8. Genealogy of the Intellectual: The State’s Body, the Real-Subaltern, and Autobiography

 

 

(originally published as “The State’s Body, the Intellectual and the Real/Subaltern: Autobiography and Neoliberal Ideology in Postnational Spanish Basque Culture (On Savater, Juaristi, and Onaindía).” Antípodas: Journal of Hispanic and Galician Studies 16 (2006): 183-227).

 

 

In memoriam Begoña Aretxaga and Christina Dupláa

 

Why this pull toward the anatomy of the self? In part it reflects a phenomenon pervasive in our culture – people confessing in public to an audience of voyeurs […]. What Christopher Lasch famously labelled “the culture of narcissism” has been replaced by the culture of confession. It’s a phenomenon that transcends high and low […].

 

James Atlas, “Confessing for Voyeurs

 

Postnational Spanish Basque Autobiography and the National Subject

One of the most important developments in recent Spanish-Basque postnational literature is the proliferation of autobiographies written mainly by Basque intellectuals who were politically active in the terrorist group ETA or in the opposition during the Spanish political transition to democracy. This is a rather new development that begs a detailed analysis, for it ultimately affects the body politics of the Basque Country and Spain in a very central way. These autobiographies are the first discourses to articulate a self that is postnational while highlighting, melancholically, the irreversible historical crisis of the State from a global neoliberal standpoint. In this respect, they announce the fashioning of a “neoliberal self” that dejects past Spanish-Basque history into abjection.

Here I will concentrate on three autobiographies: Jon Juaristi’s La tribu atribulada. El nacionalismo vasco explicado a mi padre (2002), Mario Onaindía’s El precio de la libertad, memorias (1948-1977) (2001), and Fernando Savater’s Mira por dónde: autobiografía razonada (2003).1 Only two of them, Savater’s and Onaindía’s, are technically autobiographies. The third, Juaristi’s, is a “letter to my father” where political analysis, philology, poetry, and psychoanalysis are mixed with autobiographical material in what could only be called a hybrid of intellectual and autobiographical writing (although, as I will discuss below, a similar tradition exists in early modern England). The inclusion of this third hybrid autobiography is due to the fact that I want to emphasize an autobiographical dominant that is beginning to pervade Spanish-Basque culture and literature. Other texts, which could not be analysed even as hybrid autobiography, present, nevertheless, an autobiographical component that was unthinkable only a few years ago. I am referring to Juan Aranzadi’s El escudo de Arquíloco: sobre mesías, mártires y terroristas (2001), Mikel Azurmendi’s Estampas de El Ejido: Un reportaje sobre la integración del inmigrante (2001), and Savater’s Perdonen las molestias: Crónica de una batalla sin armas contra las armas (2001), among others. It might be noted that at least two of the foregoing writers have published novels in Basque (Onaindía and Azurmendi) and at least one has written an essay in Basque too (Jon Juaristi, Euskararen, 1976). Thus, it is important to analyse this autobiographical component pervading Spanish Basque culture in its full complexity.

Angel Loureiro, one of the most important critics of autobiography in both Spain and the West, opens his book on Spanish autobiography by stating that “[A] considerable number of autobiographical works have been published in Spain in the last two centuries, yet only a small number of them veer from a safe memoiristic pattern” (xiv). At the end of the book, he elaborates on this distinction between autobiography and memoirs and concludes that “[I]n Spain autobiography is often about a self that regulates how much it is convenient or appropriate to say; but it is usually a self assured of itself, rarely one that sees itself as a problem” (185). When Loureiro writes “problem”, he is referring to a self that opens up to the Other, in the Levinasian sense, and constitutes itself in regards to this Other through an ethical bind of responsibility. Loureiro hints at the reason for this memoristic tradition that does not problematise the self: “If the most compelling Spanish autobiographies have been written against the grain of the nation, against Spain’s past and past Spains, the issue must be the national subject and its history” (185). He does not develop further this hypothesis; he only suggests that Spain’s recent modernisation might bring an end to this autobiographical void, thus intimating that the backwardness of the national subject’s history is at stake in this deflation of the autobiographical. However, the eruption of autobiographical literature in the Spanish Basque Country points in exactly the opposite direction; that is, autobiography emerges when the national subject experiences crisis instead of modernisation. To use the distinction that many Latinamericanists make, Spain is experiencing modernism without modernisation – or without its late capitalist version, “postmodernisation” – at a point when the possibility of modernity is already gone. As a result, we are witnessing complex negotiations to write and think beyond the horizon of a national (modern) subject: a postnational horizon where the national continues to linger as problem, rather than as utopia or solution.

The cited Spanish Basque literature allows us to explore precisely the relationship between autobiography and the national subject.2 As I will argue below, the fantasmatic or symptomatic condition of the nation and its bodily fragmentation, triggered by different global and local forms of political violence undermining the State, are ultimately responsible for the proliferation of autobiography in Spanish-Basque literature. In these auto-bio-graphies, a body writes itself in order to unsuccessfully perform a melancholic identification with an imaginary and ideal Spanish nation – the national body – so that this identification can serve for the rest of the Spanish citizens to identify with a Spanish subject, the State, which is experiencing its crisis and fragmentation in globalisation.

Genealogically speaking, these autobiographies are a more recent refashioning of another older genre, the national essay, which fails to legitimise the State through an imaginary identification between “Spanish history” and national body (Delgado). These autobiographies are a final attempt to write the body of the intellectual: “the last national body left.” They are a last resort to create identification between the intellectual’s body and the national body in order to signify the State – the national subject. Ultimately, these autobiographies can be read as a farewell to the national body and its subject, the State. In this sense, they are essentially postnational and point to a post-intellectual discourse that is closer to the media’s new “reality craze”, involving tabloid press scandals, TV “reality shows”, etc.

 

The State’s Body: Bio- and Physiopolitics

In order to understand the relationship between State, nation, intellectuals and autobiography, it is important to elaborate a theory of signification and identification that includes the effects of subjectivation produced by the State. At this point, Lacanian psychoanalysis and its ulterior elaborations by queer theory and feminism (Butler) as well as by postmarxism (Žižek, Laclau and Mouffe, Hart and Negri) must be taken into consideration. However, there is still not a fully elaborated theory (if such a thing is possible) capable of accounting for both biopolitics and State. Therefore, in the following, I shall attempt a tentative sketch of a possible theory whose final consequences might have to be expanded elsewhere. At this point, I simply intend to create a general (if not complete) theoretical framework within which the above subject positions and discursive practices can be analysed systematically with a set of clear theoretical tools.

As Michel Foucault expounds in his History of Sexuality, the relation between State and individual shifts in the nineteenth century through sex: “Between the state and the individual, sex became an issue, and a public issue no less; a whole web of discourses, special knowledges, analyses, and injunctions settled upon it” (26). But even sex is part of a larger shift in the deployment of State power: “The old power of death that symbolized sovereign power was now carefully supplanted by the administration of bodies and the calculated management of life […]. Hence there was an explosion of numerous and diverse techniques for achieving the subjugation of bodies and the control of populations, marking the beginning of an era of ‘bio-power’” (139-40). Therefore any theory of autobiography and intellectual discourse must take as its starting point this (biopolitical) shift that occurs between the modern State and the individual at the beginning of the nineteenth century.

However, one can also vet the opposite but complementary argument, once again departing from Foucault’s work: the earlier pre-knowledge/power The Order of Things. In an earlier “epistemological” moment concerned with the archaeology of discourse, Foucault stresses the way in which “things” become “words” (discourse), what he terms “the return of language”: “It is clear that this ‘return’ of language is not a sudden interruption in our culture… It is, in fact, the strict unfolding of Western culture in accordance with the necessity it imposed upon itself at the beginning of the nineteenth century” (384). In short, “the return of language” becomes a privileged and singular instance in the epistemological configuration of things, since things begin to resemble words and words become mysterious things that defy enlightened representation. As Foucault himself explains:

The threshold between Classicism and modernity […] had been definitively crossed when words ceased to intersect with representations and to provide a spontaneous grid for the knowledge of things. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, they rediscovered their ancient, enigmatic density […]. Once detached from representation, language has existed, right up to our own day, only in a dispersed way […]. This dispersion imposes upon language, if not a privileged position, at least a destiny that seems singular when compared with that of labour or of life. (304)

Foucault affirms that the return of language also represents the end of “man” and the human sciences that permitted its/his appearance: “If this same language is now emerging with greater and greater insistence in a unity that we ought to think but cannot as yet do so, is this not the sign that the whole of this configuration is now about to topple, and that man is in the process of perishing as the being of language continues to shine ever brighter upon our horizon?” (386).

In that earlier phase, Foucault does not incorporate institutions such as the State into his archaeological analysis of the return of language. But one could claim that the State constitutes precisely the ultimate subject of language’s return. Language is no longer a transparent representational tool that allows the individual to access a non-linguistic State. Rather the State organises itself as a linguistic body, as a discourse of things, which represents the discursive organisation of its body. The State becomes a linguistic subject whose power-effects the individual needs to read, to interpret, and to decipher, since they exceed the transparent, yet absolute representation of the enlightened despot and his body – the order upon which the State rested until the nineteenth century.

In short, if the epistemic language of The Order of the Things is updated to the later biopolitical discourse of the History of Sexuality, one could state the following: as State power moves to control and regulate the body of the individual – further subjecting the body to the process of subject formation – the former also begins to display a discursive body of its own, to speak a language of its own, since it can no longer rely on the body of the despot king. The State is also preoccupied with the production of its own body, in representing itself, in developing its own language, although this is a sovereign body/language that is not subject to anyone or anything but itself – thus, in this way, establishing its representational sovereignty too.

As such, the State’s body is made present, re-presented everywhere, but only fragmentarily, through different signs. In this way, the sovereignty of the State is felt everywhere but always through partial signs that represent the State as discursive body: coins, flags, stamps, police uniforms, standards (the kilogram, metre, etc.), street signs, wedding rings, pictures of government officials presiding over classrooms and offices, railroads, dictionaries, etc.; they all become partial and fragmentary signifiers of the body of the State. This is the moment, for example, in which street names in Madrid change from an older, subaltern and surrealistic naming-system (“Salsipuedes, Aunque os pese, Tente tieso, Enhoramala vayas,” etc. Alvarez Junco 562) to a State-controlled referential system (names of generals, monarchs, provinces, etc.). This presencing or re-presentation of the State’s body can only be understood as “reversed biopolitics”, since all matter, all physis, becomes State matter, State discourse. This reversal of biopolitics could be labelled “physio-politics”: politics of matter (of words as things). In this context, physiopolitics refers to the State’s objectual, material occupation and signification of reality, so that all objects that matter signify the State while those that do not are dejected as in-significant and in-material; they constitute State abjection.

Ultimately reality’s materiality is defined and established by the symbolic order of the State: every object, every material that signifies the State, becomes a referent in the symbolic order organized by the latter. Furthermore, the State’s body, its materiality, as it is inscribed in any partial material reality, signifies this total hidden body that only appears as veiled in discrete significant objects. This hidden body that the State only displays partially through its physiopower becomes the nation: the nation is the material but always veiled signifying body of the State. Thus any attack upon a ship, a flag, a school, also represents an attack upon the body of the State, that is, the nation. The nation is thus the veiled and fantasmatic body of the State, which is partially present everywhere but cannot re-present itself as such – i.e. except as veiled behind the referents of the State.

The State only allows one body to have an imaginary full existence that signifies its subject: the body of the citizen. This apparent fit between subject and body is the imaginary moment in which the materiality and full power of the State are fully hidden behind the imaginary significant fullness of the body of the individual citizen, thus giving rise to the democratic ideal of the independent autonomous rational body: the “free” citizen. The individual citizen becomes the democratic modern free-willing subject of liberal ideology. In this respect, liberalism is the imaginary effect (and ideology) of the modern State’s symbolic order and physiopolitics.

The new symbolic order inaugurated by the modern State is a consequence of the secularisation of the body of the monarch, which prior to the emblematic dates of 1776-1789, represents the omnipresent body that, by the extension of his/her body, subjects the rest of the bodies under his/her rule to the medieval category of “subject”, meaning “subjected”. Royal subjects lack sovereignty and thus their bodies are only significant in so far as they are signified by the monarch’s body. The latter, in turn, signifies sovereignty by becoming the only body that represents that State without being subjected to it: hence the doubly imminent and transcendent nature of the body of the monarch.

The modern State, thus, can be considered a symbolic order in the Lacanian sense. The State subjects all the material referents under its power by either making them materially significant (physiopower) or by subjecting them to its control (biopower). The State is the only body that is materialised in every object, whereby its materialisation creates the effect of the independent and individual subject who owns his3 body. The body of the citizen is the only one exempted from the State’s physiopower – it is not a referent of the State’s body and power, although it is subject to the State and only becomes “subject” through that very subjection. However and precisely because it is not part of the State’s body, the citizen’s body signifies its lack of sovereignty, while at the same time veiling the sovereignty of the State behind his body. In short, the State, as the only sovereign subject, expands its body throughout the State’s matter (its partial, material signifiers) thus constituting its national body. The individual body of the citizen only becomes significant in so far as it signifies its lack of sovereignty while signifying the sovereignty, the physiopower, of the State over its referents. By only excluding the body of the individual subject from physiopower, the State turns the body of the individual into the ultimate matter/signifier that signifies the former’s power and sovereignty. In this sense, the State can be thought of as a historical symbolic order that gives rise to the symbolic effect of the individual, autonomous, modern subject (the citizen).

But the State also creates an imaginary order that helps to engage the desire of its subjects through biopower. Althusser’s Ideological State Apparatuses (ISA), such as the school, are only part of the State’s larger national body, in the sense that the ISA produce objects that, in combination with other objects produced by non-ideological apparatuses (commerce, police, etc.), participate in the general physiopolitical display of the State’s body. Žižek is correct when emphasizing that, as opposed to Althusser, the ISA work because of a fundamental misrecognition in the act of interpellation: “Althusser speaks only of the process of ideological interpellation [… but] there is always a residue, a leftover, a stain of traumatic irrationality and senselessness sticking to it […] this leftover, far from hindering the full submission of the subject to the ideological command […] confers on the Law its unconditional authority” (43). This is the imaginary order of the State, which is established by the regulation of biopower.

The body of the State, the nation, in any of its partial materialisations, represents the mirror in which the fragmented body of the citizen is reflected, so that the latter sees an ideal  political image of his body. As Judith Butler clarifies, reflecting on Lacan’s article on the mirror stage, “[T]he Lacanian position suggests not only that identifications precede the ego, but that the identificatory relation to the image establishes the ego. Moreover, the ego established through this identificatory relation is itself a relation, indeed, the cumulative history of such relations” (74). Thus, all political identification between subject and nation is established in each referent that works as a national mirror, which in turn leads to an accumulative process of identifications by which the subject identifies with his reflection on the national body. This is the imaginary nature of political identification and subjectivation organised by the modern State.

The importance of these identifications in the construction of a citizen subject resides in their modelic or morphological nature. As Butler suggests, “[T]he morphological scheme established through the mirror stage constitutes precisely that reserve of morphe from which the contours of objects are produced; both objects and others come to appear only through the mediating grid of this projected or imaginary morphology” (73). Ultimately, identification with, and desire for, the other – the other subject – is regulated by this imaginary order; the imaginary is ultimately responsible for the success in the subjection of the citizen to the symbolic order of the State. Furthermore, the identification with the “other subject” is defined by failure, since this identification lacks the sovereignty that only the State can signify. Modern desire emerges precisely as a result of the identificatory failure of the citizen with the other subject – a failure triggered by the State’s monopoly over sovereignty. It is a desire not for the Phallus qua sexual symbolic order, but rather desire for the State qua sovereign symbolic order that regulates the lacking modern citizen subject. Sexual difference and the symbolic order that the bourgeois family establishes is only an internalisation of a more general form of lack: the lack of sovereignty, which is embodied by the citizen subject – and thus the father, rather than the mother, hence its sexual representation. The State’s deployment of physiopower, through its material referents (including those of the ISA), creates a very complex imaginary web of identifications and desires that cannot be reduced to a sexual order.

This libidinal and identificatory complexity explains the reason why the State must also deploy a regime of biopower to regulate its imaginary order and control the identifications and desires that take place between subjects and objects, subjects and other subjects. Precisely because these identifications are derived from the body of the State, from the nation, desire – and very specifically sexual desire – becomes the State’s concern. If Freud analyses sexuality and finds the castration complex as the touchstone of the modern sexual matrix, and if Marx analyses the economy in order to find commodity fetishism as the founding block of bourgeois ideology and society, it is precisely because physiopolitics and biopolitics are simultaneously deployed – through the penis and the commodity – to subject the population within the State and in desire-identification with the national body. Such a political model does not recognise the sexual matrix and its psychogenetic origin as the sole substratum from which to theorise the political, unlike psychoanalysis. Consequently, my proposal opens up the Lacanian model to a more complex understanding of the symbolic and the imaginary.

Yet if we were not to introduce the third main theoretical element of Lacanian psychoanalysis in the above structure, the Real, we would be reifying a closed model that, in its closure, would eliminate history and thus revert back to an ahistorical psychoanalytical model. All matter that cannot be embodied by the State, all matter that is not significant (meaningful and pertinent) to physiopolitics, is dejected from the national body and turned in-material, in-significant. As Butler clarifies, the abjection of non-significant (insignificant) matter is not a subsequent manoeuvre to preserving the matter that constitutes the national body. Rather, it is the opposite; the very abjection of material (people, places, objects) defines what is and is not material, thus creating a retroactive effect of causality: only what is preserved as matter is truly material, while what has been rejected is not. The modern state rejects or dejects, first of all, matter that is historically dangerous because it belongs to older forms of power (nobility, tribal authorities, religion), and secondly subaltern forms of materiality (mid-wives and witch doctors, superstition, perverts, the rural world, the colonies, etc.). Yet this social material is not fully rejected or left outside the sphere of the State’s psysio- and biopower; it is both retained within the symbolic order of the State as rejected exterior and kept without as exterior that is about to be absorbed. The instability of abject material is very historical, since it is continuously absorbed by the expansion of the State or further dejected, if it continues to resist the State. In this sense too, the most “exterior” of matters, the colonial, is at the same time the most “internal”; the abjection of the colonial permits the reorganisation of abjection within the modern State, thus creating the retroactive effect of the colonial as exterior, liminal, distant, remote, etc.

This is the order of the Real whereby every time a material is absorbed or dejected, the entire symbolic order changes and the imaginary order is organised accordingly. Therefore, the subaltern subject or material, which is not symbolised or resists symbolisation, remains the main political element that constitutes the modern State and its body. The Real in this sense can be, historically speaking, equated with the subaltern (Gramsci 52-5), and thus the subaltern can be understood as the trauma that haunts the State: the Real that returns through violence to subvert the modern State. The upsurge of nationalism in nineteenth-century Europe can only be understood as a result of the historical shifts triggered by the Real-subaltern in the symbolic and imaginary orders organised by the modern State. In this respect, the naïf divide between “authentic/invented traditions” that Hobsbawn and Ranger mobilise to historicise nationalism represents an inaccurate theoretical approximation. Such an approach fails to account for nationalism’s complex historicity. As Butler argues, “[T]he normative force of performativity – its power to establish what qualifies as ‘being’ – works not only through reiteration, but through exclusion as well. And in the case of bodies, those exclusions haunt signification as its abject borders or as that which is strictly foreclosed: the unlivable, the nonnarrativizable, the traumatic” (188). The colonial field is the ultimate material of abjection where the animal, the human and the objectual mix in a continuity that defies signification either as object or subject, and thus becomes the source of the most disturbing and traumatic fantasies for the modern imperialist State. It is no coincidence that museums, zoos and botanical gardens, as well as scientific tours of colonial subjects (most notably the “Hottentot woman”) were at the centre of nineteenth century life.

 

The Intellectual

After elaborating a Lacanian definition of the State and its body, it is important to understand the genealogy of the figure of the intellectual and his function in the bio- and physiopolitical organisation of the State, so that then we can also historicise the intellectual’s recent turn to the autobiographical. The intellectual emerges at the end of the nineteenth century (1898) as a new cultural subject in the West. He is the result of the first crises undergone by the modern nation-state: wars and new social groups. As Hobsbawn summarises, “The history of the Age of Empire [1875-1914…] its basic pattern […] is of the society and world of bourgeois liberalism advancing towards what has been called its ‘strange death’ as it reaches its apogee, victim of the very contradictions inherent in its advance” (10). More specifically, the double process of biologisation of the subject and of materialisation of the State begins to create its own power effects and instabilities. On the one hand, the State’s physio-biopower creates national groups that do not identify with it – in the case of Spain, most notably anarchists and peripheral nationalists. On the other, the same power also gives rise to national wars that have relevance not only for the monarchy and the nobility, as was the case until the nineteenth century, but for the entire nation; France’s defeat in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870 or Spain’s “Disaster” in the Spanish-American War of 1898 are milestones of these national crises. The working class too, although it identifies with the State, ultimately represents an international menace. As Hobsbawn states, “It was the era when massive organized movements of the class of wage-workers created by, and characteristic of, industrial capitalism suddenly emerged and demanded the overthrow of capitalism” (10). In this context, the intellectual emerges as a new subject that can perform and suture the tears and fractures of the national body and the State’s symbolic order. Genealogically speaking, the intellectual appears as a result of the confluence of two types of literati: the Faustian romantic writer and the enlightened philosopher. By the end of the nineteenth century, these two types mutate respectively into the modernist writer and into the positivist researcher. These shifts in turn allow the intellectual to occupy and reclaim for himself these two vacated positions.4

The intellectual is the cultural agent that identifies with the body of the State in crisis and, through his journalistic performance (mainly opinion articles and manifestos), creates new national identifications to which the middle-class can relate. As Ronald Grigor Suny and Michael D. Kennedy summarise, “[I]ntellectuals create different ideologies of national identity within a larger discursive universe of available materials. They do the imaginative ideological labor that brings together disparate cultural elements, selected historical memories, and interpretations of experiences, all the while silencing the inconvenient, the unheroic, and the anomalous” (2). Ultimately, the intellectual articulates a double identification through which new challenges to the body of the State (the Real/subaltern) are re-symbolised. One could say that the intellectual helps the middle-class to symbolise and enjoy the traumas of the nation (Žižek). As such, the intellectual is a transitional subject and body; he identifies with the body of the State, the fragmented national body in crisis, and consequently reflects, in his discourse, the ideal body, the restored national body, with which the rest of the population, his readers and followers, identify in turn.

The intellectual is, first and foremost, the harbinger of the crisis of the nation. As such, he also fades away in Europe and the Americas at the end of the twentieth century when the first global crises undergone by the State can no longer be symbolised as national. The new globalised media and artists become more suitable conduits and agents for the articulation of global crises (from the anti-Vietnam War protests and May 1968 to the globalised broadcasting of the events of 9-11-2001). At the same time, the rise of new “intellectual subjects” who do not identify primarily with the European nation-state – feminist and postcolonial writers – makes the first-world intellectual’s discourse ineffectual, to the point that only mediatic hybrids such as Umberto Eco remain as the last representatives of a cultural subject who is no longer hegemonic. Thus, the dates of 1898 and 1968 could be chosen as arbitrary, yet meaningful, dates to chronicle the “rise and fall” of the intellectual figure. 

The word “intelligentsia” is already used in the 1830s in Russia by groups of writers influenced by German idealism. Yet, France and Spain are the first states to undergo serious crisis and, thus, to experience a significant rending of their respective national bodies. The Dreyfus affair, which becomes a national event with Zola’s “J’accuse” in 1898, and the Spanish-American war of the same year are early developments in an upheaval that leads to World War One (1914), when the intellectual becomes a more general figure throughout Europe and the Americas. In Latin America, the intellectual does not materialise until the twentieth century when popular revolutions spread through the continent after the Mexican revolution of 1910. Mexican intellectuals such as José Vasconcelos, Alfonso Reyes and, later, Octavio Paz, regulate the national, identificatory economy in post-revolutionary Mexico. At the turn of the century, the older Creole figure of the “letrado” (Rama) prevails with representatives such as José Enrique Rodó and José Martí, who formulate the ruptures in the Latin American political landscape, not as national but continental – thus the importance of Martí’s coinage “Our America”, for example. Similarly, 1898 represents the rise of the USA to global dominance; thus, North American history, perceived as “manifest destiny”, does not foster intellectual discourse – although the figures of the religious minister in the African-American community or the suffragist feminist among middle-class urban women point to an effervescent political scenario.

When Zola announces on the first page of Georges Clemenceau’s L’Aurore “J’accuse!” regarding the Dreyfus affair, he is identifying with the fragmented body of the French state and reflecting an ideal national body with which the readers can identify. This is also the moment in which manifestos are written by intellectuals for the first time (“manifestes des intellectuels”). In Spain, when Unamuno claims “me duele España” (Laín Entralgo 165), he becomes both the embodiment of the fragmented body of the Spanish state and the reflection of an ideal national body (with his racist ideology of casticism and intra-historic Castile). Moreover, the intellectual traditions of France and Spain are not separate; the Dreyfus affair is followed with attention in Spain. As Carlos Serrano states, “[L]as peripecias del affaire se conocen y se comentan en España, y determinan posturas bien claras; en este sentido, contribuyen a precipitar la formación de una conciencia intelectual en el país, aunque ya existen motivos internos que favorecen el surgimiento de este fenómeno” (86). Serrano is referring to the trials against the anarchists imprisoned in Montjuich in 1897-98. The anarchist violence is one of the first effects of the State’s bio-physiopower: the anarchists organise themselves nationally while attempting against the State. The Catalan anarchists emerging from the industrial development of Catalonia and the Andalusian anarchists reacting to the marginalisation of rural classes by powerful landowners, demonstrate, in their full complexity, the fact that the acts of abjection and symbolisation triggered by the State’s physio-biopower mark Spanish national history.

In Spain, the consciousness of the rise of the intellectual figure is already present in the 1890s. Unamuno and Maeztu already introduce the term “intellectual” as noun and adjective in 1896. Unamuno has a precise understanding of what the term means by 1896, when he writes “La juventud ‘intelectual’ española” (qtd. in Fox 15). In his La vida es sueño. Reflexiones sobre la regeneración de España, Unamuno clearly establishes the relationship between the intellectual and national body, through a medical discourse of healing: “En rigor, no somos más que los llamados, con más o menos justicia, intelectuales y algunos hombres públicos los que hablamos ahora a cada paso de la regeneración de España” (qtd. in Fox 15). As E. Inman Fox concludes, the new generation of writers of 1898 is the first to introduce the term and embody it: “Así vemos que no sólo debemos a los jóvenes de 1898 la penetración en la lengua castellana del término ‘intelectual’, sino también que fue la primera generación española que tenía una conciencia clara de su papel rector en la vanguardia política y social” (16). Yet, as Serrano concludes, the ultimate function of the intellectual class is conservative; it aims at restoring identification with the nation: “la gran mayoría de los miembros de profesiones intelectuales y científicas sigue vinculada a los sectores conservadores de la sociedad española, especialmente a la Iglesia” (101-02).

On a more sociological level, Pierre Bourdieu highlights the relationship between bio-physiopower and intellectuals, when he addresses the reasons that lead intellectuals to organise themselves as a separate group and to devote themselves to what he calls “restricted production”:

In the 1880s, a period when the structure of the literary field was definitively established as we know it today […]. There is […] a chiasmatic structure, homologous with the structure of the field of power, in which, as we know, the intellectuals, rich in cultural capital and (relatively) poor in economic capital, and the owners of industry and business, rich in economic capital and (relatively) poor in cultural capital, are in opposition […]. This being the case, we have here all the recognized characteristics of the position between two sub-fields practically closed in on themselves, the sub-field of restricted production, which constitutes its own market, and the sub-field of large-scale production. (185)

Bourdieu further emphasises the autonomy of the intellectual class and its production when he explains the mechanisms by which a field of restricted production is organised:

The autonomy of a field of restricted production can be measured by its power to define its own criteria for the production and evaluation of its products […]. Thus, the more cultural producers form a closed field of competition for cultural legitimacy, the more the internal demarcations appear irreducible to any external factors of economic, political or social differentiation. (115)

Yet the intellectuals, properly speaking, not all writers, constitute a transitional body of writers, since they partake of both restricted and large-scale production. On the one hand, the intellectual writes essays, which are read mainly by the intellectual class itself. The essay legitimises the intellectual among his peers as a member within the field of restricted production. For example, the influence of Unamuno’s Entorno al casticismo (1895) was limited to intellectuals themselves but, within this class, legitimised Unamuno as a rightful member. In this respect, the field of restricted production legitimises the intellectual as a member of a very select group of writers who acknowledge their ability to speak for and on behalf of the nation. On the other hand, the intellectual also writes opinion articles in the daily press, which are read by the middle-class public and, as such, belong to mass production. The intellectual becomes a cultural political subject at the end of the nineteenth century, not because he, as an elite writer, has to “sell out to” or “avoid” mass production, but rather because he can write for both fields of production: the restricted and the large. This double alignment across productive fields allows the intellectual to create a dual identification. First, he establishes an identification between his own discursive body and the body of the State, which stands for the ideal sutured State body and is legitimised by his membership in the restricted field of production. Then, he establishes a second identification between the ideal sutured body of the State and his readers, which allows him to situate his work in the field of large or mass production. This dual trafficking is what separates the intellectual from the modernist writer or the positivist scientist of that time.

Because of the atypical position of the intellectual vis-à-vis the field of mass or large production, his product – the newspaper article – requires closer examination. Once the intellectual exchanges and the public debate generated by the opinion article are examined, it is important to emphasize that the daily (or opinion) article transcends its initial published form and ultimately reveals a performative dimension. First of all, the newspaper article’s function of suturing the fragmented State body is performative in the Hegelian sense that the nation comes together every morning when the newspaper is read by the bourgeoisie (Anderson 39-40). In the practice of reading the newspaper, the intellectual’s article becomes a suturing element: it acts out the process of the community coming together. But the performance that begins in the morning with reading the newspaper article continues throughout the day, at the workplace, restaurants, clubs, etc. where the intellectual’s opinion article is discussed, debated, refashioned, etc. (Baker 1-25, 111-45). Furthermore, the intellectual also writes in response to other articles generated by his own, thus further highlighting the performative nature of his writing. Ultimately, the endless process of written and oral debate among intellectuals and public constitutes the real performative act of the intellectual. The writer only becomes a “true intellectual”, in so far as his identification with the nation, his suturing of the fragmented body of the State, is performed by others through debate and response. At that point, the intellectual and his production becomes a national performance in the literal sense of the word: the entire citizenry becomes the performer of the intellectual debate. The performative identification with the intellectual’s written body becomes a performative identification with the body of the nation.

However, the intellectual’s newspaper article is also performative in a different sense: it must be performed daily in the newspaper; it must be repeated, performed endlessly, so that the national suture has its desired effect. It is precisely in the newspaper and its later daily discussion where the identification with the nation is repeatedly performed and thereby the existence of the nation is retrospectively created through repetition (Butler). Only the repeated intellectual performance allows for the continuous existence of the body of the nation in its discursive daily suture, not vice versa. The nation does not exist but for the repeated, intellectual act of writing the daily article. One of the fixtures of the modern newspaper, the “editorial”, derives precisely from the intellectual’s daily performance of the crisis of the national body and its suture.

A final characteristic of the intellectual’s position and work is constituted by his national transcendence. He is the only subject who escapes the subjection of the State, but only in so far as this transcendence is used for suturing the State’s body. When the intellectual performs his identification with the body of the nation and, in turn, the middle-class performs its own identification with the intellectual’s work, the intellectual occupies a position of transcendence that legitimises him qua intellectual. In short, the intellectual stands precisely at the crossroad of physiopower and biopower and becomes the exception, the transcendental body that, in his exceptional discursive transcendence, legitimises the State and its body. The intellectual’s article becomes the performative site in which the State becomes words and thus legitimises its physiopower. At the same time, the intellectual’s article also becomes the discourse that regulates the citizens’ desires towards and identifications with the State – and its monopoly over sovereignty – thus also legitimising the State’s biopower. The intellectual’s transcendence of bio-physiopower is what gives his words – his articles – the effect of “truth”. At the same time, this very transcendence, the intellectual’s access to “truth”, makes the identification with his discursive body successful, since it ultimately escapes and transcends the citizen’s identifications and desires, thus reinforcing the State’s sovereignty. In this sense, Foucault’s summary and denunciation of the intellectual, later turned “left intellectual” in the twentieth century, is correct: “For a long period, the ‘left’ intellectual spoke and was acknowledged the right of speaking in the capacity of master of truth and justice. He was heard, or purported to make himself heard, as the spokesman of the universal. To be an intellectual meant something like being the consciousness / conscience of us all” (Power/Knowledge 126). Unamuno’s incident with General Millán Astray, in which the former asserted his power over the latter at the University of Salamanca by claiming intellectual authority even though the Spanish Civil War had already started, becomes the epitome of the intellectual’s transcendent power (Onís 14).

At the same time, it is important to understand the way in which the intellectual loses his social function in the aftermath of 1968. James D. Le Sueur cites a very pertinent reflection by Paul Ricoeur: “According to the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur the reconsideration and reconstruction of French identity ushered in by de-colonization required, perhaps for the first time since the Enlightenment, honestly coming to terms with the fact that French culture was not universal” (5). This loss of universality, which is clearly marked nationally as French (as opposed to “modern” or “European”), is at the core of the crisis of intellectual discourse in France. In short, the most important national crisis, colonial insurgence, also represents the ultimate intellectual challenge of the twentieth century. As Le Sueur adds: “the French-Algerian War presented intellectuals with perhaps the first and certainly the most complex intersection between a critical rethinking of their own intellectual identity and the crumbling of an empire” (6). Le Sueur also emphasizes the fact that colonial independence also represents the first signal of the intellectual’s inability to suture the national body and to symbolise the colonial Real: “Finally, the unsuccessful attempt to achieve reconciliation between the French and Algerian people encouraged French intellectuals such as Sartre to use the most radical notion of identity, the concept of the Other, as both an analytical tool and a political ploy” (9). The result was precisely intellectual failure: “Harbi says, most French intellectuals did not understand this [Algerian] violence, because it could not be universalized and placed into a Western revolutionary framework […]. According to Pierre Bourdieu and Jean Daniel, this ultimately meant that some intellectuals – especially Sartre and […] Frantz Fanon – neglected the specificity of Algerian nationalism and Algerian culture” (10-11). More generally, Suny and Kennedy conclude that the new social movements and their lack of national identification signal the end of the intellectual: “the creation of women’s and new social movements illustrates that distinguishing the ‘intellectual’ is anachronistic in postmodern cultural politics” (21). They also add that only those intellectuals who manage to become part of the mass media world, thus giving up their transcendental position in the journalistic performance of the nation, survive these days: “Even in France, a society that accords intellectuals greater distinction than most other advanced capitalist societies, intellectual prestige has become increasingly the consequence of media access, which is in turn determined by the ease with which their products are commodified and circulated through media” (33). At the end of his archaeology of the Enlightenment and intellectuals, Zygmunt Bauman underscores the fact that intellectuals today are “interpreters” rather than upholders of transcendental truth. Bauman’s disavowal of the national dimension of any intellectual’s work, allows him to legitimise “interpreters” as proper to postmodernism: however, interpreters no longer hold the truth regarding the national and, therefore, are no longer intellectuals. Whether interpreters can occupy new innovative social positions, remains to be seen.

 

The Basque Intellectual Body

In the Spanish case (and the German, with figures such as Habermas and Sloterdijk), the intellectual continues to have a very important role in the aftermath of 1968, precisely as a result of Spain’s “reversed” history. In 1975, the Franco dictatorship leaves behind a fragmented State and national body, traversed by the Real, with which the intellectual, for the first time since 1936, must identify in his discourse in order to reflect back a new ideal national (democratic, modern) body for the emerging middle-class. This is the case of Basque intellectual Savater and, subsequently, Juaristi and Onaindía. In the case of Germany, the re-unification and its aftermath made intellectuals pertinent at the end of the twentieth century: Germany also needed a new ideal national body which could leave behind Nazism and socialism.

Yet, and in the Spanish case, the autobiographical turn taken by many intellectuals represents their failure to produce national identification. They resort to autobiography, to the graphing of their own bodies, to perform an identification with the national body at a time when their bodies stand for the only remaining ideal body of the nation. This turns the intellectual and his bio-graphy into the last national body left for the readers’ identification, for the global problems that assail the Spanish state no longer admit a national intellectual suture. Their bodies and histories are the remains of a truth that, formerly, was universal but now is personal and individual.

More specifically, and due to the “reversed” historical process of the Spanish case, where a national identity must be constructed from the rubble of a dictatorship, the Spanish state requires that these intellectuals reject or deject both Spanish history and their own historical body, their biography, which is, after all, part of the historical ruins of Francoism. Their histories are marked by identifications with violence (ETA) or activism against Francoism, and thus they have to be rejected. The goal is to create a new ideal autobiographical body, void of history, that can identify with the new democratic national body of the post-dictatorship Spanish State. This continuous disavowal of the past generates dejected material that then comes back to haunt their autobiographies’ present identification with the State. As Butler argues, if the body is the result of an “identificatory relation [which] is itself a relation, indeed, the cumulative history of such relations” (74), the intellectual’s accumulated identifications (past violent, past progressive, present democratic, present conservative) are contradictory; they are traversed by the Real. Rather than yielding a fitting identification with the body of the State, they actually disrupt this identificatory process, thus re-inscribing the violence of the Real in both the intellectuals’ own bodies and their graphing: their autobiographies. The fact that their own past identifications are rejected by the intellectuals represents another way in which past history is rejected and turned into abject material that haunts the body of the intellectual. This identificatory disruption, rather than allowing for an ideal identification with the nation, further hinders it and, instead, reinforces abjection within the body of the State. In this context, these autobiographies become the performance of a last identification, not with the body of the nation, but with the body of the intellectual qua the last national body. In this respect these autobiographies also are a farewell to the Spanish state and its national body, which is re-presented by a phantasmatic and melancholic identification transversed by abjection and violence. 

Another characteristic of the intellectuals’ new graphing of their bodies, in a context of phantasmatic identifications with a Spanish state in crisis, is the “proliferation of bodies”. The new production of “bio-graphies of the self” has to be connected to another type of bio-graphisms that also stand for the crisis of the State: the new presence of bodyguards in most of these intellectuals’ lives. They all live in a constant state of exception and threat, since their public stands against ETA have made them targets of this group’s violence – a violence that the Spanish state should have eliminated by now but has not. Therefore, body-guards and auto-bio-graphies have to be included in the new re-symbolisation – in this case a bio-political re-symbolisation – and identification with the spectral national subject in crisis. The bodyguard symbolises the intellectual’s new dual bodily presence in the public space – a deficient presence threatened by terrorism, which the State needs to re-symbolise with its own body, i.e. bodyguards appointed by the police. In turn, the autobiographies perform the intellectual’s new double public discourse – a deficient intellectual discourse threatened by new forms of violence, which the intellectual needs to compensate with the discourse of his own private body. That is, the intellectual self re-symbolises his discourse on the phantasmatic national body by adding a second body to that discourse: the intellectual’s. Ultimately, the intellectual has several bodies: the bodyguard, the intellectual public body, the private physical body, and the autobiographical written body. This multiplication of bodies – public and private, civil and state-appointed – is one of the effects of the impossibility of a single identification with the national body, since the State can no longer symbolise or deject these new forms of violence. The multiplication of bodies points to the new unsymbolisable presence of the Real-subaltern which makes the identification with the State and its fragmented body impossible. In turn, the absence, in those biographies, of clear references to bodyguards (with the negative exception of Juaristi, La tribu 121-29) as well as to women (all these autobiographies downplay love-life and friendships-enmities with women) points to the fact that these autobiographies are still attempting to write the transcendental body of the intellectual with whom to identify in lieu of a phantasmatic national body.

These autobiographies also reveal an important geopolitical characteristic. The new shift in national identification from national to intellectual body has had the effect of relocating their discourses, not on a Spanish/French/universalist location (the intellectual’s transcendental position vis-à-vis the State), but rather on a local level: a postnational Basque Country whose body is no longer nationalist. These discourses have become the representation of, and identification with, a body that no longer is ideal and Spanish but fragmentary and Basque: the intellectual’s body and its historical Basque rubble or abjection. This new relocation also triggers a compensatory discursive process of rewriting and emphasizing the identification with the body of the State; however, the more this identification is underscored, the more phantasmatic the body of the State appears. At the same time, this geopolitical identificatory shift has also had the effect of forming a new Basque literature in Spanish written locally for and by Basques. This possibility had disappeared since the end of fuerista literature (Juaristi, El linaje) in the nineteenth century, after which the nationalist discourses of Unamuno and Sabino Arana polarised the Spanish and Basque languages into two separate nationalist bodies. Thus, the intellectual autobiography written in Spanish is another new development of postnational Basque literature, which also forces the critics to re-read Basque literature written in Spanish, at least since the beginning of the twentieth century. Basque literature in Spanish must now be considered not as national Spanish literature, but rather as postnational and Basque; not as a literature regionally or accidentally Basque, but rather as one defined by the constitutive presence or lack of Basque, nationalist, political and linguistic bodies and their respective histories.

From this newly regained perspective one can also see the symmetry between hegemonic Basque postnational literatures written in Basque and in Spanish respectively. Whereas, in recent years, canonical Spanish-Basque writers in Basque have politicised their literature, by resorting to narratives about ETA in order to create a political identification with a Basque nationalist body (and thus regain nationalist legitimacy; Gabilondo “Terrorism”), Basque writers in Spanish are turning politics into literature (autobiography) as a means to uphold an identification with the Spanish national body. Yet both literatures ultimately respond to the same attempt to uphold the national body, Basque and Spanish, which at this point is mainly phantasmatic.

 

Archaeology of the Basque Intellectual “Auto-Body-Graphy

In the three autobiographies I will be analysing here, one can detect a very Rousseauean compulsion to tell the truth – most of these writers grew up in Catholic Francoist Spain. Savater, for example, makes an almost direct reference to Rousseau, when he rejects autobiography’s postmodern turn and reverts to the Enlightened urge to tell the truth:

Como no soy posmoderno, no diré que mezclo realidad y ficción ni que mi vida es como yo me la invento en el recuerdo. Dejando aparte ciertas condensaciones y elipsis (por no escudarme solamente en los fallos de memoria, que abundarán), lo que he contado es verdad, en cuanto yo puedo retrospectivamente establecerla. No refiero toda la verdad, pero creo que lo que digo es bastante verdadero siempre. (387)

From this autobiographical position of truth, these authors can write a new body that simultaneously transcends and witnesses the crisis of the State and its national body. If Rousseau presented his written body to his fellow citizens, for the first time, in order to institute a new modern body, as exemplary and metonymic, in order to identify with the democratic national subject to come (the republic), Basque autobiographies present their body, for the first time, as the identificatory replacement of a national body and subject (the State) that are breaking down, while their addressee is just as inexistent as Rousseau’s: a putative fully democratic, post-Francoist, postnational, Spanish reader to come, who is supposed to identify with a phantasmatic national body and State.

One can analyse three different moments in these autobiographies, which refer respectively to three different moments in the history of the Spanish state and its deployment of bio-physiopolitics; those moments are then unified under a single identification with the intellectual’s body. Although each autobiography narrates and places these three moments differently, they all show this three-fold “historical” identificatory structure. The first moment is that of childhood during Francoism (1940s through 1960s), a second one is constituted by the period of youth and coincides with the political transition (1970s and 1980s), and the third and final one defined by adulthood (the 1990s on), which captures the violence and contradictions that define contemporary Spain. What is interesting to analyse is the way in which each historical moment and identification only emerges through the negation and repression of the previous one. It is also important to emphasize that each historical moment is clearly defined by a different form of organisation of the State’s symbolic structure and body (Republic, Francoism, transition, democracy) and by a different form of violence and repression. All the autobiographies attempt to create a teleological narrative that culminates in democracy, adulthood and national stability (and eventually religion, as I will explain below). This teleology forces the narratives to deject previous historical moments in which identifications were different and the relationship between State, national body, and Real-subaltern was different. Thus, instead of accumulating or adding previous identifications – and thus identifying with previous identifications, so as to construct a historical subject – the three autobiographies disavow these identifications, thus generating new forms of textual violence that haunt their narratives. Previous identifications and symbolic orders are dejected from the text and, thus, they become the subaltern history that haunts the autobiographies’ subject and body; these dejected elements become the autobiographies’ Real. This repression turns the intellectuals’ contemporary identification with a purported democratic national body contradictory and violent. As a result, the texts, the intellectuals’ written bodies, become the ultimate terrain where the identification with the body of the State is upheld as imaginarily democratic and full; at the same time, the violence that the writers exert in their biographies towards their previous biographical identifications contradicts and haunts their current identificatory selves and bodies. Therefore, it is important to analyse these three historical moments separately in order to understand these texts where the self haunts itself historically – in very undemocratic and irrational ways that ultimately contradict the final (democratic) identifications of the texts and call into question the political nature of these autobiographies.

 

Childhood

Linda H. Peterson claims that Victorian autobiographies are indebted to earlier spiritual autobiographies of conversion whereby different texts and doctrines are discussed as a way to narrate changes in the self towards a final, true doctrine. She describes them as “autobiographies of textual encounters” (16). The three autobiographies I am addressing here have the same component. They all present literacy as the turning point in childhood in which there is a radical shift in the author’s perception of reality; the world changes before and after discovering the activity of reading. Mario Onaindía’s account of that moment is exemplary:

Uno de aquellos días cayó en mis manos un libro […]. Le pedí a la madre que me lo leyera y quedé profundamente afectado […]. Hasta ese instante para mí la cultura se identificaba plenamente con el cine […] pero a partir de ese momento descubrí otra manera, más íntima, de vivir intensamente otra dimensión de la realidad. Era casi como estar enamorado, un dulce mal que te traslada a otros mundos y te permite, luego, interpretar lo que te ocurre de manera que lo puedas comprender, o al menos intentarlo […]. A partir de ese momento me dedicaba casi todo el día a leer. (93-4)

What all the three autobiographies present is reading as the first activity that gives childhood a discursive body with which to identify. As Onaindía’s text makes clear, reading allows the child to access other worlds (“otra dimensión de la realidad, otros mundos”), with which he identifies (“estar enamorado”); it gives him ways to accumulate more identifications and increase the layers of his self (“más íntima, vivir intensamente”), while also increasing his desire for an absent reality.

A similar process occurs in the case of Savater; his childhood is defined by his reading activity, which is located in one specific place turned almost transcendental because of its association with reading:

Imágenes […] por encima de todas las demás, la del gabinete: O quizá deba escribirlo con mayúscula: el Gabinete. Era la habitación fronteriza entre lo público y lo íntimo, puesto que pertenecía “institucionalmente” a la oficina [of his father] pero también solía ser utilizada por miembros de la familia como lugar de sosiego, charla o encuentro con amistades. Por las tardes, al volver del colegio y desde luego los días festivos, era mi lugar predilecto de lectura. (29)

Furthermore, as the very poignant account of Onaindía’s biography makes clear, books of adventure (from Kipling to Tarzan) make the Victorian British imperialist State and its body the identificatory subject of most of their childhood readings. That is, the imaginary body of their identification is a full-fleshed imperialist subject who signifies the last European empire and its full state sovereignty.

Although many critics have stressed the religious influence in the conversion of Basque youth to ETA, Onaindía’s account presents an earlier identificatory stratum (British imperialism), which is then replaced by religion, due simply to Spanish history: “Ser misionero, pues, era algo relacionado con ser sherpa o cualquiera de los personajes que aparecían en los libros que vivían intensamente su vida sin estar sumidos en la rutina. La diferencia era que sabía más o menos dónde había que apuntarse para ser misionero, pero no para ser sherpa ni amigo de Tarzán” (95-6). In short, Onaindía’s identification is not religious (misionero) but imperialist and colonial (Tarzan, sherpa).

Savater recounts the first traumatic moment of his life as a familial lie that makes him believe he is going to Africa (“El viaje a África” 91-96). Finally, Juaristi himself, when articulating the renunciation of his youthful identification with ETA and blaming his nationalist parents for providing the “wrong” nationalist identification (“Nuestros padres mintieron,” 9), resorts, nevertheless, to an earlier biographical moment in his youth: his reading of Kipling, the poet of British imperialism (9).

Yet, this first political identificatory moment must be read within the symbolic order that enables identification while also marking the limits of symbolicity and, thus, abjection. The children’s identification with British imperialism is strong precisely because it compensates for Francoism. The Francoist state exerts abjection towards other Spanish realities with which the children want to identify but cannot. All three writers account in very specific passages the ways in which the violence of the Francoist regime shapes their childhood’s identifications. Consequently, they narrate their perception of earlier Republican and/or Basque nationalist history as part of a history to which they belong, but which has been repressed and thus is abject. They feel they cannot identify with that history except through abjection. Onaindía recounts several instances in which different relatives tell the history of the second Spanish Republic and of the Basque nationalist regime dejected by the Francoist regime. It is important to notice the way in which Onaindía’s identification with that repressed history takes place despite the latter’s abject status. It is a bodily and abject identification that goes from (his uncle’s stories about) the wounds of Republican prisoners to Onaindía’s own broken arm:

De vez en cuando, muy de tarde en tarde, se filtraban en la conversación comentarios sobre la guerra, tema que en casa hubiera sido inconcebible [abjection is higher at the nationalist home and so too is repression]. Recuerdo algo particularmente no solo desagradable, sino asqueroso, cuando [my uncle] me contó que algunos compañeros del batallón de trabajadores cogían moscas y se las metían en las heridas para que se les infectaran y les enviaran a la enfermería; se me quedó grabado en la memoria porque tras tener tanto tiempo [young Onaindía’s] el brazo escayolado la piel había empezado a amarillear y a soltarse en tiras, desprendiendo un olor fétido, como si tuviera el brazo podrido. (44)

Savater, in turn, relates the violent presence of Francoism, as it makes itself present directly in his home, because of his father’s job; his father is a public notary who has his office at home. A photograph autographed by Franco while drafting his will in Savater father’s office, which the family keeps hidden in a drawer, becomes a violent figure that invades the home and haunts it – so as to signify the partial abjection under which the Savater family lives. When the political situation changes in the 1960s and Savater joins the resistance against Franco during the political transition, the same autographed image of Franco becomes mobilised to reorganise the family’s identifications. Franco’s autographed photograph is taken out and displayed clearly by the family to signify their son’s abject status; the image signifies the juvenile error committed by the son. In this way, the portrait goes from haunting the family during Francoism to re-signifying the position of the family and their son in the transition:

A mi modo, también soy un niño de la guerra. Recuerdo vagamente las cartillas de racionamiento y unos emblemas […]. Mis padres eran del “régimen”, claro, pero no me educaron en el entusiasmo ciego por la política victoriosa […]. Muchos, muchos años más tarde, mi padre fue el notario ante el que Franco hizo su testamento […]. En casa rodaba por los cajones una foto del Caudillo autografiada en tal ocasión, que mi madre se apresuró a poner en la cómoda de la entrada la noche en que vinieron por primera vez a detenerme, en el estado de excepción del 69. (37)

Savater also sees the other main form of violence and abjection that Francoism exerts over the “losers” of the Civil War, the Basque nationalists, in his own house:

Muchos de los clientes de mi padre eran acomodados burgueses a los que se suponía simpatías con el proscrito nacionalismo vasco: cuando se aproximaban las fechas estivales, acudían a su despacho para acelerar la firma de las escrituras más urgentes, porque mientras el dictador veraneaba en San Sebastián […] ellos debían permanecer obligatoriamente “alejados” de la capital donostiarra. (43)

From another different organisation of his textual autobiography, Juaristi also notes the abjection in which his parents’ generation and his own lived during Francoism. Juaristi, who is familiar with psychoanalysis, states this violence in Lacanian terms. However, his account does not include the Real and the imaginary:

Así que tu [Jauristi’s father] propia instalación en un orden simbólico, interrumpida brusca y amargamente [Civil War], dependió en lo sucesivo de la aquiescencia tribal, que suplía tu íntimo desconcierto ante la Ley [… abject position under Francoism]. Lo que no llego a explicarme es cómo pretendías que nosotros, vuestros hijos, accediéramos a aquel en mejores condiciones que las vuestras. Es verdad que no conocimos directamente la guerra, pero la sufrimos. El niño va descubriendo los valores, va aprendiendo a orientarse en la selva de los símbolos, teniendo siempre como referencia la Ley del Padre. Pero ¿qué pasa si ésta no aparece por parte alguna? […] Tanteará, se equivocará a menudo, pero acabará por escoger como suyo un ámbito que le parezca regido por leyes incuestionables. (12-13).

Therefore, the childhood of these autobiographies is marked by an imaginary identification with British imperialism, from a position of political abjection, outside the Francoist symbolic order. In this sense, these accounts begin from a subaltern position, on the side of the Real, whereby State violence marks their political position outside the symbolic order as abject. This abjection, however, does not foreclose their identification with a different symbolic order – British imperialism – or with the abject history of the Second Republic and the Basque nationalist regime.

As we will see, this original, imaginary identification is dejected when the State’s symbolic order changes as does their position within/outside it. This change gives rise to a first cycle of repression by which their childhood’s historical identification with British imperialism and abject Spanish history (the Republic/Basque nationalism) is dejected into autobiographical abjection.  

 

Youth

Onaindía’s and Savater’s autobiographies narrate a second moment, from the late 1960s through the late 1970s and early 1980s, in which they join ETA and the opposition respectively. As a result, they leave behind their abject past, dejected by Francoism, and find a position in the new symbolic order of the democratic transition. However, this symbolic order is not stable and is determined by the shifting nature of the State’s sovereignty: from dictatorship to democracy, from rural society to consumerist industrial society, from national to global. Thus, the physio-biopolitical order changes and, consequently, the State is defined by its shifting rather than stable sovereignty. At that moment, the imaginary identification of the intellectuals with the body of the State becomes constitutive of their political subjectivity; but they carry out this new identification by dejecting their previous abject (Republic/Basque nationalist) and imaginary (British) identifications. This moment of full identification becomes euphoric and, in its imaginary nature, does not register lack of sovereignty as source of desire; it is a moment of jouissance defined by the shifting nature of State sovereignty. Savater states clearly the imaginary way in which he recalls this identification cum jouissance. At the time, he was a professor at the University of the Basque Country’s Zorroaga campus:

Los años de Zorroaga fueron divertidos, turbulentos e imprevisibles: lo mejor que uno puede pedirle a la vida. […] lo mejor de todo era el clima de libertad y (¡aún mejor!) de libertinaje que reinaba permanentemente en Zorroaga durante esa época inicial […] allí se habló más de verdadera filosofía, de literatura y de cultura en el más amplio y auténtico sentido de la palabra que en muchos centros que cuidan mucho las formas y menos los contenidos. (296-98)

This identification is further emphasized in its jouissance aspect by the shifting character of its projection on a national body that is both Basque and Spanish. Rather than representing a stable symbolic order, with a sovereign subject (the State), this moment represents a changing one, in which any subject of sovereignty is possible. Also, any form of violence is potentially a form of non-contradictory sovereignty. Due to the shifting nature of the moment, abjection and symbolisation no longer are separate processes and therefore any identification is possible; hence its jouissance. As Savater states, “[Y]o quería que el País Vasco fuese la avanzada en la radicalización democrática del resto del Estado” (300). Yet, this imaginary identification is also quickly rejected as new forms of violence begin to erupt in the Basque Country and the Spanish symbolic order is stabilised around very specific bio-physiopolitical parameters: “Paulatinamente, la Zorroaga de la edad de oro se fue desarbolando” (313).

Onaindía narrates his liberation from jail, after the Burgos trials, in similar ways. In that transitional moment, when democracy is being instituted in Spain, partly thanks to his activity in ETA (Carrero Blanco is killed at that point), the imaginary identification with the national body is once again full. Symbolisation and abjection (the creation of a democratic Spanish State and the killing of State representatives such as Carrero Blanco) are not separate processes:

Al pasar a la altura de Euskadi pude ver, al fondo en la niebla, el mar. Desde la lejanía parecía sereno pero moviéndose firme a su aire, indómito. Pensé en los paseos nocturnos por Lekeitio cuando tenía dieciséis años, recién salido de Sarria, soñando qué ser de mayor. En líneas generales pensaba que había merecido la pena haber planteado soluciones no de una manera individual, como el abuelo Manu, yendo a Estados Unidos y volviendo a jubilarse en Lekeitio, sino colectivamente, cambiando de régimen, habiendo terminado con el franquismo y conquistado no sé si la libertad, pero sí al menos los instrumentos por los que los vascos podríamos resolver no solo los problemas derivados de haber padecido cuarenta años de dictadura franquista, sino también los traumas del pasado que habían provocado que la heroica lucha del pueblo y el abnegado combate de la gente que conocí en aquel período épico no fuera más efectivo. (622, my emphasis)

When Onaindía leaves jail, the Basque nationalist past of his parents is not even mentioned, except for the reference to his grandfather who migrated to the USA. The forty-year war against Franco and his own fight in ETA become the same, the “collective struggle of the people”, and thus his parents’ generational alliance with the BNP is dejected as non-collective and as ultimately inexistent. Onaindía’s own identification with British imperialism or with Catholic religion disappears completely into abjection. Even all the traumas generated by Francoism are imagined as a simple hindrance in Onaindía’s fight in ETA. In short, there is political jouissance where abjection and symbolisation are shifting and thus full sovereignty is felt without lack. Onaindía can identify with “the people” and “freedom”.

In the case of Juaristi, he writes from a contemporary time in which he disavows even his history during the democratic transition as member of the oppositional left. Citing his psychoanalyst friend Iñaki Viar, Juaristi concludes: “La izquierda […] al reaccionar contra la Ley del Padre (y, por tanto, contra toda ley), no pudo comprender la necesidad del orden y, sobre todo, la necesidad de los símbolos. No pudo y, en multitud de casos, todavía no puede hacerlo” (160). Juaristi simplifies Lacanian psychoanalysis by not incorporating the imaginary and the Real in any process of subject formation. By doing so, he rejects his own identification with the Left and thus his historical identification with a symbolic order that was transitional and did not contain a stable subject, a sovereign Spanish state. The fact that Juaristi does not acknowledge jouissance in that moment of transition makes him the most radical autobiographer in this repeated autobiographical dejection of the self’s own past.

In Onaindía and Savater’s autobiographical accounts, there is a full imaginary identification with the (Basque and Spanish) national body precisely because the symbolic order is not regulated by a fixed subject or form of sovereignty. In short, this is a symbolic order with a historically shifting subject and sovereignty structure. However, these authors do not configure their current self out of previous identifications (British imperialism, the Republic, Basque nationalism). Rather, they disavow earlier identifications in order to narrate the present self as utterly disconnected from previous ones. In these autobiographies the author’s self is refashioned anew by disavowal, by violence towards past identifications. However, their current identification does not and cannot account for the violence that this identificatory disavowal entails. In short, these writers’ current identification with a new symbolic order (the contemporary democratic Spanish state and its body) requires from them that they violently disavow their past, their historical body. In this way, although a new symbolic order is instituted and a consequent full imaginary identification with the new national body of the State is established, this is accomplished by dejecting the past and disavowing it. These autobiographies ironically enough, do not remember but forget, just as the Spanish political parties did during the democratic transition, in what became known as “el pacto con el olvido” (Resina 1-15). Thus, all historical identifications become forms of historical abjection. At the end, historical abjection comes back to haunt these autobiographical accounts.

 

Adulthood

When these autobiographies come to the 1990s and beyond and attempt to narrate the democratic Spanish state and their full identification with its national body, they make room for a third moment in which the two previous historical moments and their respective identifications are dejected, thus rendering their own histories unnarratable and abject. Savater, for example, thematises this continuous dejection by making reference to a present that he can only reconstruct by voiding its history.  He imagines an ideal Donostia (San Sebastian), his home city, which is outside the present, outside political reality, and, thus, becomes pure nature (“libertad azul”). This non-political reality becomes the only form of imaginary identification for Savater – one that disavows its identificatory history and signifies dejection. He narrates this dejection as the abject memory of a severed limb that haunts the body and is further repressed by its replacement with a “fake memory”, a prosthetic Donostia that no longer is historical:

Madrid sigue siendo el cepo gris y San Sebastián la libertad azul. Aún hoy, cuando volver a mi txoko [corner - home] es arrostrar los mayores riesgos y amenazas, todavía siento una absurda bocanada de optimismo al reencontrarme con la bahía y con Igueldo. En alguno de sus apasionantes libros, Oliver Sacks comenta el caso de personas a quienes se les amputa una extremidad y siguen sintiéndola hormiguear como si aún la tuvieran: la única forma de que logren caminar con la pierna ortopédica es hacer coincidir la sensación del miembro fantasma con el manejo de la prótesis. Lejos de San Sebastián me siento mutilado pero lo perdido sigue latiendo como más presente que lo presente y no me acomodo a muletas ni miembros postizos. Hasta que vuelvo a Donosti, no dejo de cojear. (116)

In short, this new refashioned Donostia, void of history, becomes the prosthetic memory of a Donostia that has been severed. His present identification with an ahistorical Donostia, which Savater can imagine past the risks involved in his home return, is the prosthesis of an abject past.

In Onaindía’s case, his autobiography ends in 1977 and therefore cannot be directly compared to that of Savater, which comes nearly down to the present. However, one can detect in the last sentences of Onaindía’s autobiography an unease that is organised around a non-political identification (he wants to become an intellectual) that disavows past political identifications and thus is haunted by them: “Soñaba con aportar mi grano de arena trabajando en la editorial Lur […]. Si alguien me hubiera dicho que cinco meses después me iban a elegir secretario general de EIA le habría tomado por loco” (622-23, my emphasis). Here future madness is simply the haunting of the political past.

Juaristi, in turn, identifies with a current imaginary Spanish nation that is void of violence and whereby the Real is simply non-existent (it is radically disavowed in the text), since his definition of Spain is derived not from Spanish-Basque history and his own identifications within it, but rather from North American theorisations of the nation-state (patriotism). Thus Juaristi concludes:

me siento un patriota español y vasco, puesto que los patriotismos, al contrario que los nacionalismos, pueden ser inclusivos y compatibles, y que, al mismo tiempo, soy un decidido partidario de la Nación-Estado como fórmula política […] me parece la menos mala de las formas de aunamiento social […]. Lo que voy a exponer a continuación no pretende ser original. Son ideas que aparecen en diversos autores, y, sobre todo, en algunos escritores norteamericanos que leo con avidez desde hace unos años. (42)

As a result, this imaginary identification with the State’s body that is supposed to be “patriotic” results in the dejection of Juaristi’s own autobiographical identificatory history.

At the dawn of the new millennium, the Spanish state cannot be narrated as a stable symbolic order, but rather as one that is in crisis and is haunted by destabilising violence (from migration and globalisation to peripheral nationalism, terrorism and European unification). This violent history has the effect of turning these autobiographies into discourses haunted by a historical and textual violence that they cannot narrate. These graphings of the body are haunted by their own dejected identificatory history and, thus, they repeatedly look for new identifications.

Yet, in their last pages, these autobiographies go beyond the body of the nation and unravel a new “stronger” symbolic order on which to ground identification: religion, a symbolic order that transcends political and social violence. In Savater’s case, he does not embrace any form of institutionalized religion but, nevertheless, opens up to a new form of existentialism:

En resumen: noto como si aumentase la insipidez y por tanto tuviese cada vez mayor dificultad en saborear lo que siempre me ha parecido sabroso. Para nuevas delicias, tengo poco paladar. Y eso me asusta, me asusta de veras. Empiezo a darme cuenta de que quizá acabaré triste, como cualquier imbécil. Pero os juro que hubo una alegría dentro de mí, incesante, una alegría que lo encendía todo con chisporroteo de bengalas festivas precariamente instaladas en las oquedades de la gran calavera […]. Unas cuantas todavía alumbran mi entorno. No sé hasta cuándo. Preferiría apagarme yo antes de que se extinguieran del todo. (390)

As the reference to the “great skull” makes clear, regardless of whether it connotes some Mexican or Jesuit context, an existential death is the abjected layer that haunts his past celebration of life. The fact that this death is in-significant (he cannot symbolise or account for it), but haunts the entire book, reveals its autobiographical nature: it is the identificatory past of the philosopher that is violently haunting his present.

Juaristi has converted to Judaism. However, even this new religious identification responds to a dejection of his identificatory history. As he himself clarifies, his religious choice is determined precisely by a dejection of his father’s religious identification: “si fueras judío, yo debería cantar el kadish en tus funerales, pero lo más probable es que, si fueras judío, yo me habría hecho bautizar por el primer cura que encontrara” (15). Thus the fact that Juaristi now seeks a religious interpretation of Basque nationalism (he calls it “ethno-Christianism” 51) only hints at the fact that the haunting continues and therefore he seeks a stronger, more stable, and less historical symbolic order: religion. Even when citing his sources for his political thinking on nationalism, he acknowledges the importance of authors identified as Jewish: “Lo que voy a exponer a continuación no pretende ser original. Son ideas que aparecen en diversos autores, y, sobre todo, en algunos escritores norteamericanos que leo con avidez desde hace unos años. Buena parte de ellos son judíos, lo que no es casual, porque existe un nexo bastante especial entre la identidad judía y la Nación-Estado” (42-3). Although I do not analyse another critical intellectual’s text here, Juan Aranzadi’s Archiloc’s Shield, it is worth noting that he embraces Buddhism.

To sum up, the continuous historical shifts in symbolic orders narrated in these autobiographies, as well as the author’s continuous dejection of that history, forces these autobiographies to deject their past identificatory history and, thus, to resort to textual violence. Yet, this textual violence haunts the intellectuals’ bodies and discursive self-fashionings. If the Spanish transition is marked by the pact with oblivion (“el pacto con el olvido”), these autobiographies are defined by an uninterrupted pact with the obliteration of their own selves and identifications, so that their new imaginary ideal bodies can continue to seek new identificatory ground. In short, these autobiographies are written in a continuous dejection of the subjects’ history in order to attempt to find the symbolic order on which these subjects will finally find themselves reflected as full intellectuals and citizens of the State – a feat that cannot be accomplished and is, thus, bound to continuous failure, violence, and haunting.5 In this sense, these autobiographies are bio-graphies written for a sole reading subject and addressee: the sovereign State. They narrate the continuous dejecting of their own imaginary identifications with a sovereign State and symbolic order that has never existed in Spain: a fully democratic, enlightened, non-confessional, postnational, non-global Spanish State. At this point, the question we have to pose ourselves is the following: why write one’s own body for the State at the risk of dejecting one’s own history? Why are these intellectuals the last believers in the presence of an inexistent sovereign Spanish state that is not historical and can afford a seamless national body? Why do they write and confess for the State? Why do they forget their own selves to remember a nonexistent State?

 

State Melancholia, Neoliberal Self, and Global Authoritarianism

I could conclude by stating that modern bourgeois literature has finally arrived to the Basque Country and Spain, in a postmodern fashion, to narrate a new self that identifies with the sovereign State – what Loureiro was hoping for in the final pages of his analysis of Spanish autobiography. Yet this “arrival” is defined by failure. Therefore, it is important to analyse the intellectuals’ failure to perform a successful imaginary identification with the State’s body – a performance that is expected from intellectuals but, in the Spanish case, continues to be impossible. Moreover, it is paramount to explain why these autobiographies narrate a final identification with a religious subject and symbolic order, instead of narrating the history of a body that identifies with the State. The analysis of this final religious turn is important, for such identification negates the body of the Spanish middle-class in so far as the latter continues to be defined by the State. This double failure in body identifications – the national body of the State, the democratic body of readers – as well as the violence involved in negating historical identification on behalf of a new religious subject and symbolic order require a more general examination that exceeds recent Spanish history and politics.

The violent and continuous dejection of past identifications in these autobiographies is organised so that their newest identification transcends the body of the State and reaches a supra-state reality such as religion. Yet, from this final religious positioning, these intellectuals still posit a transcendental and quasi-religious nation-state, precisely one that negates past identifications and history and, ultimately, also negates the reading public’s own identifications. It is no coincidence that Juaristi proclaims the semi-messianic “coming” of the nation-state to Spain, following Jewish-American authors:

Mientras no se demuestre lo contrario, solo en el contexto de la Nación-Estado ha sido posible implantar las libertades individuales, generalizar el principio de igualdad ante la ley y establecer sistemas democráticos de control del poder. No en todas las Naciones-Estado, claro está, pero sí en bastantes de ellas, y no hay que desesperar de que el ejemplo cunda [in Spain]. Ni por encima ni por debajo de la Nación-Estado se ha conseguido asegurar la vigencia de las mencionadas condiciones. (42)

In short, the nation-state continues to be a symbolic order that is elsewhere (the same way British imperialism or the Republic was for the young intellectuals of the early 1950s), and could have happened in Spain but, nevertheless, it has not yet, despite continuous attempts. This radical melancholia and religious messianism for a lost object that, nevertheless, has never been historically lost, represents another form of identificatory violence, whereby Spanish reality and its historically shifting symbolic order and identificational system are once again dejected. It is paramount to emphasize that the identification with a Spanish nation-state that was meant to happen but is yet to come is done from a transcendental standpoint that is half melancholic and half religious.

These new autobiographies, with a penchant for a melancholic identification with a non-existent hegemonic State and for a new transcendental identification with “strong, religious symbolic orders”, are refashioning a new self, a new body and subject, which is ultimately not Basque or Spanish but transcendental. Yet this transcendentalism is no longer one by which the intellectual transcends the State’s sovereignty and bio-physiopower in order to create an identification that will suture the body of the State – so that the readership can identify with the State’s body and thus become the nation. Although the original aim of these autobiographies might not be global or neoliberal, they respond to the political ideology and strategy of neoliberalism. These days, in globalisation, neoliberal discourse is attempting to repress the history of each state, the historical identifications of the respective populations with the body of their state, so that a larger symbolic order that transcends the State can regulate the desires and identifications of the population. In short, when several neoliberal authors are justifying the global/local hybridisation of culture and society, they are legitimising a global political reorganisation by which local history becomes a past moment of dejection vis-à-vis a new global culture and politics. In this way, the history of each State and its identifications becomes the new abject material, the in-significant matter, against which a global symbolic order and identificatory system is built. A similar neoliberal strategy explains ultimately these autobiographies. These autobiographies transcend the State, not to suture its body but, rather, to articulate a transcendental symbolic order through religion: this is the articulation of a global symbolic order that requires the dejection of previous national historical identifications, thus, turning the State into an ahistorical object of melancholic identification.

These autobiographies’ new neoliberal identification with religion – and not with any religion but with major Western religions that found civilizations – points to the fact that they are legitimising globalisation by identifying with the referents that embody a new global symbolic order: Western civilization and religion. Different strands of neoliberal political theory are striving to legitimise a new pseudo-religion that allows neoliberalism to articulate, intellectually, the body of the global empire. Habermas’s emphasis on first-world cosmopolitanism, Fukuyama’s Hegelian teleologisation of the liberal state, or Huntington’s scatological history of the clash of civilisations only represent different ideological and intellectual attempts to articulate an ideology that transcends the State and thus allows neoliberal identifications with the global body of the new empire (defined by the dominance of the USA over Europe and China/Japan and by the USA’s exploitation of the rest of the world).

Because of the transcendental nature of intellectual discourse, it always ran the risk, from its inception in the nineteenth century, of identifying not with the sutured body of the nation but with an authoritarian elite that would, in turn, suture the body of the nation. From Unamuno and Ortega y Gasset on, Spanish intellectual discourse has historically flirted with authoritarianism. Some intellectuals in Germany, such as Sloterdijk, are already proposing new forms of antidemocratic elitism. Therefore, the risk of these new transcendental neoliberal pseudo-religious intellectual autobiographies is precisely to create an imaginary identification, not with the body of the State, but with the body of the intellectual who transcends the State and thus becomes the harbinger of a new neoliberal elite that, in turn, embodies the new “global State”. In short, these autobiographies run the risk of legitimising the ideology of a new global North American imperialism: neoliberalism and its veiled authoritarianism.

This neoliberal and authoritarian bend can be best understood if compared with forms of biography produced in other parts of the world. Most autobiographies in the first world, and especially in the last decade, were triggered by the private violence originated within the nuclear family: sexual abuse, dysfunctional relationships, etc. (Gilmore). Basque autobiographies recount a national violence that spans from Francoism to ETA, and thus are political rather than familial in nature. Therefore the Basque autobiography deserves first a comparison with the other main form of “autobiographical” writing that also derives from a political context: testimonio literature. Basque autobiography has a very interesting parallel in Latin America where a similar form of political discourse of the self is also produced in the postnational aftermath of the dissolution of the socialist utopias of Cuba, Chile and Nicaragua. In his seminal essay on the issue, John Beverley reflects on the literary shift from magic realism to testimonio, as he recaps the aftermath of the Chilean coup of 1973 in the following way:

Testimonio began as an adjunct to armed liberation struggle in Latin America and elsewhere in the Third World in the sixties. But its canonization was tied even more, perhaps, to the military, political, and economic force of counterrevolution in the years after 1973. It was the Real, the voice of the body in pain, of the disappeared, of the losers in the rush to marketize, that demystified the false utopian discourse of neoliberalism, its claims to have finally reconciled history and society. At the same time, testimonio relativized the more liberal or even progressive claim of the high-culture writers and artists of the boom to speak for the majority of Latin Americans. It marked a new site of discursive authority, which challenged the authority of the “great writer” to establish the reality principle of Latin American culture and development. (281)

Similarly, the new Basque discourse of the self is also a testimonio to the failure to consolidate the Spanish state in connection with Basque nationalism and terrorism. Yet, here the “great intellectual” rather than the subaltern masses that endure the violence of ETA and the Spanish state, writes the Basque “testimonio”. In this sense, Basque testimonio is the political opposite of its Latin American counterpart. Yet, in both cases we have a postnational literature that emerges in the aftermath of the crisis of the “great writers”, who narrate the Basque and Latin American national allegories respectively (García Márquez, Atxaga). Furthermore, because of the dissymmetrical location of the Latin American and Basque testimonios – third and first worlds respectively – we see that the testimonio form can be mobilised to give voice to the subaltern masses – Latin America – or to uphold the national subject in its neoliberal version – postnational Basque Spain.

As a final reflection, one also has to hail these intellectuals and their autobiographical writing as the farewell to the intellectual class, since they represent the collapse of the biopolitical and physiopolitical and, thus, the dissolution of the State’s sovereignty. The intellectual is the last subject and body left capable of mirroring the State, albeit melancholically or religiously. At the same time, the intellectual is the last subject whose identification is defined by the State; it is not a coincidence if the three authors bare their souls in their autobiographies but do not speak much of love, sex, friendship and/or antagonism with women. The rest of the population of the Spanish state is now adrift in a shifting symbolic system in which the national and the global superpose over different and contradictory forms of identification. These varied contradictory forms of identification allow Spanish people to identify with previous historical identifications but they also impose serious forms of dejection upon those very same identifications, in a complex libidinal map that remains to be charted. At this point, we only know that, in this transitional local-global symbolic order, bio- and physiopolitics collapse into a single order and the intellectual’s autobiography represents a farewell to that dual order that defined the modern State and its national body.

 

 

 

NOTES

 

1 I would like to acknowledge the following colleagues for their contributions to this article: Laura Mintegi, Casilda de Miguel, Kathleen Etcheverry, Demosthenes Papaeliou, Imanol Galfarsoro, Txema Montero and Pedro Oiarzabal. I would also like to thank William Douglass for his editing. I also would like to acknowledge the anonymous reader who reviewed the article and made many insightful comments..

2 Américo Castro adds a more historical take on the problem when he explains the reasons for the lack of autobiography in medieval Castile as derived from the influence of Muslim culture (282).

3 Throughout the nineteenth century, the individual/citizen is always male, white, and European. There are no official women intellectuals either at this point; therefore the use of the pronoun “he/his” reflects a historical rather than universal pronoun. At this point, important women intellectuals such as Madame De Staël or Emilia Pardo Bazán are perceived as transmitters and conduits of culture, rather than as intellectual subjects.

4 In his genealogy of intellectuals and philosophers, Zygmunt Bauman only establishes one break between the Enlightenment and our times, across the modern/postmodern divide. In this way, Bauman does not take into consideration the important rupture that happens at the end of the nineteenth century when the figure of the intellectual is consolidated against that of the philosopher/legislator.

5 Yet, the new formation of a private space, as an imaginary displacement of the national body and its subject – its autobiographical displacement to the private – has very interesting imaginary effects that escape the symbolic order and create unanticipated power effects. The compulsion to tell it all creates a very rich web of personal references and revelations, which move intellectual discourse closer to tabloid journalism.

 

 

 

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