“Biography” is a sober, precise and modern word. Like other words formed from a Greek root, it has a competent and knowing air. It makes a good appearance in the summary of reviews, on the platform at conferences, between “biology” and “bibliography,” between “necrology” and “radiography,” in that scientific elite of the lexicon that travels in “business” class from one language to another, always at home in the time belts, hotel lobbies, conference rooms or amphitheaters. Compared with this prosperity, the word “Life” is old-fashioned, a poor relative doomed to retirement homes. In the period between the two wars it disappeared from bookstore windows and book jackets. The hesitations of André Maurois, the author of Aspects de la biographie (1928), are characteristic of a transition: he wavered between La Vie de Disraeli (1927), Ariel ou la vie de Shelley (1923), Prométhée ou la vie de Balzac (1965) and Byron (1930). We sense that the title Vie was on the way out or had to yield to a proper name or an allegorical figure. However, it was a word in good standing, nobly Latin in origin, as great a signore in its class as those Massimi or Colonna who claimed their ancestors were mentioned by Titus Livy. Its genealogy is still more ancient, if we recall that its metonymic and literary meaning in Latin is a translation of the Greek word Bios, which the Hellenes, inventors of the genre and who had a more pedantic use of their language than we do, were content to use up until the end. “Biography,” according to Liddell-Scott, is not found in Antiquity except in a very late neo-Platonian, Damaskios, who put this humorless escogriffe into circulation when twilight was descending on the Roman Empire, between the 5th and 6th centuries A.D., at the dawn of the Middle Ages. It made its entrance into modern languages in the last quarter of the 17th century, when the humanism of the Renaissance was coming to an end, and the Enlightenment was beginning its rise. This late and ill-boding word began a slow ascension, long delayed: it did not come into usage outside the circles of antiquarians until the 19th century. The old word “Life” proudly kept its importance until the ‘20s of our era in the particularly conservative language of titles of works. Its definitive effacement to the profit of “biography” brought that of the word “memoirs” or the word “confessions,” which yielded to “autobiography,” while “hagiography” without being able to impose itself so well in usage, took much gravity and credibility away from the “Lives of the Saints.”

In the history of Western thought, the philosophical study of man has been part of the philosopher's pursuits from the time of the ancient Greeks. But after a lapse of over two thousand years, the study in this field remains not much developed and its achievements are far from satisfactory. Already in 1928, Max Scheler in his Man's Place in Nature pointed out the troubled condition of the philosophical study of man: “Man is more a problem to himself at the present time than ever before in all recorded history… We do not have a unified idea of man. The increasing multiplicity of the special sciences, valuable as they are, tend to hide man's nature more than reveal it.” In more recent times, Paul Ricoeur, although approaching the issue from a somewhat different perspective, nevertheless came to a similar conclusion. In his essay The Antinomy of Human Reality and the Problem of Philosophical Anthropology, he stated: “The sciences of man are dispersed into separate disciplines and literally do not know what they are talking about.” It seems to me that part of the explanation for this Situation lies in the way of thinking of Western learning, with its peculiar segmentation of fields of inquiry. During this century, some branches of human sciences, such as psychology, sociology, ethnology, political science, economics and psychoanalysis, have developed rapidly. They deal with the study of man from different angles, and have really accumulated a rich wealth of data. But what man is as such is still not clear. Unless we succeed in forming a comprehensive view of man as a whole, we will not be able to have a real insight into human nature and will be lost in a mass of disconnected and isolated data which seem to lack conceptual unity. We must recognize that the sciences of man in the contemporary Western world belong exclusively to the Western cultural tradition which originated in the early Greek civilization with its own concepts of values. They are entirely divorced from the other great cultures of the world, for instance, the Indian and Chinese cultures, which are as important as the Greek culture in the history of civilization. In order to reach a deeper understanding of man, it is perhaps necessary to make cross-cultural comparative studies. Therefore a short survey of the studies of man in ancient Chinese philosophy may not be superfluous. I would like to confine my survey to the early Chinese philosophers of the pre-Qin period, not only because it is almost impossible to deal with the entire history of Chinese philosophical ideas spanning over two thousand years in an article, but also because the ancient time is the most creative and most important period in the development of Chinese thought.

Brain functions are stochastic processes without intentionality whereas mind emerges from brain functions as a Hegelian “change from quantity”, that is, on the order of 1012 profusely interconnected neurons, “into a new quality”: the collective phenomenon of the brain's self-experience. This self-referential and self-observing quality we have in mind is capable of (recursively) observing its self-observations, i.e., interpreting change that is meaningful in relation to itself. The notion of self-interpretation embodies the idea of a “hermeneutic circle”, that is, (in interpretation theory) the treatment of the whole in relation to its parts.

Two levels can be distinguished in the structure of a language as a system of signs: the level of expression and the level of contents. Every sign of a language will thus be characterized by the unity of these two aspects. We can distinguish therein the signifying (.signans) and the signified (signatum), which correspond to the two levels of the language. Relations between the signifying and the signified in linguistic signs are determined by the relationship between their content and their expression. Relations between signs at the level of contents and at the level of expression are the cause of the complex nature of the linguistic sign.

For some time it has been fashionable in literary circles to reject what is called scornfully the biographical method. It was inevitable. No mode lasts forever. Sooner or later, there is a change. This method was the law for too long. It had no rival. Under its tutelage the motto for teaching literature was “the man, his work”. It was by its authority that students were taught that La Fontaine was in charge of waterways and forests and master of the hunt before writing his Fables, that they had to learn by heart; or that Beaumarchais had been a clockmaker, musician, secret agent and business man before inventing the character of Figaro, proposed for their admiration. There has been a reaction. Our irreverent and contentious age has put an end to that absolute sovereignty. For a good quarter of a century this practice and the assumptions on which it rests has been on trial, in the name of the various and at times even contradictory conceptions and theories about the nature of literature. These have in common, however, the belief in the independence of literature with regard to the human being who was the instrument of its creation, as well as the anathema cast by this fact on what is commonly accepted as “referential illusion”.

The Swiss psychologist Jean Piaget devoted his life to following, step by step and lovingly, the development in children of the art of reasoning. In the course of the successive stages of this development, the child's view of the world changes in nature. Similarly, from its earliest infancy, medicine has viewed living things in successively different manners. For medicine, it is true, the stages overlap; one may still be using an ancient discourse from which another has daringly freed itself. Nevertheless, for the sake of clarity in this analysis, I will try to define successive epistemological attitudes as if they had represented a regular progression of medical thinking.

Translating is often discussed in scholarly circles. Writers talk about it as, obviously, professional translators also do. Even linguists have something to say about this activity, as old as the oldest civilizations. We should like to offer some ideas here on a subject that is so frequently considered. While the ideas are not entirely new, they are results drawn from a lengthy reflection and from the no less lengthy experience of translators. We hope they will indicate some directions that would be fruitful for a continuation of the discussion.

It is certainly simplifying to attribute a common way of thinking to vast human groups. This evident observation is particularly applicable when examining the ethnolinguistic ensemble traditionally designated as “Turkish-Mongolian”. The definition that can be given to this ensemble is based above all on linguistic facts. Two language families exist in Eurasia, Turkish and Mongolian respectively, scientifically well-defined and attested to, not only by living speakers but also by documents that go back, for the former, to the 8th century, and to the 13th century for the latter. Moreover, there are considerable affinities between these two families, both in structure and in vocabulary; these affinities can be explained either through an original relationship between them or through many centuries of reciprocal influences, consequences of a long symbiosis. In addition, at a very early date there can be observed a very profound community of social structures and cultural traditions between the two groups (ranging from beliefs to material organization), the vestiges of which subsist even in our own times.

In a sense it is easier to talk about human unity in the biological sciences than from the perspective of the human and social sciences, especially as these have developed over the last thirty years. If paleontology, biology and neurology make it possible to emphasize physical constants evident for the entire human race, to the contrary it seems impossible to find similar unity in the social systems and the cultural values that define the radical identity of a group, a community or a nation. Apartheid, racism, intolerance and prejudices everywhere express differences that most frequently derive from social imagination but that function no less strongly as determining forces for human cultural production and historical conduct.

If we admit that Latin-American literature is a part of what is called Western culture, why, I ask myself, has it not been able to influence any of the great literatures of the West, outside of the Spanish? To be more precise, when I speak of influencing, I am not referring to the historico-cultural event that signifies Latin America, which has changed the West, but specifically to literature, that is, writing, the book, the language, the contents, the creative structure and the symbols. From its origins until today, Latin-American literature, like Jugoslavian literature—in spite of the Nobel prize awarded to Ivo Andric—or Bulgarian or Icelandic, remains a marginal phenomenon. It is produced within a closed circuit, having no real resonance except in Spain. Furthermore, it struggles between two guilt feelings: one, that of being late with regard to renovating currents of fashions of the day and the other, that of not responding to its own reality. Because of those burdens of a guilty conscience, it often feigns innovation by following outside models or exalting a nationalist realism that has not produced the slightest new form but only a mediocre art of propaganda. It simulates and copies, or it lags behind. It either tries to be up to date or pretends to overcome this uneasiness by inventing an intransigent Americanism, behaving like a telluric barbarian or accepting traditional popular forms that may produce works such as Martin Fierro, whose value for the Latin-Americans cannot be denied but whose range is limited.

In a number of areas, in particular in the Pacific region, it has been observed that languages have undergone simplification processes of their usually very elaborate grammatical structures, and that such elaborate grammatical features have decayed and in some cases entirely disappeared from some languages, hand in hand with the progressing decay, and falling into disuse, of the traditional cultures of the speakers of such languages. Such phenomena of simplification and decay of grammatical complexities are most readily observable in Papuan languages of the New Guinea area and have also been found in Australian Aboriginal languages. Both these languages have very complex grammatical systems, the Papuan languages even more so than the Australian Aboriginal languages, and the multiplicity of grammatical features in them lend themselves more readily to simplification than may be the case with other languages in the Pacific area, such as Austronesian languages, also called Malayo-Polynesian languages, though such phenomena are by no means absent from them.

All specialists who question the diverse components of the medieval universe stress that the ecclesiastical institution occupied a choice place within the sociocultural structure of that world. This is true because of the solidity of its implantation in the century and particularly because of the efficacity of its doctrinal function. In the cultural domain, the production and transmission of knowledge (in addition to the practice of indoctrination that it supposes), the Church was completely sovereign. The ecclesiastical institutions (from simple parish churches to cathedrals and episcopal sees, as well as convents and monasteries) were responsible for the foundation and rise of medieval schools, universities, the centers where books were produced—or more precisely, manuscripts—and the organization of libraries.

Out of what the West now terms contemporary art, some would construct the synthesis and final accomplishment of every civilization, of all the great forms of art that have followed one another, blending and overlapping ever since man has existed and began expressing himself, like a fugue with innumerable developments that always returns to focus on the same theme, headed in the same direction. This evolution, as strangely loaded with analogies as it is rigidly anachronous, has borne, followed and determined without failing, the mutations in our image. Art of the West in particular, in all its principal incarnations from ancient mythologies all the way to Rodin, from the Romanesque pilgrimage down to Daumier and Picasso—moving through culminating points of extreme harmony or tension: Rembrandt, Goya, Soutine—is presented as the great figure of a God in human appearance. Around this figure has been formed an entire world in which the real has continually been re-invented as art renewed its statements of it. Did this God and this world lose soul and memory on the day when the photographer's lens, a disastrously incorruptible witness, indicated the limits of very strict anthropomorphism?

Pidgin languages are special reduced interlingual systems of communication created by the need to communicate between speakers of two or more different languages. They originate to fulfil certain communicative requirements, adapt to changes in these requirements, and disappear once they are no longer needed, for pidgin, by definition, are second languages, used by adults and not transmitted (except in the exceptional case of creolization) to a new generation of children. Pidgin languages are found in all parts of the world where trade, warfare, colonialism or tourism has brought members of different speech communities into contact. The lifespan of some is no greater than the length of a summer holiday, others, such as Chinese Pidgin English, remained in existence for more than a century. Whilst for a long time pidgins were put in the category of “marginal languages” and their study correspondingly marginalized, in the most recent past, pidgin studies has become a fast growing and very respectable subfield of modern linguistics. The love-hate relationship which linguists, and indeed educators, historians and others, have had with pidgin languages centres around what I am inclined to regard as their single most important characteristic: their changeability. Pidgins, can be called the chameleons of the world's languages; they grow and contract with communicative requirements, they change their lexical composition to reflect the relative power of communicants, they change their speakers, and their geographical location and to their users look very similar to their own first languages.

Although many people find fault with Freud, the horse that they flog is not yet dead. I should in fact maintain that we are all still under Freud's long shadow. Last autumn the American press reported a dreadful crime: a young man, egged on by his mother, murdered his father. The newspapers helpfully explained that the young man had a very prominent Oedipus complex. If we dismiss this as just a journalistic excess, we would do well to remember how hard it is to open our own mouths without registering the effect of Freud upon the language. We converse casually about the sexual proclivities of infants, about sibling rivalries, about dependency upon the mother, about sadomasochistic impulses. When we forget things, we suspect ourselves of having wanted to forget them. We may shun the technical vocabulary of Freud, words such as ego, superego, id, the pleasure principle and the reality principle, the anal, oral, and genital stages, yet we are hardly likely to do without such words as aggression, anxiety, compulsion, the unconscious, defense mechanism, narcissism, death wish, erogenous zones, fixation, guilt feeling, sublimation, wish fulfillment. Freud may not have invented most of these words, yet he connected them together and he gave them a special color and shape. And quite apart from terminology, Freud has given us the conviction that a secret life is going on within us that is only partly under our control.

Today we know, and this will be the subject of this article, that the universe is in continuous evolution, even revolution. This observation has been possible only quite recently. It was necessary to wait for the observations of distant galaxies, undertaken between 1930 and 1950 by Edwin P. Hubble, the astronomer who was the first to show that the universe as a whole is presently expanding. We know now also that the form of the constellations closest to us, such as the Great Bear, has been modified over the last millennia. Ancient astronomers, and with them the rest of humanity, imagined at that time that the universe was eternal and unchangeable. Astrophysicists today are convinced, in the large majority, that twenty billion years ago the universe went through a unique phase during which it was very hot and very dense. To this phenomenon they have given the name of the original or primordial explosion. As will be seen later, certain people believe that the universe will once again experience this great “heat”, which will be generated during future contractions. Others foresee an increasingly frozen and empty future for the universe. Between this glorious past and this uncertain future, the universe each day reveals more of its splendor thanks to the arrival of modern techniques of observation and the beginning of the conquest of space. The purpose of this article is to give a brief survey of the manner in which astronomers see the universe today; working from the position of man in the universe, his relation to it begins to be understood better.

The second half of the Fourth Century B.C. was a time of crisis for Greek city states. Aristotle lived through this crisis. He began to reflect on the ideal organization of the polis. In his analyses of ethics (Nicomachean Ethics: NE) and of politics (Politics: P), can be found the conceptual framework for the socio-economic organization of the polis in light of its “development crisis”. In these texts Aristotle distinguishes himself from practitioners of political economics (as, for example, Isocrates and Xenophon) by declaring what could be called the socio-economic paradigm of a school theoretician.

We are again going through a period of expansion in biographical literature. There is an ever greater number of publications, demonstrating the libido biographica of the reading public and also showing the interest of authors for a genre that is often treated with a great deal of care and rigor. This is not the first time in the history of letters, and each of us can find in his library a quantity of ancient, classic or modern works proving the constancy of this production. However, the contemporary phenomenon takes on a different meaning. The appetite for the biographical seems to be directly linked to its value as testimony. We are living in an era of distrust with regard to rules and codes. Every individual is called on to organize his conduct and invent his existence, from which comes, it seems, this need for an example that also expresses a taste for history and a need for more truth than entertainment from the author of biographies.

Haitian Creole is a unique language, as are all creole languages. Mother tongue of almost six million people—without counting those who have immigrated—it has its own particular ways of expressing in words, of making sentences and forming a discourse. However, for more than two centuries it has been excluded from many circuits of communication. The limits imposed on it have kept it from developing a creativity, at the vocabulary level as well as that of organizing a discourse that would assure a function of plural communication, both oral and written. The present challenge of this long-throttled language has posed an important number of problems in linguistics, teaching, culture and politics because of new communication systems and especially because of education.

The ardent antagonism between two aesthetic parties, figuration and abstraction, which for more than half a century has stamped art history in old Europe, with increasingly overlapping implications for youthful America, Japan and many other places, today tends to reduce itself to being simply the anecdotal imprint of an era: in the final analysis it seems already condemned to disappear in favor of a notion of complementarity and even synthesis.