Unlike the pastoral culture it was intended to replace, the new therapeutic machinery was to be compulsory rather than voluntary, national rather than local, secular rather than spiritual, rigidly bureaucratic rather than idiosyncratically flexible. The old pastoral culture was a product not merely of the religious sensibility of the old Europeans but of their aesthetic finesse: They used art and especially music to create desirable patterns of order in everyday life. (Art and music, the Greeks believed, are more effective than laws in the building of cities — an insight that we in our rage for rule-making have forgotten.) The old pastoral culture of the West appealed to the imagination, for it was saturated with myth and deeply indebted to the poets. The new redemptive machinery, by contrast, was sterile and unimaginative: It said nothing to the soul. Such was the viper the northern sages nourished in their bosoms. They called it socialism.
Once upon a time, the Mediterranean peoples — the very peoples who are now preying on the northern system of political economy — might have inspired the harder, less supple northern man to recover cultural forms that once tempered his individualism and brightened his common life. But by a curious paradox, the social state, although it originated in the north of Europe — in the brains of Marx, Engels, Saint-Simon, and others — struck its deepest roots in the soil of the Mediterranean nations and in their cousin-states in Latin America, where its suffocating banality extinguished the last vestiges of the older culture.
With the passing of this culture, something died in the West. The Dutch historian Johan Huizinga said that the Europeans lost their ability to play. It might seem perverse to connect the playfulness of a civilization with its cultural vitality. But great civilizations have always been distinguished by the exquisiteness of their play. “O Solon, Solon,” the Egyptian priest exclaims in Plato’s Timaeus, “you Hellenes are eternally children, and have not an old man among you.” In peoples no less than in individuals, genius waits on those who protract into maturity the childish season of play. “Our point of departure,” Huizinga wrote,
must be the conception of an almost childlike play-sense expressing itself in various play-forms, some serious, some playful, but all rooted in ritual and productive culture by allowing the innate human need of rhythm, harmony, change, alternation, contrast and climax, etc., to unfold in full richness.
Much of what Huizinga called the “play-element” in Western culture was concentrated in the play-space of the agora or market square — the “sphere of the festival,” of the “sacred performance and the festal contest,” of the “liturgical and theatrical representations” of man’s fate. In the north of Europe, the Reformation sounded the death knell of this culture, one that used art to mediate between the individual and the community. The Puritan broke up the sculpture of the market square, interdicted its theater, cast a baleful eye over its poetry and its ritual, outlawed its feasting, its dancing, its ale-drinking, and proscribed even the merriness of Christmas. What radical Protestantism destroyed in the Germanic north, the social state destroyed in the Mediterranean south and in Latin America, where the old market centers, once graciously ordered by art, music, and the poetry of the festival, today witness the blood-sport of gangs of drug fiends.
The more brutal and ungraceful a civilization’s play, the less creative its culture will be: Art will scarcely exist in its everyday life. In the United States, such art as we have is shut up in little mausoleums of dead culture, in the museum and the concert hall, cultural mortuaries that are remote from our daily occupations and without an accepted place in the lives of those with whom we are each day thrown together. When a people, in its efforts to order daily life, has replaced the sweet compulsions of art with the coarser machinery of regulations, red-tape, and police power, it has ceased to be healthy: It has outlived beauty, which is to say that it has outlived its lease on life.
“We must spend our life making our play as perfect as possible,” Plato said. Our modern social and political movements have all been “inimical to the play-factor in social life, “Huizinga observed, “Neither liberalism nor socialism offered it any nourishment.” “Even in the 18th century,” he wrote,
utilitarianism, prosaic efficiency, and the bourgeois ideal of social welfare — all fatal to the Baroque — had bitten deep into society. These tendencies were exarcerbated by the Industrial Revolution and its conquests in the field of technology. Work and production became the ideal, and then the idol, of the age. All Europe donned the boiler-suit. Henceforth the dominants of the civilization were to be social consciousness, educational aspirations, and scientific judgement. With the enormous development of industrial power, advancing from the steam-engine to electricity, the illusion gains ground that progress consists in the exploitation of solar energy. As a result of this luxation of our intellects, the shameful misconception of Marxism could be put about and even believed, that economic forces and material interests determine the course of the world. This grotesque over-estimation of the economic factor was conditioned by our worship of technological progress, which was itself the fruit of rationalism and utilitarianism after they had killed the mysteries and acquitted man of guilt and sin. But they had forgotten to free him of folly and myopia, and he seemed only fit to mould the world after the pattern of his own banality.
Under different stars the Mediterranean man’s northward march might have heralded the rapprochement of two civilizations and shown the world that economic freedom is not incompatible with splendor of culture. But the Mediterranean man today is no less cut off from his cultural heritage than is the northern man, and his inexorable progress in the higher latitudes seems to portend not renewal but something more ominous.