is not easily avoided, for we cannot so simply escape the bounds of our own order: and our study of the change will be a form of knowing, a product of the analytical method. That is a risk one cannot really avoid. If the distinction made by Nietzsche, for example, with regard to an ‘original’ split between the Apollonian and the Dionysiac (which seems to bear comparison with what we are here discussing) seems often unclear and ‘mystical,’ this is certainly partly because the second is quite simply closed to the first.
Any definition of the one in terms of the other is probably impossible, and if, for purposes of exposition—and only very tentatively— the one may on occasion be represented in a two-dimensional model as functioning at right angles to the other (following the example of Lévi-Strauss and others), such a representation pretends at best only to the status of a metaphor. In that sense, it might appear that Lévi-Strauss has allowed himself to be taken in by the metaphor of the two-dimensional model, seeing in it a precise reflection of common patterns of human thinking. In Mythologiques, for example, the anthropologist seeks to apply to mythical thinking the general gram-mar/universal reason equation of the Cartesians by making various different myths into the various speech acts of a common and general human language, which in turn corresponds to the universal workings of the mind. Although one might not wish to deny the generality of the patterns, the conclusions as to their meaning appear problematic and make of them almost a variant of the analytico-referential in respect of their operating principles.45
In a rather similar way, Gérard Simon in his study of what he considers from the first to be Kepler’s entirely alien conceptual space claims to be able to study the “internal norms of a functioning of thought” without the interference of “any projection of our own.”46 Yet that very claim to objectivity is based on a rationality whose absoluteness both Simon himself and the mere existence of a work like Kepler’s deny. Such ‘objectivity’ is therefore relative only to the functioning of that rationality and to certain of its conceptual exclusions. The mere use of the notion is therefore already an interference with the internal norms of Kepler’s discourse, for the concept of ‘objective analysis’ is itself oriented by the particular classificatory grid which succeeded that earlier class of discourse.
One cannot escape in this way the objective fact that one is oneself inserted in a particular episteme: that fact must needs be fully accepted before there can be the slightest hope of deflecting a condition which is after all our life situation. That is why, when I take over for strictly demonstrative purposes a descriptive model, a grid whose application to the Oedipus myth Lévi-Strauss himself claimed as no more than heuristic, I will not ascribe to it any value other than that it permits the demonstration of a difference. But it will serve to indicate that that difference is a fundamental one between two different classes of discourse. It will also help us to illustrate a development in their relationship. Still, such differences can only be shown, they cannot be told. Such is the case no matter into what detail we may seek to go in order to show the functioning of a different discursive space. The detail accumulated by a Lévi-Strauss or by a Simon still only shows a difference.
As soon as one seeks to analyze the specific ordering, the specific ‘conceptual basis’ of that detail inasmuch as it reveals a different discursive ordering process, our analysis itself necessarily denies all our efforts to do what Simon claims to be able to do: to deny the projection of the internal norms of our own practice of thought. However, though one must needs be aware of it, this does not seem to me a particularly uncomfortable restriction on our knowledge of ‘past’ modes of thought. We are, after all, seeking to recapture them for the light they may throw on the limits, the exclusions, and the capacities of our own, though it cannot, of course, give us any ‘solution’ to those limits. It is not some impossible comprehension of a past structure of thought ‘in its own terms’ which matters, but the fact of its demonstrable difference.
The risk we face, therefore, is one of diverting the structures of a different discursive class to the forms of our discourse. It is a difficulty akin to what is suggested by Wittgenstein’s luminous and amusing remark, “If a lion could talk we could not understand him.”47 With this proviso in mind, I will use the suggestions made by various analyzers of mythical discourse concerning specific alternative ways of structuring and using discourse. My use, in the study of Kepler’s Somnium, of Jung’s explorations into the so-called pseudosciences of alchemy and astrology is by no means arbitrary; nor is it the result of a confusion arising from different meanings of the word ‘myth,’ as used, for example, by Jung and various historians of religion on the one hand, and by anthropologists on the other. In any case, both refer thereby to a similar kind of discursive material even though their handling of it is utterly at odds.
The point is that astrology—with its analogical reasoning, with its assumption of a sympathy between all things as the sign of a universal vitalism, with its reading and interpretation of signs organized by resemblance, in patterns—is for Kepler an overarching structure. Or at least, taken together with a Pythagorean mathematics, a reasoning from geometrical proportionality, and a musical harmony, it is such a structure. Within this structure Kepler can hope to reach a ‘comprehension’ of a universal whole: adopting a process close to the medieval notion of reading through the traces of the divine creation to God’s will. Chapter 2 will show this more clearly. Kepler’s ars combinatoria, which Simon suggests leaves us with an impression of “bric-a-brac” (thinking perhaps of Lévi-Strauss’s bricolage), is precisely what will be dominated by the powerful instrument of analysis: the effort to comprehend by placing signs/things into a pattern of resemblances will be replaced by the effort to make things usable. The function of the Keplerian patterning is “to make the world say what it has to say both through its motions and through its proportions.”48 That is a concept of ‘comprehension’ virtually beyond our concrete understanding. It is clear that such words as ‘comprehension,’ ‘knowledge,’ ‘meaning,’ ‘sense’ are to acquire an altogether different meaning. Jung’s studies are useful not because they tell us how Kepler’s discourse functions but because they supply material which serves to indicate its difference. But if Jung’s researches can supply us with some of the material, it is those of Lévi-Strauss which must supply us with the principal model.
For the discourse of patterning must be taken first of all as a system of transformations organizing a comprehension of society and the individual, of nature and culture, of the ‘natural’ and the ‘supernatural.’ It provides a tool that makes it possible to deal with what would otherwise appear as unresolvable differences and contradictions (and which do so once the discourse of patterning is no longer operative as the dominant class of discourse). In Lévi-Strauss’s analysis the significant elements of ‘mythical thought’ are not the themes which Jung and his followers equate each with a specific meaning, or which Cassirer, with his avowed neo-Kantianism, views as the evidence of a particular way of organizing the primary and permanent categories of the human mind—Space, Time, and Number.49 The material of myth simply provides a space in which certain relational possibilities may be elaborated. This has nothing to do with the simple one-to-one signifier/signified dichotomy such as that established by Jung: “The true constituent units of myth are not the isolated relations but bundles of such relations, and it is only as bundles that these relations can be put to use and combined so as to produce a meaning.” These bundles are composed, writes Lévi-Strauss elsewhere, of the “remains and debris of events seized in the concrete world.”50
It goes without saying that our readings of such discourse are in a sense merely an accumulation of different meanings, for us. We compose a set of parallel readings, interpretations, all equally ‘possible’ just because they are an ordering of one class of discourse in terms of another. This is, in fact, precisely what Kepler does with respect to his own text of the Somnium. Georges Dumézil has given us an analysis of the ‘story’ of the Horatii in which he seeks to show a passage from a discourse of patterning to one of analysis in just these terms. He shows how what was originally a kind of patterning was absorbed into the ‘history’ of Rome by such commentators as Livy and Florus, and how this results in its adjustment to a kind of linearization: since the patterning cannot be ‘understood’ in accordance with a ‘serial logic’ it is adjusted to that logic and thereby understood in terms of a particular social, psychological, political, ethical, and juridical ‘knowledge.’51
In the passage from patterning to analysis as Dumézil traces it in respect to the Horatii relation, the second emerges as a kind of interpretative reading of the first. What happens is that (1) the episodes are clearly differentiated in terms of their ‘proper’ meaning, (2) they are given a reference (to a sociopolitical code whose fabric they help explain and in whose terms they can in turn be explained), and (5) an order of causality is installed. In this reading, the various Horatius ‘mythemes’ which had been variants of a single relation, juxtaposing and ordering perhaps war and peace, unity and multiplicity, life and death, simply become a series of successive episodes in the analytical historical discourse relating the establishment of the nation of Rome. They help to formulate a particular system of morality and a code of military and individual ethics.
The best-known brief attempt to show how a discourse of patterning may function and which implies the possibility of a passage to linear narration is, I suppose, Lévi-Strauss’s examination of the Oedipus myth.52 There is no need to repeat it in full here. For my purpose it will suffice to recall the main lines of that reading, in which the various elements (episodes) of the Oedipus story are reduced to four vertical columns. In each of these are placed “several relations belonging to the same bundle.” The relations in a given column have a discoverable feature in common, thus: the “overrating of blood relations,” “the underrating of blood relations,” “the denial of the autochthonous origin of man,” “the persistence of the autochthonous origin of man.” The pattern “provides a kind of logical tool which relates the original problem—born from one or born from two?—to the derivative problem: born from different or born from same?” (for the culture believes that humans are autochthonous but knows also that they are born from the union of man and woman). The discourse of patterning provides an ordering which absorbs, for example, causality and difference. It is synchronic and tends not to resolve apparent conceptual contradictions, but places them in a relational context that allows them to be ‘coped with.’
All of this is similar (not surprisingly) to what Simon has shown with regard to Kepler. He is able to enumerate certain of the elements which function within the discourse: sensible qualities treated as logical classifiers, analogical relations admitted as criteria of truth rather than ‘rational’ ones, the absence of the causal imperative, in which one may see the first clause of the credo of rationality. Simon can also show how the privilege accorded by Kepler to a certain kind of causal explanation remains nonetheless subservient to and in the service of a belief that the universe is full of signs composing a meaning which it is the specialist’s task to decipher. Here, indeed, we can see at work the growth of future dominance from within the very structure of the earlier discourse.
For the functioning of the causality in question appears to depend on certain constants which are similar to those that order our own concept of causality, but its logical operators and its relational variables, Simon shows, are quite different. The operators and variables in question, available to a particular structure of order, enter into a scheme of meaningfulness of which that order is itself only one aspect: it is not constitutive of that scheme, but one of the bits and pieces which compose it. For Kepler, such structures of thought (though they may provide a point of access for us to the scheme) are themselves merely a part of the overarching order. For Kepler, causality could never be universalized. It is a heuristic and methodological bridge helping only to provide access to a system of transformations. It helps us to the comprehension of a divine order whose nature is ultimately ineffable, and in whose ineffability the very system of transformations itself, as a part of that order, must ultimately participate. Only with all of that in mind can the four-column grid suggested by Lévi-Strauss be usefully manipulated: it will be indicative of a discursive difference, not ‘objectively’ descriptive of a discursive reality.
From Cusanus to Bruno, from Rabelais to Campanella, from Paracelsus to Kepler, from Boehme even to Galileo with his great book of nature, this conceptual space remains to a greater or lesser extent the one occupied by writers of all kinds—even if, in the last case especially, we are already, as it were, in transit. It is perfectly true that such writers as Paracelsus and Agricola remain exemplary references for researchers as late as the “Puritan scientists” of the interregnum in England, as Charles Webster has written at considerable length. He notes that their work, particularly in their preferred categories of “communications, education, medicine, technology, economic planning and agriculture,” was essential to the advancement of modern science, and observes that one of the reasons why Bacon was thought of by them “as the authentic guide to intellectual regeneration” was precisely his own ties to such conceptualization.53 That, of course, also ties Bacon to Kepler.
This blurring of the passage from patterning to analytico-refer-entiality is a consequence of the very growth of the latter from within the former. In the more general terms of a study in the history of ideas, Hiram Haydn long ago described such a blurring.54 It is why the lines of discursive development toward dominance need to be made clear: not merely as a sociohistorical phenomenon, but as a discourse whose consequences remain with us. The scientific development as such cannot be ‘understood’ without an awareness of its grounding within what is now to us a quite unfamiliar discursive space, as both Webster and Simon have observed. My argument will concern the nature of the discourse which comes to dominate those discursive practices “which have subsequently been discarded” and the manner in which it does so from within those very practices. The manner of the gradual occultation of the “general conceptual framework” which gave birth to analytico-referential discourse and some of the consequences of that occultation are what the following analyses will seek to show.55
In this connection Gérard Simon argues that the way Kepler conceives of the application of quantitative arguments to matters of celestial motion marks a moment of transition: “an application of the schemas of analogical thought to the field of quantity.” This is the obverse of the appearance of a causal order in his discourse. What is new derives from what preceded it: “the Keplerian sphere symbolizes the appearance, in the heart of an episteme of similitude and with the help of elements it provides, of new requirements produced by the concern for a quantified causal explanation constituting the World in Nature.” The same author notes a further precise analogy in Kepler with what we have already seen in Paracelsus. Kepler views such notions as the world soul, light and fire, magnetism and attraction, physical force, as members of a single paradigm, whereas we can only view them as belonging to different sets:
Far from renewing the norms implied by his predecessors’ knowledge [savoirs], it is just because he pursues their logic to its limit that new observations lead him to question what had been inferred from that logic until then. One could amuse oneself with a parody of Marx: a style of discourse never disappears before all the forms of knowledge it is capable of organizing have been developed, and new and higher relations of enunciation are never substituted for it before the theoretical conditions for the existence of those relations have unfolded from within the very heart of the old savoirs.56
For Kepler, as for Paracelsus and the later English Puritans, the world, the universe, has its soul. The functioning of that soul is revealed by all things, living and insensible, vital and material, natural, supernatural, and artificial, conceptual and sensual, imaginary and real. All things without exception are equally signs available for interpretation and diverse kinds of use. Webster writes thus of the appeal of Paracelsan medicine to Puritan thought: “all things had a part in a single world soul by virtue of their common origin.”57 In a similar way, the fact that for a Kepler analytical reading is but a part of analogical reasoning is why Simon can call him “one of the founders of modern science whom it is nonetheless strictly impossible to reduce to the norms of our modernity.” To read Kepler, then, from the perspective of the Enlightenment’s reading of Newton (whose own ‘mystical’ undertakings are nowadays also familiar) is simply to appropriate bits and pieces of “a ruined whole,” and what we miss in such an undertaking is an awareness of “a radical cultural heterogeneity.”58
The metaphor of the telescope with which I began this introductory chapter can teach us something about this heterogeneity. As we learn from Tesauro, it is the mark of a change in discourse. The word, the very concept of sign, passed down the telescope with the image, so to speak, until it was conceived of as a simple mental creation, possessing a quite arbitrary relationship with the thing. The sign had been in all ways the equal of the thing. Now the word has become as it were a means of visualizing the object. It has become the mark of, but also a bridge over, a new space between the intellect and the world. It is now possible to turn an abstract system into a true knowledge of a real world, one taken as not ordered by man.
After discussing Utopia in Chapter 3, one of the points my reading of Kepler’s Somnium will seek to make in Chapter 4 is that for us the heterogeneity in question to some extent masks itself: just because the new is produced from the old. It is already ‘on the move.’ It is already producing out of itself a system that will prove a more powerful instrument than the discursive organization out of which it comes. Doubtless one should rather affirm that the sociocultural conditions with which it combines (made by and making them) will cause it to become a more powerful instrument. That that is so is partly on account of its power for the production of what Bacon calls “works” and partly because what one might call its ‘instrumental will’ for effecting ‘development’ (‘progress,’ as it will shortly be termed) in the human and natural world corresponds with and becomes a part of the gradual accession to economic and bureaucratic power of a mercantile and juridical class whose past was a complete blank so far as the dominant theological-feudal ideology of an earlier power structure was concerned.
1. Mircea Eliade, Forgerons et alchimistes (Paris, 1956), p. 12.
2. This is not really such a simplification as it may appear. Certainly the ‘clear’ existence of the division into three orders is the result of a long and complex development whose stabilization can really be argued only for the eleventh century and thereafter. Its existence seems undoubted in the later Middle Ages. One may invoke the evidence of a diversity of historians, social and economic, from Henri Pirenne to Carlo Cipolla, from Marc Bloch to M. M. Postan and many others, however various their views as to the details of the development. Georges Duby, in particular, has shown that such a division would be hard to argue for the seventh and eighth centuries—but in any case the dearth of documents precludes a discursive analysis of that period. One also needs to distinguish between a theoretical model that grows over a long period of time (from Augustine to Aquinas, say, or from Charlemagne to Saint Louis) and concrete practices that only gradually consolidate and become fully articulated with such theory (if ever). Still, in the later period, for example, the fact that the standard of living of the lowest-level knight may have been more or less identical with that of his peasant support group does not affect his belonging to a separate order. In Chapter 2, I distinguish in this regard between a theory and a practice, between a theologico-theocratic model and feudal and corporative practices (which distinction makes it possible to speak of Augustine as though he were not separated from Aquinas by some eight centuries, inasmuch as his writings are a part of the composition of the theory: however much that, too, may develop). I suggest that the medieval episteme must be considered as an articulation of both, and that in a sense the articulation subsumes the division of the three orders into ‘patterns of meaning-fulness’ that make of them a single epistemic phenomenon (both for us and for them). For the historical development, reference to certain works of Georges Duby is perhaps sufficient: The Early Growth of the European Economy: Warriors and Peasants from the Seventh to the Twelfth Century, tr. Howard B. Clarke (London, 1974); Les trois ordres, ou l’imaginaire du féodalisme (Paris, 1978). Extensive bibliographical references concerning monetary theory and economic practices in the Middle Ages can be found, among other places, in the notes to Timothy J. Reiss and Roger H. Hinderliter, “Money and Value in the Sixteenth Century: The Monete cudende ratio of Nicholas Copernicus,” Journal of the History of Ideas, 40 (1979), 293–313. My present argument is based on the assumption that the obvious diversity and complexity of the thousand-year-long “Middle Ages” need not prevent us from understanding them as an epistemic totality. I assume that such understanding need not in itself be a simplification, provided one views “episteme” as a process of development and of meaningful articulation, not merely as a static and unchanging Weltanschauung or ideology characterizing for a time a given culture and society. Do I need to make it clear here, therefore, that by the term “episteme” I mean a way of knowing a particular order of reality, not simply the ‘object’ of such knowledge? The concept of episteme is a means for us to grasp concrete processes occurring somewhere over some period of time: to refer to those processes as themselves ‘the’ episteme is simply a useful shorthand.
3. Alfred North Whitehead, Science and the Modern World (1925; rpt. New York, 1967), p. 1.
4. William Gilbert, De magnete, tr. P. Fleury Mottelay (1893; rpt. New York, 1958), p. xii; Richard Foster Jones, Ancients and Moderns: A Study of the Rise of the Scientific Movement in Seventeenth-Century England, 2d ed. (St. Louis, Mo., 1961), p. 20.
5. Gérard Simon, Kepler astronome astrologue (Paris, 1979), p. 397.
6. Walter J. Ong, S.J., Ramus, Method, and the Decay of Dialogue (Cambridge, Mass., 1958); Jean Paris, Rabelais au futur (Paris, 1970); Michel Beaujour, Le jeu de Rabelais (Paris, 1969): “It is by a transformation of sight, and a promotion of the visual faculties, that the abstract structures of medieval thought will be turned” (p. 29).
7. Nancy S. Struever, “Metaphoric Morals: Ethical Implications of Cusanus’ Use of Figure,” in L’archéologie du signe, ed. Lucie Brind’amour and Eugene Vance (Toronto, 1983). I am grateful to my colleague Gene Vance for having communicated to me the texts of this collection prior to its publication.
8. For an analysis of the generalization in question, see Reiss, “Espaces de la pensée discursive: Le cas Galilée et la science classique,” Revue de synthèse, no. 85–86 (Jan-July 1977), pp. 5–47. The passage in Frege is to be found in “On Sense and Reference” [Ueber Sinn und Bedeutung], in Translations from the Philosophical Writings of Gottlob Frege, ed. and tr. Peter Geach and Max Black (Oxford, 1952), p. 60. Some further implications have been discussed in Reiss, “Peirce and Frege: In the Matter of Truth,” Canadian Journal of Research in Semiotics, 4, no. 2 (Winter 1976–77), 5–39; see esp. pp. 14, 18–19.
9. Emanuale Tesauro, Il cannocchiale aristotelico, ed. and intro. August Buck (Bad Homburg, ; reprint of 1670 Turin edition), p. 51.
10. Ezio Raimondi, Letteratura baroca: Studi sui seicento italiano (Florence, 1961), p. 21.
11. Michel Foucault, The Discourse on Language, printed as an appendix to The Archaeology of Knowledge, tr. A. M. Sheridan Smith (New York, 1976), p. 229.
12. Foucault, Archaeology of Knowledge, p. 49.
13. Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind (Chicago, 1966), ch. 1, pp. 1–33.
14. Simon, Kepler, pp. 103–4.
15. On this see Reiss, “The concevoir Motif in Descartes,” in La cohérence intérieure: Etudes sur la littérature française du xviie siècle, présentées en hommage à Judd D. Hubert, ed. J. Van Baelen and David L. Rubin (Paris, 1977), pp. 203–22.
16. Paracelsus the Great (Aureolus Philippus Theophrastus Bombast von Hohen-heim), The Hermetic and Alchemical Writings, ed. Arthur Edward Waite, 2 vols. (1894; rpt. Berkeley, 1976), II.304, I.188.
17. Ibid., I.171, 188.
18. Pierre de la Ramée [Petrus Ramus], Dialectique (1555), ed. and intro. Michel Dassonville (Geneva, 1964): “ne fut entendu autre chose en Platon que le genre logicien” (p. 93).
19. Ibid., p. 100.
20. The first example is from the Discourse on Comets (1619), ostensibly written by Mario Guiducci but known to have been dictated by Galileo; the second is from The Assayer. Both are in The Controversy of the Comets of 1618, tr. Stillman Drake and C. D. O’Malley (Philadelphia, 1960), pp. 44, 223.
21. For greater precision on these matters, see Reiss, “Espaces de la pensée discursive.”
22. François Rabelais, Gargantua and Pantagruel, tr. J. M. Cohen (Harmondsworth, 1955), p. 111; Jean Paris, Rabelais, p. 107.
23. Terence Cave, The Cornucopian Text: Problems of Writing in the French Renaissance (Oxford, 1979), p. 213. The entire volume is an important examination of problems of writing and meaning in the Renaissance.
24. Much has been written to show this operation in the Grammar and Logic of Port-Royal. See, e.g., Noam Chomsky, Cartesian Linguistics (New York and London, 1966), pp. 33–46; Michel Foucault, Les mots et les choses (Paris, 1966), pp. 72–78, 92–136; Roland Donzé, La grammaire générale et raisonnée de Port-Royal (Berne, 1967); Jean-Claude Chevalier, Histoire de la syntaxe: Naissance de la notion de complément dans la grammaire française (1530–1750) (Geneva, 1968), pp. 483–539; Louis Marin, Critique du discours: Sur la “Logique de Port-Royal” et les “Pensées” de Pascal (Paris, 1975); Reiss, “Du système de la critique classique,” XVIIe Siècle, 116 (1977), 3–16; Reiss, “Sailing to Byzantium: Classical Discourse and Its Self-Absorption,” Diacritics, 8, no. 2 (Summer 1978), 34–46; and Reiss, “Cartesian Discourse and Classical Ideology,” Diacritics, 6, no. 4 (Winter 1976), 19–27.
25. Michel Foucault, The Order of Things (tr. of Les mots et les choses; New York, 1973), p. 372. A little later he writes: “this is why the analysis of finitude never ceases to use, as a weapon against historicism, the part of itself that historicism has neglected: its aim is to reveal, at the foundation of all the positivities and before them, the finitude that makes them possible; where historicism fought for the possibility and justification of concrete relations between limited totalities, whose mode of being was predetermined by life, or by social forms, or by the significations of language, the analytic of finitude tries to question this relation of a human being to the being which, by designating finitude, renders the positivities possible in their concrete mode of being” (p. 373).
26. Ian Hacking, The Emergence of Probability: A Philosophical Study of Early Ideas About Probability, Induction, and Statistical Inference (Cambridge, 1975).
27. I have explored this at some length in “The Environment of Literature and the Imperatives of Criticism,” Europa, 4 (1981), 29–64. But see also various works by Raymond Williams: in particular, The Country and the City (London, 1973), Culture and Society 178o-195o (London, 1958), The Long Revolution (London, 1961), and Marxism and Literature (Oxford, 1977). My own long discussion of this last may be useful: “The Trouble with Literary Criticism,” Europa, 3 (1980), 223–40.
28. E. B. O. Borgerhoff, The Freedom of French Classicism (Princeton, 1950), p. 190: the use occurs in Ogier’s Apologie pour Monsieur de Balzac.
29. Thomas Rymer, “The Preface of the Translator” to Rapin’s Reflections on Aristotle’s Treatise of Poesie, in The Critical Works of Thomas Rymer, ed. Curt A. Zimansky (New Haven, 1956), pp. 2–3.
30. [Etienne Bonnot de] Condillac, Cours d’étude pour l’institution du Prince de Parme: Histoire moderne, ed. G. Le Roy (Paris, 1948), II.221, 229.
31. Rymer, “Preface,” p. 4. I have dealt more extensively with this discourse of literary criticism in my Tragedy and Truth: Studies in the Development of a Renaissance and Neoclassical Discourse (New Haven and London, 1980), ch. 1, pt. 1.
32. Leonard Bloomfield, Language (1933; rpt. London, 1970), pp. 6–7, 496–97, and passim.
33. Foucault, Order of Things, p. 87.
34. Gaston Bachelard, La formation de l’esprit scientifique: Contribution à une psychanalyse de la connaissance objective, 7th ed. (Paris, 1970), p. 102.
35. Edmund Husserl, “Die Krisis des europaïschen Menschentums und die Philosophie,” tr. in his Phenomenology and the Crisis of Philosophy, tr. Quentin Lauer (New York, 1965), pp. 149–92. For these remarks see pp. 179ff. Husserl is speaking about the period that runs from the beginning of the seventeenth century (roughly) through the end of the nineteenth. Lévi-Strauss adds that our culture since Descartes is a “virus” within the body of “flesh and blood” civilizations: Anthropologie structurale deux (Paris, 1973), p. 333. Jacques Derrida adds his voice to this fashionably pessimistic clamor in De la grammatologie (Paris, 1967), pp. 145–48, while Colin Morris remarks rather more mildly of what he refers to as Western individualism that “one might almost regard it as an eccentricity among cultures” (The Discovery of the Individual, 1050–1200 [New York, 1972], p. 2).
36. Quoted by Hacking (Emergence, p. 39) from the Sämtliche Werke, ed. K. Sudkoff, 14 vols. (Munich, 1922–23), XII.460. Cf. Hermetic and Alchemical Writings, I.189–90.
37. Paracelsus, Hermetic and Alchemical Writings, II.304.
38. Hacking, Emergence, p. 40.
39. Simon, Kepler, pp. 12, 49 n. 1.
40. Johannes Kepler, De fondamentis astrologiae certioribus, 1602; quoted by Simon, Kepler, p. 47.
41. Paracelsus, Hermetic and Alchemical Writings, I.177, 189.
42. Hacking, Emergence, pp. 42–43. The Paracelsus quotation is from the Sämtliche Werke, XIII.376.
43. Paracelsus, Hermetic and Alchemical Writings, I.182; Vannoccio Biringuccio, Pirotechnia, tr. Cyril Stanley Smith and Martha Teach Gnudi (1942; rpt. Cambridge, Mass., 1966), p. 14.
44. William Harvey, Lectures on the Whole of Anatomy, an annotated translation of Prelectiones anatomiae universalis by C. D. O’Malley, F. N. L. Poynter, and K. F. Russell (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1961), pp. 11, 3–7.
45. This was no doubt not the case at first in Lévi-Strauss’s work, but by the conclusion of Mythologiques such patterns seem to be emerging. In this regard, Jonathan Culler has advanced some useful criticisms: Structuralist Poetics: Structuralism, Linguistics, and the Study of Literature (London, 1975), e.g., pp. 48–49.
46. Simon, Kepler, p. 14.
47. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations (1953; rpt. Oxford, 1972), II.xi.223.
48. Simon, Kepler, pp. 56, 65.
49. Ernst Cassirer, The Philosophy of Symbolic Forms, tr. Ralph Manheim, 3 vols. (1955; rpt. New Haven and London, 1968), II.73–151.
50. Claude Lévi-Strauss, “The Structural Study of Myth,” in Structural Anthropology, tr. Claire Jacobson and Brooke Grundfest Schoepf (New York and London, 1963), p. 211; The Savage Mind, p. 22.
51. Georges Dumézil, “Lecture de Tite-Live,” Cahiers pour l’analyse, no. 7 (March-April 1967): Du mythe au roman, pp. 5–31. This text was originally published as ch. 4 of Horace et les Curiaces (Paris, 1942).
52. “The Structural Study of Myth,” pp. 213–19.
53. Charles Webster, The Great Instauration: Science, Medicine, and Reform, 1626–1660 (London, 1975), pp. 31,12 (but the entire volume is in some sense concerned with the influence of Bacon and “baconianism”).
54. Hiram Haydn, The Counter Renaissance (New York, 1950).
55. The quotations are from Webster, The Great Instauration, p. xv.
56. Simon, Kepler, pp. 134–36, 350.
57. Webster, The Great Instauration, p. 285.
58. Simon, Kepler, pp. 8–9.