Henri Lefebvre: A Critical Introduction - autonomous learning
Henri Lefebvre: A Critical Introduction - autonomous learning Henri Lefebvre: A Critical Introduction - autonomous learning
e v e r y d a y L i F e wrote “easy poetry” and “clear prose.” 35 The Abbey of Thélème even seemed to anticipate the young Marx’s radiant vision: a “communist utopia that opened itself resolutely towards the future. It proposed an image of man fully developed, in a free society. At the same time, Rabelais knows he’s dreaming, because this society is headed towards terrible ordeals and chronic catastrophes.” 36 Lefebvre himself stepped into Rabelais’s unfettered world of excess, affirming throughout his life his own free will in everyday life—for better or for worse. He willfully ignored abstinence and austerity, as well as a plebeian asceticism that informed a lot of his generation’s visions of Marxism and communism. All the same, there was a flip side to Lefebvre’s Rabelaisian nature, something not entirely positive; not least was his excessive publication (writing books at a rate that the most prolific wrote articles) and his excessive libido (like Rabelais’s vagabond hero Panurge, extricated from all social and familial ties, Lefebvre seemed obsessed with a search for women and had a penchant for marriage). Indeed, Lefebvre’s Rabelaisian excesses make his output effervescent and vital yet repetitive and overblown, like a drunk who repeats the same old joke to the same cronies every night at the bar. It was excess, too, that made much of Lefebvre’s personal life chaotic, leaving ex-partners and ex-wives to pick up the pieces of a Lefebvrian personal liberty. Still, excess became a redoubtable political force, and the most magical, supreme, and excessive event Rabelais documented—the peasant festival—enacted a joyous, primal kind of liberty that Lefebvre would never renounce, either personally or politically. He envisages the festival as a special, potentially modern form of Marxist praxis that could erupt on an urban street or in an alienated factory. The festival was a pure spontaneous moment, a popular “safety value”, a catharsis for everyday passions and dreams, something both liberating and antithetical: to papal infallibility and Stalinist dogma, to Hitlerism and free-market earnestness, to 17
H e n r i L e F e b v r e bourgeois cant and born-again bullshit. Popular laughter existed outside the official sphere: it expressed idiom and a shadier, unofficial world, a reality more lawless and more free. One of the most stirring instances of this was the Fête des Fous (“Feast of Fools”), celebrated across medieval France on New Year’s Day. Festivities here were quasi-legal parodies of “official” ideology: masquerades and risqué dances, grotesque degradations of church rituals, unbridled gluttony and drunken orgies on the altar table, foolishness and folly run amok, laughter aimed at Christian dogma—at any dogma. These feasts were double-edged. On one hand, their roots were historical and steeped in past tradition, wore an ecclesiastical face, and got sanctioned by authorities. On the other hand, they looked toward the future, laughed and played, killed and gave birth at the same time, and recast the old into the new; they allowed nothing to perpetuate itself and reconnected people with both nature and human nature. As Lefebvre suggests (p. 57), “the celebration of order (terrestrial, thus social and cosmic) is equally the occasion of frenetic disorder.” The fête situated itself at the decisive moment in the work cycle: planting, sowing, harvesting. Prudence and planning set the tone in the months preceding festival day, until all was unleashed: abundance and squandering underwrote several hours of total pleasure. Laughter evoked—can still evoke—an interior kind of truth. It liberated not only from external censorship but also from all internal censorship. People became deeper, reclaimed their true selves, by lightening up. Laughter warded off fear: fear of the holy, fear of prohibitions, fear of the past and fear of the future, fear of power. It liberated—can still liberate—people from fear itself. Seriousness had an official tone, oppressed, frightened, bound, lied, and wore the mask of hypocrisy. It still does: we know this world all too well. (Or else the laughter of presidents exhibits real buffoonery, a little like the moronic Ubu Roi of Alfred Jarry, Rabelais’s more modern successor. “Shittr,” said Jarry’s fictional cretin king, “by 1
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e v e r y d a y L i F e<br />
wrote “easy poetry” and “clear prose.” 35 The Abbey of Thélème<br />
even seemed to anticipate the young Marx’s radiant vision: a “communist<br />
utopia that opened itself resolutely towards the future. It proposed<br />
an image of man fully developed, in a free society. At the<br />
same time, Rabelais knows he’s dreaming, because this society is<br />
headed towards terrible ordeals and chronic catastrophes.” 36<br />
<strong>Lefebvre</strong> himself stepped into Rabelais’s unfettered world of<br />
excess, affirming throughout his life his own free will in everyday<br />
life—for better or for worse. He willfully ignored abstinence<br />
and austerity, as well as a plebeian asceticism that informed a lot<br />
of his generation’s visions of Marxism and communism. All the<br />
same, there was a flip side to <strong>Lefebvre</strong>’s Rabelaisian nature, something<br />
not entirely positive; not least was his excessive publication<br />
(writing books at a rate that the most prolific wrote articles) and<br />
his excessive libido (like Rabelais’s vagabond hero Panurge, extricated<br />
from all social and familial ties, <strong>Lefebvre</strong> seemed obsessed<br />
with a search for women and had a penchant for marriage). Indeed,<br />
<strong>Lefebvre</strong>’s Rabelaisian excesses make his output effervescent<br />
and vital yet repetitive and overblown, like a drunk who repeats<br />
the same old joke to the same cronies every night at the bar. It<br />
was excess, too, that made much of <strong>Lefebvre</strong>’s personal life chaotic,<br />
leaving ex-partners and ex-wives to pick up the pieces of a<br />
Lefebvrian personal liberty.<br />
Still, excess became a redoubtable political force, and the most<br />
magical, supreme, and excessive event Rabelais documented—the<br />
peasant festival—enacted a joyous, primal kind of liberty that<br />
<strong>Lefebvre</strong> would never renounce, either personally or politically.<br />
He envisages the festival as a special, potentially modern form of<br />
Marxist praxis that could erupt on an urban street or in an alienated<br />
factory. The festival was a pure spontaneous moment, a popular<br />
“safety value”, a catharsis for everyday passions and dreams,<br />
something both liberating and antithetical: to papal infallibility<br />
and Stalinist dogma, to Hitlerism and free-market earnestness, to<br />
17