Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Margreta de Grazia
University of Pennsylvania
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
No period division has had more consequence than the divide between the
“medieval” and the “modern,” with the exception, perhaps, of that between
b.c. and a.d. For like the b.c./a.d. divide, the medieval/modern break does
more than separate one period from another, as do other period divisions:
for example, dynasties (Tudor from Stuart), centuries (thirteenth from fif-
teenth), literary figures (Age of Chaucer from Age of Shakespeare), and
modes of economic production (feudalism from capitalism). Whether you
exist on one side or the other of the b.c./a.d. divide determines nothing less
than salvation.1 Whether you work on one side or the other of the medieval/
modern divide determines nothing less than relevance. Everything after that
divide has relevance to the present; everything before it is irrelevant. There
is no denying the exceptional force of that secular divide; indeed, it works
less as a historical marker than a massive value judgment, determining what
matters and what does not. It is no wonder that Renaissance studies should
covet its inaugural title “early modern,” and that medieval studies might
wish to preempt it with the still earlier claim of being “premodern.”
But why such a premium on the modern?
There was certainly nothing especially desirable about being mod-
ern in early uses of the term.2 For at first, anyone or anything at some point
could be modern, indeed could not but be modern, for the term meant sim-
ply recent or current. It carried no semantic weight. Like its Latin root mod-
ernus, it functioned as what linguists have termed a deictic, an empty variable
whose content derived from the conditions of its enunciation: when it was
uttered, as well as where, by and to whom. The term was roughly synony-
mous with such rolling markers of contemporaneity as present, recent, and
above all, as we shall see, new. Whatever existed in time — a philosophy, an
invention, a monarch or pope — had to have been at some point modern, if
only temporarily. For like any form of the contemporary, modernus could be
superseded: Queen Mary was the modern queen until Elizabeth’s corona-
tion. The passage of time would eventually render the modern obsolete or
ancient; the timely would eventually fall behind the times, making way for
a new modern.
At a certain point, the empty indicator assumes semantic substance.
Modern breaks from its cycle of recurrence and freezes into an epochal mono-
lith. It is futile to ask just when this semantic shift occurred. For it would be
tantamount to asking, “When was modern modernized ?” (The semantics of
time-words has a way of going self-referential, not to mention abstract and
general.) But one can say that modern became a period designation when it
lost its dyadic relation to ancient: when it ceased to relate to the ancient either
as mere adjunct (modern dwarfs standing on the shoulders of ancient giants)
or as emulous rival (moderns debating the superiority of the ancients). Once
it lost that relational status, modern came into its own; indeed it defined itself
as the repudiation of what has come before.3 It instated itself as new, a word
whose semantic history is tightly bound up with that of modern. For it, too,
broke from its relational status: it left the old behind in order to reference
not a renewal of what was before but the emergence of what had never been
before. (Like modern, too, new was elevated to period status, in its German
counterpart, Neuzeit.)4 It is from its kinship to this modernized new that mod-
ern derives its cachet, what Fredric Jameson has recently termed “the supreme
value of innovation,” its irresistible “electrical” and “libidinal charge.”5
For novelty is the essence of modernity. It is around the possibil-
ity of a spontaneously generated new, with no connection to the past, that
its existence as a period concept has depended. It can be seen to emerge in
Nietzsche’s essay, “On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life,”
where he prescribes forgetting the past as the antidote for the historical
excess of his own time; disburdened of the past, the epigonic “late-comer”
of a superannuated tradition might, by a bold reversal, emerge as the pris-
tine “first-born” of an entirely new race.6 In discussing Nietzsche, Paul de
Man stresses modernity’s “desire to wipe out whatever came earlier,” a sup-
pression of anteriority so extreme that representation limits itself to the
present.7 For Jürgen Habermas, the project of modernity, still incomplete,
originates in a “radicalized consciousness . . . which frees itself from all
specific historical ties.”8 Bruno Latour also considers the project unfulfilled,
indeed unfulfillable; because the time of the now cannot be cleanly fissured
from the time of the then, the modern remains out of reach, and thus “we
have never been modern.”9
For a cadre of mid-twentieth-century German philosophers of his-
tory, it is not that the project of modernity has not been or cannot be ful-
filled, but rather that it has been fulfilled already, and in the very Chris-
tian era the modern would disavow. Developments by which the modern
is distinguished — progress, teleology, freedom, for example — are secular-
ized appropriations from medieval Christian eschatology. If its attributes are
mere replays of the Christian past, then the modern’s claim to being inno-
vational is untenable, or in the strikingly juridical language of the debate,
“illegitimate.”10 In his influential The Legitimacy of the Modern Age, Hans
Blumenberg defends the modern age’s claim to epochal status by granting
that while the modern retained the same problems or needs as the Middle
Ages, it introduced new solutions or “reoccupations”: thus the Cartesian cogito
addressed the need for certainty previously met by the promise of salvation.11
As the modern comes into being as novel, so, too, it survives by
remaining so. Thus Jameson locates a lingering strain of the modern in
postmodernism’s abiding fixation on the new, however much it might try
to repackage (postmodernize) novelty as “difference” or “alterity.”12 For Lyo-
tard, the postmodern continues within the purview of the modern precisely
because of this abiding fixation; indeed, to account for the ongoing prolif-
eration of ever-new modernisms, he ingeniously (and preposterously) places
the postmodern before the modern: “a work can become modern only if at
first it is postmodern.”13
period illness of the Renaissance, embodied in its two great epochal icons:
Dürer’s Melancholia and Shakespeare’s Hamlet. (It is for good reason that
James Simpson begins his revisionist medieval history with the antiquary
John Leland: alienated, torn, diachronically conscious to the point of physi-
cal illness, he resembles Nietzsche’s suprahistorical man who recoils in nau-
sea from historical oversaturation.)23 But the defect extends further still, to
where literary studies feels it most. Without a recognition of loss, there can
be no desire to recover, and without the desire to recover, there is no inspira-
tion to represent, in either images or words, what has been lost: in sum, no
stimulation to artistic production. By contrast, consider the response, cited
by Barkan, to the excavation of the Laocoön in 1506: “As soon as [the statue]
was visible everyone started to draw, all the while discoursing on ancient
things.”24 First burial, then exhumation, then the longing to bring back to
life through aesthetic representation.
There can be no denying that the modern divide has been hard on
medievalists, and they cannot be blamed for trying (like a third world coun-
try) to catch up, often by stretching the starting point of the modern back a
century or more so that the Middle Ages is no longer a middle of any kind,
but rather a beginning avant le lettre, an earlier early modern or premodern.
(The Renaissance finds itself in the same defensive position when the incep-
tion of the modern age is assigned to the Enlightenment, as by Habermas
and Foucault, or to Romanticism, as by Jauss). The pre of the neologism is
as problematically ambiguous as the post of the now commonplace post-
modern: by retaining the root word, both terms suggest a continuity with
the modern, its prequel and its sequel. The modern continuum is thereby
stretched out at both ends: an earlier-early-modern and a later-late-modern.
Thus the traditional tripartite division (ancient, medieval, modern) folds
into two, and the Middle Ages is phased out, leaving the bipartite ancient
and modern. Perhaps antimodern (as in Antichrist) might be preferable, anti
denoting opposition as well as alterity, with a homonymic dash of anteced-
ence (ante).25 Of course, premodern also invites connections between the
two modern extremes, as in Bruce Holsinger’s substitution of the post of
Lyotard’s Postmodern Condition with the pre of his Premodern Condition.
As he argues, poststructuralist theory reaches back to medieval texts for its
inspiration: “The diachronic imagination of the nouvelle critique reaches
across a millennium to embrace a distant epoch as a foundation for its own
intellectual work.”26 The “millennium” between the pre and post drops out
of the picture: and that millennium is none other than the (original) modern
period itself, from the fifteenth to the twentieth century. Subjected to the
same fate to which it had subjected the Middle Ages, the modern receives its
just deserts: it is consigned to the obscurity of an irrelevant interval between
two termini.
While medieval studies has suffered from the divide, the Renaissance has
flourished, enjoying pride of place as the inaugural period of the mod-
ern — of the new, invention, novelty, innovation. Its special affinity to the
modern, even in its late and latest attenuations, is clinched by the very des-
ignation early modern, a term which carries a built-in semantic guarantee of
its link to the present: as sure and fast as early is connected to late, a terminus
ad quem to a terminus a quo, start to finish. Whatever the subject in question
(subjectivity, representation, racism, nationalism, capitalism, empire, new
science), it is readily and commonly supposed that the modern here and now
has a special rapport with the early modern there and then. Too readily and
commonly supposed.
Again and again, even in this new millennium, the status of the
Renaissance as the start of the modern is reconfirmed, as in this first sen-
tence of a recent study: “If there is one moment at which most people define
the birth of modern European civilization, it is surely the period between
1400 and 1600 known as the Renaissance.”27 As the firstborn of every facet
of the modern, the Renaissance, like an overindulged first child, stands at
risk of being spoiled — by not being held accountable. The tie between the
early modern and the latest modern is taken for granted. Parallels, analogues,
affinities come fast and loose, repeatedly confirming what they began by
assuming: that the present now has a privileged link to the early modern
then. New forms of consciousness, of nation formation, of colonial ambition
establish themselves by giving themselves roots in what has been acclaimed
the seedbed or (more dramatically) the crucible of the modern. The Renais-
sance is the invention (or beginning) of every modern this-or-that: of sub-
jectivity, the literary, literary subjectivity, pragmatism, technology, the world
market, mercantile capitalism, commodity fetishism, slavery, contact with
the East, urban sprawl, providentially driven fatality akin to terrorism, every
manner of consciousness and the unconscious, including historical con-
sciousness and more recently ecological consciousness. Such anticipatory
histories would do well to contemplate the paradoxical anecdote invoked
by Roussel, Foucault, and Jameson of a traveler who reported having seen
showcased in a provincial museum the skull of Voltaire as a child.28 The joke
is on notions of history that find in an earlier period the terms of a later one
that has not yet come to pass. That the cranium should be that of Voltaire,
Renaissance, with no mention of his dissatisfaction with the term.33 (In the
German edition, he often distanced himself from it by putting it in quota-
tion marks.) For he regarded it as something of a misnomer that exaggerated
the importance of the return of antiquity when the Renaissance, he insisted,
would have occurred even without its revival.34 For him, the period was
less a rebirth than a birth: “the birth of man” — of man as individual as
opposed to man as subject to the “general categories” of the Middle Ages (of
race, people, party, family, or community) — issued not from the retrieval
of antiquity but rather from the lapsed civic and religious strictures of the
independent city-states. At least thirty times in his great opus, Burckhardt
refers to the period as the early modern, beginning of the modern, or the start
of the modern, attributing to the Quattro- and Cinquecento: “the most mod-
ern state in the world,” “the modern form of glory,” “classes in the modern
sense,” “a modern standard of good and evil,” “the firstborn among the sons
of modern Europe,” all evidence that the Renaissance was, as is asserted in
the final line of his book, “the leader of modern ages.”35
Burckhardt’s modern, however, is very different from that precipi-
tated by Hegel’s theodicy, embodied in not a Martin Luther of strict inner
conscience but a Cesare Borgia of raw unbridled will. The Reformation, for
Burckhardt, was where history took a wrong turn. The church was about
to expire under the weight of its own corruption, giving still freer reign to
the rapacious creative energies of individualism, when it suddenly revived
to counter the minatory head of the Reformation: “secularization . . . was
adjourned for centuries by the German Reformation.”36 As Burckhardt’s
rabidly anti-Hegelian pupil Nietzsche repeatedly complained, the arrival
of the Reformation was a historical disaster, spearheaded by “that calamity
of a monk,” who by reforming the church, revived it, and thereby cheated
Europe of “the harvest of the Renaissance.”37 As a result, Europe settled for
the leveling institutions of a democratized, centralized, and progressivist state
that, to his mind, had reduced human potential to a dull mediocrity: “mod-
ern man suffers from a weakened personality.”38 But this was the modern
that had its birth in Hegel’s triumphant Reformation, not in Burckhardt’s
Renaissance of prodigious individuals. “One hundred such [Renaissance]
men,” Nietzsche claimed, would suffice to revitalize his present by grafting it
onto new stock. This is the use of history as genealogy, taking “the knife to
[a culture’s] roots” and planting “a new, stern discipline”: “It is an attempt to
give oneself, as it were a posteriori, a past in which one would like to originate
in opposition to that in which one did originate.”39
To the formative narratives of Hegel and Burckhardt might be
Notes
I wish to thank Austin Zeiderman for his help with this essay, and Crystal Bartolo-
vitch for her laser-sharp critique.
1 For the similarly consequential operations of the “Great Divide” in anthropology,
between “them” and “us” or “nature” and “culture,” see Bruno Latour, We Have Never
Been Modern, trans. Catherine Porter (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1993), 11 – 12 ff.
2 For uses of modernus from the fifth century through the Middle Ages, see Hans
Ulrich Gumbrecht, Making Sense in Life and Literature, trans. Glen Burns (Minneap-
olis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992), 81 – 82.
3 Only after generations of debate does modern finally come into its own, in a standoff
frequently identified with its emergence as a free-standing period. See Fredric Jame-
son’s jaunty summary in A Singular Modernity: Essay on the Ontology of the Present
(London: Verso, 2002), 20 – 22.
4 On Neuzeit, see Reinhart Koselleck, “Neuzeit: Remarks on the Semantics of the
Modern Concepts of Movement,” in Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time,
trans. Keith Tribe (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1985), 231 – 66.
5 Jameson, A Singular Modernity, 5. On the modern as our present “fetish,” see Linda
Charnes, “The Fetish of ‘the Modern,’ ” in Hamlet’s Heirs: Shakespeare and the Politics
of a New Millennium (New York, Routledge, 2006), 13 – 25.
6 Friedrich Nietzsche, “On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life,” in
Untimely Meditations, trans. R. J. Hollingdale (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1997), 104, 123.
7 Paul de Man, “Literary History and Literary Modernity,” in Blindness and Insight:
Essays in the Rhetoric of Contemporary Criticism (Minneapolis: University of Minne-
sota Press, 1995), 148.
8 Jürgen Habermas, “Modernity: An Incomplete Project,” in Modernism/Postmodernism,
ed. Peter Brooker (London: Longman, 1992), 127.
30 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, The Philosophy of History, trans. J. Sibree (New York:
Dover Publications, 1956), 395.
31 Ibid., 421.
32 On Burckhardt’s largely unrecognized Hegelianism, see E. H. Gombrich, In Search of
Cultural History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969), 14 – 25. On the implicit presence of
the diachronic in synchronic accounts, see Jameson, Political Unconscious, 28; and A
Singular Modernity, 79.
33 On Burckhardt’s equation of the Renaissance with the beginning of the modern age,
see Felix Gilbert, History: Politics or Culture? Reflections on Ranke and Burckhardt
(Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1990), 61 n. 17.
34 Jacob Burckhardt, The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy, trans. S. G. C. Middle-
more (New York: Penguin, 1959), 120.
35 Ibid., 65, 104, 230, 289, 98, 351.
36 Ibid., 95 – 96.
37 Friedrich Nietzsche, Ecce Homo, ed. and trans. Walter Kaufmann, in On the Gene-
alogy of Morals (New York: Random House, 1967; repr. New York: Vintage, 1989),
320; see also Nietzsche, Human All Too Human, trans. R. J. Hollingdale (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1986), 114 – 15.
38 Nietzsche, “On the Uses and Disadvantages of History,” Untimely Meditations, 83.
39 Ibid., 95, 76 respectively.
40 Karl Marx, Capital: A Critique of Political Economy, Volume One, trans. Ben Fowkes
(New York: Vintage, 1976), 878.
41 Ibid., 873. For a significant recasting of Marx’s prehistory that identifies the capital-
ist wellspring with the medieval, see “The Marxist Premodern,” a special issue of The
Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, ed. Bruce Holsinger and Ethan Knapp,
34.3 (2004).
42 On the tight linkage between the Renaissance and the present, see the following by
Stephen Greenblatt: Learning to Curse: Essays in Early Modern Culture (New York:
Routledge, 1990), 167; and Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 174 – 75.
43 Jameson, Political Unconscious, 33 – 34.
44 This prescript (quoted by Jameson in A Singular Modernity, 49) epitomizes Louis
Althusser’s and Étienne Balibar’s rearticulation of Marxist periodization, in Read-
ing Capital, trans. Ben Brewster (London: Verso, 1987), 91 – 105; Michel Foucault,
“Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,” Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Essays
and Interviews, trans. Donald F. Bouchard and Sherry Simon (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell
University Press, 1988), 139 – 64.
45 Foucault, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,” 164.
46 Walter Benjamin, “Theses on the Philosophy of History,” in Illuminations, ed. Han-
nah Arendt, trans. Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken Books, 1969), XIV, XV; for his-
tory’s triumphal procession, see VII.
47 Benjamin, “Theses,” II.
48 Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama, trans. John Osborne (Lon-
don: Verso, 1996), 138 – 39.
49 Ibid., 53.