Henri Lefebvre: A Critical Introduction - autonomous learning
Henri Lefebvre: A Critical Introduction - autonomous learning Henri Lefebvre: A Critical Introduction - autonomous learning
p r e F a c e everyman is suggestive in an age that frantically invokes an essential purity of identity or else wants to homogenize everything in a nihilistic market rage. “I know nothing better in the world than this region,” said Lefebvre in Pyrénées, his alternative tour guide of well-trodden paths. “I know its strengths and weaknesses, its qualities and faults, its horizons and limits. … I have savored the earth in my lips, in the breeze I’ve smelt its odors and perfumes. The mud and stones and grassy knolls, the peaks and troughs of its mountains, I’ve felt them all underfoot.” 20 Written as part of the “Atlas des Voyages” series, this brilliantly poetic travelogue, both geographically materialist and romantically lyrical, mixes photos of dramatic Pyrenean landscapes and ruddy-faced peasants with citations from Hölderlin and Elisée Reclus. Meanwhile, we can glimpse the “crucified sun,” those crucifixes so ubiquitous in the South West’s landscape—giant, austere crosses framed against a bare circle symbolizing the sun. They’d put the fear of God in anyone. Lefebvre equated such religious iconography with bodily repression and ideological dogmatism; it’s an imagery and mentality, in whatever guise, he’d spend a lifetime shrugging off and battling against. “I understand the Pyrenean region better than anyone,” Lefebvre claimed, better than its inhabitants, “precisely because I quit it for elsewhere. … No, not just for Paris, but elsewhere in my consciousness and thought, elsewhere in the world; elsewhere in ‘globality,’ in Marxism, in philosophy, in the diverse human sciences.” 21 * * * Last fall, I went to seek out another little piece of Lefebvre’s world, in an unlikely place: the rare book archives of Columbia University’s Butler Library in New York. There, you can find the one-hundred-odd letters Lefebvre sent his longtime friend and xxix
p r e F a c e collaborator Norbert Guterman. Guterman, a Jew, left France in 1933 and settled permanently in New York. With Lefebvre and writer–communists Paul Nizan (gunned down in Dunkirk in 1940, at age thirty-five) and Georges Politzer (who could swear in German at his Nazi torturers), Guterman collaborated on a series of short-lived philosophy journals. For more than forty years, until Guterman’s death in 1984, he and Lefebvre corresponded. In 1935 they busied themselves on a book, trying to explain why, despite being counter to its collective interests, the German working class ran with Hitler. Lefebvre and Guterman appealed for a Popular Front that could reconcile fractional differences and catalyze a gauchiste revolution. Alas, their book, published the following year, was denounced in “official” communist circles and dismissed as Hegelian and revisionist. Yet the thesis survived the party and the plague, and its intriguing title is apt for explaining the zeitgeist of contemporary America seventy years down the line: La Conscience Mystifiée—mystified consciousness, a consciousness not only usurped by the fetishism of the market but alienated from itself by “absolute truths” of nationhood, patriotism, God, and the president. Lefebvre’s letters from this period are shadowed by a pessimism of impending doom that has a familiar ring about it: “a funk prevents the people from thinking and living,” he wrote on October 19, 1935; “The moment of catastrophe approaches,” recalled another communiqué (January 1936). “I will not make a will,” Lefebvre confessed, on the brink (August 28, 1939). “What I would have been able to bequeath isn’t yet born. … I don’t think of posterity in writing to you, but of our work, our fraternity, our true friendship.” The “Guterman Collection” is a moving testimony of an enduring friendship that survived a century of war and peace, love and hate, displacement and disruption. Yellowing letters, written on tissue-paper parchment, on regional Communist Party notepaper (“La Voix du Midi”), on xxx
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p r e F a c e<br />
collaborator Norbert Guterman. Guterman, a Jew, left France in<br />
1933 and settled permanently in New York. With <strong>Lefebvre</strong> and<br />
writer–communists Paul Nizan (gunned down in Dunkirk in<br />
1940, at age thirty-five) and Georges Politzer (who could swear in<br />
German at his Nazi torturers), Guterman collaborated on a series<br />
of short-lived philosophy journals. For more than forty years, until<br />
Guterman’s death in 1984, he and <strong>Lefebvre</strong> corresponded. In 1935<br />
they busied themselves on a book, trying to explain why, despite<br />
being counter to its collective interests, the German working class<br />
ran with Hitler. <strong>Lefebvre</strong> and Guterman appealed for a Popular<br />
Front that could reconcile fractional differences and catalyze a<br />
gauchiste revolution.<br />
Alas, their book, published the following year, was denounced<br />
in “official” communist circles and dismissed as Hegelian and<br />
revisionist. Yet the thesis survived the party and the plague, and<br />
its intriguing title is apt for explaining the zeitgeist of contemporary<br />
America seventy years down the line: La Conscience<br />
Mystifiée—mystified consciousness, a consciousness not only<br />
usurped by the fetishism of the market but alienated from itself<br />
by “absolute truths” of nationhood, patriotism, God, and the<br />
president. <strong>Lefebvre</strong>’s letters from this period are shadowed by a<br />
pessimism of impending doom that has a familiar ring about it:<br />
“a funk prevents the people from thinking and living,” he wrote<br />
on October 19, 1935; “The moment of catastrophe approaches,”<br />
recalled another communiqué (January 1936). “I will not make a<br />
will,” <strong>Lefebvre</strong> confessed, on the brink (August 28, 1939). “What I<br />
would have been able to bequeath isn’t yet born. … I don’t think of<br />
posterity in writing to you, but of our work, our fraternity, our true<br />
friendship.” The “Guterman Collection” is a moving testimony of<br />
an enduring friendship that survived a century of war and peace,<br />
love and hate, displacement and disruption.<br />
Yellowing letters, written on tissue-paper parchment, on<br />
regional Communist Party notepaper (“La Voix du Midi”), on<br />
xxx