For more than thirty years now, thinking about the way we, humans, account for our past has taken place under the aegis of representationalism. In its first two decades, representationalism, inaugurated by Hayden White’s Metahistory of 1973, has been remarkably successful, but by now it has lost much of its vigor and it lacks explanatory power when faced with recent phenomena such as memory, lieux de mémoire, remembrance, and trauma. It might be argued that many of the shortcomings of representationalism (...) spring from the fact that it is exclusively geared to “transfer of meaning.” This essay posits that what may be called “presence” is at least as important as “meaning.” “Presence” can be dealt with by employing a “topical” view of history in which the whole of history is stored in “places” that can be “visited” on the plane of the present. Presence can be said to be stored in metonymy. Whereas metaphor is instrumental in the“transfer of meaning,” metonymy brings about a “transfer of presence.” A metonymy is a “presence in absence” not just in the sense that it presents something that isn’t there, but also in the sense that in the absence that is there, the thing that isn’t there is still present. The presence of the past thus does not reside primarily in the intended story or the manifest metaphorical content of the text, but in what story and text contain in spite of the intentions of the historian. One might say that historical reality travels with historiography not as a paying passenger but as a stowaway. As a stowaway, as what is absently and unintentionally present on the plane of time, metonymy is a metaphor for discontinuity, or, rather, for the entwinement of continuity and discontinuity. (shrink)

In this extraordinarily rich and provocative book by an eminent intellectual historian and philosopher, Richard Sorabji argues persuasively that there was “an intense preoccupation” among ancient western thinkers with self and related notions. In the process, he provides fresh translations and often novel interpretations of the most important passages relevant to this contention in a host of thinkers, including Homer, Epicharmus, Heraclitus, Plato, Aristotle, Epicurus, Chrysippus, Cicero, Lucretius, Seneca, Plutarch, Epictetus, Hierocles, Marcus Aurelius, Tertullian, Origen, Alexander of Aphrodisias, Plotinus, Porphyry, (...) Methodius, Themistius, Augustine, and Proclus, among others. Sorabji’s nuanced, insightful, and often novel interpretations of passages from these and other writers are invariably woven together in an illuminating way, often with an eye to modern developments. There is no other book that covers the classical western material on self and related notions anywhere near as thoroughly or as perceptively. As a consequence for decades to come this book is destined to be a major point of departure for future discussion of classical authors on such issues. That in itself.. (shrink)

How can the subliminal, mysterious, but uncommonly powerful living-on, the presence, of the past be envisaged? In this essay I argue that presence is not brought about by stories — by, that is, the "storiness" of stories. Presence rather shows itself in how the past can force us—and enable us—to rewrite our stories about ourselves. The question then is how we acquire the experiences that can eventually force us to do so. How, and with what kind of things, does the (...) mémoire involontaire—from which presence wells up—get filled? In order to answer this question one might turn it around to the question how we can fill the mémoire involontaire of others. A consideration of the "art of slandering" shows that the mémoire involontaire tends to get filled with things that we believe are "common knowledge," that are "obliquely" communicated, and that are cast in metonymies. Metonymy offers a much better road to the mémoire involontaire than metaphor because metonymy is better at suggesting that what it conveys is "common knowledge." Therefore, I propose that presence resides in the metonymical region of language. Instead of being contained in the meaningful content of stories, presence resides in what a story inadvertently has to be—in, that is, the things a story has to present in order to present a story. My conclusion is that as presence the past is the exact opposite of what historians think it is. It is indestructible, uncannily close, and—despite its closeness and its durability—utterly impossible to conserve in "representations" that can be taken along in the hand luggage with which we traverse time. (shrink)