I am, by profession, a “literary scholar”, in contrast to “scientists”. More precisely, I am a specialist in ancient Greek literature. Yet, in an age such as ours in which so often there is discussion of the standing of the various academic disciplines, of the differences implied by their methods and their needs, and of the means for making them work together, it seems to me more and more that very serious confusion is tending to becloud some essential definitions: that of the study of literature in general, but even prior to that, the very definition of literature itself. It is very important to reach some understanding if we hope to avoid losing the richness of research and the very vitality of culture in the broadest sense of the term.

In his World Culture and the Black Experience Professor Ali Mazrui states that “by being left behind scientifically African languages gradually became incapable either of coping with or stimulating new areas of reflection and analysis”. He agrees with Professor Mohammed Hyder of Nairobi that “if a serious attempt were made to develop a ‘technical limb’ to Swahili, this would indeed be possible” by the simple device of writing redioaktivu for radioactive and thairodi for thyroid and so forth. He thinks, however, that “the majority of African languages have too few speakers to warrant a serious undertaking to convert them into scientific and technological languages.” In any case such an attempt “would be an extreme form of cultural autarchy”.

One of the dominant characteristics of Western philosophical and literary history of the last two centuries is that the object of desire (in the novel) and the object of perception (in epistemology) have been made to reveal aspects which are more complex than the classical age had suspected. With Descartes, everything was clear: the object is but a portion of extension. But with Kant things already become more complicated: the object has a mysterious. en-soi (an sich-in itself) which escapes us. And the object of desire, in literature, acquires such a mystic character that it loses its status of creature. “For what the romantic lover seeks is not really the beloved”, writes Eric Heller. “Intermingled with his erotic craving, inarticulate, diffuse, and yet dominating it, is the desire for spiritual salvation.” It is no longer the object (the creature) which one wishes to embrace, but the invisible reality mirrored in it. Desire does not tend so much toward objects as toward what lies beyond these objects where, it believes, it will find its salvation.

When we think about our way of seeing, appreciating and understanding the different forms and manifestations of the life of the mind in human civilization, we become aware of a rather surprising fact. We are ready and spontaneously inclined to place them in a historical perspective and consequently to judge them according to a “historical consciousness”, with practically only one exception, that of science. No one finds it difficult to admit that the poetry of Homer, Virgil, Dante, Goethe or Baudelaire has always been an authentic poetry, attaining the heights of absolute value and even at times being incomparable, all the while recognizing that to understand this poetry, to appreciate its nobility and penetrate its meaning the effort must be made to put it within its historical context (and ideally to put oneself within that context) rather than to judge it according to the modes and forms of the poetry of our own day. What we have just said regarding poetry also applies to music, the fine arts, philosophy, law, social and political institutions, ethical concepts, religions and customs. In the case of science, on the other hand, such a historical consciousness is almost entirely lacking, even among cultivated people: the history of the sciences is not normally a part of the store of knowledge of these people, but this situation, far from being the cause of such a lack of historical consciousness, is rather the consequence. This is because we are unconsciously persuaded that science is not properly speaking a historical phenomenon; we have the impression that it has not had a real history.

In fifteen years, one could well say tomorrow, we will enter into the twenty-first century and at the same time cross into a new millennium: the third since the birth of Christ. So the calendar is composed, dates are imposed on us to which we often attach a symbolic value. We celebrate the new year as a happy occasion, full of promises. We exchange wishes of prosperity, health and happiness with our relations and friends. Yet an anniversary is also the opportunity to turn back, to stop for a moment at the roadside and consider the journey so far accomplished.

What is truth? This famous question does not express merely the anguish—or the detachment—of the person who, at the moment of choosing, hesitates between deciding for one or the other of the contradictory theses being presented. At a second level, the question no longer concerns merely the content but the very conditions for the decision: in what name, by virtue of what criterion do we say that a given assertion is true while its contrary is false? We could limit ourselves to recognizing in this second phase a particular species of philosophical questioning, which proceeds reflexively from the constituted to the constituent, from the given of the experience to the conditions for the possibility of the experience in general. But in the question about truth, a prejudicial difficulty inevitably arises which is proper to this question and makes it incomparable to any other. How can I be assured of the truth of my assertions about truth without presupposing at the same time a theory for that truth which I am in tact in the process of seeking? In other words, any question about truth moves in a circle since, by demanding a true answer, just like every question it implies that the questioner already knows what is truth at the very moment when he is asking what it is.

It seems at least daring to speak of truth on the subject of art, when Plato, in the Sophiste, 234c, likens art to sophistry, in other words, to falsity and deformation. To be sure, this comparison is based on an exaggeration, because elsewhere Plato insists on the necessity of artistic reality: in the same Sophiste, 299e, he states that “life would be unlivable without art.” The importance thus given to art becomes obvious when we think that this same expression is already used in the Apologie, 38a, with regard to philosophy, the activity that for a man conscious of his own existence is one of scrupulously examining his own life. This similarity in expression testifies to the conceptual and axiological similarity of two (but distinct) activities of the mind effected by Plato who, on a different level, as we have just seen, unhesitatingly condemns one of them, at least apparently; apparently, because basically Plato does not inveigh against art in general but against the art of his contemporaries, whom he openly accuses of accepting the postulate of verisimilitude by using artifice and acrobatics, with the sole end of pleasing the crowds by flattery. In other words, they substitute for the scarch for authenticity that of dexterity in creations conceived only for that effect, which means identifying this type of substitution of values with a prostitution of the artist himself with regard to his public.

To pose the question of myth and truth is to pose three complementary questions: that of myth, that of truth and that of their relationship. It is also to pose a still more fundamental question: that of knowing if the question of myth and truth is not badly put. a pseudo-problem. In other words, is there not a “myth” of the “myth” and, perhaps, of truth? More precisely, is there a philosophical problem of the myth that is not at the same time a problem of language, of its usage and its claim to truth? The myth-philosophy-science hierarchization is not perhaps itself a “supermyth”? Is not myth always a certain philosophy? And science, is it not always an undertaking of testing concepts suffused in a non-scientific context, i.e., philosophical, religious or mythical?