On our planet only the American continent has had the privilege, or the unhappiness perhaps, of being subjected to a sort of accounting of “anniversaries” or, let us say, “centennials.” But this does not mean, for all that, that these anniversaries serve to commemorate its birth. Geologists tell us the continents were formed hundreds of millions of years ago, making the commemoration of the American continent relatively recent. Moreover, the origins of this custom are foreign to it and are imbued, it must be said, with perspectives that are by all evidence “Eurocentric.” Curiously, no one took any notice of the first or the second centennial of the American continent.

Between 1648 and 1652, Cyrano de Bergerac wrote a small satirical work entitled The Other World, a fictional account of his imaginary epic voyage to the Moon.* The story not only describes “The States and Empires of the Moon,” (its subtitle in the original edition), it provides a critical view of his own civilization as well. The narrator's position in his depiction of the radically different, “other” entity allows him to maintain opinions which, however whimsical, still include elements of social and philosophical examination. In the early stages of world migration, Europe was beginning to see the Other as a place for the expression, if not the transposition, of its ancient dreams; Cyrano, however, takes a different approach. He looks at ways the Other might be used to gain perspective on the Self. Looking down at Earth from above, he proclaims: “People, I declare that this moon is not a moon, but a world, and that world over there is not a world, but a moon.”

Jean-Pierre Changeux's Neuronal Man attempts to define mental activity, that is thought, with respect to the neurophysiology of the brain.*

Since antiquity, the historical account of these problems has undergone the examination of classical notions: what is a mental image, a concept, a representation? Changeux, who accepts these traditional points of departure, as well as the notion of signification, aims to clarify the physical, neurophysiological counterparts of these notions, in order to arrive at less simplistic terms: image de memoire “memory image,” later - objet mental “mental object,” and still later - objet de mémoire “memory object.” Behind these terms lies transition to neurophysiology, with the notion of engram, and finally with the notion of trace, a notion which is precise but very general, since the substantive reality of these traces, their anatomy and physiology in the brain has yet to be determined.

Long ago the Chinese people developed the habit of thinking in terms of images. They also formed the habit of writing and recognizing scriptforms in terms of images. In fact, these diverse cognitive processes - thinking, writing and decoding in terms of images - have been interacting and reinforcing one another for thousands of years, and, as a result, have played a significant role in shaping Chinese culture and the Chinese mind, and have become a part of the collective unconscious of the people.

Although today the Chinese characters are highly abstract and symbolic, the language still preserves its pictographic and ideographic prototypes, the parent script which evolved almost six thousand years ago. In other words, although modern Chinese characters are no longer actual drawings of objects, ideas, and images, they still have a blood relationship to these primitive forms. Their graphemes, configurations, or grapho-semantic radicals still bear direct semantic relation to their referents, so much so that it would be fair to describe the development of Chinese writing as an overlapping process as well as a gradual one.

There inevitably comes a time when even the best informed minds are tempted to yield to the lure of binarism: when we are no longer concerned with the details of a system, but rather with our vision of the relationship between man and the world. Without going any further it can already be said that the problem of existence is presented to us in terms of a man/world duality, as though we were unable to exceed our subjective vision of things so as to assess their intrinsic reality.

When linguists discovered that they could isolate discrete units called phonemes, they were tempted to oppose the discontinuity of these phonemes – reflecting the underlying discontinuity of the signifiers – to a continuum of prelinguistic experience, a continuum that is not arranged as discrete elements except with reference to any significant units of the language selected for the purpose of communicating this experience to others. At the outset we have nothing but a nebulous mass where only the application of a linguistic grid allows us to discern identifiable units. Even if, in the final analysis, it will prove necessary to doubt the universal validity of this vision of things, we must recognize its usefulness in concretizing a concept of linguistic facts – a concept that has for some time played a beneficent role in research. At least for some of us, this vision should reflect the manner in which the world is gradually organized in our minds each time a perceptible reality is isolated from its context at the instant it receives a name. Allow me to introduce an illustration from personal experience. It was the last day of July in 1914. In our little village in the Savoy the international tension – which would eventually end in general mobilization – was very perceptible; our classes were idle, and teachers and pupils had settled down in a field near the school. I was six. Sitting on the grass, my attention was attracted by a plant with large flat leaves. At that moment someone said the word plantain “plantain.” The plant had not been heretofore exactly unknown to me; it didn't strike me, at that moment, as a discovery; but it acquired a distinct existence only at that instant in the green carpet of the field when a signifier had definitively isolated it. It was most assuredly the gravity of the hour that engraved this incident in my memory.

“Larvatus prodeo,” “I go forth masked”: with these words does the young René Descartes - the year is 1619 and he is twenty-three years old - mark his entrance into philosophy. In an early text found among his papers and published under the title Praeambula, he writes the following: “Before going on stage, an actor dons a mask (persona) so as not to reveal the redness of his face. Likewise, as I make my appearance in the theater of the world, where I have so far been only a spectator, I also go forth masked.”

Here Descartes describes a practice that is far from his alone. When a philosopher appears upon the stage – whether in speech or in writing – he alters his tone and projects his voice. He no longer merely speaks; he declaims, and sometimes even takes an oracular stance. He uses the mask to hide his face and body and above all to transform his voice. What we hear is the voice of René Descartes, but it is transformed, amplified, deformed by the mask behind which he hides, by the persona of the philosopher he wants to be. These few lines of the Praeambula may be considered as a beginning, a very personal preface to his philosophical oeuvre as a whole, as the moment when he leaves behind his person to become a persona. Until now, Descartes has been a private person, answerable to no one, able to express himself just as he is, just as he thinks he is, without having to use a mask. Once he openly, officially chooses the life of the mind, a new “I'” is expressed through his mouth; from now on what he says will no longer be private but public. His role now is to speak the truth, even if it turns out in the end to be his truth alone.

I do not propose to compare the esthetics of Kant and Wittgenstein or to show the sometimes very Kantian basis of some of Wittgenstein's reflections. I do not intend to take up the history of philosophy here (I will not, therefore, attempt to expound upon the relationship in Kant of the esthetic to the teleological or the moral, for example, or the relationship of art to ordinary language in Wittgenstein). That would not be without interest; quite the contrary, but I would prefer to compare the remarks of the one to those of the other in order to respond to a specific question: why is it said that there can be no rules for art, or more precisely, that the only rule is that there must be no rules? What authorizes art to play with the rules?