Mundus Totus Domus Est – All the World is a Home

“The only universally accepted dogma in the modern world is the rejection of tradition”—William Chittick.

Robert T. Tally Jr.’s article, “Mundus Totus Exilium Est.”, brings to the forefront a highly problematic issue facing the modern world: the dilemma of the false universal.  His essay attempts to convince the reader that the exile is not simply a vantage point amongst a great many vantage points, but is instead a “perfect” point of departure by which the exile can offer up privileged criticisms—literary, social, cultural, etc.—which “at home” observers simply cannot due.  Tally’s findings are couched not in empirical findings but are instead founded on the primacy of, borrowing from Edward Said, “originality of vision” (Tally).  It is this great assumption of Tally’s, backed by the likes of Said as well as other notable scholars of the literary tradition (Auerbach, Adorno, and Lukács to name three) that I wish to shed further light on regarding the problematic of defining exiles as superior to non-exiles, and how such false universalisms detract from the merits of their works.

To proceed, it will be necessary to draw out Tally’s arguments in order to reveal many of the unpacked suppositions his essay espouses.  This will allow me to illuminate on many of the articles points I find highly questionable.  That being said, it is not my goal to simply argue or refute Tally’s assertions for the sake of argumentation, but to show that by unpacking Tally’s arguments (as well as his sources)—many of them are hidden in the cultural assumptions of Western thought—we can make better use of his intellectual findings.

The major theme that underpins Tally’s work is the concept of exile as critic.  Tally asserts that the exile is best equipped to map out and comprehend social spaces—a process Tally refers to as cartography—due to the exile’s alienation.  According to Tally, familiarization is a process that disadvantages the local from insights into his reality due to a lack of originality, something which the exile is claimed to possess.  This alienation, also referred to as “transcendent homelessness” (4), a term borrowed from Lukács, serves as a lynch pin for Tally’s arguments for the exile as that “perfect individual” who “is better equipped to make sense of the world” (2).

Much of what I found erroneous about Tally’s hypothesis regarding “making sense of the world” has not been due to his methodological approach per se as it is with his scope.  Like so many Western writers, Tally projects his theories not as a set of particulars grounded in history, but as universals.  In Tally’s evoking of the great philologist, Eric Auerbach, he asserts commonly accepted Eurocentric rhetoric:

“The phrase [mundus totus exilim est] is quoted to make the point that the modern critic of literature and language must not be tied to any national ground, but must accept that that his or her ‘philological home is the earth; the nation it can no longer be’.” (1)

Tally’s quotation of Auerbach is representational of the kind of unpacked hubris many European thinkers have exhibited over the last two centuries (if not longer).  First amongst my objections here is the unwillingness for Tally (and perhaps even Auerbach) to examine the scope of his claims.  While Tally does make some small acknowledgement of World War II in its capacity to inform European decision-making, it is for the most part reduced to a backdrop.  Tally undervalues the contribution World War II (and by proxy, history) made to the anti-national sentiments we find in Auerbach (as well as Adorno and Lukács).  In doing so, the relationship between Tally’s theory of the exile as a collective motif remains shrouded in false universals.

Second is the issue of defining the very possibilities of modern criticism.  According to Auerbach, in order to be considered a modern critic, one must abandon all national ties in favor of a global (if not pseudo-transcendent) identity.  This act of laying claim to the earth itself further justifies my claims of a false universalist mentality so common amongst the rhetoric we find in European intellectuals, who often see themselves as “just human”, while other groups who fall outside this classification are doomed to their respective ethnic enclaves.

In contrast, upon examining Milan Kundera’s Ignorance, we find not a false universalist approach, but one that is grounded in a specific memory, a specific nostalgia and a particular experience (from the perspective of the implied author) as a Czech exile living in France.  In this light, Kundera is able to provide for the reader a realistic window into the life of an exile without having to abandon the very specificities of what it means to be Czech, both as exile in France as well as an exile “at home”.

When the character Josef returns to his native Czech Republic, he find that he is not simply an exile who has been living in Denmark, but that in fact, he is an exile in his own native Prague. Despite his best efforts to reconnect with those where left behind, Josef fails to do so.  When he visits his friend “N”, their conversation “never managed to get going” (Kundera 153).  Kundera is able to facilitate an alienation that is based on concrete realities, not on amorphous abstractions.  Josef migrated to Denmark where he established a new life.  At the novel’s end, he is more at home in Denmark than he is in Prague.  Kundera’s use of specifics makes the melancholy and alienation that Josef experiences all the more permeable by not drifting off into abstract universals.

Another area in which Kundera departs from Tally’s suggestion is the way in which Kundera resolves Ignorance.  By the novel’s end, neither Josef nor the implied author move towards a post-nation identity.  Being that Tally’s argument was poised on the position that the exile, for which “the nation it can no longer be” (1), must jettison his national identity in favor of a self-imposed defamiliarization, simply does not bear fruit.  In fact, Josef returns to Denmark, his home for some decades.  From this perspective, it would seem the Kundera is arguing for a different form of expatriation: instead of exilium est, Kundera proposes domus.  All the world is a potential home.

Another aspect of Tally’s argument is the theory of transcendent homelessness.  In essence, Tally suggests, by invoking Edward Said as well as Georg Lukács, that the experience of the exile is one in which the exile lives in a world abandoned by God.  How curious it is that Tally would invoke the name of Said, a Palestinian, whose people to this very day have neither abandoned the pursuit for statehood (a national identity) nor their very solid belief in God.  In fact, many Palestinians see it as a God-given duty to fight and oppose their own oppression in a manner that evokes the God-centered, holy protest of the Civil Rights era (Jackson, Islam and the Blackamerican 3).  Again, Tally’s Eurocentirc thinking reveals his inability to fathom, let alone understand, how a people living in modern times could still very much be attached to a religious as well as national identity.  And while Said claims that the exile “makes possible originality of vision” (2), I am left to wonder, originality or otherwise, just how out of step Said was (and his intellectual legacy is today) with the struggles for the average Palestinian.

To revisit the quote at the beginning of this essay, I find William Chittick’s observation quite salient.  Jurgen Habermas rightly stated that “Postmodernity (of whom I would label Tally an adherent) definitely presents itself as Antimodernity” (Habermas and Ben-Habib 3); antimodernity in the sense that postmodernity is vehemntly oppossed to any system which proposes “to know anything.”  As per Chittick’s observation, I find postmodernity to be oppossed to tradition, be they beliefs, customs, or any form of information that results in a meaningful practice.  In Ignornace, Irena returns to Prague hoping to reunite with some of her old acquaintences.  She commits “an act of poor taste” (36) by offering her friends French wine instead of beer.  Having been away for so long, Irena has come to see herself as French and thus, has come to possess French proclivities:

“Her long absence from the country, her foreigner’s ways, her wealth … that was exactly her gamble: that they’d accept her as the person she is now, coming back.” (Kundera 36-37, emphasis mine)

Irena left to France as a young Czech girl, but she has returned something much more akin to a French woman.  She has not only adopted French tastes but she sees herself as having adopted French traditions (wine instead of beer) by asking herself the question, “can she live here, feel at home, have friends” (36).

Turning to Tally’s conception of the exile, I would like to focus for a moment on the privilege Tally foists upon the exile.  In summary, Tally claims the exile is best prepared to offer criticism through his originality of vision as well as his alienation.  No doubt that the exile offers a unique and original vision on social or cultural scenarios, however I also believe that local opinions can be just as germane to the topic of critical analysis.  Again, I am reminded of the Civil Rights era struggles in which African-Americans fought and struggled to have their side of the story heard.  One could label African-Americans exiles at home, yet their struggles were to grounded in a very local struggle to be accepted as bone fide American citizens, not an embracing of the earth as their home.  As James Baldwin once wrote, “Negores … do not exist anywhere else but America” (Baldwin 40).

To return to the subject of philology, it is here that the false universal manifests itself greatest.  Tally continues to evoke Auerbach, who has an unwillingness to reconcile transcendent lofty goals with the reality that all such goals are carried out in real time and real space.  Quoting Auerbach, “to the extent that one’s mind does remain fettered to its native land, the critic cannot ‘become truly effective’ as nationality may blunt one’s critical acumen” (3).  Circular reasoning aside, I find Auerbach’s assumptions unfounded when read through Ignorance.  In fact, it is just the opposite, for neither Josef nor Irena have given up their native tongues. It is through them that the implied author is able to effectively demonstrate just how alien they are in their own homelands (195).  In relation to this point, I must also cite an underemphasized component of the Civil Rights struggle: it was not simply American blacks who railed against a system of tyranny and oppression, but it was also American whites who engaged in deeply profound soul searching and soul changing.  In this manner, it was the local voices of American whites (essentially “natives”) who had a devastating effect on bringing down the legacy of Jim Crow and anti-black racism, not the transcendent homeless.

I also found, in reading Tally’s article, a tendency towards reductionism, particularly in relation to the cause of war.  Tally far too easily lays the blame for war at the doorstep of national identity.  No doubt that national identity played some role in how war was carried out, but it is simply too insufficient to explain in totality, why Europe went to war with itself.  Likewise, Kundera, while implicitly indicting Communism, is careful not to simply exonerate the Czech people (or the Germans or Russians for that matter) in why they adopted communism.  I am again left to wonder about the Palestinians (or other ethnic groups who struggle in this century for citizenship), if they would consider themselves to be “tender beginners” (3) or if they would be willing to consider “every soil” is their native soil.  Current political struggles on the ground would indicate otherwise.

Tally’s reductionist viewpoints also take the form of myopia.  Quoting Tally, “The critic must work through personal and cultural attachments to the native soil, detaching him-or herself from local prejudices and comforts” (4). Tally fails to convince me of a methodology which is insistent on an ambiguous reality.  Tally’s transcendent homelessness has no form, quality or characteristic for one to grasp.  It is a formless concept, devoid of substance and having no platform to work on.  In Ignorance, it would not have served the implied author to tell the story through impersonal or acultural characters.  Their qualities as Czech, as Dannish or French were not incidental but quintessential to the story’s weight.  One could not simply swap out Czech for Bolivian or Dannish for Senegalese and retain the same effect.  In contrast, despite Tally’s claims of myopic distortions by “undue familiarity” (4), there is nothing more myopic than to reduce the particulars of culture and personality to a one-dimensional playing field.  If all the world is “strange”, as Tally proposes, then how can we come to know texture, scope or scale?  Without these, the world loses its three-dimensionality on a local and global level, where such qualities as tension and polarity, near or far, become flattened and lost.

Tally also reduces the complexities of pre-modern thought to simple short forms.  Citing Lukács, Tally suggests that because pre-modern epistemologies saw value innately in the world, then any adherents to such epistemologies were also irrevocably “grounded in fate and utterly changeless” (5).  Again, Tally’s argument is pregnant with postmodern philosophical presumptions.  Simply because one affirms value in the world in no way chains one to a fatalistic worldview.  In contradistinction, many pre-modern theological schools of thought were able to separate what God creates from what God wants (Jackson, Islam and the Problem of Black Suffering 210).

What Tally and company fail to do is unpack the methodologies which inform their concept of public reason.  Their unmitigated aversion to any system of thought which would value tradition and thus gave value and meaning to the world is looked at with heavy skepticism.  Sherman Jackson sums this stance up adequately,

“The modern mindset is deeply informed by two regimes of ‘public reason’ (science and philosophy) that have little regard for the role of authority and tradition in conveying, discovering, or preserving truth” (Jackson, Islam and the Problem of Black Suffering 7).

It is this notion, of conveying, discovering or preserving truth, that seems to unnerve Tally and his constituents.  And while I do not wish to label Kundera a Romantic, it is clear from his account in Ignorance that he wished to convey and preserve the truth regarding the devastating effects of communism, on himself (through his implied author) and on Czech society as a whole.

In conclusion, Tally’s arguments fall short of the mark of a secular transcendence.  His tendency towards reductionism and circular argumentation detract from the merits of this theory: that exiles have something valuable to offer.  However, unless Tally’s zeal for postmodern philosophy and dedication to a rampant individualism which sees itself as representing all of humanity, he will continue to overshoot his mark by projecting a scope that is untenable.  Perhaps by rooting his theories in local and historical realities, Tally can better convince us the role the exile cum poet can play in helping us make sense and discern meaning in the world.


  • Baldwin, James. The Fire Next Time. New York: Dell, 1963.
  • Chittick, William. Science of the Cosmos, Science of the Soul: The Pertinence of Islamic Cosmology in the Modern World. Oxford: Oneworld, 2007.
  • Habermas, Jürgen Habermas and Seyla Ben-Habib. “Modernity versus Postmodernity.” New German Critique (1981): 3-14.
  • Jackson, Sherman. Islam and the Blackamerican: Looking Toward the Third Resurrection. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005.
  • —. Islam and the Problem of Black Suffering. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009.
  • —. September 11 In History: A Watershed Moment? Ed. Mary L. Dudziak. Durham: Duke University Press, 2003.
  • Kundera, Milan. Ignorance. New York: Harper Collins Publishers, 2000.
  • Tally, Robert T. “Mundus Totus Exilium Est.” 2011. Transnational Literature. 12 November 2011 .
  • Wagner-Martin, Linda. A Historical Guide to Ernest Hemingway. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000.
  • Ziolkowski, Jan. “”What Is Philology”: Introduction.” Comparative Literature Studies (1990): 1-12.

Art As Ideology – Notes On Bourdieu

Marxist analysts of culture, as well as sociologists, have always struggled with the problem of how to explain the social nature of art without making art into an appendage to ideology, that is, an expression of “class interests”. Most Marxist art historians agree that reflection theory, i.e. artistic works are a reproduction of the norms and values of a social group – such as the Boston elite for example – is a rather crude way of defining the relations between artistic production and social surroundings. Reviewing various Marxist approaches Janet Wolff tries to find a more subtle approach.

Wolff asserts that all art is ideological, in a broad sense, in that it is socially and historically situated, related to people’s material conditions.

“Works of art (…) are not closed, self-contained and transcendent entities, but are the product of specific historical practices on the part of identifiable social groups in given conditions, and therefore bear the imprint of the ideas, values and conditions of existence of those groups, and their representatives in particular artists” (49).

Marx himself has left ambiguous, contradictory statements on the relation of art to society. In The German Ideology, he affirms that ideas reflect material or class interests; that culture is a representation of the bourgeoisie’s, the ruling classes desire to organize society according to its interests. In Grundrisse (the draft version of his critique of the political economy), he explains the paradox that Greek art, though created by an economically backward people with a slave economy, still sets aesthetic standards and gives us enjoyment. Marx never wrote systematically on the topics of culture and art.

Cultural critics inspired by Marxism, e.g. Georg Lukacs, Raymond Williams, John Berger, Lucien Goldmann, related art more or less directly to the dominant ideology or to the ideology of a social group. Thus, Lukacs, in his Studies in European Realism, explained the French novel of the early 19th century as a progressive literary genre, because it expressed the social and philosophical aspirations of a still revolutionary bourgeoisie. In the first half of the 19th century, the bourgeois class was still embattled with the remains of aristocratic privilege. Writers such as Stendhal and Balzac thus voiced the concerns of a class speaking for the whole of society. However, after 1848, progressive writers could not express bourgeois ideology anymore, as in the 1848 revolution the bourgeois class had crushed the propletariat and henceforth was not any longer the champion of universal values (liberté, égalité, fraternité), but represented only their self-interest. In Lukacs’s view, writers had therefore to critically distance themselves from their own class or openly take sides with the working class.

The English critic John Berger, believes that certain art forms are directly linked to the ideology of the bourgeois class. Oil painting is a case in point. Oil painting developed during the Renaissance, with the rise of the new merchant and manufacturing classes. It gives all objects an alluring surface and corresponds to the desire to acquire and to possess, thus expressing the middle class self-identification with material success. Berger develops this idea in e.g. his analysis of Gainsborough’s “Mr. and Mrs. Andrews” having their portrait taken in a setting that displays their possessions; or Holbein the Younger’s portrait of the two ambassadors in the midst of all the paraphernalia of their privileged and cultured life. According to Berger, the genre of the female nude in Western painting is directly related to oil painting, allowing for the representation of women as possessions.

In France, Lucien Goldmann attempted to overcome this kind of reductionism by defining great literary or cultural works in terms of “world vision”, the intellectual outlook of a social class or group within wider society. He identified the 17th century Nobility of the Cloth, administrators in the king’s service whose social and economic status was threatened. Members of this social class became attracted to a very austere variety of Jansenism, a Catholic sect strongly influenced by Calvinism, which interpreted life in dark terms. Two members of this group, Blaise Pascal and Jean Racine created one a tragic philosophy and the other a series of brilliant tragic plays. Goldmann wanted to show that an exceptional individual can crystallize the world view of a social group and transpose it into art or literature. Thus, between ideology and the individual writer/artist, there is the mediation of the group; there is no direct link between the dominant ideology and an individual work of art. In principle, with Goldmann’s theory, it becomes possible to describe different social groups and their outlooks that could crystallize into a world vision, however, there are not many of these stark visions around.

Another French critic, Pierre Bourdieu, would give no credit to the Marxists’ attempts at defining a more complex relation between artwork and society. He dismissed all Marxist criticism as reductionism, what he called a “short circuit effect”: linking an art work directly to social and ideological structure without explaining its complex existence in the artistic field. Bourdieu charges Lukacs and Goldmann with attributing the genesis of cultural works to world views, ideology, or patronage of specific social groups or classes. Instead, one has to analyze a complex set of relations existing between social groups, artists and society. Artistic production is imbricated in a whole network and field of artistic production. In The Rules of Art, Bourdieu explains that for Lukacs, bourgeois society is a totality, that is, the capitalist mode of production and the social class in whose interest material and intellectual culture is produced form a coherent whole. The artist either reflects these values or else he must distance himself personally from the bourgeois class in order to keep Enlightenment values of universal freedom and progress alive. In either case, Lukacs cannot account for the diversity of cultural production, he has to exclude, disregard, or discard most of 20th century literature as pessimistic, psychological and subjective, i.e. non-humanist, and non-progressive.

Bourdieu affirms with Max Weber that capitalist society is less of a coherent entity under the undivided rule of the bourgeois class, than a highly differentiated society. Weber believed that modern capitalism develops into complex structures of specialties, into spheres that each produce their own experts, specialized knowledge and language; culture is one of them.
Bourdieu’s concept of cultural field explains culture in terms of a highly complex and diversified activity. The cultural field produces experts that testify to the legitimacy of cultural practice (museum curators, gallery owners, historians, critics, journalists, specialized reviews, journals and events; schools, academies; mediators, facilitators, etc.) Thus, there exist – between the level of economic production and consecrated art – a whole layer of complex structures. Each section of cultural activity is ruled by its own laws of legitimacy, defended by gatekeepers. Bourdieu sees the relation between those who belong to the field and those who strive to gain access as a fierce struggle between social actors who defend their privileges and others who dispute them. According to him, the definition of a field can be contested – as the Dadaists attacked the legitimacy of painting – its rules can be questioned and redefined, but a field cannot be destroyed.

Nevertheless, class as a defining factor has its place in Bourdieu’s theory. The study Photography. A Middle-brow Art constitutes an attempt to define a hierarchy of cultural activities in a democratic system. Bourdieu distinguishes three spheres:

a.The Sphere of Legitimacy with universal claims that the cultivated classes will favor: classical music, painting, sculpture, literature and theater, art practices legitimized by the Academy and the university;

b. The Sphere of the Legitimizable which comprises working class and middle class activities and tastes : cinema, photography, jazz and chansons, fought over by competing authorities of legitimation, such as critics, clubs, and specialized journals; c. The Sphere of the Arbitrary with relation to legitimacy: fashion, design, decoration, cookery etc. and which produce their own, not generally recognized authorities.

Bourdieu’s theory is an advance over Marxism inasmuch as art forms are not evaluated in terms of class tastes or ideological contents, but rather in terms of the conformism of art works to the rules that govern each field. Art is thus accorded a certain autonomy.

Even so, Bourdieu’s theory does not escape the reductionism he was eager to avoid. For instance, in his analysis of amateur photography, of the everyday photographic practices of the working and middle classes, he finds that the laws that govern photography happen to be a “conventional system which expresses space in terms of the laws of perspective” (73), and happen to coincide with the ethos of these classes. He develops a correspondence theory, claiming that the mechanic art of photography invites the social uses to which it is put by the middle classes. The middle classes do not choose artistic photography – though they are aware of it – but the conventional type of photo. The latter is characterized by a perspectivist, central viewpoint, it is legible. It is chosen for its capacity to record, to fix a moment. Thus, what is important here is frontality, striking a pose, taking decent pictures of people, respecting their dignity, etc. The aesthetic of the working classes is derived from their ethics: photography is not considered an art by them, as it is the product of an object, an apparatus and not of an individual, a painter.

Bourdieu recalls the idealist German philosopher Immanuel Kant who distinguishes between that which pleases and that which gratifies; who separates disinterestedness and contemplation from the interest of Reason, the Good. Only that what pleases in a disinterested way can be considered true art. In other words, art has no practical purpose. Adopting this principle, Bourdieu points out that the aesthetic judgment of working class people always refers to a system of norms whose principle is ethical. To take useful pictures is important to them. Thus, the photographic taste of the working classes is in Kantian terms “barbarous taste” (90), as it objects to the meaninglessness of the image, and rather bases appreciation on the informative, the tangible, and the moral interest. The image is subordinated to a function: the family photograph, the souvenir, the document. The working and middle classes are aware of the fact that there is a different aesthetic code in photography, however, they claim the purely artistic photograph is not for them. For instance, they would not do close-ups of a leaf, pebbles or a wave…

Still, even though Bourdieu acknowledges the existence of an artistic photography (Man Ray, Brassaï, Cartier-Bresson) he pretends that it has been unable to develop an aesthetic of its own, that it is totally dependent on the rules that govern painting. He has never explored the particularities of artistic photography, nor has he inquired about the mutual influences of painting on photography and photography/film on painting. We briefly looked at a few paintings by Jacques Monory, based on American B-movies.