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L it e r a r y C r it ic is m a n d
C ultural T heory

E dited by
William E. Cain
Professor of English
Wellesley College

A R outledge S eries
L iterary C r it ic ism and C u ltu ral T h eo ry
W il l ia m E. C a i n , General Editor

T he En d of t h e M in d T h e I m pe r ia l Q u e st and M o dern

The Edge o f the Intelligible in Hardy, Stevens, M e m o r y fr o m C onrad to G reene

Larkin, Plath, and Glück J. M . R a w a
DeSales Harrison
T h e E t h ic s of E xile
Colonialism in the Fictions o f Charles
A u t h o r in g the S elf
Brockden Brown and J. M. Coetzee
Self-Representation, Authorship, and the Print
Timothy Francis Strode
Market in British Poetry from Pope through
Wordsworth T h e R o m a n t ic S u b l im e and M id d l e -
Scott Hess C lass S u b je c t iv it y in t h e V ic t o r ia n
N o vel
N a r r a t iv e M u t a t io n s
Stephen Hancock
Discourses o f Heredity and Caribbean Literature
V ital C o n t a c t
Rudyard J. Alcocer
Downclassing Journeys in American Literature
B e tw e e n P r o fit s and P r im it iv is m from Herman M elville to Richard Wright
Shaping White Middle-Class M asculinity in Patrick Chura
the United States 1880—1917 C o sm o p o l it a n F ic t io n s
Athena Devlin Ethics, Politics, and Global Change in the
Works o f Kazuo Ishiguro, M ichael Ondaatje,
P o etry and R e pe t it io n
Jam aica Kincaid, and J. M. Coetzee
Walt Whitman, Wallace Stevens, John Ashbery
K ath e rin e S ta n to n
Krystyna Mazur
O u t s id e r C itiz en s
T h e F ic t io n of N a t io n a l it y in a n E ra of The Remaking o f Postwar Identity in Wright,
T RANSNATIONALISM Beauvoir, and Baldwin
NylaAli Khan Sarah Relyea

G en d e red Pa t h o l o g ie s A n E t h ic s of B e c o m in g

The Female Body and Biom edical Discourse in Configurations o f Feminine Subjectivity in
the Nineteenth-Century English Novel Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, and George
Sondra M. Archimedes Eliot
Sonjeong Cho
“T w e n t ie t h - C e n t u r y A m e r ic a n is m ”
N a r r a t iv e D e sire and H ist o r ic a l
I dentity and Ideology in Depression-Era Leftist R e para tio n s
Fiction A. S. Byatt, Ian McEwan, Salman Rushdie
Andrew C. Yerkes
Tim S. Gauthier

W ild e rn e ss C ity N ih il is m and th e S u b l im e P o s t m o d e r n

The Post World War II American Urban Novel The (Hi)Story o f a D ifficult Relationship from
from Algren to Wideman Romanticism to Postmodernism
Ted L. Clontz W ill S lo co m b e
N ih il ism a n d the S u b l im e P o s t m o d e r n
The (Hi)Story o f a Difficult Relationship from
Romanticism to Postmodernism

W ill Slocombe

Routledge
New York & London
Published in 2006 by Published in Great Britain by
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Contents

List of Tables and Diagrams vii

Acknowledgments ix

“The Preface” xi

HISTORY
Chapter One 1
Ex Nihilo: Constructing Nihilism

Chapter Two 25
Stylising the Sublime

THEORY
Chapter Three 51
Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

Chapter Four 77
Postmodern Nihilism

PRAXIS
Chapter Five 105
Postmodern Nihilism and Postmodern Aesthetics

Chapter Six 139

Postmodern Nihilism and Postmodern Ethics
vi Contents

“The Preface Again” 171

Afterword, or, Why I Am (Not) a Nihilist 175

Notes 179

Bibliography 193

Index 205
List of Tables and Diagrams

TABLES

3.1 Nihilistic and Sublime Moments within Ideologies 56

4.1 Forms of Nihilism Before Postmodernism 98

FIGURES

4.2 Modernist Nihilism / Postmodern Nihilism 99

5.1 Variations on the ‘Both/And’ 121

5.2 Nihilism and Narrative Proliferation 130

vii
Acknowledgments

A number of people have helped bring this project from its murky origins in
my subconscious to the book that you read here and there is not sufficient
space to thank all of them personally The first among many who should
nevertheless be named is Tim Woods, who supervised the project upon
which this book is based and who rather adroitly pointed out a number of
connections that I am embarrassed not to have seen myself. Over the years,
both his praise and criticisms have helped no end and, whilst his attempts to
instil some form of academic respectability in me have not been entirely suc­
cessful, most of my ability is due to his patient tutoring. Aside from him
(Him?), thanks must also go to Damian Walford Davies for his sublime sum­
mation of the sublime—a not-so-ironic je ne sais quoi—and to Malte Urban
and John “the words tell themselves empty” Wrighton for their invaluable
discussions over numerous coffees. Further thanks must go to Peter Barry
and Mark Currie, who offered invaluable advice in turning the manuscript
into a vaguely respectable treatise, and to Bill Cain and Max Novick for their
assistance in getting this book into print. Aside from these, thanks go to the
department of English at the University of Wales, Aberystwyth, which has
provided support in all manner of ways, and to the University itself, who
provided the funding for the initial project. Without these, this product of
teenage angst would have remained just that, and I am grateful for the
opportunity to prove myself more than merely another ageing teen-nihilist.
My final thanks go to Jennie Hill, who has pointed out that no matter how
many theses I complete, I will still always be a teen-nihilist at heart. It is with
considerable shame that I must therefore admit that this thesis is dedicated
to none of these. It is, and can only ever be, “to no-one in particular.”

ix
 The Preface

This book is in many ways an exploration of nihilism in relation to post­

modernism, although it is not simply a survey of all occurrences of nihilism
within the field. There is more at stake than merely observing what others
have already observed: what is at stake, the ante that is put forward, is the
future of nihilism. There is much more to nihilism than merely, as David
Levin argues, “rage against Being” or “the destruction of Being” (Opening o f
Vision 5). The future of nihilism is not simply a “nihilism of the future,” a
perception of the future in which all is bleak, but the means by which we
admit Gianni Vattimos call for philosophy today “to recognise nihilism is
our (only) chance” (End o f M odernity 23). Although the argument presented
here is obviously distinct from Vattimos, the fact remains that nihilism—the
philosophy of absence and nothingness—must remain paradoxically present
within philosophy and culture. Its eradication would hail a new fundamen­
talism, a new Enlightenment perhaps even more damaging than the first.
Nihilism is our “(only)” chance.
It is necessary to explain at this juncture why exactly this book should
be so oddly titled: why Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern instead of
Nihilism and the Postmodern Sublime? The sublime, an intense emotional
response to something beyond our reason (note that this is necessarily a loose
definition at best), is not merely some component of postmodern thought
because “the postmodern,” as opposed to “postmodernism” or “postmoder­
nity,” is itself sublime. Whilst there is a sublime that is “postmodern,” a form
historically distinct from other formulations of the sublime, it is important
to remember that without the sublime, the postmodern would not exist. The
sublime is not some aspect of the postmodern; rather, the postmodern is an
aspect of the sublime. This distinction is crucial, for all postmodern arte­
facts—whether art or theory—must in some way be sublime, else they are no

xi
X ll “The Preface*”
longer postmodern: they are not part of a “postmodern sublime” but the
“sublime postmodern.”
When seen in this way the arguments of a “nihilistic” postmodern have
to be reappraised. Debates about what postmodernism is are always in some
way implicated with nihilism: those opposed to postmodernism argue that it
is nihilistic because of its rampant textuality and lack of political or ethical
responsibility; those in favour of postmodernism argue that it is anything but
nihilistic because it is a response to an earlier “modernist” nihilism. These
two arguments are incommensurable and so cannot be resolved (and there­
fore I will not attempt to resolve them), but it is worth noting that both of
these rely upon a somewhat loose definition of “nihilism.” Both sides assume
nihilism to be negative, a definition that, whilst fundamentally true, is far
too reductive. Despite the excesses of the twentieth century, it is too simplis­
tic to ascribe a solely negative meaning to nihilism. This book will redress the
balance.
The first section, “History,” can be reduced to a simple observation:
nihilism and the sublime, whilst distinct, are fundamentally connected. As
discussions of the sublime became more prevalent during the late-seven-
teenth and early-eighteenth centuries, discussions of nihilism followed
suit. This is primarily because of cultural shifts that occurred during the
Enlightenment, and specifically during the Romantic period, when scien­
tific rationality came to the fore and the dominant religious ideologies
began to wane. Both of these terms signified different responses to a simi­
lar idea rather than two completely separate ideas. The simplest way to
understand this is to imagine nihilism and the sublime as different sides of
the same coin; hold up the coin and those observers facing heads will see
heads and those facing tails will see tails, despite the fact that it is the same
coin. During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the coin had faces of
“man” and "god”—those who saw the ascent of man in their culture saw
the “sublime” face, whereas those who saw the descent of God saw the
“nihilistic” face. Thus, nihilism, assumed by most to be a negative signifier,
and the sublime, frequently interpreted as the positive signifier, are not as
distinct as might be assumed. It would be facile to conclude that both
nihilism and the sublime mean different things to different people; rather,
we must establish why these divisions occur, and so this book is as much an
excavation of the cultural etymology of these signifiers as it is about their
functions in relation to postmodernism.
The second section, “Theory,” is more difficult to define. As I have
already said, the postmodern played a key role in bringing the concept of the
sublime into twentieth-century culture, primarily because it has little or no
 xii

philosophical impetus without the sublime. It is a simple task to see elements

of the sublime in postmodern theory, just as it is relatively straightforward to
find nihilistic overtones in the writings of critics such as Vattimo, Jean Bau-
drillard, and Paul Virilio. However, as the “History” section indicates, both
nihilism and the sublime are fundamentally connected, and so postmod­
ernism, as a philosophy that cannot help but hark back to the past (however
much it tries to avoid it), merely rewrites these ideas within a postmodern
context. Although it is relatively straightforward to read either nihilism or the
sublime into postmodern literature and theory, it is much more difficult to
study the ways in which these interact within postmodernism. Owing to
this, the argument is separated into two discrete areas. The first chapter of
this section, “Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern,” explores how post­
modernism makes use of the Enlightenment to construct its own identity,
and then studies two particular occurrences of the uses (and abuses) of
nihilism and the sublime within the formulations of the “postmodern”
espoused by Jean-François Lyotard and Baudrillard. The second chapter,
“Postmodern Nihilism,” in many ways contains the theoretical heart of the
argument. Moving from the imbrication of nihilism and the philosophies of
poststructuralism and postmodernism, it proposes a postmodern formula­
tion of nihilism that is intrinsically self-reflexive and deconstructive.
Through a study of paradoxes, it then becomes clear that this formulation of
nihilism is, in fact, sublime.
For many readers, the final section, “Praxis,” will be the most useful as
this explores the relevance of a “nihilistic sublime” or “postmodern nihilism”
to contemporary aesthetic and ethical practice. “Praxis,” in the original sense
of the term, is a manner of creative thinking—thought not for its own sake,
but for a particular end. Using a range of postmodern authors, including
Steve Erickson, Paul Auster, Thomas Pynchon, Angela Carter, and Italo
Calvino, these chapters will focus primarily upon the implications and reali­
sations of the concept of a “postmodern nihilism.” The first chapter of this
section examines the ways in which postmodern literature uses many rhetor­
ical and performative devices that are embedded in a nihilistic sublime. Such
stylistic features, part of what might be loosely (and problematically) termed
the “genre” of postmodernism, include absurdity, reflexivity, and narrative
proliferation. In contrast, the second chapter looks at the ethical ramifica­
tions of accepting such a form of nihilism, again primarily through litera­
ture. However, instead of focusing upon the stylistic features of postmodern
literature, this chapter studies how postmodern fictions affect our under­
standing of the “postmodern condition” through readings of “blank fiction”
and the way in which absence is (en)gendered in postmodern literature. This
XIV “The Preface '''

discussion finally leads towards the distinction between “ethical nihilism”

and an “ethical” form of nihilism that is implicit to an “ethics of silence.”
A disclaimer is also required at this point: very few of the translations
presented herein are mine. The histories of both nihilism and the sublime are
entwined with the predominantly French, German, and Russian languages
and cultures that produced them. Where possible, non-English phrases are
explained through different translations of texts, and translators of certain
phrases are indicated for the sake of the clarity. Thus, some of the readings
presented here have already been filtered through a translator. This is an
intractable problem, but one that does not invalidate the readings them­
selves. Any different translations indicated are therefore the result of contrary
translations and any mistakes noted by the reader are purely my own.
Chapter One

Ex Nihilo: Constructing Nihilism

What does “nihilism” mean? This question, posed by Friedrich Nietzsche in

The Will to Power, is difficult to answer simply For Nietzsche, nihilism meant
that “the highest values devaluate themselves. The aim is lacking; why?' finds no
answer” (9; §2). This seems to be the case in the postmodern age, where
morals are without justification, faith is replaced with cynicism, and God is all
too evidently missing, presumed dead. Nihilism did not originate with Niet­
zsche, however, and neither did it end with him. Before Nietzsche, philoso­
phies of nihilism are evident from classical Greece to Enlightenment Europe;
since Nietzsche, and especially since the Holocaust, nihilism is no longer a
marginalized philosophy, but one that has become central to an understand­
ing of the history of modernity and twentieth- and twenty-first-century cul­
ture. How we understand nihilism in a new millennium—a millennium that
is incidentally only possible within a Christian framework—depends upon
how its history is understood.
If nihilism is implicit in the history of modernity, then constructing a
history of nihilism is a monumental task: it is, in effect, a historiographical
exercise incorporating the entirety of Western thought. There are at least two
sides to every (hi)story, however, and nihilism is no different in this respect:
one side argues that nihilism and the history of modernity are fundamentally
entwined, the other argues that nihilism is only part of the history of moder­
nity, only one thread among many. The former argument is seen nowhere
more clearly than in Martin Heideggers philosophical project on the history
of metaphysics:

Nihilism is a historical movement, and not just any view or doctrine

advocated by someone or other. [ . . . ] Nihilism, thought in its essence,
is [. . . ] the fundamental movement of the history of the West. It shows
such great profundity that its unfolding can have nothing but world

1
2 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

catastrophes as its consequence. Nihilism is the world-historical move­

ment of the peoples of the earth who have been drawn into the power
realm of the modern age. (“Word of Nietzsche” 62-63)

Heidegger argues that nihilism is implicit in thought itself and, as such, is

irrevocably a history of modernity. It is a “world-historical movement,” “the
fundamental movement of the history of the West” in which every action
taken is part of the development of nihilism. In contrast, Stanley Rosen
argues: “Although the danger of nihilism is a permanent human possibility,
the actual pervasive influence of nihilism today is due to a series of specific
philosophical decisions in the past” (Nihilism xiv). Here, rather than being
an implicit part of the history of modernity, nihilism is merely one aspect of
it, and it is one that could have been avoided. Although nihilism is a “perma­
nent human possibility,” it is not Heideggers “thought in its essence” but
instead what might be termed “thought in its potential.”
Such arguments illustrate the problem of nihilism, revealing not only
that nihilism is a problem in relation to culture, but also that a definition of
the term is difficult. Similar to all signifiers, “nihilism” has a number of asso­
ciations that cannot be inferred directly from its etymology. This is because
an ideological stance often calls that which is opposed to it “nihilistic” since
it makes that ideology “nothing.” Thus, the term “nihilism” refers historically
to a perception of something that exists in opposition to particular ideolo­
gies, rather than being an ideology of the nihil [nothingness] as such.
Although the word “nihilism” is concerned with negation, it is a qualified
negation based upon the assumption that the opposing ideology is true,
thereby creating a number of historically different “nihilisms” that each
attacks a specific ideology. For example, Christian theologians frequently
called atheism a nihilistic philosophy, but this does not mean that all nihilists
are atheists. Rather, atheism is a particular cultural instance of nihilism in
which God is “made nothing.”
This quality of negation within nihilism means that its usage is cultur­
ally specific. In general terms, nihilism originates ex nihilo [from nothing­
ness]: nihilism is the “system, principle, or ideological movement” (OED) of
the nihil For this reason, one could just as easily begin with the development
of zero in mathematics as with the repeated occurrence of “nothing” in the
plays of Shakespeare when discussing the origins of nihilism.1There are also
formulations of nihilism that are not called “nihilism” and have little to do
with “nothing”: Greek scepticism, for example, exhibits many of the charac­
teristics of nihilism without being directly affiliated with “nothing” because
of the Greek antipathy towards the void (see Barrow Book o f Nothing 58—60,
Ex Nihilo 3

Kaplan Nothing That Is 14-18, and Seife Zero 34-35). There is therefore
more to nihilism than simply “nothing” because it is a cultural appropriation
of the concept of nothing: the value, however negative, that a particular cul­
ture makes of nothingness. Whereas “nothing” denotes an abstract concept,
“nihilism” signifies “nothing” within an ideological framework. In this way,
nihilism is interpellated nothingness, nothingness that has always already
been hailed by a particular ideology.
The cultural specificity of nihilism means that the question posed by
Nietzsche—“what does nihilism’ mean?”—cannot be answered with a sim­
ple statement. Although the first instance of the term “nihilism” in 1799
indicates its emergence as a distinct concept, a number of generic formula­
tions existed before this. The meaning of nihilism is therefore dependent
upon both a spatial and a temporal understanding of any particular formula­
tion: when constructing a history of nihilism, we are not merely talking
about when a particular formulation arose, but also where. There are there­
fore two standard methods of historicising nihilism, one chronological, and
the other genealogical.
Chronological histories of nihilism demonstrate how the concept of
nihilism has progressed over time, charting its development through a linear
chronology. Texts such as Michael Gillespies Nihilism Before Nietzsche fall
into this category because they determine what nihilism means in relation to
a series of historical episodes. Such a method, as Gillespie himself writes, is
“retelling the story of modernity” (xxii) and therefore falls into the trap of
being a grand récit, as John Zammito argues (see “Nihilism Before Niet­
zsche”). Whilst nihilism is an important factor in European history, as both
Rosen and Heidegger argue, nihilism is not equivalent to modernity but the
response to the various processes of modernity. This criticism means that a
chronological history of nihilism is an act of hermeneutic violence towards
the history of modernity, forcing a reading of both nihilism and modernity.
A genealogical history, in contrast, focuses upon a discursive network of dif­
ferent formulations of nihilism. Texts such as Karen Carr's The Banalization
o f Nihilism and Johan Goudsblom’s Nihilism and Culture are genealogical
because they construct nihilism within a spatial framework, proposing a
family tree of nihilism in which a number of different formulations are
explored. A genealogical structure therefore demonstrates that a number of
formulations of nihilism do not fit into the linear pattern of a chronological
history. Such formulations are not independent of history but embedded
within it, emerging in the manner of a genetic inheritance. Thus, genealogi­
cal histories explore the genus [family] of nihilism in relation to a number of
generic constructions.
4 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

Both chronological and genealogical histories of nihilism reveal that

the manner in which a history of nihilism is constructed alters our percep­
tion of its development. This chapter outlines the ways in which nihilism is
constructed historically to demonstrate the extent to which the concept of
“nothing” is reified within certain cultural systems, and hence write a history
of nihilism. However, this must be self-referential, with an understanding
that this construction is itself part of the history: we can never step outside
the history that is being written. Understanding genealogical characteristics
of generic “nihilisms” allows chronological developments of the term to be
gauged, albeit contingently, and so this chapter uses both genealogical and
chronological histories to show the emergence and development of the con­
cept of nihilism. Despite the fact that the chronology presented later in this
chapter is engaged in hermeneutic violence, forcing a reading of the history
of nihilism, the genealogy that precedes it demonstrates why such a structure
is in place, and locates the history itself within a discursive network of other
histories.

GENERA TING NIHILISM: A GENEALOGY OF NOTHING

There are a number of ways of formulating nihilism throughout history and

such formulations distinguish between different ideological applications of
nothingness. Here, rather than applying to historically specific ideologies,
the genera of nihilism apply to different philosophies. Thus, the formulation
of nihilism that deals with ethics—ethical nihilism—is solely concerned with
the relevance of nihilism to the study of ethics. Whilst the study of ethics
itself develops over time, ethical nihilism is the negation of all philosophies
of ethics, no matter where or when they are located. Ethical nihilism is there­
fore disconnected from other areas of philosophical enterprise (such as epis-
temology or ontology) as well as historical formulations of ethics: it is, in a
certain sense, independent of history, existing only within the discursive net­
work of nihilism. Such generic divisions of nihilism are in many ways arbi­
trary, for the structure of the family tree of nihilism is always imposed. The
simplest of these divisions are those such as Karl Jaspers’s distinction between
nihilism as the “denial of values” or the “denial of being” (see Goudsblom
Nihilism and Culture 43), and Nietzsche’s “passive” and “active” nihilism
(although Goudsblom notes eight varieties of Nietzschean nihilism, divided
into four binary oppositions; see Goudsblom 10). One of the most complex
genealogies of nihilism is proposed by Carr, who defines five varieties of
nihilism: epistemological, alethiological, metaphysical or ontological, ethical
or moral, and existential or axiological.
Ex Nihilo 5

The first two categories—epistemological and alethiological nihilism—

are commonly held to be synonymous. Epistemological nihilism states that
knowledge is impossible, whereas alethiological nihilism states that any formu­
lation of truth is impossible. In most cases, if one denies the possibility of
knowledge, one is also denying the possibility of truth, and vice versa, although
Carr disagrees with this. She argues:

If knowledge is taken to be justified true belief, then alethiological

nihilism entails epistemological nihilism; without truth, there can be no
knowledge. If, however, knowledge is understood differently (for exam­
ple, as the beliefs deemed legitimate by a community of discourse), then
one can be nihilistic about truth but not about knowledge [ . . . ] Note
that one can hold a theory of truth—an account of what it would take
for a proposition to be considered true—and believe that it is impossible
to satisfy the necessary conditions (i.e., be an alethiological nihilist). (17)

This distinction allows the possibility of denying knowledge andlor truth.

One can believe in knowledge whilst denying truth, or believe in truth whilst
denying knowledge, although this is inaccurate inasmuch as Carr's “commu­
nity of discourse,” like Stanley Fish’s “interpretative communities,” is a “jus­
tified true belief” in that both knowledge and truth are justified consensually
(and is therefore both alethiological and epistemological).2 Such distinctions
do entail an examination of what “truth” means, however, for Carr’s defini­
tion depends upon whether it is “Truth” (an absolute Truth, what postmod­
ernists would call a “metanarrative”) or “truth” (one in any number of
possible truths, often mutually exclusive, but which all exist simultaneously).
When these terms are synonymous, as is usually the case, epistemolog­
ical nihilism (as it is then called) entails a complete absence of the possibil­
ity of knowledge and truth. We cannot know what is true, and what is not.
One of the earliest examples of epistemological nihilism is scepticism, and
most notably Pyrrhic scepticism, which argued that the intellect cannot rea­
son the truth and that empirical data (from the senses) cannot uncover
knowledge:

Neither our perceptions nor our judgments teach us to know truth or

untruth. Therefore we must not trust either our sense or our reason, but
must remain without opinion, unmoved, inclining neither to one side
nor the other. Whatever the matter in question may be, we shall say that
one can neither deny nor confirm it, or that one must simultaneously
confirm and deny it. (Cited in Goudsblom 114)
6 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

The two internal questions of knowledge and truth continually defer to one
another because to know we must have access to the truth, and yet to have
access to the truth we must know what it is. Once one of these terms is
secured, the other falls into line, yet to the most ardent nihilists neither can
be resolved and therefore there is no truth and no knowledge.
Carr's third formulation, metaphysical or ontological nihilism, signifies
“the denial of an (independently existing) world” (17). This is simply a state­
ment of solipsism—“without me the world does not exist”—although it does
have wider-reaching implications when it is perceived as the belief that noth­
ing exists at all; that is, nothing exists, there is no reality against which to
measure this, and no-one to measure it anyway. It is based upon the belief
that reality is illusory, an arbitrary set of rules that has no meaning. The view
that nothing is real can lead to either a magnificent furore of being the centre
of the universe—without its perception by the observer, the universe does
not exist—or to complete impotence in the face of an overwhelming nullity,
depending upon the extent to which this nihilistic formulation is pursued.
Ethical or moral nihilism, Carr's fourth formulation, claims that there
are no moral absolutes and that no system of ethics has any claim to validity.
All judgements are invalid because they are without ultimate justification. By
far the most important aspect of ethical nihilism is its seeming tendency
towards egocentricity and hedonism, in that if no absolute morals exist, one
can act exactly as one pleases (the “magnificent furore” noted in the previous
paragraph). This ethic of nihilism—“if nothing is true, then everything is
justified”—is ultimately the product of false assumptions. It presumes that if
nothing is true then everything must be justified, although if nothing is true
then nothing is justified: “One need only to glance at the multiplicity of
options [ . . . ] to arrive at the conclusion that nothing is true; if the next
move is to proclaim proudly, 'so everything is justified,’ one has a new princi­
ple for action” (Goudsblom Nihilism and Culture 137). This “new principle
for action,” whether egoism or violence, has no grounding in nihilism and is
the result of the individual finding meaning where there is none: it is an indi­
vidual response to the problem of nihilism, not the logical result of it.
Carr’s final formulation of nihilism is, in fact, not necessarily nihilism
at all. She defines a form of existentialism as “existential or axiological
nihilism,” which is “the feeling of emptiness and pointlessness that follows
from the judgment, 'Life has no meaning’” (18). Carr argues that this feeling
of ennui is the most common variety of nihilism and although the previous
formulations do not necessarily lead to existential despair, they often result in
this formulation being realised. It is doubtful, however, that existentialists
such as Jean-Paul Sartre would agree that it is a formulation of nihilism. For
Ex Nihilo 7

example, Sartre argues in B eing a nd Nothingness (1943) that nothingness is

the point from which being begins to exist “for-itself”:

The being of consciousness qua consciousness is to exist at a distance

from itself as a presence to itself, and this empty distance which being
carries in its being is Nothingness. Thus in order for a self to exist, it is
necessary that the unity of this being include into its own nothingness
as the nihilation of identity. [ . . . ] The for-itself is the being which
determines itself to exist inasmuch as it can not coincide with itself. (78)

This argument does not logically imply that nothingness leads to existential
despair, but that nothingness is an integral part of consciousness, that con­
sciousness only exists by making a gap (a “nihilation”) between itself and its
perception of itself. As such, existentialism does not intrinsically lead to
despair (hence it is not necessarily axiological nihilism), although it is
nihilism inasmuch as it is an “interpellated nothingness.”
There are formulations of nihilism other than those defined by Carr, most
notably those of theological nihilism, political nihilism, and semantic nihilism,
all of which roughly correspond to the chronological development of nihilism.
Theological nihilism is the denial of God, and is one of the cornerstones of
modern-day nihilism since Nietzsches famous proclamation about the death of
God (see Gay Science 181; III, §108) and the rise of atheism during the Enlight­
enment. It denies the possibility of God and of any other transcendent being
(and often any transcendent form of being), although there are numerous pecu­
liarities to this belief. Many proponents of this, to distinguish it from atheism,
believe in the absence that has replaced God since His demise: not an absence of
belief but a belief in Absence. Likewise, political nihilism is itself divided into
numerous beliefs. Although political nihilism is concerned with the philosophi­
cal rejection of any valid means of government, it is often connected with ter­
rorism, anarchism, and political extremism, such as the nihilism of the Russian
Nihilists.3 Political nihilism and theological nihilism are portmanteau categories
comprised of any philosophical formulation that rejects either politics or divin­
ity, respectively, whilst having little to do with nothingness p er se. The final rele­
vant generic category of nihilism, semantic nihilism, argues that words and
concepts are divided, that communication is an illusion, and that language does
not function. In comparison to epistemological or alethiological nihilism,
semantic nihilism comes into play before such questions of consensual knowl­
edge or truth because such a consensus must be communicated.
These categories reveal some of the common differences perceived within
nihilism, although they are all similar inasmuch as they are each concerned
8 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

with truth. Thus, ethical nihilism argues that there is no truth in any system
of ethics, and epistemological nihilism argues that there is no truth in any
system of knowledge. This use of truth creates problems for nihilism because
nihilism dismisses the truth of any system but its own. For example, Marx­
ism can criticise the truth of Christianity because it relies on the laws of pro­
duction and economy rather than a general question of truth. In contrast,
nihilism addresses other philosophies at the level of truth, forcing itself into a
contradiction: how can nihilism be “true” if there is no truth? If nihilism
only exists to negate another ideology, then it can only be true generically,
not generally. This reliance upon another ideology means that the meaning
of nihilism shifts historically, as new ideologies replace once-dominant ones,
with the term “nihilism” gaining a new meaning as a result. It is clear, there­
fore, that nihilism is diachronic, and this requires a shift in emphasis from
genealogy to chronology.

HUMANIST NIHILISM: THE “DEATH OF GOD”

The rise of nihilism as a cultural entity historically begins with the rise of
atheism in the late-seventeenth and early-eighteenth centuries and, as such,
is deeply rooted in European experience. Although it can be traced back fur­
ther, to philosophers such as Rene Descartes and Nicolaus Copernicus, it is
the appropriation of such philosophers and their philosophies that led to the
use of the term.4 Despite the ease with which we can label such philosophers
as forefathers of nihilism—if we accept that its development is part of the
inexorable progress of Western history—it is not entirely accurate, as Simon
Critchley argues in Very Little . . . Almost Nothing: “the proper name for this
breakdown [of religious orthodoxy] is m odernity’' (2). It would be wrong to
argue that modernity is nihilistic because, as stated previously, nihilism is the
response to the various processes of modernity. However, modernity—and
the nihilism implicitly associated with it—originated in the rise of atheism
that swept Europe during this era.
One such example of the emergence of atheism is the “Blasphemy Act”
of 1697, an Act that effectively banned any expression of atheistic belief; the
“Act for the effectual suppressing of blasphemy and profaneness” forbade the
denial of God and any proposition of pantheism. As David Berman notes,
whilst “there is nothing in this Act which makes atheism culpable” there is an
implicit assumption that “no one could be so depraved as to be an atheist”
(35-36). Atheism could not be tolerated, primarily because an atheist threat­
ened the fabric of society: John Lockes Letter Concerning Toleration (1689),
for example, stated that “Promises, covenants, and oaths, which are bonds of
Ex Nihilo 9
human society, can have no hold over an atheist. The taking away of God,
though even in thought, dissolves all” (64). Such attitudes remained preva­
lent during the late-seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and it was only in
the late 1700s that works espousing a coherent defence of atheism began to
emerge. In this period, the first true “atheistic” works emerge, such as Paul-
Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach’s The System o f Nature (1770) and Matthew
Turners Answer to Dr Priestleys Letters to a Philosophical Unbeliever (1782).5
Such works focused upon mechanistic, rather than divine, aspects of nature
and society, and thus led to an increased distrust of rationalist philosophies
that sought to explain the world without reference to God. Even then, they
met with resistance, albeit much less vehemently (and with much reduced
effectiveness). For instance, Edmund Burkes Reflections on the Revolution in
France (1790) promoted the idea that atheism would self-destruct if left
alone: “We know, and it is our pride to know, that man is by his constitution
a religious animal; that atheism is against, not only our reasons but our
instincts; and that it cannot prevail long” (187). The denial of God, whilst
implicit in rational humanism, was not the sole purpose of rationalistic dis­
course. Rather than being a simple progression from a predominantly reli­
gious culture to a secular culture, the Enlightenment involved a negotiation
between rationality and faith. Ironically, it is this very negotiation that led to
the emergence of atheism as a cultural dominant. Whilst atheistic works
were far from common, they provoked such debate that they gained some
measure of cultural currency. Seen in this way, critics of atheism promoted,
instead of restricted, discourse on such ideas by the very act o f defending
against it.
Similarly, the emergence of nihilism from such debates on atheism is
heavily ironic. James Sheehan, for example, remarks, “Far from wanting to
eradicate Christianity, [German thinkers] wanted to see it improved, purged
of its imperfections, brought up to date” (175). Immanuel Kant, one of the
foremost German philosophers of the Enlightenment period, is a good
example of this desire to improve humanity’s lot. His “transcendent ideal­
ism,” which was primarily involved with the proposition of humanity’s
essential rationality, was far from an expression of atheistic or nihilistic belief.
However, Johann Fichte, a German idealist in the Kantian tradition,
extended Kant’s philosophy to the point that it became a monstrous egoism.
Fichtean idealism, for fellow philosopher Friedrich Jacobi, “reduces every­
thing to the activity of the I, and thus reduces God to a mere creation of the
human imagination [ . . . ] The good, the beautiful, and the holy become
merely hollow names” (cited in Gillespie 66). In 1799, because of a letter
from Jacobi, Fichte has the dubious distinction of being the first nihilist.6
10 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

Jacobi, whilst praising Fichtes reason, despaired that this would inevitably
lead to atheism: “Truly, my dear Fichte, it should not grieve me, if you, or
whoever it might be, want to call chimerism what I oppose to idealism, which
I reproach as nihilism ’ (cited in Gillespie 65 and Goudsblom 4)7 Such
remarks demonstrate the emergence of the term “nihilism” in the general
debates over religion, rationality, and science. During the heated intellectual
debates of these ideas, those who were pro-rationality and anti-deist were
labelled “nihilists.” These early nihilists signified a break in the union of sci­
ence and religion, with their ever-increasing interest in humankind instead
of God, and in reason instead of faith. This rise of rational humanism is the
origin of what is today called “theological nihilism.”
At the beginning of the nineteenth century there was a codification of
the term “nihilism” for those who are atheistic, although this was more of an
extension of atheism than a synonym for it. For example, at this point the
term “nihilist” appeared in Louis-Sébastien Mercier’s Neologie (1801). This
dictionary defined a new term, rienniste: “NIHILIST OR NOTHINGIST.
One who believes in nothing, who interests themselves in nothing” (cited in
Gillespie 276n5 and Goudsblom 3). The emergence of nihilism from the
decline of the Church was the result of the growing momentum of Enlight­
enment rationality, implicitly connecting Enlightenment humanism to
nihilism. Religious bodies condemned this increasing desire for human
knowledge (at the expense of faith) as nihilistic because it disputed certain
undoubted assumptions, and replaced God with humanity. Logic dictated
that faith was incompatible with the world (at least to such “atheistic” writ­
ers) and so the Church began to distance itself from this growing movement
of reason.
This increased distance between rationality and faith could lead only,
in Franz von Baader’s “Über Katholizismus und Protestantismus” (1824), to
“obscurantist pietism” or “scientific nihilism” (cited in Goudsblom 4)
because one must either be a deist with no recourse to reason or a rationalist
with no moral guidance. Such a divide was by this point an unbridgeable
gulf, and so nihilism became synonymous with rationality, rather than
“merely” atheism, clearly indicated by Donoso Cortès’s Essai sur le Catholi-
cisme, le Liberalisme et le Socialisme (1851):

Thus all socialist doctrines, or, to be more exact, all rationalist doctrines,
necessarily lead to nihilism: and nothing is more natural and logical than
that those who separate themselves from God should end in nothing,
since beyond God there is nothing . . . The negation of all authority is far
from being the last of all possible negations; it is simply a preliminary
Ex Nihilo 11

negation which future nihilists will consign to their prolegomena.

(Cited in Goudsblom 5, Goudsblom’s ellipses)

Cortès’s essay is indicative of the change from nihilism as atheism to that

which includes “all rationalist doctrines.” This negation of divine authority
was, for Cortes, only the beginning. What began as a critique of divine
authority due to humanist influences became part of a much wider social
movement that criticised any kind of authority as ultimately unjustified,
beginning the shift in the meaning of the term “nihilism” away from atheism
towards anarchism.

ANTI-AUTHORITARIAN NIHILISM: STIRNER AND THE

RUSSIAN NIHILISTS

The movement between atheism and anarchism is seen nowhere more clearly
than in the philosophy of Max Stirner (the pseudonym of Johann Kaspar
Schmidt), a philosopher who had been following the Hegelian movement in
Germany. “Left” Hegelianism, with which Stirner was initially associated,
was the proto-Marxist belief that the progress of history was through society
rather than government (which was “Right” Hegelianism), and as such is
implicitly related to the rise of humanism. For example, R. W. K. Paterson
argues that Ludwig Feuerbach declared “God’ is nothing but the name for
the idealized essence of man himself, and that a perfected human species is
the true subject of the attribute 'divine’” (Nihilistic Egoist 29). Stirner, how­
ever, abandoned his leftist roots in favour of something more personal, as
seen in the title of his philosophical text, Der Einzige und sein Eigenthum
[The Ego and Its Own] (1845). He believed that both government and soci­
ety held back the individual’s growth and proposed that only the individual
matters. This, coupled with the fact that there was no moral framework to
this philosophy because such a framework would also restrict the individual,
explains why Paterson labels Stirner as a “nihilistic egoist.”
The conflation of “nihilism” and “egoism” is implied throughout The
Ego and Its Own in phrases such as “I am not nothing in the sense of empti­
ness, but I am the creative nothing, the nothing out of which I as creator cre­
ate everything” (5) and “All things are nothing to me” (366).8 For Stirner, the
self defines everything, even truth: “The truth is dead, a letter, a word, a
material that I can use up. All truth by itself is dead, a corpse; it is alive only
in the same way my lungs are alive—to wit, in the measure of my own vital­
ity. Truths are material, like vegetables and weeds; as to whether vegetable or
weed, the decision lies in me” (354). This idea of the truth being dead, or at
12 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

least centred upon the human, means that truth is true only in relation to the
individual, and not outside that relation. Stirner writes that “[truth] has its
value not in itself but in me. O f itself it is valueless. The truth is a—creature’
(354). In this promotion of the egoistic individual, Stirner also rejects any
notion of society, arguing that the goal of Communism—community—is
fundamentally flawed because it is a “hypocrisy of community” inasmuch as
“We are equal only in thoughts, only when we are thought, not as we really
and bodily are. I am ego and you are ego” (311). This is why Karl Marx and
Frederick Engels’s The German Ideology (1846) argues against much of
Stirner’s philosophy—“Saint Max’s” philosophy reflects the bourgeois luxury
of being able to be the absolute creator. Parodying Stirner, they write: “I am
everything in the void of nonsense, 'but’ I am the nugatory creator, the all,
from which I myself, as creator, create nothing” (125). Unsurprisingly, the
primary criticism that Marx and Engels’s acerbically propose of Stirner—
who is later termed “Sancho” (from Cervantes’s Don Quixote)—is that he has
no bearing on “reality”:

His philosophical lack of thought was already in itself the end of philos­
ophy just as his unspeakable language was the end of all language. San-
cho’s triumph was also due to the fact that of all philosophers he was
least of all acquainted with actual relations, hence philosophical cate­
gories with him lost the last vestige of connection with reality, and with
that the last vestige of meaning. (507)

The lack of referentiality found by Marx and Engels in Stirner’s work is a

valid criticism, but they do fail to do justice to the central component of The
Ego and Its Own: anti-authoritarianism. Whilst in many ways a philosophical
dead-end, Stirner’s desire to free individuals from all forms of control,
whether religious or secular, links him with the movement that was develop­
ing in Russia at the time. As such, Stirner’s radical perspective is one of the
links between the decline in religious orthodoxy (nihilism-as-atheism) and
the rise of political extremism (nihilism-as-anarchism), a movement from the
atheistic origins of nihilism towards Russian Nihilism.
As the meaning of nihilism moved from religion to politics in the mid­
nineteenth century, so too did its geographical location, moving east from
France and Germany towards Russia. There was a radical upheaval of the
inherited social order occurring in Russia during the 1850s and 1860s, an
upheaval that brought about a profound shift in the way nihilism was per­
ceived. Russian Nihilism was conspicuously concerned with relating nihilism
to real-world scenarios—a movement from theory to action for which
Ex Nihilo 13

“nihilism” was their term for revolutionary fervour. Despite this, to attribute
any one cause or any one meaning to Russian Nihilism is impossible as there
are two differing approaches towards nihilism in this period. These two per­
suasions of Russian Nihilism are roughly characterised by their respective
political instigators and organs: Nikolai Chernyshevsky and the Sovremennik
[Contemporary], and Dmitrii Pisarev and the Russkoe Slovo [Russian Word].
Chernyshevsky's brand of populism is called nihilism only by default as it
was Pisarev who actually adopted the term after reading Ivan Turgenevs
Fathers and Sons (1862) and empathising with the character of Bazarov (see
Venturi Roots o f Revolution 326 and Pozefsky “Smoke as ‘Strange and Sinister
Commentary on Fathers and Sons'” 572). Chernyshevsky and the Sovremen-
nik group actively opposed the term, arguing that it bore no relation to their
agenda.
The character of Bazarov is one of the earliest depictions of a nihilist
within Russian literature and is a compound of the figures of Chernyshevsky
and Pisarev.9 Although other authors dealt with nihilism, especially Fyodor
Dostoevsky in texts such as Demons (1873) and The Brothers Karamazov
(1880), such texts continued the debate, rather than initiating it.10 Within
Fathers and Sons, the first appearance of the term “nihilism” is met with some
confusion by Nikolai Petrovich, an aged member of the old guard: “A nihilist
[ . . . ] That’s from the Latin nihil, nothing, so far as I can judge. Therefore,
the word denotes a man who . . . who doesn’t recognize anything?” (26). This
is interpreted by Pavel, Nikolai’s brother, to represent one “who doesn’t
respect anything” (26). The response from Arkady, Bazarov’s friend and
Nikolai’s son, clarifies the issue thus: “A nihilist is a man who doesn’t
acknowledge any authorities, who doesn’t accept a single principle on faith,
no matter how much that principle may be surrounded with respect” (27).
Turgenev’s depiction of nihilism fuelled an important debate during this
period because it highlighted the problem of how social change was to be
achieved. For example, M. A. Antonovich, a critic for the Sovremennik,
called Bazarov “a venomous creature who poisons everything he touches”
(cited in Pozefsky 571), whereas Pisarev, obviously espousing the Russkoe
Slovo line, wrote that “If Bazarovism is an illness, it is the illness of our times”
(cited in Pozefsky 572).
The distinction between the two branches of Russian Nihilism is an
important one because Chernyshevsky's aim was the Westernisation of Rus­
sia, following Feuerbach and Fichte in a process of anthropocentricism.
Hegelianism had been debated in Germany for many years and had resulted
in what was once a state-authorised philosophy becoming increasingly revo­
lutionary due to its atheistic leanings. Elena Dryzhakova summarises
14 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

Chernyshevsky's position, arguing that he rejected “religious and moral

assumptions as outdated and useless for the solution of social problems” and
found that Feuerbach, and others like him, “provided a totally new founda­
tion for the resolution of moral questions” (59). Gillespie also notes this
reliance on Feuerbach, arguing that “The Russian debate over nihilism is [
. . . ] an extension of the German controversy” (138)—clearly indicated in
Fathers and Sons when Bazarov says “the Germans are our teachers” (30).
Chernyshevsky's appropriation of the German Left Hegelianism moved
the debate from predominantly theological arguments towards the notion of
a “unity of nature.” This unity meant that humanity, as the central element
in both nature and society, derived the greatest good from “rational egoism”
because “what is good is what is advantageous” (cited in Dryzhakova 59).
This introduced the idea of “utility” into the rhetoric of the Russian
Nihilists, as Dryzhakova notes: “utility was declared to be the sole criterion
of good, and goodness and utility were deemed to be simply the product of
‘reason’” (59). This secular and rationalistic belief led to a distrust of all
authoritarian philosophies, whether religious or secular, and so, as Gillespie
argues, “Russian Nihilism attributed to man an almost absolute power to
transform his social existence. The theoretical basis for this nihilist view was
the belief that history was determined not by immutable laws but by free
individuals” (141). However, the Westernising aims of Chernyshevsky, hav­
ing little to do with an institutionalised programme of violence against the
state, were to become corrupted. In 1862, the year that Fathers and Sons was
first published, both the Sovremennik and the Russkoe Slovo were suppressed,
and Chernyshevsky himself arrested, following the St Petersburg fires and the
publication of the notorious “Young Russia.”11
“Young Russia” was an essay written by a student called Petre Zaich-
nevsky that explicitly promoted violence towards the ruling classes: “Soon,
soon will come the day when we shall unfurl the great banner of the future,
the red banner, and with the loud cry of 'Long live the social and democratic
republic of Russia we shall move on the Winter Palace to liquidate its occu­
pants” (cited in Dryzhakova 63). Chernyshevsky's liberal agenda was increas­
ingly undermined at this point by other, more radical voices in Russian
culture. Westernisation gave way to the increasingly violent socialist agenda
of the Russkoe Slovo group, who felt that the attitudes espoused by the writers
of the Sovremennik were not radical enough. Venturi argues that Pisarevs
group reduced everything solely to what might be termed “materialist real­
ism,” saying that “Aesthetic ‘realism’ became in their hands a violent repudi­
ation of art; utilitarianism’ an exaltation of the exact sciences, the only
useful’ kind of human activity; and enlightenment’ a glorification of the
Ex Nihilo 15

educated classes” (Roots o f Revolution 325). This, then, is the real moment of
Russian Nihilism, the point at which it arguably ceases to be populist and
allies itself with the intelligentsia. The Russkoe Slovo group was purely inter­
ested in science—the science of economics, of liberation, and of strength:
“They refused to believe either in ruling classes or even in a myth of the peo­
ple’ and the peasants.’ 'The emancipation of the person’ (i.e. the formation
of independent characters, who think critically’) was more important than
social emancipation” (327).
The politics of the Russkoe Slovo group dominated interpretations of
nihilism at this point, despite the fact that, for members of the Sovremennik
group such as Mikhail Saltykov-Shchedrin, nihilism “is a word devoid of
meaning, less suitable than any other for describing the younger generation,
in which could be found every other kind of 'ism’ but certainly not nihilism”
(cited in Venturi 326). For Nikolai Berdiaev, for example, “The Nihilism of
the ‘sixties” can be defined as “hatred of all religion, mysticism, metaphysics
and pure art, as things which deflect energy from the creation of a better
social order; substitution of social utilitarianism for all absolute morality;
exclusive domination of natural science and political economy, together with
the suspicion of the humanities” (Russian Revolution 17). Hermann Gold­
schmidt argues similarly in Der Nihilismus im Licht einer kritischen Philoso-
phie: “Russian Nihilism was politically liberal, philosophically materialistic
and spiritually atheist” (cited in Goudsblom 9). Russian Nihilism was social
Darwinism: if an institution was strong enough to survive, then it would; if
it was not, then it would fall. Such radicals were not interested in the nihil,
but in revolution, and therefore Russian Nihilism was nihilistic only inas­
much as it relied upon certain aspects of Western philosophy that were them­
selves only tangentially nihilistic. To call the Russian Nihilists nihilistic is
only accurate in historical terms—they are the “Russian Nihilists”—because
their aims and intentions had little to do with nothingness. However,
nihilism became predicated upon, thanks to Chernyshevsky, the idea of a
“new man” who could free himself from history and, thanks to Pisarev,
notions of terrorism, elitist egoism, and anarchism.

ANTI-HUMANIST NIHILISM: NIETZSCHE AGAINST

CHRISTIANITY

Around the same time that Russian Nihilism was in decline, Nietzsche, writing
about a “transvaluation of all values” in The Will to Power (written between
1883 and 1888), brought nihilism back into Western culture.12 Instead of
showing nihilism to be an emergent ideology, as both nihilism-as-atheism and
16 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

nihilism-as-anarchism indicate, Nietzsche argued that nihilism was some­

thing that pervaded all European values throughout history: for Nietzsche,
Christianity itself was nihilistic. Nietzsche argued that Christianity was so
involved with telling the truth that when it was “proved” untrue it left a vac­
uum in its wake and that, in its struggle for the ineffable transcendent, it
rejected the natural world. He wrote of “the damage all human institutions
sustain if a divine and transcendent higher sphere is postulated”: “natural”
comes to mean “contemptible” until “with relentless logic” one arrives “at the
absolute demand to deny nature” (Will to Power 141; §245). According to
critics such as Goudsblom, Nietzsche even went so far as to propose that
nihilism “should be regarded not as the personal whim of inveterate nega-
tivists, but as the product of an irrefutable logic inherent in European cul­
ture” (140).
It is after the preface to The Will to Power that we see Nietzsches answer
to the question “What does nihilism’ mean?”: “That the highest values deval­
uate themselves. The aim is lacking; why?’ finds no answer” (9; §2). He per­
ceived nihilism to be a sickness—ambiguous in that it weakens, but creates
strength when it is overcome—and thus nihilism became something that was
to be overcome. Passive nihilism is a sickness, “a weary nihilism that no
longer attacks [. . . ] a sign of weakness,” whereas active nihilism “reaches its
maximum of relative strength as a violent force of destruction” (18; §23).
Active nihilism can be characterised in some ways by the tenets of Russian
Nihilism; passive nihilism, according to Nietzsche, was nowhere more preva­
lent than in the Christian monism that had dominated Europe for almost
two millennia.
The fact that Nietzsche labelled Christianity as nihilism is ironic, given
the origins of the term within atheism. To Nietzsche, nihilism arose because
of Christianity’s insistence upon a hierarchy of morals, an absolute—God—
from which to derive all standards. Christianity “granted man an absolute
value, as opposed to his smallness and accidental occurrence in the flux of
becoming and passing away” (9; §4), and in so doing “conceded to the
world, in spite of suffering and evil, the character of perfection” (10; §4). In
fact, Christianity “posited that man had a knowledge of absolute values and
thus adequate knowledge precisely regarding what is most important” (10;
§4).13 However, Christian morality was originally created to stop humanity
from falling into the nihilistic abyss: “It prevented man from despising him­
self as man, from taking sides against life, from despairing of knowledge: it
was a means o f preservation. In sum, morality was the great antidote against
practical and theoretical nihilism (10; §4). The use of Christian morality to
stem nihilism creates nihilism as a human baseline, a chasm which is forever
Ex Nihilo 17

threatening when one sees that truth is merely contingent upon human
need, when the smallness of humanity is compared to the expanse of the uni­
verse. Nietzsche felt that Christianity was no longer required as a “cure” to
the sickness of nihilism, or at least, “this first nihilism” because, by the nine­
teenth century, “our Europe is no longer that uncertain, capricious, absurd”
and Christianity is no longer required: “‘God’ is far too extreme a hypothe­
sis” (70; §114). Christianity was a means to an end and thus justified by its
initial conditions; those initial conditions, however, no longer applied, and
therefore Christianity, by devaluating its own values and creating atheism,
became the epitome of nihilism.
In 1887 (when Nietzsche wrote this part of The Will to Power), Christ­
ian ideology no longer held the power that it once had. Nietzsche charted
the fall of Christianity back to Christian morality itself, saying: “Among the
forces that morality cultivated was truthfulness: this eventually turned itself
against morality, discovered its teleology, its partial perspective—and now
the recognition of this inveterate mendaciousness that one despairs of shed­
ding becomes a stimulant” (10; §5).14 The rise of the Enlightenment ideals
of reason, of humanity “for itself,” finally destroyed its own creator—the
Christian moral of truthfulness. The Christian desire for absolute truth had
turned on Christianity and found it lacking. Christianity, which secured
humanity against nihilism, eventually exacerbated its rise. Thus, those earlier
commentators such as Jacobi and Cortes, who found that rationality and
religion were staunchly opposed, were indeed correct, but sought to lay the
blame on individuals such as Fichte, not upon Christianity itself.
In Nietzsches view, nihilism is therefore quite literally the void left by
Christianity’s absence. The reaction to the distrust of Christian morality, the
lack of faith in faith itself, leads not to a position of compromise, but to an
extreme reaction: “Thus the belief of the absolute immorality of nature, in
aim- and meaninglessness, is the psychologically necessary affect, once the
belief in God and an essentially moral order becomes untenable. Nihilism
appears at this point, not that the displeasure at existence has become greater
than before but because one has come to mistrust any meaning’ in suffering,
indeed, in existence” (35; §55). The gap left in morality harks back to Niet­
zsche’s idea that the “untenability of one interpretation of the world [ . . . ]
awakens the suspicion that all interpretations of the world are false” (7; §1).
This reaction is further explained when Nietzsche argues that, “One inter­
pretation has collapsed; but because it was considered the interpretation, it
now seems as if there were no meaning at all in existence, as if everything
were in vain” (35; §55).15 Thus, for Nietzsche, nihilism is fundamentally
thwarted idealism: when the belief fails, only the nihilistic void is left. Where
18 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

perspectivism, or at least relativism, would seem the most obvious recourse,

there is rather an extreme reaction to the belief that all interpretations must
be false.
Nihilism, for Nietzsche, stemmed from humanity’s inability to accept
that what it could not see, what it could not discover, could still exist: “The
immodesty of man: to deny meaning where he sees none” (325; §599). This
is a direct indictment of humanity’s search for meaning, in that if meaning
does not become immediately apparent, humanity assumes that there must
be none: “Our will requires an aim; it would sooner have the void for its pur­
pose than be void of purpose” (Genealogy o f Morals 231; §111.1, and 299;
§111.28). This led Nietzsche to deny any philosophical truth in nihilism, for
it originates only in humanity’s inability to accept the “truth” that truth is
fabricated:

What, then, is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and

anthropomorphisms—in short, a sum of human relations, which have
been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically,
and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a peo­
ple: truths are illusions which one has forgotten that this is what they
are; metaphors which are worn out and without serious power; coins
which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer
as coins. (“On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense” 46-47)

Nietzsche’s solution to the resulting nihilism is a Dionysian will-to-power

which eternally makes and unmakes the world (opposed to an Apollonian
will which seeks to stratify and codify the world), a world in which man is
the centre:

This, my Dionysian world of the eternally self-creating, the eternally

self-destroying, this mystery world of the twofold voluptuous delight,
my “beyond good and evil,” without goal, unless the joy of the circle is
itself a goal; without will, unless a ring feels good will towards itself—do
you want a name for this world? A solution for all its riddles? A light for
you, too, you best-concealed, strongest, most intrepid, most midnightly
men?—This world is the will to power—and nothing besides! And you
yourselves are also this will to power—and nothing besides! (Will to
Power 550; §1067)

This is, for Nietzsche, the overcoming of nihilism, the solution to its problem­
atic. Although nihilism devalues itself, it does not rebuild, whereas Nietzsche
Ex Nihilo 19

proposes a dualistic creative and destructive process, which Gillespie argues “is
to its very core a world in opposition to itself, a world of constant and univer­
sal war in which every being seeks to conquer and subdue every other being”
(Nihilism Before Nietzsche 239). This sense of eternal conflict as the solution to
social nihilism gave rise, in the early-twentieth century to some of the most
horrific experiences humanity had yet experienced. At this stage, nihilism
gained the meaning with which we are most familiar: mass destruction.

AUTHORITARIAN NIHILISM: THE RISE OF TOTALITARIANISM

In the twentieth century nihilism emerged as the defining factor of Western

culture. This assertion indicates a certain perception in the historical forma­
tion of the twentieth century; that modernity, in the guise of the develop­
ment of Enlightenment ideals, gave rise to the traumas that that century
witnessed. As Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe notes: “if it is true that the age is
that of the accomplishment of nihilism, then it is at Auschwitz that that
accomplishment took place in its purest formless form” (Heidegger; Art, and
Politics 37). This association of nihilism with modernity is a fundamental
stage in the appropriation of nihilism and a number of critics who perceive
nihilism to be the dominant factor in twentieth-century culture argue this
point, including Nietzsche (albeit with foresight), Heidegger, Karl Löwith,
and Theodor Adorno. On one side of the argument, Heidegger and Niet­
zsche oppose nihilism by straining against it, leading to the creation of a
philosophical backbone for National Socialism. National Socialism (mis)read
Nietzsche as advocating the supremacy of one race above all others and
sought to destroy everything that was other to this ideal. The Nietzschean
übermensch became a symbol, not of the active overcoming of passive
nihilism, but of an active, state-authorised nihilism attempting to eradicate
all traces of otherness. Likewise, Heideggers proposal for the recuperation of
being, of Dasein [the process of being], led towards the active affirmation of
an ideal over humanity. On the other side of the argument, seen in Adorno
and Löwith, the Holocaust itself is the epitome of negation, of nihilism. The
“European sickness” noted by Nietzsche was no longer passive, but actively
concerned with total destruction. In both cases, because of the Holocaust,
modernity always turns towards nihilism to explain itself.
That Nietzschean philosophy should come to this end is not solely a
result of Elisabeth Nietzsches treatment of his works (editing her brothers
works to remove anything anti-nationalist or anti-fascist and emphasising
anti-Semitic sentiments), or the Heideggerian reading that dominates the
era. Certain problems exist within Nietzschean philosophy that make this
20 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

reading possible. Although Nietzsche was staunchly anti-nationalist, the

removal of certain mitigating characteristics of his philosophical frame­
work recreates the will-to-power as the will-to-destruction. Löwith
argued, paraphrasing Nietzsches position on morality, that “Morality
becomes replaced by the will to an end and hence by the will to the means
toward that end” (208).16 The world as will-to-power (and nothing
besides!) relies strongly, perhaps too strongly, on the notion of conflict
and destruction at the expense of morality. For Löwith, this also appears
in Heideggers philosophy:

The “spirit” of National Socialism has to do not so much with the

national and the social as with the kind of radical resoluteness and
dynamic which rejects all discussion and genuine communication
because it relies exclusively on itself—on the (German) capacity-for-
Being which is always one’s own. Without exception, it is expressions of
power and resoluteness which characterize the vocabulary of National
Socialist politics and Heideggers philosophy. (Martin Heidegger &Euro­
pean Nihilism 219)

In Löwith’s view, Heideggers political and philosophical association with

National Socialism was not a plan for survival in a hostile regime, but a
meeting between two similar philosophies (see M artin H eidegger & European
Nihilism 216—25). Heideggers concept of Dasein is identical to that ideal
state, proposed by National Socialist philosophy, of lebensraum [living-
space] , where the individuals and nations exist in conflict with one another
over available resources. Only the strong survive this conflict, and therefore
the “capacity-for-Being” is always from ones self.
Heideggers works on the construction of Being frequently refer to
nihilism and nothingness, but the two most explicit are “What is Meta­
physics?” and “The Word of Nietzsche: 'God is Dead,’” which encapsulate
Heideggers approach to nihilism. Heideggers work on Being and nihilism
was involved with the association of nihilism and metaphysics: he argued
that you could not explore “that which is” without recourse to “that which is
not.” In his attempts to “take explicit possession” of Dasein, he notes: “What
should be examined are beings only, and besides that—nothing; beings
alone, and further—nothing; solely beings, and beyond that—nothing.
What about this nothing? Is it an accident that we talk this way so automati­
cally? Is it only a manner of speaking—and nothing besides?” (“What is
Metaphysics?” 95). His conclusion is that nothing is an integral aspect of
Being, as without nothingness there is no Being. Furthermore, Heidegger
Ex Nihilo 21

argued that Being and nothingness co-exist in a continual tension not unlike
Nietzsches concept of a Dionysian will-to-power:

The word “nihilism” indicates that nihil (Nothing) is, and is essentially,
in that which it names. Nihilism means: Nothing is befalling everything
and in every respect. “Everything” means what is, in its entirety. And
whatever stands there in every respect proper to it when it is experienced
as that which is. Hence, nihilism means that Nothing is befalling what­
ever is as such, in its entirety. But whatever is, what it is and how it is
from out of Being. Assuming that every “is” lies in Being, the essence of
nihilism consists of the fact that Nothing is befalling Being itself.
(“Word of Nietzsche” 110-11)

If nothing functions as a negation, it is a negation fundamentally at odds

with itself. Nothing is not part of a straightforward opposition between
Being and nothing, but an implicit player in the creation of Being: “The
nothing does not merely serve as the counterconcept of beings; rather, it
originally belongs to their essential unfolding as such” (“What is Meta­
physics?” 104). However, in this “essential unfolding,” nihilism must also act
upon itself:

This wholly repelling gesture towards beings that are in retreat as a

whole, which is the action of the nothing that oppresses Dasein in anxi­
ety, is the essence of nothing: nihilation. It is neither an annihilation of
beings nor does it spring from a negation. Nihilation will not submit to
calculation in terms of annihilation and negation. The nothing itself
nihilates. (“What is Metaphysics?” 103)

“The nothing itself nihilates” is a translation of Das Nicht nichtet, more com­
monly translated as “the nothing nots.” However, whilst the verb “nots” conveys
the original “nichtet” in the sense that this word is a neologism, Krell's transla­
tion allows the reader to see a two-fold process. “The nothing itself nihilates”
shows that nothing has an action of nihilation (“The nothing nihilates”) and
that this action refers back to itself (“The nothing nihilates itself).
If Being and nothing are fundamentally related, then metaphysics (the
study of Being) is fundamentally related to nihilism (the study of nothing)
and nihilism is elevated to a “world-historical movement”:

If the essence of nihilism lies in history, so that the truth of Being

remains wanting in the appearing of whatever is as such, in its entirety,
22 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

and if, accordingly, Nothing is befalling Being and its truth, then meta­
physics as the history of the truth of what is such, is, in its essence,
nihilism. If, finally, metaphysics is the historical ground of the world
history that is being determined by Europe and the West, then that
world history is, in an entirely different sense, nihilistic. (“Word of
Nietzsche” 109)

Following Heideggers argument to its logical conclusion, if nihilism is

implicitly located within metaphysics and metaphysics traces the movement
of thought from Platonism to Nietzsche and Heidegger, then nihilism is an
implicit aspect of European history Asking about the condition of nihilistic
history, Heidegger wrote at the end of “What is Metaphysics?”: “Why are
there beings at all, and why not rather nothing?” (110). (Nihilistic) history
must then ask the questions: Why is what is is, as opposed to what is not?
Why does what happen happen, as opposed to what does not? Nihilism is
thus an implicit part of history and the history of modernity
Both Löwith and Adorno support this view of nihilism as an implicit
aspect of modernity, although their arguments indict both Nietzsche and
Heidegger. Löwith argued that the decline of Christianity led to the realisa­
tion of nihilism because, after humankind became the measure of things, it
then proceeded to negate itself:

At the same time as Marx and Kierkegaard, all the other radical follow­
ers of Hegel made the negation of what exists into the principle of their
thinking. Marx destroys the capitalist world; Kierkegaard intensifies the
“absolute negativity” of romantic irony up to the point of leaping into
faith; Stirner places himself upon “Nothing;” Feuerbach says that we
must be “absolutely negative” in order to create something new; and
Bauer demands “heroic deeds from out of Nothing” as the presupposi­
tion of new worlds. (203)

The history of modernity is summarised here by the movement of negativity,

presupposing a Hegelian dialectic of the destruction (antithesis) of what
exists (thesis) in order to bring change (synthesis). Nietzsche and Heidegger,
as players in this Hegelian game, did not bar the doors to nihilism but actu­
ally opened them wider and issued an invitation: not an Ü berwindung [over­
coming] of nihilism, but a Verwindung [resigned acceptance] of it.17 Rosen
argues that whilst Heideggers intent “was to overcome European nihilism by
setting the stage for a new understanding of the question of Being,'” this was
“transformed into a profound resignation in the face of nihilism” (101—102)
Ex Nihilo 23

as a very result of the history that was unfolding around him. Heidegger, in
trying to overcome Nietzschean nihilism, eventually succumbed to the ill­
ness. Löwith, in perceiving modernity to be the result of the decline of
Christian morality and the rise of totalitarianism, blamed both Nietzsche
and Heidegger for the fact that nihilism was squarely at the forefront of
modernity and argued that it is through these attempts to overcome nihilism
that nihilism came to be realised.
The expression of this thought is seen clearly in Adornos works, where
modernity proceeds through the recuperation of nihilism. He writes that,
“Acts of overcoming, even that of nihilism, together with the Nietzschean
one that was otherwise intended but which still provided fascism with slo­
gans, are always worse than what they overcome” (Negative Dialectics 380).
As the abstract expression of thought, nihilism leads to destruction because
“Nothingness is the acme of abstraction, and the abstract is the abominable”
(380). This does not fully explain, however, the association of nihilism with
the Holocaust, because the Holocaust is anything but abstract to Adorno.
Nihilism, as the spectre of abstract thought, is likened to the Holocaust
because, “If thought is not measured by the extremity that eludes the con­
cept, it is from the outset in the nature of the musical accompaniment with
which the SS liked to drown out the screams of its victims” (365). That is, if
thought is only satisfied with itself and its own identity, then the Holocaust
is only one step away. According to Adorno therefore, nihilism is to be
understood as intellectual Onanism, thoughts desire to think in blank circles
around itself.
Like Löwith, Adorno argues that nihilism is not connected with Nicht
[nothing] but with Vernichtung [destruction], a shift from nothing to the
process of making nothing, from absence to the extermination of presence.
Adornos response to nihilism illustrates the way in which the dialectical
game, which occurs so frequently in twentieth-century discussions of
nihilism, is played with loaded dice: “The true nihilists are the ones who
oppose nihilism with their more and more faded positivities, the ones who
are thus conspiring with all existant malice, and eventually with the destruc­
tive principle itself. Thought honors itself by defending what is damned as
nihilism” (381). This distinction between “the true nihilists” and “nihilism”
is due to the difference between those who strive against nothingness, no
matter what the cost, believing at all times in their own truth, and a nihilism
that rejects these petty truths. “Thought honors itself by defending what is
damned as nihilism” does not mean that thought should defend nihilism,
“honour” here being given a positive implication, but that thought honours
itself at the expense o f the Other by defending what is damned as “nihilism.”
24 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

The desire for thought to associate “what is damned” with “nihilism” occurs
because thought needs something against which to strive or, as Critchley
phrases it, “a straw man of meaninglessness that can easily be knocked down
so that meaning can be restored” (20).
Clearly, the emergence and subsequent development of nihilism is an
integral aspect of European history, whether or not it could have been
avoided. Its oscillation between humanism and anti-humanism, and between
authoritarianism and anti-authoritarianism, is a central component of the
rise of modernity, and its various commentators and critics remain some of
the most important figures in the process—rather than progress—of con­
structing our contemporary world. However, if nihilism is the philosophy of
negation, then there can surely be no reason for it to be, as Vattimo argues,
“our (only) chance” (End o f M odernity 23). As will become clear, however, a
postmodern formulation of nihilism indicates “the extremity that eludes the
concept” that Adorno desires, the result of the conflation of nihilism and the
sublime within the postmodern. This conflation occurs solely within the
postmodern, although throughout the history of modernity the connection
between the two concepts is implied. Thus, before showing the appearance
of nihilism within postmodernism, we must first uncover the connections
between nihilism and the sublime that exist before the postmodern era, in
relation to the sublime and Enlightenment modernity.
Chapter Two

Stylising the Sublime

Like nihilism, the sublime has a rich cultural heritage, although the sub­
lime extends historically to the concept of beauty, rather than negation.
This difference implies that nihilism and the sublime bear little resem­
blance to one another to the extent that they may be considered opposed
binary concepts. Such a perception is supported by the fact that nihilism
became an independent concept during the late-eighteenth and early-nine-
teenth centuries, whereas the sublime dominated aesthetics during the late-
seventeenth and early-eighteenth centuries, preceding nihilism by at least a
century. Although this seems to indicate two different concepts, the fact
that the sublime was central to seventeenth- and eighteenth-century aes­
thetic discourse shows that there was an ideological motivation behind the
study of the sublime and that the construction of the sublime is implicated
with the dominant ideologies of this period. As this period marks the rise
of the Enlightenment Project, which has been hitherto been called “the
process of modernity,” it is clear that both nihilism and the sublime were
constructed within the same Enlightenment ideologies and were the result
of the same social catalysts. The sublime is therefore only arbitrarily made
distinct from nihilism; nihilism is actually a temporally-displaced formula­
tion of the sublime.
Since an ideology constructs the sublime, there is an intention to its
existence. It is as historically specific as nihilism, indicating the usefulness of
the concept of sublimity to a particular historical consciousness. This cul­
tural specificity means that cultural understandings of the sublime, like
nihilism, shift over time. This is not an extraneous observation, despite the
fact that all concepts exist diachronically, because it warns us of the dangers
of anachronism. As Martin Donougho argues, we must be wary of reading
meanings into the sublime that were not actually present during a given
period:

25
26 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

The sublime has by now come to form part of the furniture of our com­
mon world (artistic, philosophical, or everyday). Yet that should not
blind us to the attendant fact that—as with other categories of aesthet­
ics—the sublime is historically specific, and has been taken in a variety
of ways. We should be wary of reifying it, therefore, but equally wary of
reading one sense of the sublime backwards or forwards into another
time period, thus assimilating history to theory. For all its historical
contingency, we may nonetheless continue to speak of the sublime, or
more cautiously, of styles of the sublime. (“Stages of the Sublime in
North America” 909-10)

When reading formulations of the sublime we should always be aware that it

is only a reading and that, as such, it is heavily reliant upon our understand­
ing of the period at hand. Likewise, when we speak of “styles of the sublime,”
we must also understand that we are speaking of stylised forms of the sublime
within ideological constructions. If the sublime is an ideological construct,
then what one period considers sublime is not necessarily sublime in
another, and “the sublime, rightly understood, is not all things to all men”
(Wood The Word “Sublime” 210). This explains why a number of different
approaches to sublimity appeared after the initial resurgence of the concept
during the seventeenth century, including Burkes “psychological” sublime,
Immanuel Kants “noetic” sublime, and the Romantic “natural” sublime.
Each of these uses the sublime in a different way, emphasising particular for­
mulations of sublimity. These are therefore stylised forms of the sublime,
“styles” of sublimity that originate within a given ideological discourse.

SUBLIME TEXTS AND THEIR CONTEXTS

The “styles” of the sublime seen in Burke, Kant, and the Romantics originate
in the mid-seventeenth and late-eighteenth centuries, during the sudden
enthusiasm for “aesthetic theory.” This sudden proliferation of styles of the
sublime emerged from the rediscovery of one of the earliest works of literary
criticism, Peri Hupsous [On Sublimity], supposedly written by a Greek
rhetorician and philosopher Cassius Longinus (circa 213-273 CE) although
it is more likely to be the work of a first-century philosopher now known as
“Pseudo-Longinus.”1 The reason for the popularity of this text is primarily
due to the translation by Nicholas Boileau-Despréaux in 1674, which fed
into the emergent discourse on the nature of art, and was popularised by
John Dryden and The Spectator (see Longinus xv-xvi).2 Longinus’s text is sig­
nificant because it gave a formal, classical structure to seventeenth-century
Stylising the Sublime 27

aesthetic discourse, defining a form of emotional “elevation” that is possible

through language and distinguishing between “beautiful” and “sublime”
forms. This marks the arrival of “the sublime” within English culture because
“elevation” or “height” is the English translation of hypsous (i)i(j0U9), which
through the Latin sublimis [lofty or elevated language], came to mean a sub­
lime feeling.3 Most of the structure of On Sublimity is concerned with
rhetorical strategies in order to produce this feeling of elevation, although it
frequently implies the ability of sublime art to free the mind from language.
This is an important debate in the classification of Longinus’s sublime, and is
worthy of some discussion.
Although it is a reductive assertion, there is a discursive shift from a
“rhetorical” sublime to a “natural” or “psychological” sublime during the sev­
enteenth and eighteenth centuries. Samuel Monk argues that the develop­
ment from Longinus’s rhetorical model to the Burkean model within this
period is of primary importance in establishing the development of the con­
cept of the sublime during the eighteenth century. This is a shift from “aes­
thetic” to “ethical” sublime, an observation that becomes important in
relation to Kant’s understanding of the sublime. Monk argues: “Once it was
seen that the sublime is a state of mind evoked by objects and ideas, the objec­
tive criteria of the rules were gradually invalidated” (Sublime 236). Other crit­
ics, however, have argued that this is too extreme. For example, T. E. B. Wood
argues that he “cannot really agree with any of this unless qualified to the
extent of removing its impact” (21), because Longinus’s sublime is “a phe­
nomenon that exists where the demands of form, appropriate subject matter,
and artistic inspiration are fused” (36) and is thus not purely rhetorical.
Indeed, Monk argues that the definition of a rhetorical sublime is “wrong”
and a natural sublime is “right,” a construction far too blindly asserted. Nev­
ertheless, the argument, even when qualified, does retain enough impact to
bear scrutiny. The eighteenth-century sublime is, however, not purely natural
or psychological but a mix of classical and romantic definitions, and the inter­
pretation of On Sublimity is an integral part of this debate.
Without entering into the debate over where sublimity of art resides,
whether in the artist’s formal conception or the audience’s response, the struc­
ture of On Sublimity is generally more concerned with rhetoric (form) than
nature (response), whereas the Burkean formulation of the sublime is generally
more about nature than rhetoric. On Sublimity is primarily concerned with
rhetorical strategies in producing “sublime” writing. Its structure follows the
“five sources of sublimity” listed in Longinus’s preface to the text: “the power to
conceive great thoughts,” “strong and inspired emotion,” “certain kinds of fig­
ures,” “noble diction,” and “dignified and elevated word-arrangement” (8; §8).
28 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

Of these five sections, only one is intrinsically related to the “natural” sub­
lime—“strong and inspired emotion”—although even this has only two sub­
sections of its five concerned with nature. However, it is impossible to argue
that On Sublimity is concerned solely with rhetoric, as seen when Longinus
writes: “Experience in invention and ability to order and arrange material
cannot be detected in single passages; we begin to appreciate them only
when we see the whole context. Sublimity, on the other hand, produced at
the right moment, tears everything up like a whirlwind, and exhibits the ora­
tor’s whole power at a single blow” (2; §1). Without the “whirlwind” of emo­
tion there can be no sublime; “experience in invention” is not enough. This
implies that rhetorical strategy alone is not enough to produce sublimity.
Furthermore, the passage conflates rhetorical and natural constructions of
the sublime because rhetoric is subsumed by natural metaphor and nature is
reconstructed as an aspect of rhetoric: speech is a “whirlwind,” although it is
“produced at the right moment” and “exhibits the orators whole power.”
This is seen clearly in Longinus’s comparison of Hyperides and Demos­
thenes, where although Hyperides “reproduces all the good features of
Demosthenes,” he does not excite the emotions of his audience, unlike
Demosthenes’s powerful rhetoric: “The crash of his thunder, the brilliance of
his lightning” (40-41; §34). The message is that technique is not enough,
and that there must be some stroke of genius—Boileau’s ineffable j e ne sais
quoi—in order to impart an artwork with sublime feeling: this genius is not
bred but born and is therefore akin to a natural, not rhetorical, formulation
of the sublime.
Wood disagrees with Monk because he feels that Monk “essentialises”
eighteenth-century formulations of the sublime that are “a complicated blend,
if you will, of the traditional [Wood defines this as “form, genre, and deco­
rum”] and psychological conceptions of what the artistic process and the art
work are” (Wood 17-18n2). This is due to the proliferation of aesthetic the­
ory within the eighteenth century that ranges, as Peter de Bolla argues, “from
general works’ through architecture and gardening, pictorial and plastic arts,
literature and drama, to music” (Discourse o f the Sublime 29). Although de
Bolla calls it a reductive description, he defines aesthetic theory as “the rela­
tionship between a theory and the objects it describes and analyses” (29). This
proliferation of aesthetic theory reveals a historical context that gestures
towards an explanation of both Longinus’s text and his popularity during the
neoclassical period. As Russell argues, the conception of On Sublimity
occurred during a period when rhetoric was the doctrinal core of civilisation
and art, and had been since the height of Attic art (see Longinus xi). Longinus
was arguably seeking to incorporate the idea of genius, of artistic creativity,
Stylising the Sublime

into this stagnant doctrine, an interpretation of the sublime mode in which

“Our thoughts often travel beyond the boundaries of our surroundings” (42;
§35). Likewise, the neoclassical era was attempting to assert a style that was
both independent and classical, fusing classical forms with new rhetorical
strategies. The translation of Longinus during this period gave credence to
the idea of a creative rhetoric, not a m im etic one.
This discursive and ideological shift of sublimity is an integral part of
demonstrating the link between nihilism and the sublime. Given Monks
proposition of the rhetorical form of Longinus’s sublime and Wood’s subse­
quent qualification, it is clear that the Burkean and Kantian formulations of
the sublime both move towards a psychological or rational approach to the
sublime. One of the most important ways in which we see this shift occur is
in the “Contexts” that Wood gives the reader. Wood summarises a number of
different sources to demonstrate the uses seventeenth- and eighteenth-cen-
tury writers made of the sublime. Wood’s survey is important because of the
idea of “elevation” that recurs throughout his sources: “Defining 'hupsous’
[sic] as elevation,’ it is immediately apparent that, if anything, its interpreta­
tion widens during the century, because in addition to the retention of older
meanings [ . . . ] there is the addition of the psychological school’s usage of
the word” (209). Wood also argues that “There is no doubt that the eigh­
teenth century yoked Longinus, Christianity, and the Bible together in order
to serve its purposes” (29, emphasis added). These two statements reveal that
throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries there is an ideological
shift in the use of the sublime, a move from the idea of divine elevation
towards a more natural or psychological elevation of the human. Although
Wood argues this to be a “widening,” it is possible to see this as a shift in the
dominant paradigm of the sublime from the elevation of the divine to the
elevation of the human. In order to “widen” the sublime, divinity would
have to retain its importance. However, the sublime elevates humanity over
divinity to replicate the dominant ideology of Enlightenment humanism,
signifying the alteration, not extension, of the parameters of the sublime.
These arguments parallel the movement presented in the previous
chapter, where the rise of nihilism was the result of the decline of religious
authority. This is what Gillespie calls “a new concept of divine omnipotence
and a corresponding concept of human power” (Nihilism Before Nietzsche
vii), where the religious makes way for the secular and the human replaces
the divine. Where this was understood in the previous chapter as a nihilistic
moment, it is clear that it is also a fundamental component of the sublime,
since the sublime began as a predominantly classical or religious model of
“elevation” and shifted towards a psychological and natural phenomenon—a
30 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

movement from religion to empiricism, from faith to rationality. This shift

occurs in the development of the concept under Enlightenment rationality,
most notably exemplified in the formulations of Burke and Kant.

THE BURKEAN FORMULATION OF THE SUBLIME

Burkes A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin o f our Ideas o f the Sublime and
Beautiful (1757) presented the sublime as a phenomenon that transcended
the empirical world but not the imagination. From this foundation, we see
that Burkes notion of the sublime is predicated upon terror; the sublime, for
Burke, exists primarily as an immediate emotional response to dangerous
objects before reason can engage itself. This creates two different approaches
to understanding the Burkean sublime: one that immediately affects the
observer with a sense of danger and one that relies upon the imagination of
the individual in the face of possible danger. An example might be a person
standing at the foot of a mountain imagining an avalanche. In the first
instance, it is sublime because his emotions are ruling his reason, causing
him to imagine something that he cannot sense and, in the second, were an
avalanche to actually fall down on him, it would so overwhelm his senses that
his reason would temporally be overwhelmed. This is obviously an artificial
scenario, however, because the body must not be actually harmed, just feel
itself to be under threat. The Burkean sublime haunts reason—it is when
imagination and the irrational have temporary control over the rational—
and is an emotional response to a possible, although not present, danger.
That the sublime is an emotional response is an important aspect of
Burkes Philosophical Enquiry, for he does not direct his studies towards an
aesthetic representation (a rhetorical analysis) of the sublime except in part.
Burkes main objective is to classify the mechanisms by which the sublime
manifests itself:

I am afraid it is a practice much too common in inquiries of this nature,

to attribute the cause of feelings which merely arise from the mechanical
structure of our bodies, or from the natural frame and constitution of
our minds, to certain conclusions of the reasoning faculty on the objects
presented to us; for I should imagine, that the influence of reason in
producing our passions is nothing near so extensive as it is commonly
believed. (41; §1.13)

This passage demonstrates the disdain that Burke feels towards a sublime
produced by the rational mind (an aesthetic sublime). This implies, as we
Stylising the Sublime 31

have seen, a movement away from a rhetorical form of the sublime towards a
more empirical representation of the sublime originating from “being in the
world.” For Burke, the sublime is a primal response that occurs within the
body before the rational mind can attempt to grasp the dangerous object:
there is an unremitting immediacy within the Burkean sublime that comes
from the inability of reason to respond to such objects.
The definition of dangerous objects is qualified by Burke and can be
characterised as those connected with power, magnitude, and infinity. Each
of these, to some degree, produces a feeling of terror in the observer due to
the inability of the rational mind to comprehend them. Indeed, Burke writes
that “obscurity” aids the creation of sublimity: “To make any thing very terri­
ble, obscurity seems in general to be necessary. When we know the full
extent of any danger, when we can accustom our eyes to it, a great deal of the
apprehension vanishes” (Philosophical Enquiry 54; §11.3). As reason begins to
classify the sublime object, it ceases to be sublime precisely because we have
become accustomed to it. Wordsworth evidently agrees, as seen in The Pre­
lude when he writes:

That men, least sensitive, see, hear, perceive,

And cannot choose but feel. The power, which all
Acknowledge when thus moved, which Nature thus
To bodily sense exhibits. (XIV.85-8 8)4

Here, we see the way in which the Burkean sublime affects the observer of
nature—he “cannot choose but feel” and feels it “bodily.” Without the initial
apprehension of the object, there would be no sublime. Consider, for exam­
ple, Burkes discussion of the nature of power in connection with the sub­
lime. He writes:

Pain is always inflicted by a power in some way superior, because we

never submit willingly. So that strength, violence, pain and terror, are
ideas that rush in upon the mind together. Look at a man, or any other
animal of prodigious strength, and what is your idea before reflection? Is
it that this strength will be subservient to you, to your ease, to your
pleasure, to your interest in any sense? No; the emotion you feel is, lest
this enormous strength should be employed to the purposes of rapine
and destruction. That power derives all its sublimity from the terror
with which it is generally accompanied, will appear evidently from its
effect in the very few cases, in which it may be possible to strip a consid­
erable degree of strength of its ability to hurt. When you do this, you
32 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

spoil it of every thing sublime, and it immediately becomes con­

temptible. (60; §11.5)

The appearance of something powerful is sublime because of that objects

intrinsic undecidability. Were we to accept that it was “under” us, to be
rationally aware of its limitations and uses, it would not be sublime. The three
wanderers that Wordsworth encounters on Snowdon are examples of this,
because of their “majestic intellect”: “There I beheld an emblem of a mind /
That feeds upon infinity, that broods / Over the dark abyss, intent to hear”
(Prelude XIV.70-72). These wanderers may be rational, but they “feed” on
nature and “brood” on concepts. They are too “intent to hear” to ever hear
anything, as Wordsworth later writes: “moral judgements which from this
pure source / Must come, or will by man be sought in vain” (XIV. 128-29).
The mind must be open to Nature, not searching for a sublime experience.
Obscurity is why, according to Burke, power is sublime. It is precisely
because we do not know how power will affect us that the initial terror
causes a sublime feeling: its origins and intent are obscured and we are faced
with potential harm. The same mechanism creates sublimity in relation to
magnitude and infinity. Burke writes that “Greatness of dimension, is a pow­
erful cause of the sublime” (Philosophical Enquiry 67; §11.7) and that “Infin­
ity has a tendency to fill the mind with that sort of delightful horror, which
is the most genuine effect, and truest test of the sublime” (67; §11.8). Both of
these come from immediate, not mediated sources, and the terror originates
from the fact that the rational mind has yet to come to terms with them. It is
for this reason that the Burkean mode of sublimity is both affective (and thus
pre-rational) and a “moment” (being produced and dissipating simultane­
ously). Although Burke argues that some terror remains with us after the
sublime experience, this is a sublime aftershock and not the sublime experi­
ence itself.
The concept of magnitude is of interest here as it marks a point of diver­
gence away from Longinus’s idea of “elevation” and later becomes significant in
the development of the postmodern sublime. In On Sublimity, Longinus at
one point defines the difference between hypsous [elevation] and megethos
[size]: “The difference lies, in my opinion, on the fact that sublimity depends
on elevation [hypsous], whereas amplification [megethos] involves extension;
sublimity exists often in a single thought, amplification cannot exist without a
certain quantity and superfluity” (17; §12: see also xvi-xvii). Burke, in contrast,
writes “extension is either in length, height, or depth,” devaluing the concept
of elevation, and adds that “height is less grand than depth” (Philosophical
Enquiry 66; §11.7), implying the alternate Latinate etymology of “sublime” as
Stylising the Sublime 33

sub-limen [under the threshold], not sublimis. Thomas Weiskel observes, how­
ever, that “Height and depth are of course merely two perspectives for the
same dimension of verticality; what is ‘lofty’ for the idealist will be profound’
for the naturalizing mind” (Romantic Sublime 24).5 This point also marks an
extension of the Burkean sublime into the Kantian in the sense that an object
is sublime in relation to magnitude only if it is a unitary object that is per­
ceived, not a quantity of objects (and thus demonstrating the Kantian
requirement of a “totality” to be present in the sublime, discussed later in this
chapter). This is because “The sum total of things of various kinds, though it
should equal the number of uniform parts composing some one entire object,
is not equal in its effect upon the organs of our bodies.” Burke qualifies this
requirement for “unity” later in the passage, although it is not entirely clear:
“So that every thing great by its quantity must necessarily be, one, simple, and
entire” (Philosophical Enquiry 126; §IV.10). Where Longinus declares that it
is the quantity of objects that creates a feeling of amplification distinct from
sublimity, and Kant argues that only a totality (a unified object) can be sub­
lime, Burke argues that a quantity of uniform objects can lead to sublimity
providing they seem to be an undifferentiated whole.
If the Burkean sublime is based upon the immediate apprehension of
an apparent object, then the relation between Burke and nihilism initially
seems tenuous. However, nothingness can, under these conditions, produce
a mode of the sublime similar to that which Burke proposed. Several aspects
of the Burkean sublime lead us to the conclusion that nothingness is sublime
because it is unfathomable. In his discussion of “obscurity,” for example,
Burke quotes from John Milton’s Paradise Lost (1667):

The other shape,

If shape it might be call’d that shape had none
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb,
Or substance might be call’d that shadow seemed,
For each seem’d either; black it stood as Night,
Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell,
And shook a dreadful Dart; what seem’d his head
The likeness of a Kingly Crown had on. (11.666-73)

Burke states that in this passage “All is dark, uncertain, confused, terrible,
and sublime to the last degree” (Philosophical Enquiry 55; §11.3). Other
examples of this obscure “sublime void” abound in Book Two of Paradise
Lost: “the dark unbottom’d infinite Abyss” (11.405), “the void profound / of
unessential night” (11.438-39), “with lonely steps to tread / Th’unfounded
34 Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern

deep, and through the void immense / to search” (11.828-30). It is this very
uncertainty and confusion—the inability of the rational mind to compre­
hend—that makes nihilism a candidate for sublimity. To find a pun in one of
Burkes descriptions, he writes: “The ideas of eternity, and infinity, are among
the most affecting we have, and yet there is nothing o f which we really under­
stand so little, as of infinity and eternity” (Philosophical Enquiry 57; §11.4,
emphasis added). The notion of understanding brings to the fore the concept
of nihilism. “There is nothing of which we understand so little” exceptfo r p er­
haps nothingness itself Although we cannot understand infinity, or eternity (an
extension of the infinite into time), neither can we understand nothingness,
standing as we do on the side of Being. That is, we do not understand noth­
ingness and yet it can produce a strong emotional response within us precisely
because of the inability of the rational to comprehend the essentially irra­
tional. If the sublime is pre-rational and we cannot rationalise nothingness,
then nothingness when presented can be considered a sublime form.
There are, of course, counter-arguments to this production of the
Burkean sublime through nihilism. One of the most important of these is the
requirement of immediate danger. Although nihilism can threaten our sense of
Being, and does indeed correspond to a “threat to Being,” it is not enough to
justify a sense of danger merely from the thought of nihilism. The Burkean sub­
lime is connected with physically existing objects—the presentation of the
object—and although nihilism may be the most terrifying of all possibilities and
objects, it can never be considered physically existent. When Burke defines the
difference between pain and terror we see that nihilism, whilst producing a
response, can never actually produce the type of sublime that Burke discusses:

The only difference between pain and terror, is, that things which cause
pain operate on the mind, by the intervention of the body; whereas
things that cause terror generally affect the bodily organs by the opera­
tion of the mind suggesting the danger; but both agreeing, either prima­
rily, or secondarily, in producing a tension, contraction, or violent
emotion of the nerves. (Philosophical Enquiry 120; §IV.3)

That nihilism and a sense of nothingness can produce terror in the reader is
indeed arguable. However, the problem is that the emotional response to
nihilism tends to be existential despair or fear of meaninglessness; despair
does not produce the sublime mode, and the fear provoked by nothingness
does not entail a further physical response. Although conceiving absence
may be terrifying, it is not “present enough” to threaten the viewers sense of
being.
Stylising the Sublime 35

This does not mean to say, however, that the production of a nihilistic
sublime is impossible, only that, as Donougho implies, any readings of a
“nihilistic sublime” must finally occur on the terms of the sublime itself and
the historical period in which it comes forth, and should not merely be con­
flated because of similarities. It only implies that attempting to conflate a
nihilistic moment with a sublime moment is problematic under the Burkean
mode of sublimity. In the final analysis, Burkes comments about darkness
may be crucial to understanding a nihilistic sublime, and demonstrate why
other conceptions of the sublime are necessary before we can finally see a
nihilistic sublime emerge:

Such a tension it seems there certainly is, whilst we are involved in dark­
ness; for in such a state whilst the eye remains open, there is a continual
nisus to receive light; this is manifest from the flashes, and luminous
appearances which often seem in these circumstances to play before it,
and which can be nothing but spasms, produced by its own efforts in
pursuit of its object. (132; §IV.16)

In a struggle to find meaning in nihilism, the critic frequently sees flashes of

inspiration that are, in fact, no more than illusory mechanisms of the mind
itself. In darkness, nothing can be seen (but we cannot see nothing) and in
response to this darkness, the mind creates objects to fill the void. The prob­
lem is not with illuminating nihilism, but with our very seeking of illumina­
tion, that euphemism for “understanding.” Rather, it is in our very inability
to understand nihilism that we see the nihilistic sublime, and why this argu­
ment must move forward towards the Kantian formulation of the sublime.

THE KANTIAN FORMULATION OF THE SUBLIME

The Kantian sublime appears primarily within two of Kant's works, The
Critique o f Judgem ent (1790) and Observations on the Feeling o f the Beautiful
an d the Sublime (1764), both of which are heavily influenced by the debate
on the nature of the sublime written by Burke, as well as other eighteenth-
century aesthetic theorists. There are number of initial similarities between
the Burkean and Kantian sublimes, such as the comparisons between beauty
and sublimity, the concern with what can be apprehended not compre­
hended, and thus the invocation of the sublime through feelings of terror.6
Kant's texts are problematic from the perspective of a study of the sublime
because in the interim period between publications there are a number of
significant alterations to Kant's formulation of the sublime, not least of
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Title: A mennyei küldönc

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Language: Hungarian

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 A MENNYEI KÜLDÖNC

SZOMORY DEZSŐ

A MENNYEI KÜLDÖNC

BUDAPEST
AZ ATHENAEUM IRODALMI ÉS NYOMDAI R.-T.
KIADÁSA
 SZERZŐ EGYÉB MUNKÁI
NOVELLÁK:

ELBUKOTTAK. Singer és Wolfner, 1892. (Elfogyott.)

MESEKÖNYV. Grill Károly, 1898. (Elfogyott.)
AZ ISTENI KERT. III. kiadás. Athenaeum, 1918. (Elfogyott.)
ÜNNEP A DÜHÖNGŐN ÉS EGYÉB SZERELMEK. Nyugat, 1911.
LŐRINC EMLÉKE. Nyugat Könyvtár, 1911.
A PÉKNÉ. II. kiadás. Athenaeum, 1917.
AZ ÉLET DIADALA. Nyugat, 1917.
HARRY RUSSEL-DORSAN A FRANCIA HADSZÍNTÉRRŐL.
Pallas, 1918. (Elfogyott.)
A SELYEMZSINÓR. Génius-kiadás, 1921.
A MENNYEI KÜLDÖNC. Athenaeum, 1926.

SZÍNMŰVEK:

A RAJONGÓ BOLZAY-LEÁNY. Nyugat, 1911.

GYÖRGYIKE DRÁGA GYERMEK. Nyugat, 1912.
BELLA. Singer és Wolfner, 1913.
HERMELIN. Singer és Wolfner, 1916. (Elfogyott.)
MATUSKA. Pallas, 1919.
GLORIA. Athenaeum, 1923.
SZABÓKY ZSIGMOND RAFAEL. Athenaeum, 1924.

K I R Á LY D R Á M Á K :

A NAGYASSZONY. Nyugat, 1910.

MÁRIA-ANTÓNIA. II. kiadás. Singer és Wolfner, 1913.
II. JÓZSEF CSÁSZÁR. II. kiadás. Pallas, 1918. (Elfogyott.)
II. LAJOS KIRÁLY. Athenaeum, 1922.

12349. – Budapest, az Athenaeum r.-t. könyvnyomdája.

 A MENNYEI KÜLDÖNC.

Évekkel ezelőtt az insbrucki levéltárban kutatván, mindenféle

régi írások között egy köteg sárga papír került elém, amelyből most
szabadon s inkább emlékezetből írom át itten, a következő igen
különös és megható történetet:
1782 telén, néhány nappal karácsony előtt, Seibert Johanna
lengenfeldi illetőségű, hajadon nőszemély éppen bement az
istállóba, hogy megfejje a kedves teheneket, amikor hirtelen, valami
igen kárhozatos betegség számos tünetei közben összerogyott,
üvölteni kezdett és harapott.
A tehenek sem maradtak tétlen a jászol előtt, ezt meg kell
vallani. Ezek a máskülönben oly jámbor szarvasmarhák, (a legutóbbi
brixeni vásár legtarkább és legegészségesebb példányai), már napok
óta rémítgették a lengenfeldi majorudvar béresnépét mindenféle
nyugtalanságaikkal, melyeknek nyomát, eredetét és természetét
hasztalan keresnők a felső-ausztriai tehenészet történetében és
évkönyveiben. Tűzben forgó szemekkel meredeztek e tehenek és
tüneményes nevrozisuk, egy-egy szilaj rohamban, az apokaliptikus
szörnyek obscenitásáig fokozódott, a legdurvább nemi célzatok és
kívánságok jelzésével, kínosan mámoros bőgésekben, melyek egy
sodomai világ harsogásának tűntek. Senkisem hitte volna, még a
legbeavatottabb természettudós sem, hogy ezek itten egyszerű,
békességes, jó, finom tehenek.
Aminthogy Seibert Johanna is teljesen kivetkőzött női mivoltából,
mind hevesebb krizisei folyomán. Megrogyva e fentnevezett állatok
közt s végiggurulva az almon, a szalmát rugdalva és harapva s
viharos látásait ébresztgetve vagy riasztgatva, boszorkányos
szépségének minden kincsét feltárta, ami egy tizenöt éves
parasztleány részéről, ha nem is tűnt egészen korainak, de
mindenesetre illetlennek látszott. Mind rohantak akkor a majorudvar
megriadt népei és keserű kiáltozások hallatszottak. De itt nem volt
közel se orvos, se kuruzsló, se pap és nem lehetett segíteni. Seibert
Johannát egyszerűen felszedték mint egy vibráló hústömeget és
olthatatlan vonaglásaival ágyba fektették. Itt megenyhült és
feloldódott valami halálos dermedtségben, szegény leányka. Később
magához is tért, de arról többé szó sem lehetett, hogy dolgozni
tudjon.
Egyáltalában, igen furcsa változások történtek. Azt kellene
mondani, hogy ez a fiatal nőszemély egyszerűen megvadult. Egész
erkölcsi lénye fölborult. Mindeddig oly vallásos lelkét, ájtatos
szellemét és istenfélését, valami pokoli nyavalya szállotta meg. A
szája blaszfémiákat szórt, a fogak éles sorával. Förtelmes káromlásai
felülmúlták a legöregebb jobbágyok istentgyalázó osbcenitásait.
Pokoli ötletességét, mely a szitkok egész színes líráját kavargatta fel
a szentek és egyháziak ellen, egészen nyilvánvalóan valami sátáni
zseni inspirálta. Főleg a lengenfeldi plébános ellen, jó öreg
Schweighofer tisztelendő ellen, voltak dantei kiszólásai. Egynémely
hirtelen fakadó káromlása, szitka vagy gorombasága, a maga
szárnyas és eruptív fellángolásával, képcsoportjával és színeivel, egy
Michel Angelo találmányának tűnt. Fiatal lelke, micsoda éles
kitörésekben! az átkok egész kátedrálisát röpítette az égnek, a
merész szavak ívelésével, a zengő düh harangzúgásával, elveszve a
térben! A fecskék megriadva, féloldalt fordultak ilyenkor, a röpülésük
vad eleganciájában. A házigalambok pedig messze elcsattogták fehér
szárnyuk lapátforgását. És mindez borzasztó volt.
– Inkább meghalna! – sopánkodtak a parasztok és sűrűn
hintették a keresztet magukra.
Hasonló érzelmeket táplált e szerencsétlenségben, a Johanna
tulajdon családja. Szegény elrémült testvérei, nagy szál legények,
mint tünődő titánok csoportosultak keserű szemlélődésben, míg a
Johanna tébolya tartott. Olykor, egy-egy vaskosabb fiatalember e
rokoni gyülekezetben, fölháborodva dorongot ragadt, hogy leüsse a
némbert, a testi vérét, mint egy farkast a hegyekből! Ezek tragikus
jelenetek voltak, dulakodások, torlódások, zokogások, sikoltozások,
egy heorikus égbolt alatt, ebben a lengenfeldi völgyben, melyet
észak felől hegyóriások zártak körül kopár csúcsaikkal a leáldozó nap
alatt.
És heteken át és nap-nap után, mind hevesebb krízisek gyötörték
Johannát. Rejtélyes remegésekben a földhöz vágódott, őrjöngve.
Eredetileg oly apró emlői éktelenül feldagadtak, a csúcsaik húsos
kitűzésével, mint a datolyák. Súlyos agóniái során csakugyan azt
lehetett volna hinni, hogy utolsó perceit éli. Aztán ismét magához
tért, kedves üdeségekben. Olykor szinte tüneményszerűvé vált, sötét
ragyogásokban. Ha latinul szólítgatták és beszéltek hozzá, noha
sohasem tanult klasszikus nyelvet, pontosan megértett mindent és
németül felelt, igen rendesen. Másszor, ami még meglepőbbnek
mondható, egy-egy röpke kijelentése ama titkok mélyére világított,
melyek fentartják a világot. Nagyszerű emberi vonzalmakról tudott
és csillagokat nevezett meg a körforgásuk végtelenjén, mint régi
vándorokat, akiket ismer és akik mennek az éjben nagyon messze,
kis kéklő lámpásokkal. Másszor fogta magát és hangtalan és
szótalan, egyetlenegy mozdulattal fölkapott egy szekeret a vállára,
tündér! olyan elegáns könnyedséggel, mintha csak egy
szőllősputtony volna. Hány csodája, hány rejtélye volt még,
megszámlálhatatlan! És mindez elment, részletes jelentésekben,
följegyzésekben és elcsodálkozott definiciókban s bölcsességekben,
egy másik lengenfeldi lelkész kezeírásával ad reverendessimum
Consistorium Brixenbe, ahol nagyot néztek az urak.
Egyébként itt van a Johanna portraitja: kis gömbölyű paraszti
pofácskája volt, aranypelyhes orcákkal s egy pisze orral ékesen,
levegősen a cimpák nyílásával s két barna szeme volt aranybogárral
s heves szája még hevesebb pirosban. Kissé tömzsi figurája, a
formáinak éles modelláltságával, a vonalak egységével és
befejezettségével, abban a nyers tökéletességben tűnt elő, mely a
primitív mesterek nagy tulajdonsága és az anyatermészet dicsősége.
Világos tekintetén, hogy még pontosabbak legyünk, az a bámész
vadság tűzött át, ami a rabjaguárok elmerengése legjobb
perceikben. Erős válla a magas keblek felett, kemény háta
csodálatos alsó kihajlással, kissé túlozták tizenöt éves ifjúságát,
amelyből szűziesen a homloka virult elő, napsütéses bőrfelületével, a
zsíros hajak koszorújában.
Ezt a szerény, kedves, az élet erejétől heves leánykát, egy szál
ingben s kék szoknyában lehetett látni a lengenfeldi nyarak idején, a
napfény minden változatában, a kora reggel aranypáráiban és a
leáldozás máglyáiban, amint hordta a mislinget vagy a magos
bükkönyt egy vasvilla diadalával a vállán, vagy éppen aszatolt
meggörbülve a kertben, halványzöld káposztafejek közt, a nagy
világosságban. Viszont vasárnap igen korán, mikor még nem is
csöngettek odaát s a reggel, hűsen úgy ébredt, hogy még
holdfénnyel volt megkenve, Johanna már áztatta a lábát kéjes
nyugalomban és unalomban egy csorbaszélű bádogedényben, két
szál piros harisnya és bársonycipő mellett és közben bizony a térdit
is lemosta. Igy készült a templomba, gyönyörű! csínnal és tisztán,
már hajnalban, amelyik látta aranypántlikáját, vadvirágját, kicsi lelkét
ájtatos örömben és hirtelen kivirultan egész tömzsi lényét az
udvarban, holott melegen még az ágy páráitól. Fehér falak között,
selymekkel diszítve, aranyos bálványok között boldogságos
mosolygással, szinte eltikkadva ült imákba mélyedten és a sok
paraszti népek között, akik izzadtak, ő is kiizzadt drága lelkem, az
egész testében, míg az oltár felől gyakran szólott a kis csengetyű.
Főtisztelendő Schweighofer József misézett és csipkés ingéből és
brokátjaiból tömjénillat szállott elő és az egész kis templom, mint
egy fenyőerdő, gyantaszaggal volt tele.
Micsoda rejtély, Isten kifürkészhetetlen titokzatossága, sodorta
ezt a homályos leánylelket, a vallási áhitatosságból talán éppen világi
kívánságokba? Hajadon érzése, hol érinté meg a maga szent
mámorával azt a túlsó mámort, mint egyik tűz a másikat, egyik
csillag a másikat, hogy hirtelen összeforrva vagy szétzúzódva
egymáson, egy új világgá váljon?! Hol ért hozzá a maga tiszta
édenéből, az emberi poklok éjszakájához s oly hirtelen
megsebzettséggel, kínokkal és keservekkel, mint egy beteg fog
idegéhez?! Vagy hogy törte össze ez olthatatlan vakbuzgóságban,
fölfeszültségben, mennyekhez tapadó gyönyörűségekben, az egész
lelke egyensúlyát?! Hogyan jött éppen a fohászain át, mint egy vak
hídon, arra a túlsó csúcsra, ahol gyalázatos izzások az emberi húst
pörkölik föl tébolyító vágyakig?!
Mindeddig békén élt, de sőt jómódban is és kedvesen és
csendesen, abban a becsületes trágyaszagban, mely az egész
lengenfeldi udvart átfűtötte és valami végzetszerű termékenység
érzését keltette. Minden virult itten és egy kakas tenorja ékesen szólt
az ég alatt, sűrű stakkatókkal. Johannát szerették. Szülei már nem
voltak, de a testvérei azzal az egykedvű érzéktelenséggel vették
körül, ami a parasztok szívében a leghevesebb összetartozás jele,
mert ezek a szívek rég túl vannak már minden gyöngédségen. A
templomban egysorban ültek mind, szolidáris izzadással és esténkint,
köröskörül az asztalnál, a levesestál előtt, abban a megkapó
különbözőségben tűntek fel sűrű kanalazásaik kadenciáival, más-más
formáikkal, tekinteteikkel, hajaikkal, százféle árnyalatbeli
elváltozásokkal, ami a tisztára egyfajtájúak jellegzetessége. Soha egy
durva szó nem hangzott el e testvéri gyülekezetben, de kívülről sem
érte őket soha se vád, se gyanú, se semmi a világon, ami nem
tisztesség lett volna. Ezek nem kértek pénzt kölcsönbe, Isten őrizz!
még egy létrát se kértek soha s nem igen fondorkodtak paraszti
csalafintaságokban, ami oly gyakori földmíves népeknél. Pénzük volt,
nem sok, de elég a lengenfeldi völgyben, hogy nagyszerű becsületük
legyen s amikor vasárnaponként, ragyogó délutánokon, a lankásokat
mászták a seefeldi korcsma irányában, ott bőkezűen fizettek, sőt
áldoztak némi ajándékokat a szomszédos kolostornak, ámbár a
szerzeteseknek itten, isteni megbízatásuk gratis accepistis gratis date
értelmében, semmit sem volt szabad elfogadniok.
Mindezek után, ilyen világosan előadva és dúsan lepecsételt
kortörténeti okmányokkal támogatva, talán felesleges hozzátenni,
hogy a Seibert Johanna ijedelmes megbetegedése csakugyan fölül
áll minden emberi ravaszságokon, csaláson és ármányokon. Ez a
lengenfeldi parasztcsalád, merőben ambiciók nélkül, sem feltűnni,
sem hivalkodni nem akarhatott, sem előnyöket nem kereshetett,
mint például alamizsnákat vagy ingyenes gyógyszereket, egy olyan
förtelmes állapot vagy borzalom gyakorlati kihasználásával, mely
egyrészt Istent és vallást sértett és minden ájtatos emberi lelket
sértett, másrészt egy tizenöt éves leányt kompromittált
végérvényesen boszorkányos híre keltésével, egy gyermeket! akinek
még jövője volt! S ha a szkeptikusok s okvetetlenkedők s
tamáskodók minden áron színleléseket s női alacsonyságokat, vagy
nem tudom miféléket óhajtottak látni e becsületes, bár fantasztikus
kóreset körül, itt voltak maguk a tehenek, akik üvöltöttek, s akik az ő
békés s napjában többször emésztő világnézletükkel, csak nem
lehettek bűntársak! A helyzet teljes tisztázására és minden gyanú
eloszlatására tegyük hozzá, hogy e testvéri család a betegség első
periódusa óta minden áldozatra késznek mutatkozott, hogy
Johannát, ha már nem volt szabad agyonütni, legalább megváltsa és
megmentse, lehetőleg meggyógyíttassa, ami tudvalevőleg a
legnagyobb sor parasztoknál, akik efajta lappáliákra nem szívesen
költenek.
Ezek bizony összeadtak, nagy búsan igaz, de összeadtak száz
forintot és újabb jelentések és könyörgések irattattak és az összes
mellékkörülmények summarie ott voltak a Decanalium Officium előtt,
mely rögtön átírt és újra átírt a legfelsőbb egyházi hatósághoz. S
mivel a fentebb nevezettek a pénzt is féltették, de főleg a jó
eredmény érdekében, a Johanna legidősebb testvérbátyja is
megjelent Brixenben személyesen és a legmélyebb alázattal.
Napokig magyarázott, foghagymás lehelletével, zord paraszt és sírt.
Az urak mind figyelték és hallgatták mint a baglyok s úgy olvasták a
sok jelentést, mintha szagolták volna a papírokat. Mindez egy sötét
teremben történt, olajos mécsek mellett és abban a sajátságos
atmoszférában, melyet egyháziak keltenek maguk körül s amelyben
a papi ruhák, csuhák és reverendák hűvös és langyos kigőzölgése
száll.
 Végre hosszas viták, elméleti vizsgálódások, kínos olographiák és
theophaniák, theophilantrop elmélyedések és theophob eszmecserék
után, a szent Consistórium meghozta első határozatát. Elvben hitelt
adott a Seibert Johannát gyötrő kórállapot rejtélyes és embertelen
természetének. De éppen amiért semmi embertelen emberen kívül
nem történhetik, nem zárta ki a női gonoszság és cselszövés esélyeit
sem, de sőt odáig ment igen bölcsen s egy finom utógondolatban,
hogy az eltitkolt és elfojtott természeti vágyak spontán háborgását is
lehetségesnek tartotta e krizisek, üvöltések, vonaglások, görcsök,
megdagadások, hullámzások stb. jelképességében. Látnivaló ebből,
hogy a tiszteletreméltó tanács, míg egyrészről tisztában volt a női
természet és női lélek örvényességének minden huncutságával,
másrészről kellőképen óvatosnak mutatkozott. Okos theológus
gyerekek, egyszerűen egy gyógytudorhoz utasították Seibert
Johannát, hogy minden körülményekre, tünetekre, jelenségekre
nézve és minden alaposságnak megfelelően megvizsgáltatván,
egészségi állapotáról egy rendes és hiteles Attestum mediciumot
nyerjenek, mielőtt valami nagyba kezdenek!
Az ezen vizsgálat céljaira kirendelt megbízható szakférfiu Piero
Antal Mihály körorvos volt, aki Imstben lakott, egy kis házban kerttel.
Azért mondjuk ezt ilyen primitiven »kis házban kerttel«, mert e
helyrajzi meghatározás egybefoglaló rövidsége, már a Piero Antal
Mihály kurtára határolt élethullámzását is jelezni kívánja, még annál
a szűk körzetnél is szűkebb látókörűségét, mellyel gyógytudori
működését gyakorolta. Nobilis jóindulatokkal eltelve, de merőben
tájékozatlanul a magasabbrendű pszihofiziológiában, ötlet, lelemény
és zseni nélkül, mint általában a XVIII. század orvosai, ha nem
szerzetesek voltak, Piero Antal Mihály hosszan és alaposan vizsgálta
Johannát és vizsgálta és vizsgálta egy szarukeretes szemüvegen
keresztül, igen közelről és még közelebbről, a rövidlátó aggastyánok
konok és naiv szaglászásával, elveszve a világürben. De lelki
relytélyeibe és érzéki tumultusaiba nem tudott behatolni, belelátni,
elmerülni, semmit sem tudott, röghöz kötött öreg ember! Holott
egynémely kérdéseket is intézett a beteg leánykához, voltaképpen
céltalanul, mert válaszainak idegeken rengő finomságát, megvilágító
kvintesszenciáját és jelentőségét annál kevésbbé érthette meg, vagy
éppen analizálhatta, mert hiszen még csak figyelemre is alig
méltatta. Igy például fogékonyság nélkül síklott el a tendenciózus
gyűlölség ama fürge és szitkoktól színes kromatikái fölött, melyekkel,
mint egy hangskála zuhatagával, öntötte le és áztatta el Johanna a
legenfeldi plébánost. Micsoda titokzatos és engesztelhetetlen harag
volt ez, mely forró lehelletekben és félhangú töredezettségben szállt
főtisztelendő öreg Schweighofer felé? Mit akarhatott e csöndes,
zárkózott, kegyes egyházfitól, aki a maga szárazra aszott
testalkatával és sivár koponyájának zöldre meszesedett
érhálózatával, valóságos mártiréletet élt egy robosztus gazdasszony
mellett? Micsoda halálos sérelem érhette e szelid lelkületű, angyali
pap részéről, aki soha senkit meg nem bántott a világon s mint egy
felderengő Szent Antal, erényesen, ijedten és puhán meghátrált
minden kísértések elől, főleg hogy másképpen nem is tehette, a
szerencsétlen! Hol nőtt ki ez a harag ilyen vörös pipaccsá, micsoda
csalódásokon és keserveken, elhárított paraszti akarásokon és
misztikus szeszélyeken, megcsúfolt hiúságokon, amelyekért a nő
késhegyre megy! És még száz ilyen kérdés, se vége, se hossza nem
volna. Mindezt, valljuk meg, az imsti körorvos nem kutatta. Hosszas
és eredménytelen vizsgálódását a következő, inkább rövid
attestumba foglalta össze: Quod omnibus medice bene perpensis
nulla naturali morbo laborare videatur.
Akkor a legmagasabb egyházi hatóság nem habozott többé.
Rögtön kiállított egy szigorú Licentia exorcisandi-t a Seefeldben
székelő P. Priori Aegidius Pert Ordinis Eremitarum Sancti Augustini
címére, azzal az utasítással, hogy ezen főtisztelendő Szent Ágoston-
rendiek, haladék nélkül, ördögűző bizottsággá alakuljanak.
Talán mondanunk sem kell, hogy ezen határozat és utasítás, a
Decanalium Officium útján Seefeldbe leérkezvén, teljesen
készületlenül találta, de sőt igen meglepte fentnevezett Aegidius
priort és a többi Ágoston-rendieket. Mert noha e kitünő férfiak, szent
hivatásuk teljesítésében állandó figyelemmel voltak az emberi lélek
üdvére és javaira, mégis, idáig, exorcizmussal nem igen foglalkoztak,
amit nem is lehet rossz néven venni tőlük, hát lehet? Továbbá ezt az
exorcisanda Personá-t nem is ismerték soha, és életviszonyai és
minden egyéb körülményei felől is a legteljesebb tájékozatlanságban
voltak.
A főtisztelendő Páter Prior boldog, de zavart mosollyal ajkán, a
kolostor udvarában állott és reszketeg kezében a licenciát tartogatta,
míg a többiek körülötte, szomorú Ágoston-rendiek a leáldozó
napban, a szöveget kémlelték előreszegett nyakkal, amelyen az erek
megdagadtak. Valami rejtélyes kéj hullott alá a csenddel az égbolt
skarlát rózsáiból, amint szédületes sziromszüretjük, a láthatár
végtelenjén, az est elé gurult. A felhők a mélyben, fölsebzetten és
fényekkel átszűrve, egy távoli világ aranytengerét hömpölygették
éterikus tornácok és rubinkatedrálisok felé, melyeket nyilván az Isten
szíve ért!
– In virtute obedientiae! – rebegte egy fiatal szerzetes, Páter
Weisshammer Pál.
A többiek csöndesen lehajtották a fejüket, mert ezek már mind
nagyon fáradt és öreg barátok voltak. Az ő világjuk elmult bizony, ezt
érezték szegény aggastyánok. S mivel már nem volt mit remélniök,
csak csöndesen és keserűen lehajtották a fejüket, mit is tehettek
volna egyebet, ez engedelmességben elvégzendő nagy feladat
előtt?! Hol van nekik erejük többé és ki számít reájuk többé,
elkorhadt barátok?! Nagy bánatok tértek vissza szívükben hirtelen,
mert az emlékezet minden örömökből csak a fájdalmat tartja meg.
Egy harang szólott. És akkor, egyedül, kiválva a sorból, P. Pál
megindult tonzurás barna fejével, mint egy isteni küldönc és
mennyei delegátus, a kertek felé! Gyönyörű arcéle, egy Valerius
Potitus! vagy egy Julius Classicianus! merő aranynak tűnt, amint a
fény az égről szinte megperzselte. És homályos öntudata, elepedten
a nagy világosságban, valami sajátságos derengést követett, valami
belső sugárzást mint egy báli termet, amint szubtilis ösztönökben,
remegőn s elragadtatva, a saját sorsához, az összes sorsokhoz ért
közel. Neki ébredt! neki minden ébredt ebben az alkonyatban, a
hajnal, az egész reggel, a nagy tüzes nap, minden! És csak ment és
ment, megnőve és megkönnyebbülve, szűzen és ragyogón s egy
csöppet elborultan már-már keserű mámorokban, mert olyan
gyönyörűségesek! Mit tudott? Mit várt? Micsoda sejtelmei ébredtek
emberi rejtélyek zárt kapui előtt? Miben hitt? Micsoda csillagban a
nyáj fölött, mely szenved? Honnan indult ő maga is, micsoda időkön
és éjszakákon át? S hova sodorta töprengő elmélete, amint elnézett
az emberi óceán fölött, gyönyörű barát, sárgába avult arcbőrével s
egy-egy violaszín sávval a szeme alatt, mely könnyezett!
Oh ifjúság! ez az élet legnagyobb hangja, még egy szerzetes
szívében is. P. Pál oly fiatal volt, oly romlatlan és tiszta! s oly remegő
az áhitatokban! De lelkészi ösztöne, zárkózottsága, magábafojtott
elmélyedése, hány éjszakán virrasztott a gondolat örvénye fölött s
kísérte elborult megértéssel a Coena Domini és Unigenitus bullák
rettenetes szövegtömegét, egy halovány mécs világában! Hányszor
sírt, elkínozva magát a cellája imazsámolyán s elnézett egy sor
halotti koponyát a feszület tragikuma alatt és várta, hogy mind
beszéljen! Hányszor kérdezett és nem felelt, az ajkát harapva
véresre és hányszor szaggatta a húst magán, hogy Istenhez
közelebb legyen! És mégis, hányszor reménykedett, megváltva s
üdén, s hányszor rogyott térdre mennyei önkívületekben, hogy
valami van, ami több, mint e világ! Mennyei küldönc! micsoda titkot
őrzött, micsoda hírt?! És volt egy perce, ezen az estén, amikor a kert
nyírfái alatt már szédült az ismeretlen örömben. És volt egy perc,
mikor az élet, az oly messzi és végtelen és kifürkészhetetlen élet
felhördült előtte, mint egy távoli bőgés s úgy látszott minden, az
egész világ, mint egy virágos seb. És volt egy perc, mikor
összerogyott sírva s azt mondta; »Nem értem, miért reszketek?«
És éppen május elseje volt, mikor Seibert Johanna Seefeldbe
megérkezett. A lengenfeldi majorudvar még nézett utána, kiaggatott
gereblyéinek, kaszáinak, rostáinak elnyűtt bútorzatával, dús
trágyadombja aranytömbjével, amelyen a kakas glóriában állt. És a
tehenek az istállóból, mély baritonban és egyetértőleg még bőgtek
utána egyszer, mint elvarázsolt királykisasszonyok. A testvérek
kijöttek a küszöbre és mint a némák intettek tragikusan. De már
vissza nem intett senki. A legidősebb fivér széles hátát mutatta a
bakról, ahol mint egy csősz ült a vaskos fejével s az ostornyéllel és
hagyott szaladni egy kis hízott lovat, rövidre fogva egy hosszú rúd
mellé, a sok szalmák alatt, amelyeken Johanna lekötözve feküdt és
utazott a zord tavaszi ég alatt. Olykor sírt, arccal a felhőknek, a
formáikat vizsgálva, követve és elmerengve úszó bárkáikon, el is
szállva bennök, aranyvitorlásan! S a madarak után is elszállott
lihegve, apró sikolyok keservében, kis fohászok remegésében, mint
száz és száz kis madár, száz és száz kicsi szárny, az ellebegő nagy
szárnyak után, elvonulva a térben. És hirtelen elfult lélekzettel,
oktalan feldühödve, kigyúlva a szalmán, mint egy mártir üvöltött,
vonagló hassal, a tárt szája vörös belével, mint egy gyümölcs,
szegény gyermek, hosszú mezőkön át és völgyeken végig, ahol
szomorú fáknak vidámzöld lombjuk volt már. Egy-egy tanyából
feléjük néztek meglepődött népek, kutyák ugattak, tyukok rohantak.
És a szekér gurult a poros úton, hegyről le, hegynek föl, zengő
áldozatával a szalma tetején kikötve és tündöklőn a fényben. A
hangja megnőtt és kicsengett a térben, éles lányhangja, mint az
orkán! Egy-egy nagyszerű sikolya, üde felszökkenésben, megrázta a
végtelent és ezerszeresen visszahangzott benne. A mezők, az erdők,
a völgyek és az utak mind együtt sikoltoztak vele, láthatatlan
benépesedéssel, felzaklatva és ünnepélyesen. Egy egész nagy
rettenetes orgona zengett, millió síp és fuvola mint egy mezei ünnep,
millió vágy, egyetlenegy! e fiatal hangon, e fiatal hangon, oh
istenem, bocsássad meg! Úgy tűnt, mintha az egész világ kínja
gurulna e szekérrel!
És akkor rögtön, kijöttek a sok szomorú barátok, szaglászva.
Egymáshoz torlódó kis gruppok látszottak, kegyes fejek teóriája,
ijedt szerzetesek! Hátrálva és megint közeledve, apró lépéseik
szakadozottságával és a csuklyájukat ráncigálva és betartva a
fülüket, csak néztek és tanakodtak és elgondolkoztak s megint csak
néztek, néztek, megriadva és a tekintetük oly megdöbbent
meredezésével, hogy az egész szemük kidülledve, megdagadva,
szinte kipattanva, igazi golyókká változott, a szembogár szörnyű
sugárzásával. Mert Johanna, felszabadultan, a szitkok és átkok olyan
tüzes skáláit zúdította e szent férfiak felé, annyira új hangokat,
hangsúlyokat, szineket és fordulatokat talált e kolostorudvar s ez új
környezet számára, hogy patakzó szóáradata, gorombaságai,
inzultusai és istenkáromlása, mind nagyobb mélységekben és
magasságokban, mind sötétebb rohamokban, lendületekben és
fokozásokban, még tulajdon fivérét is meglepte, aki bár rég
megszokta e tajtékzó tirádákat, de egy ilyen retteneteset még ő
maga sem hallott. Keserű zavarát fokozta még, amikor Johanna,
hirtelen, háttal fordult e gyülekezetnek s csodálatos farát
szalmaszálak díszében, becsmérlőn felmutatta! Rögtön, igaz, minden
szem és minden tekintet megenyhült, olvadozva, mert az emberi
természet nagy alapjaiban ilyen könnyű rugókra jár. Mégis, e
mozdulat, minden rusztikus szépsége mellett, mely
megörvendeztette a lelkeket, némileg illetlennek tűnt, s újra csak
igazolta, merőben fölöslegesen, a Seibert Johanna kóros állapotát,
miközben a fivér, felkapva a bakra és nagyot rántva a gyeplőn,
gondolt egyet s elszaladt.
Akkor, főtisztelendő P. Aegidius Prior, bús mosolyú aggastyán,
nem habozott többé. Amennyiben in virtute sanctae Obedientiae
kellett cselekednie, szorgos figyelme alázatosan kiterjedt a
főhatóságú licencia minden rendelkező pontjaira, melyek a kegyes
tanítások, kioktatások, gyónások és áldozások programmszerű
kifejtésével, egy egész rituálét tartalmaztak. Tehát rövid imádság
után, amelyet egy általános litánia formájában az összes barátok és
a legrégibb öregek is ledaráltak színtelen ajkuk remegésével
tökéletes fogtalanságukon, Seibert Johannát kiadták P. Pálnak, a
vallási tanítások, irgalmasságok, szimbolikus megáldások és
exorcizmák céljaira.
P. Pál csöndesen közeledett, tiszta homlokával a fényben. Amint
két kezét összekulcsolta a leány előtt és a szemét lezárta, a pilláinak
dús szőrzetén egy sor parányi gyöngy csillogott, a könnyei fűzére!
Oly szép volt e percben, oly ájtatos, oly alázatos, oly elalélt szinte a
benső mámoroktól, szent hite izzásában, oly aggódó is és félénk és
fönségesen nyomoruságos, hogy az udvar fehér galambjai
megállottak fölötte tárt szárnyakon a fényben és rózsaszínű
csőrökkel. A leány bámult és nem értett semmit. Valami nagy
semmiségbe bámult, tátott szájjal, a fogak élét mutatva, nyálasan.
Megdermedve várt, lihegett, szédült s eltorzuló vonásai, a felfordult
szemekkel, leendő kriziseit jelezték, rejtélyes átmenetekben. Rögtön
P. Pál a szent áldozással próbálkozott, amint a licencia azt előírta. De
egyszerű kézmozdulata, a kereszt jegyében, rettenetes hatással volt.
Mintha tüzes vassal érte volna a leányt! Megrázkódva, fellángolva,
egy sikolya zengett, vérfagyasztón! És minden ereje, micsoda
fölrobbanással! az ajkak hallatlan reszketegségébe fult, a nyelv
pörgő izgalmával, mechanikai fölkészülésével, mint egy gép, amelyik
beszélni, elsöpreni fog! Még lehetett látni egyideig, amint ez a
megtébolyodtt száj, a tüzesen meredő szemek alatt egy jaguár
tekintetével, az orr alatt, mely fölfelé görbült, csak járt és járt,
forgott és forgott, körbe és keresztbe, elrémítő mozgékonysággal s a
nyelv pokoli ficánkolásával mint egy kis piros hal, több százezerszer
egy fél másodperc alatt. Aztán kész volt, mintegy be volt gyakorolva,
indulhatott, el is indult, beszélt, Uram bocsáss, micsoda iramban! Az
átkok és szidalmak, zord és vaskos szavak, blaszfémiák és százféle
durvaságok olyan szilaj és tüzes forgatagja támadt, hogy szinte
fölkavarta és perzselte a levegőt borzalmas szikraszórásával.
– A Sátán hangja ez! a Sátáné! – kiáltotta P. Pál eliszonyodva.
– A Sátáné! persze! – rikoltotta a leány harsogó diadalmassággal
és elvágódva a földön.
És százféle vonaglások, görcsök és elfúlások közben, csakugyan a
Sátán szócsöve volt, rettenthetetlen megnyilatkozásokban. Hogy ő itt
Seefeldben nem fog kiszállani, mondta, és csak azért sem fog
kiszállani, mert hogy ő nem is itten szállott be! No nézze meg az
ember! Még mernek vele kötekedni! De hát kinek nézik őtet?
Micsoda szemtelenség! Disznók! Pimaszok! Zúgpapok! Fütyülök!
Fütyült! istenem, igen, fütyült, de milyet! holott még vége sem
volt. Még volt egy utolsó, igen haragos, bár önérzetes kijelentése.
Hogy ő tudniillik, a legkiválóbb ördögök egyike, ezt tessék jól
megjegyezni. És hogy továbbá, az nagyon szomorú volna, ha neki be
kellene adnia a derekát egy ilyen gyönge gyülekezetnek. Végül
pedig, hogy őtet senki fia ki nem űzheti. Legfölebb a lengenfeldi
kooperátor, a »bús ökör«, ahogy azt a szegény öreg Schweighofert
nevezte.
Ez törént az első nap. Május 2-án Johanna elég üdén ébredt,
kifogástalan étvággyal elfogyasztott reggelire egy jókora darab
májashurkát, amit még zamatosabbá varázsolt néhány zsönge
hagymával, melyeket a kolostor konyhakertjében tépett, egy hanyag
kézmozdulattal. Aztán bejött a kápolnába, igen ájtatosan és
alázatosan, ahogy illik s általában a legjózanabb s a legfinomabb
parasztleánynak bizonyult, aki valaha élt a világon. Gömbölyű kis
pofácskája, barackvirág árnyalatokban, gyönyörűen meg volt
világítva, amint a májusi nap sugártörése, a templomablak színes
üvegtábláin át, pont az ő orcáit érte, aranypelyhes üdeségükben.
Primitiv ragyogása, a föld termelőanyagának, humuszának,
hatalmának, távoli tanyák, rétek és mezők virulásának érzését
keltette egy isteni zseni művészetével, amint így adja, friss sütetben,
páratlanul és utólérhetetlenül és egyenest a kemencéből a maga
igazi remekművét. P. Pál nem is mert feléje nézni. Még csak egy
röpke oldalpillantással sem, a gyontatószék rostélyán keresztül. De
így látatlanul is, úgyszólván impregnálta finom érzékeit s megviselt
idegzetét a Johanna szépsége. Úgy volt szép ez a leány, mint maga
a szent Szűz, mint a jó Isten maga: hogy gyönyörű fönsége elhihető
legyen, sohasem volt szükséges, hogy meglássa valaki. Johannát is,
a P. Pál szívében, a képzelet ragyogtatta föl, minden tündöklések
üveglajtorjáján. Az ember a legszebbet látja, ha megtanulta a zárt
szemek művészetét.
Imhol Johanna meggyónt szépszerivel és finoman. S amit a hit
örök forrása csak nyujthat bizalmat és reményt, P. Pál mind föltárta
előtte. S ami csak üdvös és kívánatos lehetett, hogy szent katolikus
vallásában megizmosodva, megváltható legyen, csak úgy hullott
elébe, mint pazar gyümölcs, gazdagon! Ami csak volt ájtatos tudás,
tanács, bölcs jóság és irgalom a P. Pál agyában és szívében, mind
odaáradt a Johanna kigyulladt füléhez, halk és forró
szuggeszciókban. A szavaknak illatuk volt, lelkük, mélységük,
szárnyuk és zenéjük, az »Üdvözlégy!« kedves hangjain. És egész
horizontjuk volt, megváltó csillagfénylésekkel.
És mi minden még, hogy pontosak legyünk ez officiákról szóló
följegyzéseinkben! Ki ismeri e szövevények egész bódító rengetegét?
Ki tudja azt, mit raktak le vergődő emberi lelkek a világ négy sarkán,
templomszögletekben, kis szemetet és maszatokat a maguk vétkéből
és sebeiből, a kereszténység évszázadain át? Ki látta azt a lelki
hulladékot, rongyokat és rothadásokat, melyeket millió s millió
gyónásokon át, kihányt magából a templomhajó, nagy útjában,
hová? Ki látta mind a könnyeket mint a tört üveg, a dinnyehéj-
fekélyeket, lelki trágyákat, rossz parazsat s a férgeket és tályogokat
mint egy hagyma, és ki hallotta az összes halk kis hangokat, a sok
szégyent és zokogásokat, amelyek mind, túlélve az embert, mint egy
sötét sziget virulnak tovább, bűnökből összerakva?! Tragikus lomtár,
mérgektől fülledt virágház, micsoda magas katedrát emel az emberi
lélek tudományának, ha van módunk és erőnk elmerülni benne!
Oh, P. Pál rég elmerült, régen sírt és szenvedett! Magányos óráin
és éjszakáin, mint egy fehér sirály rég berepülte már e kloákák
iszapjait és gyakran vizsgálta zárt szemekkel, mint egy végtelen
szüret szőlőfürtfüzérjét az emberi vétket kiaggatva, a kísértés
minden vonzalmával, igéretekkel, a boldogsággal! négy szűk fal
között, ahol tanult és élt. Rengeteg olvasottsága, nagyszerű latin
erudiciója sok titkos világot kigyujtott a szívében és tudori buzgalma,
állandó meditációkban, az összes utakat és hínárokat bejárta. És
fölkészülten mostan és melankóliákkal terhelten, amit a végtelen
érzése okoz, mesteri gyakorlottsággal siklott át a vallásos
irányzatokból a bírói vizsgálatok szubtilis pszihológiáira és fiatal
lelkészi életének legizzóbb perceit élte e leány előtt, akiben a Sátán
volt. Gyönyörűen kémlelt, éles szemekkel mint egy toronyőr a
tengeren, akinek messzi el kell látni! És kutatott és analizált, minden
hangot fölboncolgatott, minden lehelet mélyére szállott, minden
sóhajt széltébe vágott, az egész lelket kinyomta, mint egy citromot!
Forró hangja, lenyügöző akcentusokkal, sugalmazó ereje, alázatos
hevességekkel, a vallató csipkeszövészet legfinomabb hálóját vetette
a leányra, azzal a mézédes delejességgel, amelyen minden titok
fölfakad, megnyílik, letapad! És az inszinuálásoknak, kényszernek és
inkvizitori jóindulatnak oly bravurjával fogta meg, a titkos irányzatok
oly leplezett és a rejtett célok oly távoli rezgésével a kérdéseiben,
hogy mindez mintha túlonnan, egy más világban lett volna. De nem
is tudott meg semmit. Mit lehet megtudni egy nőtől, aki vall? Talán el
is hibázta némi árnyalatokban a célokat, hajszálnyi eszközeinek
túlérzékeny módszerével és finomságával, melyekkel egy hangyát
fölboncolhatott volna. Akkor, kimerülten a boltívek alatt, már csak
néhány végső és primitív kérdésre tért, hogy éppen csak feloldhassa
Johannát.
– Nincs benned semmi gonosz, fondorlat, ármány, cselszövés? –
kérdezte némi indulattal.
– Nincs, – felelte a leány egyszerűen.
– Nem akarsz kifogni a papokon? Nem akarod rászedni őket,
megcsúfolni a vallást?
– Oh Isten őrizz? – rebegte.
– Egyáltalán tudod te mit akarsz?
– Nem tudom.
– Nem gondolod te aztat, – de elhallgatott. És rögtön mégis
visszatért e kérdésre, mellyel önmagát gyötörte:
– Nem gondolod te aztat, – kérdezte, – hogy nem is a gonosz
szellem van te benned, csak egy gonosz természet, mondd?
– Nem gondolom, hogy gonosz természet van én bennem, –
felelte Johanna olyan meglepő szelídséggel hirtelen, olyan angyali,
olyan rezignált, olyan fájdalmas hangon, hogy valami naiv
mártiromság panaszának tűnt.
 P. Pál megremegett.
– Szenvedsz te? – kérdezte.
– Szenvedek, – vallotta be egy leheletben.
– Miért szenvedsz? Mitől szenvedsz? – kérdezte P. Pál forró
nyomatékkal. – Gonosz vágyaktól szenvedsz? – tért vissza a kérdésre
inszinuálón. – Gyónd meg!
De nyilván megint túlsokat kérdezett. A legkiválóbb
gyóntatóatyák eltévesztik a rituálét olykor. Egyetlenegy idegen
árnyalat a lelkész hangjában, a lélek százféle redőin sűvít át s annál
érzékenyebben éri azokat, hogy már eleve vonaglanak a torlódó
érzések, titkok, sebek és karcok fölött, melyeket eltakarnak. A lélek
már magában is sajog. S minden szervét bevonja rögtön, mint a
csiga a szarvát, egy eltévesztett érintés alatt.
– Én nem tudom miért szenvedek, – felelte Johanna csöndesen.
– És azt sem tudom, mitől szenvedek, – tette hozzá egy sóhaj nélkül,
ami több volt minden bánatoknál. Azt neked kellene tudnod szent
atyám, – mondta még és sírt.
Akkor P. Pál föloldozta és megengedte, hogy megáldozzon.
De másnap délben, május 3-ikán, pontosan 12 órakor megszólalt
a kisharang hívogatón. Főtisztelendő P. Prior az ajkára rögzött bús
mosollyal megjelent a kápolnában és számos igazi urak követték
őtet, a kötelességteljesítés ama rezignált és begyakorlott sietségével,
ami mindig oly bárgyú, mert mindig ugyanaz, minden templomi
szertartáson, keresztelőn és temetéseken. De éppen a mozdulatok
ezen szabályszerűsége és a fekete öltönyök kollektív kopottsága,
mely az egész társaságot oly keservesen egyformává tette, egyben
azt is elárulta, hogy ezek az urak mind hatósági férfiak. Aminthogy
csakugyan azok voltak, név és rang szerint: Nigg Gáspár
schlossbergi törvényszéki ülnök és seefeldi előljáró, Weidenhofer
Antal esküdt, aki mint tanu szerepelt, és még számos tanu, tökfej és
girhes, akiket fölösleges névszerint megjelölni, noha mind
környékbeli funkciónáriusok. Mögöttük, tolongva, a seefeldi
parasztság következett s végül, irtóztató szagokban mint egy
járvány, a zarándokok közeledtek, akik híven bejárván a környékbeli
kálváriákat, nem érnek rá tisztálkodni s a szűk templomban,
összezsúffoltan, minden rokonszenv mellett, amit keltettek, odiozus
hatással voltak. De a csodatévő legmagasabb szentségű ostya
elhelyeztetvén, az exorcista páter rögtön föltűnt az oltár előtt, – Pál
barát a márványarcával, a barna szemével mély üregben, violaszín
glóriákkal. A két karját kitárva, a sacerdotalis brixinensis előírása
szerint elmondta az összes imákat, a szimbolikus áldásokkal. Azután
a rituálé sorrendjében a kérdésekre tért, amelyekre a gonosz
Szellem a következőkép felelt:
Ad Quaestionem primam: Quale est Nomen tuum? rögtön így
szólott, impertinensen: Nekem te beszélhetsz amig megkékülsz, én
nem tudok latinul, én csak hochdeutsch beszélek.
– Igaza van, – fújta asztmatikusan Nigg Gáspár törvényszéki
ülnök, konfuzus kézmozdulataival feldúlva a társait, – igaza van! –
Hogy értsük meg, ha latinul beszél? Mi sem tudunk aztat!
A többi funkciónáriusok és tanuk sűrűn és helyeslőleg
bólintgattak a fejökkel mint a gyászlovak, a seefeldi parasztság
izgatottan előbbre tolongott, a zarándokok a háttérből maróan
bűzlöttek.
– Lehetne némi ellenvetést tenni! – jegyezte meg főtisztelendő P.
Prior, szinte ájuldozón attól a kvintesszenciás energiától, amellyel e
négy szót elsuttogta.
Szó sincs róla, lehetett volna némi ellenvetést tenni! Lehetett
volna egyenesen rákényszeríteni az Ördögöt, hogy latinul beszéljen.
Mert hiszen tudott! tudott! mint egy Titus Livius, úgy tudott, amint
ez a további exorcizmák során kiderült. Tökéletesen beszélt latinul.
Csak nem akart, a betyár! Lusta volt. És itt volt rögtön, sajnos, az ő
első győzelme, bizony. De amennyiben a latin beszéd ez esetben
nem igen befolyásolhatta a Seibert Johanna fölszabadítását, P. Pál
igen bölcsen, nem nagyon kötötte magát, de mint okosabb engedett.
Egyszerűen beérte azzal, hogy ezúttal németül kérdezze: Hogy
hívnak téged? – No látod huncut, tudsz te németül is, ha akarsz!
Nevem: Éji Ördög! – Ez volt a válasz.
Ad Quaestionem secundam: Egyedül vagy, vagy
többedmagaddal? – azt felelte: Nem vagyok egyedül, s’il te plait,
többedmagammal vagyok! A hajnali és déli ördögök is itt vannak és
az éjféliek is. Az uzsonnaördögök is itt vannak és a naplementiek is.
A hölgyek közül Sallah s Deborah, ha éppen kiváncsi vagy. Az összes
bolygó ördögök itt vannak velem és a kis másodperciek is. Továbbá
Orphaxat és Lucifer. Akit csak akarsz! – És e további kérdésre: De
hányan vagytok? Kerekszám? – ez volt a felelet: Pont százmillió!
Talán fölösleges hozzátennünk, hogy ez utolsó kijelentés,
amennyire hihetetlennek tűnt, ép annyira megdöbbentette az egész
templomi társaságot. Főtisztelendő P. Priorral az élükön az összes
funkciónáriusok és tanuk, s a többi keresztények, tökfejek és
girhesek kivétel nélkül megremegtek és nevezetesen Nigg Gáspár
nagyokat fújt, amint azt általában az asztmatikusok szokták,
ahelyett, hogy lélegzetet vennének és Weidenhofer Antal esküdt,
mert őt sem szabad elfelejteni, a világ két legostobább szemét, mint
a főtt hal szeme, valami nagyon messzi távlatokba meresztette,
melyek egész közelieknek tűntek. És a nép zúgott és ájuldozott és a
zarándokok kegyetlenül büzlöttek. Százmillió! Ez fölülmúlta az összes
értelmeket, melyeket a gonosz szellem képzete már amúgy is
halálosan fölizgatott és tönkretett. Ezt a lesujtó és elkábító számot
senki nem tudta követni. Senki nem látott itten ilyen nagyba. S e
rettenetes kijelentés elsöprő hatása éppen abban rejlett, hogy
számbeli enormitását senki nem értette meg. De mivel az ad
expulsionem szempontjából az ilyen gyalázatos kérkedés se nem
ártott, se nem használt s inkább csak arra célzott, hogy oktalan
perpatvarokkal a felszabadítást késleltesse, P. Pál igen bölcsen nem
tett ellenvetést, hanem szép simán Fides penes auctorem, a további
kérdésekre tért.
 Még pedig, Tertio: Miért szállottad meg e szerencsétlent? – Mi
közöd hozzá? – volt a válasz. De már itt P. Pál nem engedett. Tudni
akarom! – mondotta igen erélyesen. Miért szállottad meg? –
kérdezte újra. – Mert halálos vétekben volt! – felelte a Sátán.
E ponton sem volt vita. De a negyedik kérdését úgy koncipiálta a
kitünő szerzetes, elsőrendű ördögűző barát, hogy a harmadikra
visszatért benne. Mi okból szállottad meg? – kérdezte nyugtalanul.
Az ördögnek nem tünt fel a kérdés megismétlése vagy talán nem is
tartotta lényegesnek. Elég előzékenyen felelt: Mert különben
elkárhozott volna.
Ad quintam Quaestionem: Mikor fogsz kiszállani? És micsoda jelét
fogod adni annak, hogy kiszállottál és elvonultál? – kissé ingerülten
felelte: Fogd be a szád átkozott csuhás! Neked nem szállok ki!
Seefeldben már történt csoda elég. Különben is nem Seefeldben
szálltam be s nem is Seefeldben fogok kiszállani!
E kérdések után, a rituális vesszőzés és szíjazás következett és
szerencsésen be is fejeződött az összes előírásos imák kíséretével ex
Sacerdotali. Johanna hullámos vonaglásokban, a testi rugékonyság
és hajlékonyság elképesztő látványát nyújtotta. Az öreg barátok
mind becsoszogtak a templomba, s a legöregebb régiek is előbújtak
odvaikból megkérgült sarúik kopogásával a kövön, amint közeledtek
a boltvíek alatt. És a funkciónáriusok és a tanúk mind rémüldöztek az
elragadtatástól, a nép tolongva, lökdöste egymást és a zarándokok
bűze elviselhetetlenné vált. De erre a napra vége volt és a Sátán
nem is nyilatkozott többet.
Főtisztelendő P. Prior, atyai jóindulattal szerzetes testvéreihez
fordult és olyan légies hangon, hogy alig lehetett meghallani,
figyelmeztette őket a Deus Refugium és pro tribulatis litániára,
melyeket szent miséikbe kapcsolni ne terheltessenek.
Másnap vasárnap volt, gyönyörű tavaszi vasárnap, mindenféle
aromákkal, virágillatokkal és zajos muzsikával és a környékbeli
parasztnép dús csoportokban közeledett a hegyoldalon, a seefeldi
korcsma irányában. A rezes banda mennydörgő ritmusával
dühöngött itten s az apokrif hangok brutális harsonája egészen az
erdőig szállott dallamtalan pöfögésekben, egy végtelen égboltozat
alatt. Amint jöttek a parasztok a lankásokon és utakon, már hetykén
táncra is perdültek nagyokat dobbantva fatuskólábaikkal gyönyörű
füvekben és forogva és lobogva, vaskos bokáikat fölkapva a
levegőbe és törpére leguggolva hordóformájú parasztnők előtt,
abroncsozott mellekkel. És amint odaát a kápolnában, P. Pál éppen a
szent oktatásokban kívánta részeltetni Johannát, ez szegény, a zenék
hallatára, rögtön elborult és sírt. És hirtelen, ájuldozón, leányos
elborongása ijesztő krizisekbe fordult, a has és végtagok
emberfölötti rugalmasságával, szatirikus táncravágyódásával, ami
már bizony a rossz Szellem munkája volt. Mert rögtön meg is
nyilatkozott: Örülök! Örülök! – sivította, – szívből örülök! – Minek
örülsz? – kérdezte P. Pál megdöbbenve. – Örülök, hogy a paraszti
népek a korcsmában vigadnak, – felelte, – Mi közöd neked ahhoz, ha
keresztények becsülettel vigadnak? – Mi közöm, te buta? – felelte, –
nagyon jó! nagyon jó! Mintha nem tudnám, hogy ti utáljátok aztat,
ha a keresztények vigadnak! – És hirtelen, átmenet nélkül: Oh az a
lengenfeldi gazember! az a sivár gazember! az a bús ökör! ökör!
ökör! Az juttatott ide!
És ezek már rettenetes hangok voltak, rettenetes vonaglások
közben, melyeket egy végső görcs s egy végső sikoly követett: Oh
csak ne kellene kiszállanom itten! csak ne kellene itten!
És mindez végigcsengett a kápolnán, ijesztő zengésekben,
visszhangokban, kiélezett hangsúlyokban és hangborulatokban az
ívezett mennyezet alatt s az ablakok színes üvegei körül, melyeken
megtört a fény, ferde sugárzással. És hirtelen elvágódva a kövön,
egész testi és lelki lénye titokzatos elrezgésével mintegy távoli
vágyak, álmok és világok felé, Johanna mozdulatlanul feküdt.
Akkor P. Pál letérdelt melléje a kőre. Gyönyörű barna szeme, a
violaszín glóriákkal, mereven a leánynak szegeződött, a tekintet
meleg fájdalmasságával, érdeklődő halottvirrasztásával, időn és
téren kívül, elveszve micsoda csúcsokon, micsoda mennyekben,
micsoda rejtélyek legvégén!
– Oh Uram Istenem, – rebegte, – miért hogy keresnem kell az
utaidat, mikor csak egy van, mely hozzád vezet!
Ezt rebegte P. Pál. És ezekben a tiszta mámorokban és ezekben a
néma melódiákban és a leány előtt, akiről nem vette le a szemét és
még sokáig egyedül és térden a kövön, az élet sajátságos nyugalma
volt ez, az élet szünetje, ezt kellene mondani! Egyetlenegy perc
végtelenségéhez lekötve, az órák jeltelenül múltak el és hangtalanul
hullottak alá, valami elzsibbasztó semmiség örvényébe. Minden volt
és semmi sem volt s úgy lapultak meg itt ketten, elrejtve e
templomszögletben, mint a halottak a kripták mélyén, megdermedt
hűségükkel az örök változhatatlansághoz. És semmi sem hallatszott,
egy hang, egy sóhaj, egy lehelet, semmi. A templomi padok üresen
és elkopva állottak a hajóban és az oltári szentség világított és egy
elefántcsont-feszület, elavultan a régi falon, a fájdalma sárgaságát
hullatta le, panasz nélkül, a csöndben. Mert a vasárnapi vigasság is
elmult már odakünn és a parasztok hazamentek és minden madár is
hazament és hirtelen, Angelus hangjára, csöndes öreg barátok
jöttek, finoman csoszogva és meggörbülten, mint a régi hangjegyek.
És Johanna feleszmélt hirtelen.
Még volt néhány bágyadt perce ugyan és a szemét dörzsölte és a
mellét nyomkodta, mintegy távoli álmok és fájdalmak után. De mikor
fölállott s megindult sóhajtva s mikor a küszöbre érve a kert felé
fordult, már úgy virult abban a keserű üdeségben s a szeme sötét
ragyogásával, mint rendszerint krizisei után. És meglepődve látta az
alkony vörös fényeit a nyírfákra aggatva, mint vörös fátylakat. És a
nyírfák között fiatal alakja megkönnyebbülve járt és véknyan
távolodott, kísérteties világításban és a karját kinyujtotta olykor a
tüzes ágak után.
– Hová mégy? – kérdezte P. Pál mögötte.