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I found this very illuminating. I had never heard of Bergson until a few weeks ago, when I read Naguib Mahfouz's trilogy about family life in Cairo in the first half of the 20th century. These novels feature a (male) character who studies and writes about Bergson, and I wondered whether he was supposed to be a widely recognised subject of the time. Although Bergson appears to be popularly a sort of anti-rationalist, for the character in the novels his philosophy is a gateway away from the family's traditional Islam toward a rationalist view which distances him from the people around him. There is a mirror between these books and this article, in that the books are written from a masculine perspective and are ostensibly about a patriarch, but it is the women in the books who motivate much of the action.
> These novels feature a (male) character who studies and writes about Bergson, and I wondered whether he was supposed to be a widely recognised subject of the time.
He kind of was pretty popular in the 1920s and the 1930s, at least in francophile countries and on the European continent generally speaking (I suppose Egypt's intelligentsia from back in the day was heavily influenced by what was popular in mainland Europe). For example Emil Cioran [1] had his graduation thesis on Bergson.
I'm mentioning Cioran because I myself am Romanian and whenever I visit any bookstores outside of the country I usually check the philosophy shelves for Cioran's books, because I'm curious about his reception. Well, he's basically considered as one of their own in France, he's also pretty popular in Spain and in Italy (I mean, as popular as a guy writing about nothingness can be), I think I also found his books in Austria, but in London he is virtually unknown. I remember reading an interview in the Financial Times with a French billionaire, with the billionaire citing Cioran and with the interviewer (I suppose he was British) asking who that was.
What I'm trying to say it's that I find very interesting this distinction between mainland Europe vs UK + USA when it comes to books and the so-called "high culture". You'd think that 70+ years of mass consumption and Western mono-culture would have totally erased any differences by now but there are still some hold-outs.
>Well, he's basically considered as one of their own in France
He's just as French as Chopin :)
>What I'm trying to say it's that I find very interesting this distinction between mainland Europe vs UK + USA when it comes to books and the so-called "high culture". You'd think that 70+ years of mass consumption and Western mono-culture would have totally erased any differences by now but there are still some hold-outs.
Established erudite culture, for lack of a better term, is less permeable to pop-culture. Strong cultural institutions are a good bulwark against acculturation. Churches played that role for a long time.
Curiously, I first heard of Cioran in a novella by Jim Harrison, whose fiction runs much to the outdoors and the active life. I don't think that his writings are hard to find in the U.S., though on the other hand I first read a book of his this year, about 35 years after encountering a mention in the novella.
As I recall, the book I picked up had a blurb by Susan Sontag, a fairly big name in the US literary world. I have the impression that Martin Gardner included a piece on Cioran in his collection The Night Is Large, but I can't be sure.
(Now I want to catch the bus to Bridge Street Books to see if they stock Cioran.)
My only knowledge of Henri Bergson is from perhaps a less intellectual source, the Monty Python sketch 'Spot the brain cell':
Cleese: ... Well your first question for the blow on the head this evening is: What great opponent of Cartesian dualism resists the reduction of psychological phenomena to physical states?
Jones: I don't know that!
Cleese: Well, have a guess.
Jones: Henri Bergson.
Cleese: Is the correct answer!
Jones: Ooh, that was lucky. I've never even heard of him.
I’m surprised to hear people don’t know who Bergson is. I’ve assumed most of my early years that he was at the top of the pantheon of XXth century thinkers.
My undergrad philosophy class was on him, Giono & Camus. Our dean replaced our designated professor and taught us half the year (which was a relief from the old cow who somehow managed to made Giono grey and Camus dull) because our dean was Bergson last, favourite student. He was entrusted with his notebooks and even published them that year (against Bergson express dying wishes; that controversy was fun). It was incredible to go from enjoying someone who could speak of philosophy with passion, gradually realise he refused to admit Bergson positions changed through his life and work (which is very ironic given Bergson’s ontological thesis) and finally, from the podium of the designated specialist who betrayed his master’s official will, felt like he misunderstood everything about the man.
No author compares favourably to an original text from Giono, no matter what: more colours than Gauguin, blunter, more energetic concision than Hemingway, large humane characters who hate each other but you can’t help identifying with… But that last page of Bergson story unfolding in front of us was incredible.
Studying philosophy through literature and characters was a thrill that made _The Feast_ and other classical discursive text really cool. But seeing a student turned professor failing his late-master, live; seeing a dean be a gradually worse teacher, through the assault of honest, curious questions… that was better than any theatre.
We went to study Anouilh the following year, and even _The Lark_ felt less intense. Not sure why they decided to have us look into fiction and literature to study philosophy rather than abstract books. I guess they expected science undergrads to enjoy it more.