(I envisage the reader's potential argument to the effect that Russian philosophy stands apart from Western philosophy and therefore cannot be considered a part of Western philosophy. This is a faulty view. Russia has historically appropriated Western culture and Western philosophy with it, and Russian philosophy is objectively integrated into the Western tradition, as opposed to the Eastern traditions, and the only reason for the West to ignore it, is an actual admission of its own ignorance of it, rather than a deliberate choice.)
Just as Russia used to be a triple mystery to Winston Churchill, the sorry state of appreciation for Russian philosophy in the West is a perplexing enigma to me.
Lord Bertrand Russell in his seminal History of Western Philosophy appears to ignore Russian philosophy altogether, and the West generally gives it a wide berth. There is no mention of Russian Philosophy in the Britannica’s mammoth cluster of Philosophy entries in its Macropoedia division. Come to think of it, had Britannica been our main source of authority on the subject, we would have had to conclude, with no small dose of bewilderment, that no such thing as Russian philosophy has ever been in existence.
On the other hand, anybody who has read Dostoyevsky with at least some measure of comprehension, may recall the contention of Dmitry Karamazov, one of the Karamazov Brothers, that “all real Russian people are philosophers.” Russian philosopher (yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!) Nikolai Berdyaev reiterates the same opinion in his Russian Idea: “It is a quality of the Russian people to indulge in philosophy.” One could say of course that in most such cases all is equal to none. But not in this case. As far as the Russians are concerned, philosophy is the way of life of the whole class of people, counting in millions, and known as the Intelligentsia. It is only natural in a unique situation like this that among these countless millions a great many should be accomplished philosophers, but of a very special kind, reflective of the specific nature of Russian philosophy.
It is therefore not surprising at all that the uncontestable greatness of Russian literature owes its depth and refinement to the strong philosophical and psychological undercurrent running throughout it. Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, among the best known, are the writers who are also considered great philosophers. But I may go much farther than that, asserting that every great Russian writer and poet is at the same time a thinker of the very first magnitude. There is no particular novelty in this close connection between great literature and philosophy. Shakespeare and Goethe are both recognized as writers, but reveal greatness in both, whereas in Kierkegaard, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, primarily known as philosophers, the level of literary excellence is also of the highest order.
Russian philosophy as a whole stands out in world philosophy for its particular national predisposition for certain specific interests, such as mysticism, and especially religious mysticism (although of a very different kind, a certain comparison can be made with the preoccupation of the Jewish mystics of the Luria era with the Kaballah), but also social philosophy, with a variety of active applications. A predisposition for utopian theories and social engineering has been noted, of course, but its translation into the Soviet philosophy of Scientific Communism with the ready conclusion that the Soviet political experiment was exactly that kind of application has been far too overstated, in my opinion. I hope that my in-depth analysis of Leninism and Stalinism, as well as other writings on Russia, will sufficiently establish my own position on this account, and offer the reader a radically different perspective on the Soviet period of Russian history.
Although mysticism and social philosophy, in that order, are the main obsessions of Russian philosophy, I would not limit the latter to just these two. Just as world culture has been appropriated by the Russians as their own, the same can be said of classic Western philosophy. The assimilation of Western philosophy by the Russian thinkers in their own philosophical thinking (Russian Platonism, Cartesianism, Hegelianism, Nietzscheanstvo, and such) is a well established pattern, and, of course, there is an unmistakable element of originality here, revealing familiar national traits.
One of the most remarkable features of Russian philosophy, having far-reaching ramifications for Western understanding of Russia’s political-philosophical undercurrents, is the titanic ideological struggle between collectivism and individualism. Both these predispositions are visibly present in Russian thought, and they are philosophically necessary as an inseparable duo with the one unable to live without the other. It is as if the national necessity for collectivism of all is immediately offset by the individualistic urge of each. Thus it can be now explained why one of the world’s most welcome turfs for national-totalitarianism, that is Russia, does not produce a human anthill, as a result of its propensity for collectivism, but, on the contrary, leads to an acutely individualistic culture, indeed, perhaps, the most individualistic culture in human history.
This paradoxical correlation between nationalistic totalitarianism and personal individualism is probably the most misapprehended feature of the Russian national psyche, in the understanding of the West. Yet, it is the only key to the Russian soul that makes such an understanding possible.
What makes this understanding so difficult to attain is, first and foremost, the great reluctance of the free nations of the West to recognize the legitimacy of the totalitarian propensity of any national mind, as if its propensity for nationalism as such were not the very first and most natural suggestion that totalitarianism is not some kind of fluke, but the most logical extension of all nationalism.
Another major difficulty arises from the inability to distinguish between nationalism and internationalism. We might visualize the collectivism of national totalitarianism as a clearly delineated area on a graph. To the left of this area lies the subnational individualism of the nation’s citizens, while to the right opens the vast supranational expanse of the world’s nations. We may surmise that such supranational movements as Pan-Slavism, Pan-Germanism, or Pan-Arabism, and such, have all been some hypertrophied extensions of nationalism proper, and indeed, history has taught us that supranationalism is bound to clash with its more moderate and more stable counterpart, nationalism proper, and to resist any efforts to substitute it with an ambitious, but far less viable alternative. (One cannot, however, dismiss such supranational movements as something totally inconsequential. As long as these are not pushed too far, like it was done in the creation of several “United Arab Republics,” for instance, forcefully pushed by the great Egyptian Pan-Arabist Gamal Abdel Nasser, these movements do represent forces to reckon with. It is only when they impose themselves on the constituent national identities that the trouble starts.)
Another peculiar example to extend collectivism beyond its natural national boundaries is the obsession of the Russian philosopher Vladimir Solovyev with the idea of religious ecumenicalism. His famous push for the reconciliation of the Eastern and Western Christian Churches was not some infantile desire for all of us just to get along but a deeply felt philosophical principle carried too far. His ultimate failure to bring his pet project as much as an inch further ought to be seen not as a fault of political action on anybody’s part, but as a fatal flaw in his philosophical underpinnings of such a move, which represented an illegitimate push of the collectivist principle beyond its natural borders.
Insofar as the push of the totalitarian principle in the other direction is concerned, that is, its rude intrusion in the domain of the private individual, the relentless efforts of the Soviet State to disseminate propaganda among the citizens were obvious, and certain to be expected. But any crackdown on dissent would happen only when individualistic non-conformity was perceived as itself intruding into the public national domain, where the State had established its totalitarian control, but otherwise, as long as the borderline between the collective and the personal was respected by the individual, the State was not eager to cross it in the other direction either, and the subtle equilibrium, which is so incomprehensible to the Western mind, would still obtain.
Just as Russia used to be a triple mystery to Winston Churchill, the sorry state of appreciation for Russian philosophy in the West is a perplexing enigma to me.
Lord Bertrand Russell in his seminal History of Western Philosophy appears to ignore Russian philosophy altogether, and the West generally gives it a wide berth. There is no mention of Russian Philosophy in the Britannica’s mammoth cluster of Philosophy entries in its Macropoedia division. Come to think of it, had Britannica been our main source of authority on the subject, we would have had to conclude, with no small dose of bewilderment, that no such thing as Russian philosophy has ever been in existence.
On the other hand, anybody who has read Dostoyevsky with at least some measure of comprehension, may recall the contention of Dmitry Karamazov, one of the Karamazov Brothers, that “all real Russian people are philosophers.” Russian philosopher (yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!) Nikolai Berdyaev reiterates the same opinion in his Russian Idea: “It is a quality of the Russian people to indulge in philosophy.” One could say of course that in most such cases all is equal to none. But not in this case. As far as the Russians are concerned, philosophy is the way of life of the whole class of people, counting in millions, and known as the Intelligentsia. It is only natural in a unique situation like this that among these countless millions a great many should be accomplished philosophers, but of a very special kind, reflective of the specific nature of Russian philosophy.
It is therefore not surprising at all that the uncontestable greatness of Russian literature owes its depth and refinement to the strong philosophical and psychological undercurrent running throughout it. Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, among the best known, are the writers who are also considered great philosophers. But I may go much farther than that, asserting that every great Russian writer and poet is at the same time a thinker of the very first magnitude. There is no particular novelty in this close connection between great literature and philosophy. Shakespeare and Goethe are both recognized as writers, but reveal greatness in both, whereas in Kierkegaard, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, primarily known as philosophers, the level of literary excellence is also of the highest order.
Russian philosophy as a whole stands out in world philosophy for its particular national predisposition for certain specific interests, such as mysticism, and especially religious mysticism (although of a very different kind, a certain comparison can be made with the preoccupation of the Jewish mystics of the Luria era with the Kaballah), but also social philosophy, with a variety of active applications. A predisposition for utopian theories and social engineering has been noted, of course, but its translation into the Soviet philosophy of Scientific Communism with the ready conclusion that the Soviet political experiment was exactly that kind of application has been far too overstated, in my opinion. I hope that my in-depth analysis of Leninism and Stalinism, as well as other writings on Russia, will sufficiently establish my own position on this account, and offer the reader a radically different perspective on the Soviet period of Russian history.
Although mysticism and social philosophy, in that order, are the main obsessions of Russian philosophy, I would not limit the latter to just these two. Just as world culture has been appropriated by the Russians as their own, the same can be said of classic Western philosophy. The assimilation of Western philosophy by the Russian thinkers in their own philosophical thinking (Russian Platonism, Cartesianism, Hegelianism, Nietzscheanstvo, and such) is a well established pattern, and, of course, there is an unmistakable element of originality here, revealing familiar national traits.
One of the most remarkable features of Russian philosophy, having far-reaching ramifications for Western understanding of Russia’s political-philosophical undercurrents, is the titanic ideological struggle between collectivism and individualism. Both these predispositions are visibly present in Russian thought, and they are philosophically necessary as an inseparable duo with the one unable to live without the other. It is as if the national necessity for collectivism of all is immediately offset by the individualistic urge of each. Thus it can be now explained why one of the world’s most welcome turfs for national-totalitarianism, that is Russia, does not produce a human anthill, as a result of its propensity for collectivism, but, on the contrary, leads to an acutely individualistic culture, indeed, perhaps, the most individualistic culture in human history.
This paradoxical correlation between nationalistic totalitarianism and personal individualism is probably the most misapprehended feature of the Russian national psyche, in the understanding of the West. Yet, it is the only key to the Russian soul that makes such an understanding possible.
What makes this understanding so difficult to attain is, first and foremost, the great reluctance of the free nations of the West to recognize the legitimacy of the totalitarian propensity of any national mind, as if its propensity for nationalism as such were not the very first and most natural suggestion that totalitarianism is not some kind of fluke, but the most logical extension of all nationalism.
Another major difficulty arises from the inability to distinguish between nationalism and internationalism. We might visualize the collectivism of national totalitarianism as a clearly delineated area on a graph. To the left of this area lies the subnational individualism of the nation’s citizens, while to the right opens the vast supranational expanse of the world’s nations. We may surmise that such supranational movements as Pan-Slavism, Pan-Germanism, or Pan-Arabism, and such, have all been some hypertrophied extensions of nationalism proper, and indeed, history has taught us that supranationalism is bound to clash with its more moderate and more stable counterpart, nationalism proper, and to resist any efforts to substitute it with an ambitious, but far less viable alternative. (One cannot, however, dismiss such supranational movements as something totally inconsequential. As long as these are not pushed too far, like it was done in the creation of several “United Arab Republics,” for instance, forcefully pushed by the great Egyptian Pan-Arabist Gamal Abdel Nasser, these movements do represent forces to reckon with. It is only when they impose themselves on the constituent national identities that the trouble starts.)
Another peculiar example to extend collectivism beyond its natural national boundaries is the obsession of the Russian philosopher Vladimir Solovyev with the idea of religious ecumenicalism. His famous push for the reconciliation of the Eastern and Western Christian Churches was not some infantile desire for all of us just to get along but a deeply felt philosophical principle carried too far. His ultimate failure to bring his pet project as much as an inch further ought to be seen not as a fault of political action on anybody’s part, but as a fatal flaw in his philosophical underpinnings of such a move, which represented an illegitimate push of the collectivist principle beyond its natural borders.
Insofar as the push of the totalitarian principle in the other direction is concerned, that is, its rude intrusion in the domain of the private individual, the relentless efforts of the Soviet State to disseminate propaganda among the citizens were obvious, and certain to be expected. But any crackdown on dissent would happen only when individualistic non-conformity was perceived as itself intruding into the public national domain, where the State had established its totalitarian control, but otherwise, as long as the borderline between the collective and the personal was respected by the individual, the State was not eager to cross it in the other direction either, and the subtle equilibrium, which is so incomprehensible to the Western mind, would still obtain.
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