Tom Conley

The fold : Leibniz and the baroque

1. Growth in Prayer 2. Prayer that is Jesus 3. The Human response to God 4. The Way to perfection 5. Doctor of the Dark Night 6. Sustained Passion 7. Alone with Him Alone 8. A Stark Encounter with the Human Condition 9. Consecrated Life.

In the Metro

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Revamping Irma: Immodest reflections on French cinema and globalization

In a rectangle in the lower left corner of the November 1999 issue oí Le Monde diplomatique, it is signaled, in bold sans-serif characters, that the theme for the month could be summed up as: Désastre} On the eve of the meeting of the World Trade Organization (WTO) in Seattle French fears about globalization ran rampant. In that issue it was reported that the United States government refused to ratify a long-held treaty banning nuclear testing, thus turning the planet into a virtual powder keg. The American-led intercession in Kosovo, they added, has yielded a new style of international order revealed by the American motives behind the bombing of the Chinese Embassy in Belgrade. American papers had spoken of a logistical error in the action, but European sources informed the editors that the building contained military information and software that would have interfered with the air attacks over Kosovo. The action betrayed, in the Delphic words of Paul Virilio, a grandiose art de déception?

From Detail to Periphery: All French Literature Is Francophone

Naomi Schor, our close friend and colleague for whom we grieve in this collection of essays that Christopher Miller and Farid Laroussi have assembled, has shown us that the beauty and force of literature are felt when it is treated in all of its detail. Her studies capture things minuscule that she makes scintillate as she arrives at conclusions of universal proportion. Focusing on Zola, Sand, Balzac, or Chateaubriand, she locates crucial points where language and image or where speech and things conflate, explode, and radiate luminous energies. Her work has been-and will continue to be-a model of reading that we can strive to follow. In her teaching, too, Naomi seized upon turns of expression where meaning suddenly becomes strange, where it opens onto new spaces, and wherever, in the very least, it invites close and extensive scrutiny. For all of us she has been a champion of the alienating powers of literature. She has shown us that her literary heroes and heroines of nineteenth-century France were forever transfiguring their verbal matter into things seen, into choses vues that had often been overlooked by champions of literary positivism. Conversely, in her studies of art and artists-on the walls of her imaginary museum hung paintings by Delacroix, Gericault, and Millet, and on the floors stood the sculptures of Duane Hanson adjacent to those of Rodin-her modern masters encrusted their pigment, stone, or acrylics with verbal matter. Shards of language turned these things into objets lus, into forms where writing and images turned back and forth into one and the other. She continually turned words into elegant shapes that were other than what they

L'Absent de Paris : In the Savage Country

Michel de Certeau is known for a manner of inquiry-world that combines dialectics and erudition. As a historian of religion he marshaled extensive knowledge of Western languages and clerical practices to study unnameable phenomena, especially religious experience, which he felt at once pathetic, totalizing, and idiotic: an experience, in other words, vital for our relations with the unknown. Events, as he demonstrated through his study of mystical behavior and the science he baptized mystics (in line with chemistry and physics), can only be shown (and never quite stated) by what stirs ‘‘language through a torment of the ineffable.’’ 1 On even a cursory glance the sum of Certeau’s work astonishes and dazzles. Whatever it tackles—glossolalia, the ‘‘idiot’’ as mystic, the bumpkin, or the encounter with Native Americans in the Western Hemisphere—seems to defy knowledge as a whole. Everywhere the reader of Certeau also encounters an extraordinary humility that brushes aside the true erudition informing the history of the French mystic, state reason and public piety in the classical regime, or the politics of vernacular languages at the time of the French

Thevet Revisits Guanabara

Il nous faudroit des topographes qui fissent narration particuliere des endroits où ils ont esté” [We need topographers who can provide detailed accounts of the places where they have been].1 In his essay on “Cannibals,” the early version of his celebrated plea for objective accounts of the fauna, flora, local cultures, and singular features of the New World, Montaigne admonished a tradition of reports made by cosmographers who bore false witness to the Americas. Those observers, he implied, filled Europe with ill-formed and fanciful fiction and had little to do with any first-hand contact with spaces unfamiliar to Europeans. He impugned a line of writers, from Boemus and Sebastian Münster to François de Belleforest and André Thevet, who used the overarching network of a new but compendious genre to capture in its descriptive webbing customs at once primitive and refined, facts archaic and modern, and material both classical in aura and uncanny in shape. Montaigne’s praise of the topographer shared affinities for the person who later became Pierre Bayle’s ideal historian and, no less, the modern ethnographer: one who belonged to no land, was uprooted, déraciné, and capable of casting a candid gaze on any cultural foible that met the eye; one who refused to jump to any moral judgment about cultural practices or the outcome of historical events in past or present; one who was aware of the allure of allegory and rhetoric, on whose seductive delight the effusive and amplified style of the cosmographia was constructed; and one who could report in simple language—of a clarity and measure precise as a toise and discrete as a measured piece of prose—what constituted a singularity. Montaigne’s call for a scientific view of things also suggested that he and his readers wished to know what “really” happened when the French first sought to gain a foothold in the New World. Two failures were on the hori-

Renaissance Ethnography and the Invention of the Human: New Worlds, Maps and Monsters. By Sureka Davies

although written for a general audience literate in German. An interested reader without a specialist background will enjoy and learn from this book. Scholars will find it a convenient overview, especially so because only isolated, seldom-complete sets of the elusive source journals survive, mainly in major university libraries. The vivid and observant written descriptions in the nineteenth-century extracts compensate for the limited number of pictorial illustrations. An index assists access, while bibliographical lists identify the geographical journals and the articles from which the extracts were sourced. Most of the selections come from the German journals Das Ausland, Geographische Zeitschrift, Globus, Hertha and Mittheilungen aus Justus Perthes’ Geographischer Anstalt. This book is the second in a series, Aus allen Weltteilen, intended as a geographical anthology of the nineteenth century. It follows a volume about the Arctic regions titled Die Arktis (Springer Verlag, 2016).

The Mapping of Power in Renaissance Italy: Painted Cartographic Cycles in Social and Intellectual Context. By Mark Rosen Worldly Consumers: The Demand for Maps in Renaissance Italy. By Genevieve Carlton

in the absence of new information on the creation and discovery of the surviving exemplar, would argue at least for the continuing possibility that the prototype of the Peutinger Map belongs to the fifth century or earlier. Nevertheless, excavating the prototype of the map is not the defining subject of this book. Albu deftly leads her readers through a host of unsung details on the map without ever boring us or letting us forget that we are dealing with a living artefact of multiple historical ages and outlooks. It is the accretion or imposition of twelfth or thirteenth-century elements into the map that I found most fascinating and convincing: ‘the imagined restoration of a greater Roman Empire’. Clearly, we classicists ignore the Hohenstaufen stage of the map at our peril, and Albu’s book ultimately issues a challenge to all Roman historians that their investment in transmission history should be more robust. In other words, not dealing with the immediate context of the exemplar is simply not an option going forward. The grand and mysterious Peutinger Map will no doubt continue to attract new theories and even more close readings. After all, it remains the only world map that survives from a potentially direct Greco-Roman prototype and in that regard demands interpretation and reinterpretation. Emily Albu’s The Medieval Peutinger Map sets an impressive standard for all future studies of the map and demonstrates the extent of expertise required to do the subject justice.

The Birth of Territory. By Stuart Elden

maps. Branch also expands his account to the world scale, although he does not engage sufficiently with nonWestern cartographic cultures and could have said much more about China, on which there has been important work. Moreover, because it does not accord with his basic interpretation, Branch is not really able to evaluate sufficiently the role of syncretism in the cartography of empire, as, indeed, in imperialism, both Western and non-Western, as a role. There is a considerable body of scholarship on this subject. For example, for the Americas, a mixture of native and Western mapping conventions and symbols reflected the syncretic character of Spanish imperialism, its ability—alongside the often brutal treatment of Native American society, which was seen as heathen and evil—to adopt and adapt as part of its rule. This was a policy and practice seen also in the way in which, after a period of highly brutal destructiveness, native religious cults were given a place within Christianity. At the same time, adaptation worked both ways. The Native American understanding of geography collapsed the boundary between space and time, recording mythic origins and symbolic power as part of space. This practice was changed as a result of Spanish conquest, not simply because Spain was now the imperial master, but also because the local population swiftly began to follow Spanish practices. They replaced hieroglyphs with alphabetic writing, which transformed the way in which information could be recorded. Branch argues, with much reason, that the abstract understanding of space and the conception of authority in territorial terms applied particularly to the colonial expansion of European powers. As Branch points out, this period coincided with the transformation of Western cartography, although the cause-and-effect has to be handled with care. There is an instructive chapter on New World mapping, and another on peace treaties and political transformation. That which takes the story up to the present is too short to succeed, which is a pity as the topic is important. Having tried to cover some of this territory in The Power of Knowledge. How Information and Technology Made the Modern World (Yale University Press, 2014), I am well aware of the difficulties of linking range and detail, and of avoiding instrumentalism and schemas. Branch is to be congratulated on developing a particular approach with considerable interest.

Cartographies of Time: A History of the Timeline. By Daniel Rosenberg and Anthony Grafton

transparent—not least because the coloured ink stains on the maps themselves are meant to obscure the violence of their making, presenting as natural ‘fact’ that which is the result of historical process. As Kären Wigen argues in A Malleable Map: Geographies of Restoration in Central Japan, 1600–1912, the modern political map of Japan, no less than the map of the Japanese empire that was beginning to take shape in the early twentieth century, is a fiction which masks as much as it reveals about the spatial relationships it purports to represent. As she writes in her Introduction, ‘The gap between the smoothness of that map and the messiness of its making provides the starting point for this book’. Wigen’s study is at once an exploration of that messiness and a detailed history of how the seamlessness of Japan’s ‘regional architecture’ was constructed in the late nineteenth century, as ‘the inherited map [of early modern Japan] was systematically if subtly put to use’. While Wigen’s study engages with big questions in Japanese history and spatial theory, it does so through a purposefully narrow focus: a single province, Shinano, and its ‘chorographic’, or region-focused, archive. The region, Wigen argues, is a unit of analysis that allows for a particular kind of history, one that encourages the historian to pose different questions than do larger (nation) and smaller (local) scales, ‘establishing a criterion of difference not between places so much as between different kinds of places’. The first half of the book is concerned with early modern mappings of Shinano and with what Wigen calls ‘the plurality of Japan’s cartographic cultures during the Tokugawa era’. The material Wigen covers in these chapters ranges from large-scale manuscript maps commissioned by the Tokugawa Shogunate (kuniezu) to a range of printed and published maps that detail the province within the nation, to the ‘mathematization’ and ‘standardization’ thatmarked the efforts of In o Tadataka in the early nineteenth century. As Wigen argues, despite the fact that during the early modern period provinces ceased to have any political significance or role in governing, they ‘remained the general purpose framework for making sense of national space’. Politically irrelevant, the province was freed up to perform a different kind of work in the geographic imagination of early modern Japan: while the provincial framework was originally devised by the imperial court, ‘what started as a frame of reference gradually became a point of view. By the middle of the Tokugawa period, an imposed geography began to morph into a regional identity’. The second half of Wigen’s book is an account of the continuity of regional consciousness into the late nineteenth century, how that consciousness was negotiated and renegotiated in relation to the projects of modern nationhood emanating from Tokyo, and how it has continued to shape identity to the present. Here, Wigen’s attention shifts frommaps and gazetteers to three distinctly modernmodes of knowledge—the statistical yearbook, the geographical textbook and the regional press—as she explores the ways that ‘for most Japanese, the passage to modernity—and the route to national identity—led not around the province but through it’. Indeed, as Wigen argues, one of the hallmarks of Japanese modernity ‘was unusual in the extent towhich geographicalmodernization played out as restoration’ in which for ‘its geographical schema as in its court titles and imperial processions, the Meiji state drew explicitly on antiquity’. A Malleable Map is an eloquent study, which draws together close readings of a broad range of archival materials with a sharp theoretical engagement with the often overlooked role of scale in the construction of historical knowledge to put forward a compelling argument about the place of the region in our understanding of early modern and modern Japanese history. This argument will be of immense interest not just to students of Japanese history but to anyone with a scholarly interest in the history of cartography and the roles that spatial theory can play in rethinking historical inquiry.