In order to discuss our problem I propose to adopt a definition of art as an ensemble of man-made objects of specific character, of materials, tools and institutions, of people—those who produce and those who commission or look at works of art—and of techniques and skills mastered by the artists. Art—so broadly understood—has no sharp limits, it is an area connected by hundreds of links with the whole of social, economic, intellectual and spiritual life. It is exposed to various disturbances since any one occurring in those other areas with which art is connected must of necessity affect art and its development to a greater or smaller degree. Lack of demand for some kind of artistic products must lead to the extinction of the corresponding kind of production. For instance, images of saints disappeared in those parts of Germany which adopted the Reformation. One can say in general, that, since various factors of social and economic character influence the life of art, it must reflect the results of those crises which affect social, political or economic life, although the way art reacts on various disturbances may be varied. It may seem natural that in a period of unemployment and of high prices society cannot afford to devote as much money to invest in the goods of culture as it does in times of prosperity, and often it is so indeed.

Alliances in the aristocracy of the Republic, that theme has engaged eager and assiduous study in the recent time. Not without the danger of exaggerations and schematism. In consequence, abundant controversy. Moreover, tedium ensues when the method is applied to periods devoid of testimony about persons who can be grasped as persons.

For most people the city, particularly the industrial city, is the antithesis of the aesthetic. While there may be sections that have their charm, trucks and automobiles have conquered the urban streets and pedestrians scurry before them like vanquished before a victor. Gardens and parks are occasional oases amidst the stone desert of concrete and asphalt, but the dominating features of urban experience remain mechanical and electronic noise, trash, monolithic skyscrapers, and moving vehicles. The personal and intimate are swallowed up in mass structure and mass culture. And the human place—precarious and threatened.

“Frontier” is included in the general category of “limit” (limes: a road bordering a field). But what is at the origin of limit, frontier? An authority, a power that can exercise “the social function of ritual and social significance of the line, the limit whose ritual legitimizes passage, transgression” (Bourdieu, 1982, p. 121). The limit, a traced line, sets up an order that is not only spatial but temporal, since it not only separates a “this side” from a “that side” but also a “before” and an “after”. This dual nature of the limit is at work in the myth of the founding of Rome. Any limit, any frontier, is intentional: it proceeds from a will; it is never arbitrary. Its legitimacy was originally established by a religious ritual and later, by a political procedure.

Sheep and the sea! At first glance there would seem to be very little relation between the ovine species and the realm of Thetis. Certainly it would be gratifying to attempt to justify this somewhat Hemingway-like title by recalling the sheep of Panurge who were forced by their gregarious instincts to throw themselves into the sea, following their leader. I could also allude to the woolly-looking froth that the wind provokes on the crest of gentle Mediterranean waves. But of what value is such imagery? Instead I insist fully on the realism of the title. I really do intend to discuss sheep, young ones and not yet fully mature, and maritime travel. In short, I will show that the origin of the domestic sheep is closely linked to the question of early navigation in the Mediterranean Sea, particularly in its western basin.

The geographical Utopias that present a New World, from classical Antiquity and the Middle Ages to the exploration and conquest of American territories by Spain, give a two-fold vision of the myth of gold. On the one hand, the legendary lands in which were found the wealth and power generated by the coveted metal—El Dorado, El Paititi, the City of the Caesars—establish the direction of a venture toward the unknown, and a geography of the imaginary marked the ubiquitous sign of the mythical gold. But at the same time, America permitted the felicitous re-encounter in its territory of the Golden Age that had been lost in the Old World. The first steps of Western man toward the American adventure wavered contradictorily between these extremes, in that gold was at the same time “booty and marvel.”

If a utopia is a near perfect, or even a demonstrably superior, society, is there anything that endangers that society as soon as it is achieved? Yes. Prosperity! I have shown in “More's Utopia and the New World Utopias: Is the Good Life an Easy Life?”, that the actually existing, “real” New World Utopian communities were severely challenged by success. For example, the vigor of the Jansonite community in Bishop Hill, Illinois (1846-1860) sharply declined when that community met their survival needs and had to deal with surpluses and comfort. As soon as communal efforts and group sacrifices produced prosperity, the attractiveness of communism faded.

There is a tendency today to substitute the affirmation of the absolute value of peace for an earlier, fully-formulated ideal of universal peace. This formula, if I am not mistaken, bears the mark of a new exigency: how to maintain the philosophical task, that is, give a basis to the idea of peace that does not arise solely from circumstantial considerations—however imperious they may be, since they come from the knowledge of the danger that a new world war would bring to entire populations—without again falling under Utopian illusions that have fed the projects of perpetual peace. However, some of the difficulties with which the present consideration will deal give a glimpse of the definition of peace as an absolute value. I think it would be wise to examine this definition briefly in order to clear a way for myself.

In the novel Die Automate (Hoffmann, 1957 ed.), the German writer Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann (1776-1822) describes different kinds of musical automatons which play music with expression and musicality. The whole novel is based on the effect of the automatic performances on the feelings of the two personages and on the appearance of musical automatons which simulate, with their musical skill and expressiveness, the structures of the knowledge and feelings of human beings.

The productions of goods and the laws governing their exchange are no longer enough to account for the economic reality with regard to which the idea of crisis is generally invoked. The psychological, intellectual and moral motivations that support the activity of production are seen today as more and more decisive factors but ones that are evasive. Thus the stakes that would govern economic crises (but are they not something else?) must be sought on new ground, around mental incitements, ethical references, networks of obligations that take the question of crisis beyond the economic domain, that would pose it in terms of civilizations.

If we attempt to unify the theoretical efforts that appreciate a specific social activity in play, we can sketch the perspective of an entire anthropology of play into cohesive parts deriving from the knowledge of collective experience. This preoccupation is, in fact, two-fold. On the one hand is the comprehensive description of the relationship between life styles and their stylizations in everyday practices and customs as well as in cultural works, and on the other are social sensitivities and representations that are relatively shared by individuals grouped in human communities. This very general framework encourages situating the presence of play as one of the concrete manifestations of an emotional core, converting primitively negative impulses into attractive forces which, because of this, becomes the seat of all human interaction and agitation, the energetic heart of social power.

If within the borders of human life the truth is, as Vico has said, what is made, then the task of a student of human life can be and should be to find out from what human beings have made what manner of makers they are and what sorts of production their circumstance allows.

Today there is a great deal of discussion about human rights. We speak of them in reference to totalitarian regimes but also in reference to Western democracies, which is a sign, it seems, of a reconsideration of the legitimacy of the power of the State and the conception of law on which this legitimacy rests. However, we had thought this question had been settled for a long time, at least in democratic countries: a legitimate government is one elected by the people, whose sovereign will it expresses through elected representatives, retained or replaced periodically, who make the laws. In other words, the people are sovereign, and the exercise of this sovereignty is governed by a constitution, according to laws that permit the legitimacy of the State (Rechtsstaat) to be expressed concretely. The doubts that arise concerning human rights in many areas of the world would thus be signs of either a rupture between the sovereign people and the executive or legislative power, to which the people delegate the care of their interests and will, or of a resignation of the popular will, reduced to the condition of a sort of do-nothing king, doubting his own legitimacy and handing his power over to his clerks. In both cases, there is a crisis of confidence and perhaps more: a fundamental skepticism toward the very notion of legitimacy as it is usually presented, that is, as the expression of the will of the people: a capricious will, sometimes docile and sometimes rebellious, of an amorphous sovereign (rex otiosus) that it is difficult to identify in the features of its representatives, (congress, parliament or national assembly) or in the form of a ballot. In any case, the citizen, holder of a small particle of popular sovereignty, feels alienated from the State and its institutions, contrary to what we find in texts before the 18th century, when institutions were surrounded by an apparent, if not always sincere, respect and when the social hierarchy was accepted as a matter of fact.

The concept of “acculturation” is closely linked to the history of European colonialism. In spite of all efforts to endow it with a “neutral” or “positive” meaning, the term has never meant anything other than the subjection of indigenous cultures to Western civilization in all its forms.

Ali comparative studies imply simultaneously an identity and a difference, a situation that is replete with intellectual difficulties which give rise to interminable disputes regarding whether we are talking about the same thing or different things. One may cut the gordian knot by deciding either way, but the situation would reappear again as it is bound up with the comparative perspective itself and not with any particular example of it. How long shall we go on “naming”, for the process is unending and ultimately “everything is what it is. and not another thing”. Or, if we do not like “names” as they hardly give us any knowledge and if we opt for “description” which gives us “facts”, then they too are as unending as the “names”, for, as the Jains taught us long ago, they are a function of the dṛṣti that we have or the point of view that we adopt.

“And so the spirit looks neither ahead nor behind: the present alone is our joy”. This verse form Goethe's Faust Part Two expresses a manner of concentrating oneself on the present instant, of recognizing the value of this instant, corresponding to a type of experience of time which was felt quite strongly in ancient philosophies such as Epicureanism and Stoicism. It is primarily this type of experience which will be considered here. But we cannot overlook the literary context in which these verses appear and the significance they assumed in Faust Part Two and in Goethe's oeuvre in general. In this respect we can remark that Goethe himself is a telling witness to the type of experience that we are going to describe.

The debate over the influence of American culture upon Europe and the rest of the world is hardly new. Discussions about the cultural effects of video recorders, satellite broadcasting, cable television and their likely content are only the latest episode in a long-running drama in which the young and aggressive culture of America bludgeons the elderly culture of old Europe (or correspondingly overruns and wipes out the quaint but ill-armed ethnic cultures of the less-developed world, dragging the natives from coconuts to Coca-Cola in a generation of identity crisis). But though there has been much written about some aspects of this issue, and most non-Americans who have come into contact with American culture have some awareness of its dimensions, there is also much which remains unclear, and ill- or misunderstood. In this essay two aspects of this large and complex problem will be examined. Firstly, the problem of how the “Americanisation of world culture” has been understood until now will be outlined, by looking at its background in the mass culture critique of the 19th and 20th centuries, with some current notions of what American culture is, and some accounts of how it has been internationalized. My aim in this first section is in particular to try to isolate “American culture” from commercial and industrial culture more generally, for a conflation of these phenomena is widespread and very misleading. Secondly, a normative argument will be outlined from the premises that a “superculture” is indeed developing and that, though it is less threatening than many suspect, it requires a vital measure of resistance if many valuable elements of human experience are not to be relegated to anthropology museums. The central value which will be defended here, however, is not “Europeanism” or “Americanism”, but rather the central liberal virtue of diversity, of which cultural expression is an extremely important form. My attempt to develop a politics of cultural protectionism, then, represents a wish to surpass simplistic rejections of American culture and to come to terms with the confrontation of culture with industrial society itself. This involves going beyond the traditional discussion of culture in one country, however, and trying to extend the mass culture debate to the international arena, where the present debate on this problem is far more complex but often less sophisticated.

Over the past three centuries in the West, there has been a sort of oscillation between two antagonistic visions of the world. One sees the world as being fundamentally inert, in such a manner that all hopes, dreams and technological delights are permitted. The other thinks of the world as inhabited by a spirit who consecrates all its parts by recording them in a great whole. We can think of the pantheism that sets itself in opposition to Newton's materialism or, more exactly, to the materialist interpretation given to Newton in the 18th century. In the 17th century the opposite had occurred. The magic universe of the Renaissance had given place to the triumphs of the Cartesian mechanism. As for protestantism, which is said to have been one of the most powerful factors of disenchantment after the 17th century, how was one not to see it prolonged, by reaction, into a philosophy for which nature is the tangible presence of God? When Calvin wrote that nothing happens in nature that is not a direct effect of the divine will, we already see appear in the background the mystic ecstasies that Rousseau experienced in nature. For if no single leaf flutters and no breeze blows without divine intervention, then receiving the slightest sensation would mean, according to Jean-Jacques Rousseau, entering into direct contact with God.

Because of the widespread feminine priority that makes it the receptacle of śakti, India is definitely “one of the last bastions of the Mother,” as is pointed out in a recent book. If in fact there is a “maternalistic” culture it is certainly that of India, in spite of the legal regime, in which the element of affectionate magic characterizing all life and all organic intimacy is affirmed through the warm symbiosis of mother-child love. A miracle of that absolute love incarnated with a natural serenity by millions of mothers dispensing a felicitous affectionate security, instilled in the Indian soul throughout its entire life. The traits of the Hindu personality and the principle content of its culture are organized and ordered around this center, characterized by an extraordinary coherence. Since its construction begins with this “dual unity” the Hindu personality has necessarily the popolarity of fusion-separation as a pivot. This is the central theme of S. Kakar, who, basing his conclusions on results of clinical psychoanalyses of Hindu individuals as well as on contributions from the collective imagination (folklore and myths) claims to discern the ontogenetic source of the supreme ideal of deliverance (mokṣa) in early childhood and, more specifically, in the strong unconscious desire to find again the benevolent presence of the “good mother”.

To those who have observed it for a long time, the People's Republic of China today has the appearance of a convalescent who has made his way back from a long illness and is slowly relearning to use his vital organs. And this is the consequence of the decisive and remarkable measures taken after the death of Mao Tse-tung and the subsequent elimination of his abusive widow, Chiang Ch'ing, by survivors of the great cultural revolution, now in the upper circles of the Chinese Communist party. Explanations were provided in the “Resolution on the History of the Chinese Communist Party” adopted June 27, 1981, at the Sixth Plenary Session of the Central Committee of the Eleventh Party Congress. But the real turning point dates from 1978, in the historic third session of this same Eleventh Congress when the opposition to Mao's chosen successor, Hua Guo-feng, called upon participants to “liberate their minds and to seek truth in the facts”. A new People's China had begun to take shape, and although it is not yet possible to pass judgement on its future prospects, visitors who travel there today can only bear witness to the return of this immense population to existential reality, while little by little the “barracks socialism” of the ultra-leftists is dying out.