Andrew Cole teaches in the Department of English at Princeton University. He is the author of Literature and Heresy in the Age of Chaucer and coeditor of The Legitimacy of the Middle Ages: On the Unwritten History of Theory.

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637

The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London

© 2014 by The University of Chicago

All rights reserved. Published 2014.

Printed in the United States of America

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ISBN-13: 978-0-226-13539-7 (cloth)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-13542-7 (paper)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-13556-4 (e-book)

DOI: 10.7208/chicago/9780226135564.001.0001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cole, Andrew, 1968– author.

The birth of theory / Andrew Cole.

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Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-226-13539-7 (cloth : alkaline paper)—ISBN 978-0-226-13542-7 (paperback : alkaline paper)—ISBN 978-0-226-13556-4 (e-book)

1. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 1770–1831—Influence.   2. Dialectic—History.   3. Theory (Philosophy)   I. Title.

B2949.D5C635 2014

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2013037618

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

The Birth of Theory

ANDREW COLE

The University of Chicago Press

Chicago and London

for Cathy

Centuries and centuries of idealism have not failed to influence reality.

JORGE LUIS BORGES

The philosopher wishes to preserve a number of fixed values; he is frightened by the bohemian’s dialectical reversals.

JEAN HYPPOLITE

Alter ideas and you alter the world.

FORTUNE COOKIE, Szechwan House, Hamilton, NJ

Contents

Preface: Very like a Whale

Acknowledgments

PART 1. Theory

1. The Untimely Dialectic

2. The Medieval Dialectic

PART 2. History

3. The Lord and the Bondsman

4. The Eucharist and the Commodity

PART 3. Literature

5. Fürstenspiegel, Political Economy, Critique

6. On Dialectical Interpretation

Notes

Index

Preface

Very like a Whale

All things counter, original, spare, strange.

GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

Whales aren’t just for syllogisms—nor are they only for bestiaries. Just ask Melville, who delighted in the thought of the whale and saw the leviathan as something more than a mammal, more than a vertebrate, and nothing short of a marvel, noting its perception to be far keener than the one-eyed pisciform surface depicted in so much traditional art.

Melville tells a bloody tale of whale harvest in his great novel, but along the way he pauses to revere the whale. At one moment, he goes so far as to think like a whale and invites us to think along with him. So let’s try. Imagine rejigging your head so that your eyes are located at your ears, like the whale’s eyes, on each side of its head. In this case, says Melville, you would have two backs, so to speak; but at the same time, also, two fronts (side fronts): for what is it that makes the front of a man—what indeed, but his eyes.¹ So it goes with the whale, which must see one distinct picture on this side, and another distinct picture on that side; while all between must be profound darkness and nothingness to him. And herein lies a curious and most puzzling problem, easier to describe than perform, because no human has the mental capacity to process at once two distinct pictures shining at each eyeball: It is quite impossible for him, attentively, and completely, to examine any two things . . . at one and the same instant of time. . . . But if you now come to separate these two objects, and surround each by a circle of profound darkness; then, in order to see one of them, in such a manner as to bring your mind to bear on it, the other will be utterly excluded from your contemporary consciousness. Profound darkness and nothingness overcome you, and you cannot think. For to see two things at once is possible only on two conditions: you would either have to be a whale yourself, or be gifted with a cetacean mind and a leviathan imagination:

How is it, then, with the whale? True, both his eyes, in themselves, must simultaneously act; but is his brain so much more comprehensive, combining, and subtle than man’s, that he can at the same moment of time attentively examine two distinct prospects, one on one side of him, and the other in an exactly opposite direction? If he can, then is it as marvellous a thing in him, as if a man were able simultaneously to go through the demonstrations of two distinct problems in Euclid. Nor, strictly investigated, is there any incongruity in this comparison.

The thrill of thinking, the pleasure of thought, comes in this moment of combining . . . two distinct prospects across the great expanse, overcoming nothingness in turn.

Hegel, had he the chance, would have called the whale dialectic.² It is not hard to see why. For dialectic, like the whale, regards two distinct pictures, two different ideas, and combines them into a single thought. But from what depths did this whale-like thought process emerge in Hegel? The origins of dialectical thinking have long been mysterious. Hegel didn’t invent this dialectic, as he knew perfectly well. He realized that the roots of his dialectical thinking traced back not to antiquity, when the old discipline of dialectic began, but to that age once deemed a darkness itself, the Middle Ages. It was in the Middle Ages that dialectic took on a specific logical form—the dialectic of identity and difference—designed to solve problems that never worried the ancients, such as the problem of nothingness as an absolute negativity. Hegel recuperates the dialectic of identity and difference, and, in so doing, he largely erases the marks of his debt to the Middle Ages—which is why the link between Hegel and medieval dialectic has never been satisfactorily discussed in the philosophical and theoretical traditions he begot.

In this book, I demonstrate how Hegel’s dialectic emerged from the philosophical practices of medieval thinkers, mapping as precisely as possible the lineaments of Hegel’s debt and the implications of acknowledging that debt (chaps. 1 and 2). Hegel’s adoption of this distinctly medieval dialectic was an intellectual risk in the extreme, especially for a young man convinced that he deserved the Berlin chair in philosophy but confined by the academic system to catch-as-catch-can gymnasia teaching. The choice of dialectic placed Hegel in opposition to Kant and countless other philosophers who had viciously mocked dialectic as an outmoded scholastic discipline, a holdover from the dogmatism of the Middle Ages. Hegel recognized that Kant and company didn’t fully understand the dialectic they rejected; they failed to see its capaciousness, the philosophical potential of the categories of identity and difference. Even Hegel himself couldn’t have foreseen the transformative effects of his choice—that the daring extension of the medieval discipline of dialectic into modernity would ultimately lead to what in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries is called theory.

Hegel responsible for theory? Today theory generally names the kind of critical thinking applied against figures like Hegel, while any mention of Hegel in a conversation about theory implies the Frankfurt School and critical theory, where Hegel fares only marginally better. Granted, Theodor Adorno and Herbert Marcuse—to take two leading figures—turn to Hegel in an effort to develop a Marxist critique of culture only notionally present in Marx, offering aesthetic theories that do not double as economic laws. While both find Hegel useful, they clearly indicate that Hegel’s dialectic stands for ideology: Marcuse’s observation that the very structure of capitalism is a dialectical one is repeated in Adorno’s claim that "mass culture has finally rewritten the whole of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit."³ The dialectic is the problem, not the solution: as Adorno proclaims in Negative Dialectics, dialectics is the ontology of the wrong state of things.⁴ Hegel is valuable for modeling avant la lettre the positive infinity or closed system of late capital—which means that theory must instead embrace the openness and potentia of negative dialectics.⁵ For Adorno it is a desideratum, as he says in Minima Moralia, to work in opposition to Hegel’s practice and yet in accordance with his thought.⁶ This Adornian idea of threading the Hegelian needle—working in oppositional accordance with the dialectic—exemplifies the way in which theory has placed Hegel’s works behind a mediating concept called Hegelianism: a sort of translucent scrim that reveals the general outline of Hegel’s thought but obscures its details and complexities. Under the rubric of theory, it becomes impossible to think of Hegel himself in any clear or straightforward way.

The aim of this book is to get behind that mediating scrim in order to think about Hegel’s work directly, unencumbered by the weight of Hegelianisms and energized by his daring appropriation of the dialectic of identity and difference. It is also to indicate something specific by the word theory. By theory I mean, above all, the move away from philosophy within philosophy itself. Even as Hegel retained Kant’s idea of philosophy, he completely broke it apart from within, placing inside the modern academic discipline a figure, a form of thought, that is decidedly medieval and indelibly linguistic: dialectic. Hegel discovered and developed his dialectic, working over Kant more thoroughly than those commentators who view Hegel as a Kant 2.0, or for that matter a Schelling++, are willing to admit. In a move central to the philosophical project he imagined for himself, Hegel rejected Kant’s view of the Subject, deep within which lies the logical a priori categories that sort and present experience (as representation). No amount of history, no contingency of situations, can alter Kant’s transcendental subject, always hardwired to present experience by dint of the categories. Yet Hegel yanked out the wires and crossed them (or, as Brecht would have it, he set the Kantian concepts down to dinner to let them fight it out). He extirpated the a priori forms of experience, as Kant called them, and animated them within narratives whose exposition—whether in the service of phenomenology, logic, history, aesthetics, religion, or indeed philosophy—involves concepts confronting one another dialectically, one relating to the other and taking on the features of its opposite. Hegel’s pithy statement that it is in language that we are conceptually productive bespeaks the drift of his thought, his move from philosophical foundations to theoretical constructs, from Kantian idealism to dialectics.⁷ In so many words, theory is the move from Kant to Hegel.

Quite simply, then, Hegel’s turn away from philosophy in the name of philosophy accords with the persuasive definition of theory offered by Fredric Jameson: Theory begins to supplant philosophy (and other disciplines as well) at the moment it is realized that thought is linguistic or material and that concepts cannot exist independently of their linguistic expression.⁸ Jameson’s definition refers to deconstruction and Althusser, not to Hegel, yet I believe it is important and enabling.⁹ It allows us to think of Hegel as a theorist who made possible the insights that all truths are at best momentary, situational, and marked by a history in the process of change and transformation, that concepts are not autonomous but rather relational, and that the philosophical problem is, namely, that of representation, and its dilemmas, its dialectic, its failures, and its impossibility.¹⁰ The focus of Jameson’s definition of theory on linguistic expression also asks traditional Hegelians to rethink what is a fundamentalist stance about dialectical thinking—in other words, to embrace the notion that while dialectical thinking in its modern guise originated in Hegel, it has developed and changed in a very productive way over the past two centuries. I am not referring to Hegel’s influence, though I will discuss his direct effect on later thought several times in the pages that follow. Rather, I am pointing to the many examples of lowercase theorizing—the deconstructing of binaries and paradigms, the tracking of identities in difference, the exposition of intersectional identity, the critique of ideology, normativity, representation, and institutions—that owe their fundamental structure to Hegel’s definition of the dialectic. The widespread use of dialectical in the academic and public press alike attests to this very basic notion of theory as a kind of critical thinking in opposition to a postulated unity or grand philosophical system, but it also obscures the larger point I will make here about the history of philosophy and theory. I argue in this book that whatever theoretical debt is owed to Marx for these common, so-called dialectical procedures is illusory—illusory, in the first instance, because Marx himself mystifies Hegel where Hegel himself appears most Marxist. Theory, as we have known it and practiced it for a century or more, finds its origin in Hegel—and Hegel himself finds his theory, his dialectic, in the Middle Ages.

By theory, then, I intend to point to Hegel’s own, very sharp dialectical critiques of contemporary life whose bite can be felt once some basic facts about Hegel have been grasped. For to speak of his appropriation of medieval dialectic requires that we always remember, always acknowledge, something quite obvious about his own historical context. Plainly stated, the late eighteenth-century German world into which Hegel was born was fundamentally still a medieval world, structured by feudalism and by the relationship between peasants and lords. Hegel, moreover, witnessed events, personal and social traumas, as well as wars, that transformed the Middle Ages of his birth into modernity, such as the dissolution of the estates, of the Holy Roman Empire, and of all that goes by the name ancien régime. Here, however, because we are dealing with Hegel, whose own dialectical habits of mind meant that there is never a clean and easy break between past and present, we must linger not only on the new but also on the old, not only on the emergent but also the residual, not only the modern but also the medieval.¹¹ Insofar as much of my own thinking about history is rooted in Marxism—I, like so many, came to Hegel first through Marx—it helps to observe a basic fact about contemporary modes of production that even non-Marxist historians spell out repeatedly.¹² James J. Sheehan, in his magisterial German History, 1770–1866, finely documents the fact that Germany remained feudal in Hegel’s own lifetime (1770–1831) and beyond. In broad terms, this late feudalism is defined by its peasant/lord relations: "Freeholders and some lessors were legally free, even if the latter were often caught in a web of servile obligations because of the way they held their land. But many, and probably most, German peasants were personally subject to one or more lords; they lived in Erbuntertänigkeit, hereditary subjection, which limited their rights to move, marry, and do certain kinds of work.¹³ Characterize how you will a given historical present; name it the nineteenth century, call it the twentieth century; celebrate as you may the arrival of this or that new idea or aesthetic: as long as there are feudal arrangements like those Sheehan describes, there is an entire institutional apparatus of expropriation, law, language, and socio-symbolic practice that puts you, or someone, effectively in the Middle Ages. Even if Arno J. Mayer frames this historical matter differently and more broadly by distinguishing between the old and the new capitalisms in Europe—between, in other words, agriculture production and industrial production—he shows that the newer model of finance and monopoly capitalism was in its first rather than its highest or last phase as late as 1914: Not only the growth of industrial capitalism but also the contraction of ‘premodern’ economic sectors proceeded very gradually."¹⁴

Hegel lived in this earlier time. He was born in the Protestant estates of Württemberg, a feudal kingdom that had survived into the modern world.¹⁵ His mother taught him Latin at home, grooming him to become a theologian someday, just as young men had been trained to do for centuries. As a boy making his way to the Stuttgarter Gymnasium Illustre, whose curriculum was a mix of medieval and Enlightenment training, Hegel looked upon a town everywhere shaped by the old guild system. Later in life, among the German universities he could have attended—these were, apart from Berlin, all semi-feudal corporations with inherited medieval privileges and were perceived to be mere relics of an outmoded scholasticism—Hegel chose the seminary in Tübingen, where he donned a long black monkish coat, the appropriate garb for a medieval city and university. Of course, you could say that Hegel abandoned these medieval habits once Napoleon came to town and the feudal privileges of these estates were dissolved, including of course those of Württemberg. But you’d only be partly right. By that time, it is true, Hegel counted himself among the revolutionaries. Despite the modernity of his aspirations, however, he found himself, time and time again, enmeshed in the old, medieval social arrangements. Right from seminary in Tübingen, for example, he gained employment in an aristocratic household as a private tutor or Hofmeister, more or less a domestic—another very old social station. Yet during his downtime he read works of English modernity in the household library and translated an anti-Bernese pamphlet attacking the quasi-feudal system, upon which that same household depended. Eventually, of course, he acquired positions teaching philosophy; and as he went from post to post, eyeing all along the Berlin chair in philosophy, he endured more of the same, a world in which modern ideals were perpetually confronted by medieval realities. He arrived to take up his job in Nuremberg to find a fundamentally medieval academic institution run by guilds, in which the absence of toilets was the icing on the cake. In Heidelberg, whose beautiful ruined castle overlooked the town—you can catch a stunning view of it on the Philosophenweg—and whose university dated from the early fourteenth century, Hegel participated in a medieval network of exchange, accepting supplementary payments for his work the old-fashioned way: in kind.

I could go on. But this is enough to sum up one of my main points in this book—namely, as soon as Hegel’s historical present is taken as a frame of reference for his philosophy, then that philosophy itself can be properly recognized as a trenchant critique of contemporary conditions, rather than only a mysticism that withdraws from them, as Marx says. To be clear, mine is not a task in historicizing Hegel so much as paying attention to the words he writes on the page, the terms and problems he takes up in his philosophy and which point to his historical present. As I show in chapter 3, for example, his master/slave dialectic is an extended reflection on precisely the kinds of feudal expropriation still practiced in the German states; his description of an Herr and Knecht in a dialectical struggle is the key, hidden in plain sight, to unlocking the meanings in that most famous passage from the Phenomenology of Spirit.

It is a cliché, however a helpful one, to observe that dialectical thinking attends to the residual and the emergent—these are Raymond Williams’s terms—but the more exact, the more capacious, version of this point is to say that Hegel thinks at the temporal conjunction of the medieval and the modern.¹⁶ For every example you could name in which Hegel excitedly used modern ideas to decimate any persistent medieval residua (the so-called Württemberg Debate of 1815–18 in which he critiqued the belatedness of that state comes to mind); for every outburst of initial enthusiasm for the French Revolution you can cite, you can also discover Hegel writing in a more realistic vein, understanding the practical need to admit that the present was a mishmash of medieval and modern and that social analysis must proceed from this fact if it is to have any chance of shaping a future.¹⁷

Look no further than his Philosophy of Right (1820), in which Hegel argued for the continued legal recognition of the estates and some of the corporate structures of the ancien régime.¹⁸ He knew that abolishing these medieval institutions was impractical and unrealistic, if for no other reason than the German states had been there and done that (see Napoleon). For that view, he got grief from all sides, and then some. But he continued on in this vein. Very late in life, for example, he wrote The English Reform Bill (1831) and parted ways with many of his contemporaries on the question of England’s modernization and its consequences. In tones now reminiscent of historical materialism, Hegel writes:

The moment of transition from feudal tenure to property has passed by without the opportunity being taken to give the agricultural class (Klasse) the right to own land. . . . The power of the monarchy was too weak to oversee the transition [from feudal tenure to landed property] already referred to; and even after the Reform Bill, parliamentary legislation will remain in the hands of that class (Klasse) whose interests—and in even greater measure its ingrained habits—are bound up with the existing system of property rights.¹⁹

Here, Hegel is speaking of the enclosure movement. He views the practices in a colonized Ireland as especially troublesome and unjust, however legal:

The propertylessness of the agricultural class has its origin in the laws and relationships of the old feudal system, which nevertheless, in the form in which it still survives in several states, does guarantee the peasant who is tied to the land a subsistence on the land he cultivates. But while the serfs of Ireland [die irischen Leibeigenen] do on the one hand have personal freedom [persönliche Freiheit], the landlords [die Gutsherren] have on the other hand taken such complete control of property that they have disclaimed all obligation to provide for the subsistence of the populace which tills the land they own…. They [Gutsherren] thus deprived those who were already without possessions of their homes and their inherited means of subsistence as well—all in due legal form.²⁰

When Hegel cites the personal freedom of Irish serfs, he wants his readers to hear the irony he implies (and his use of the word freedom is quite close to Marx’s own meaning of the term vis-à-vis day-wage labor).²¹ Quite simply, for him, modernization makes feudalism look good by comparison—a point he arrives at, to be sure, out of no love for the medieval period, but which is an idea drawn up from historical circumstances that almost all of Hegel’s readers fail to appreciate as they continue to hold him to be the mouthpiece for the Prussian state. It is with that accusation in mind that we might recall that even Marx and Engels faced the facts of their own historical present in their early Demands of the Communist Party in Germany, proposing ways to bind the interests of the conservative bourgeoisie to the Government.²² Grudging concessions to conservatism, apologetics, realpolitik, what have you: if Marx and Engels get a pass for acknowledging that the world can’t and won’t change overnight, slogans or no slogans, then so might Hegel.

When it comes to interpreting Hegel, biography aligns with philosophy, life with work, thought with action. He held modern ideals, was ever impatient with antiquated, feudal institutions, but was thoroughly realistic about the mixed composition of the present, at once modern and medieval. That he propounded a unique version of what we now call periodization only confirms this assessment. One of the reasons that Hegel is such a salutary thinker to revisit now is that he had no interest in the contemporary obsession with drawing a distinction between premodern and modern. (Literary critics are especially obsessed with this divide.) For Hegel, there is no period distinction to problematize, as the imperative goes, because the medieval is already modern or, to use Hegel’s own terms, romantic.²³ Which means that the present is always peculiarly uneven and inherently dialectical—a present exhibiting every day some new contradiction or break that may take seconds, hours, or years to notice. Hegel offers up a theory of historical unevenness that accommodates all scales of time, all durations from the instant to the larger period or episteme. This idea of historical unevenness is echoed, of course, in Marxism, which uses it to characterize the fits-and-starts expansion, globalization, and spatialization of capital. In other words, Hegel is presciently Marxist in his critical thinking, but not for the usual clever reasons that emerge only in retrospect—that is, by reading Hegel through Marx and then winnowing Hegel’s proto-Marxian germ from the Hegelian chaff. Instead, the idea here is to recognize in Hegel those ideas that made Marx Marx, and we can be open to this recognition only by bearing in mind two analogies. What the Middle Ages is to Hegel, modernity is to Marx; what feudalism is to Hegel, capitalism is to Marx. These analogies can guide our thinking, I believe, foremost in the refusal to follow Marx all the way in his critique of Hegel, who takes Hegel to task for failing to criticize a capitalist mode of production that was not even there to be seen. But the medieval and feudal modes abounded, and Hegel never tired of critiquing them.

These analogies, likewise, inform my thinking throughout this book on the question of Hegel and Marx, because they enable new and surprising links between these thinkers and their traditions. As I demonstrate in the chapters that follow, Hegel’s theory of medieval eucharistic fetishism shapes Marx’s meditation on the modern commodity (chap. 4); Hegel’s reflections on the emergence of political economy from medieval institutions constitute a literary historicism that matches, as well as influences, anything evidenced in the later Marxist tradition (chap. 5); Hegel’s figural approach to concepts provides for a broader sense of utopian literature as an historical and imaginative form and can, in turn, revitalize dialectical thinking by resolving one the greatest antinomies in theory today—that between dialectics and Deleuze (chap. 6). Each chapter contributes to a cumulative argument about the relevance of medieval dialectic to Hegel and critical theory, drawing into dialectical theory what has always been disavowed, thanks to the usual modernizing impulses in theory, but which has always been there: the medieval dialectic of identity/difference. In fact, the phrase very like a whale conveys precisely this problem of recognizing and misrecognizing what Hegel’s dialectic fundamentally, and quite straightforwardly, is. In citing these famous words from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, I do not mean to bore anyone with points about the variability of interpretation with quips that a cloud can take any shape and look like anything. But it can be said that Hegel’s dialectic, having endured some two centuries of criticism, seems like a shape-shifting cloud itself, changing in meaning from book to book, article to article, comment to comment, purpose to purpose. It’s all the more crucial at this point, then, to pause, step back, and behold the obviousness of the whole thing and state it in equally plain terms. Clouds look like clouds because they are clouds. And Hegel’s dialectic, with identity/difference operating as its central mechanism, resembles nothing more than what in the Middle Ages Plotinus and others called dialectic, which operated with identity/difference at its center. Hegel’s dialectic resembles that dialectic because it is that dialectic. Granted, every student of medieval philosophy (then as now) knows that there are many kinds of dialectic in the Middle Ages involving high scholastic summae, university quodlibets and quaestiones, commentaries on Aristotle and Cicero, sophistic treatises, and so forth. Hegel knew this fact, too, as he regularly lectured on Julian of Toledo and Paschasius Radbertus, Alexander of Hales and John Buridan, Peter Abelard and Roger Bacon, and the Arabic commentaries on Aristotle. But as I show in this book, the medieval dialectic of identity/difference should be the basis upon which historical and theoretical interpretation of Hegel’s dialectic proceeds, because it is the one dialectic Hegel chose to adopt for his entire system. By extension, our present-day sense of Hegel’s dialectical creativity must be qualified by acknowledging his debt to a Middle Ages still persisting in his own time. For if we don’t understand what the Middle Ages has to do with Hegel, if we don’t discern what’s feudal about his age and what’s philosophically medieval about his dialectic, then we won’t understand Hegel very well, let alone what makes Hegel Hegelian, or for that matter worth reading.

Finally, the larger narrative arc of The Birth of Theory, as it moves from the dialectical terms of identity/difference in the first chapter to those of figure/concept in the last, represents an attempt to overcome not only the arbitrary distinctions between medieval and modern but also those between dialectical and anti-dialectical thinking. It is not news to anyone reading this book that the divisions between Nietzsche and dialectics or Deleuze and dialectics are either passionately maintained or simply taken for granted. Perhaps my effort at reconciliation will appear to be an example of dialectics enacting its own cliché, its own caricaturized tendency to subsume opposition and erase difference. But readers know that this is indeed a real opposition in modern theory, especially that between Deleuze and dialectics, and therefore not an easy one to manage. While it is best to let that argument unfold over many pages, I can indicate here that what draws these two theoretical sides together, first and foremost, is the phenomenological style that both have in common, and which is itself a premodern dialectical invention. Only by taking on board the ideas of two renowned anti-dialectical thinkers, Nietzsche and Deleuze, can dialectics properly apprehend its own intellectual history rooted in a past whose conceptual challenges and frameworks still energize our current habits of critical thought and—one hopes—the utopian futures we wish to figure.

Athens, Georgia

June 2013

Acknowledgments

Thank you, C. D. Blanton, Aidan Wasley, Vance Smith, Michael Uebel, Maura Nolan, Bruce Holsinger, Eduardo Cadava, Fredric Jameson, Michael Hardt, Mladen Dolar, Slavoj Žižek, Zdravko Kobe, Samo Tomšič, Brit Harwood, Russ Leo, Britt Rusert, Ryan Daniel Perry, Brooke Holmes, Jack Murnighan, Keith Banner, Bill Ross, and Alan Thomas. Thanks, too, sweet Billy and Joan. I dedicate this book to you, Cathy Dailey—love of my life.

.   .   .

Chapters 3 and 4 are revised versions of essays previously printed as What Hegel’s Master/Slave Dialectic Really Means, in Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 34, no. 3 (2004): 577–610, and The Sacrament of the Fetish, the Miracle of the Commodity: Hegel and Marx, in The Legitimacy of the Middle Ages: On the Unwritten History of Theory, ed. Andrew Cole and D. Vance Smith, with an afterword by Fredric Jameson (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), 70–93.

PART ONE

Theory

If the building of a new city in a waste land is attended with difficulties, yet there is no shortage of materials; but the abundance of materials presents all the more obstacles of another kind when the task is to remodel an ancient city, solidly built, and maintained in continuous possession and occupation. Among other things one must resolve to make no use at all of much material that has hitherto been highly esteemed. But above all, the grandeur of the subject matter may be advanced as an excuse for the imperfect execution.

HEGEL

1

The Untimely Dialectic

The way the earliest single light in the evening sky, in spring, Creates a fresh universe out of nothingness by adding itself, The way a look or a touch reveals its unexpected magnitudes.

WALLACE STEVENS

It’s easy to say that Nietzsche, not Hegel, marks the beginning of what can be called theory as a mode of thought distinct from philosophy. He critiques the subject as an a priori construction or Ego set over and against objects, and he vigorously questions systems of knowledge production and the value of values expressed in ethics, morality, theology, and indeed philosophy. That’s the Nietzsche we all know and love, whose stance on the institutions of criticism, history, and thought resembles the best of twentieth-century minds, like Foucault or Deleuze, who modeled their work after his. But we have, thanks in part to Foucault and especially Deleuze, lost Nietzsche, especially the Nietzsche who was deeply and imaginatively dialectical without ever worrying how Hegelian he may have sounded. We have lost the Nietzsche who while philosophizing with a hammer also wielded a keen pick and horsehair brush, excavating valuable ideas from the hardened philosophical clichés that have accumulated over the centuries around him. This is the Nietzsche I care to recover in this chapter, because he models a method by which to rethink the dialectic as an intense and complicated abstraction that is deeply historical—embedded in a past that is obscured by the (then) current philosophical fashions. He lays the groundwork for our discussion in chapter 2 of the Hegelian dialectic of identity/difference whose own history has yet to be acknowledged by theorists and philosophers today.

So who is this Nietzsche? Recall that Nietzsche believed that his erudition in classical studies could enhance the discipline of philosophy. In the Untimely Meditations, he writes: The learned history of the past has never been the business of a true philosopher. . . . If a professor of philosophy involves himself in such work he must at best be content to have it said of him: he is a fine classical scholar, antiquary, linguist, historian—but never: he is a philosopher. And that, as remarked, is only at best: for most of the learned work done by university philosophers seems to a classicist to be done badly.¹ For all the variety of Nietzsche’s body of writing—from its Wagnerian juvenilia to its later blistering aphoristic and self-aggrandizing style—these words, I believe, describe at least one consistent theme within his work: to combine his erudition in classical studies with his fervent critique of philosophical fashion, all in the effort to make philology and historical scholarship philosophical in his new sense of the term.²

Nary a philosophical cliché escapes Nietzsche’s careful attention to pollute his prose, so how could I claim, as I plan to do, that Nietzsche wishes to think deeply about dialectic—that d word we know (despite centuries of worry about it) to have most everything to do with Hegel, a man who himself desperately