The belief that obscure dreams have meaning, that they can be understood in spite of their seeming incoherence, is shared by most cultures: the importance attributed to the interpretation of dreams comes up several times in such sacred texts as the Bible and Talmud, where it is warned that an uninterpreted dream is like an unopened letter. However, even if such a point of view may justify the interpretation of obscure dreams, it does not provide a basis for a systematic interpretive approach. Roger Caillois considered the will to interpretation “one of the noblest flaws of the human spirit,” defining it as “this passion to find meaning in what has none, and thus to derive meaning from the meaningless.” And it is surely the human spirit's inherent need for intelligibility that underlies the desire to account for the existence of dreams, whether as a divine message or a symptom of neurosis. The act of interpretation consists of giving meaning to something that, at first glance, appears to have none; and this is done not arbitrarily but by discerning a meaning - with the help of methods created for this purpose - that is believed to be implicitly contained in the dream. Thus to interpret a dream we must explain it in relation to the context in which it takes it meaning. For Freud “the interpretation of a dream” requires specifying its “sense” and then replacing it with something that can fit within the chain of our psychic actions.

The Old Turkish inscriptions that were written roughly between the beginning of the eighth and the middle of the ninth century A.D. and represent the first testimonies of a Turkish language, include important information about contacts of the ruling Türks and later the Uighurs, who were also Turkish-speaking, with other peoples inside and outside of their el, i.e., their steppe empire. This information is partly explicit, when, for example, we read about a delegation being sent to the other side, and partly implicit, by which we mean outside influences that we can trace in the texts in different ways.

In the invisible darkness which shrouds each one of us as an individual, and at the same time shrouds all forms of knowledge, there are things which we do not know, things which thrive in the interstitial spaces between established forms of knowledge. The attitude towards such things of those who reflect on the state of knowledge seems to convey a self-evident fact: we wish to know those things that we do not know. To put it more aptly, we are bound to want to know those things. How could it be otherwise? If humankind is regarded as a vast collective brain which stores up its knowledge, preserving that acquired in the past, gathering and centralizing new information from all sources and making sure that it is passed on, how could we wish to do otherwise than continue to broaden this domain of enlightenment and intelligence?

It is a cliché to say that the poor countries are becoming poorer and poorer while the rich ones become richer and richer. Previous experience shows that it is an illusion to count on mankind's sense of solidarity to resolve this dilemma. And yet we are dealing with a problem that is real, vast, and urgent. The developed world uses its knowledge and technological opportunities to sustain and increase its wealth, and in the race for scientific and technical advances the “Third World” faces the serious risk of never being able to catch up. Seen in this light, it is understandable that some people have allowed themselves to be seduced by the notion that in order to achieve a better equilibrium in the world all that is required is to return to a “more natural” life in which science and technology no longer play a dominant role. It seems to us, however, that this vision is unrealistic because it does not take account of the fact that human nature pushes us toward competition and that the kind of solidarity that would compensate for, and mitigate, this competitiveness works successfully only on a small scale (e.g., within the family or clan) or in very special circumstances (e.g., wars, natural catastrophes).

The present-day languages and language situation of the Silk Road regions of Central Asia reflect the consequences of the former use of many different languages and the multilingual trading along these routes, as demonstrated by the existence today of a number of hybridized languages whose emergence may in part be attributable to the trading activities on the Silk Road. These languages have, until very recently, received little attention, if any, by linguistic scholars. It has been mainly through the large Language Atlases project mentioned in note 1 below that interest has become focused on them.

The problem of lying to, or deceiving oneself is currently one of the most debated in analytical philosophy. Now, since analytical philosophers are aware that Sartre defined "bad faith" as lying to oneself, as self-deception, and since moreover they find relatively coherent arguments in Sartre's text, they do not hesitate to include these arguments in their debates, if only to contest them. "To be dead is to be a prey for the living," one reads in Being and Nothingness (p. 695). One imagines Sartre rolling over in his grave. For this philosophy of mind is truly the Other of Sartre's philosophy. Yet, at the price of a treacherous translation, this philosophy gets something from Sartre, and perhaps gives him something in return.

In a slightly surreal, perhaps even monstrous way, I am going to make the two philosophies engage in a dialogue on the problem of lying to oneself.

One of the defining features of the modern age is the apotheosis of natural history. Natural History is, of course, the title of Buffon's monumental work, written in the second half of the 18th century. Also, until the rise of the Industrial Revolution, natural history provided an integrated technology, stretching from the voyages of discovery to the establishment of colonies devoted to the cultivation of the resources discovered there, whether one considers sugar cane in its migration west, or vanilla plants on Reunion Island. Beginning in the 16th century, and in such works as Jean de Léry's The Singularities of the French Antarctic, voyagers described, in written accounts of what they saw in far-off lands, exotic substances with singular properties. Jean Nicot returned with tobacco. Parmentier took it upon himself to introduce the cultivation of the potato to France. From both Madame de Sévigné and a secular cantata of Bach we know of the immediate vogue that coffee enjoyed from its introduction in Europe. Later, in the 18th century, after his disastrous expedition to measure the meridian at the equator, La Condamine returned from the Amazon with two substances that would prove crucial to the technical development of the West: rubber and curare.

The expansion of commerce between the Chinese and Persian states, and the re-establishment of caravan routes, helped make possible the arrival of the first Manichaean missionaries to China in the seventh century of our era. Thus, in 694, a Persian with the title of fuduodan appeared before the Chinese court carrying “the false religion contained in The Book of the Two Principles,” Erzongjing. In 719 another Manichaean dignitary, bearing the title of muzhu and versed in astronomy, was sent to the Chinese emperor by the viceroy of Tokharestan. Some twenty years later, on 16 Jul, 731, a Manichaean Bishop, also called a fuduodan, completed the Compendium of the Doctrines and Rules of the Religion of Mani, the Buddha of Light. The resulting edict, which required the translation of this work, was designed to allow the Chinese authorities both to obtain a complete overview of Manichaeism and to indicate what attitude to take in its regard. Accordingly, the next year (732), an edict was promulgated which, while condemning Manichaeism, granted religious freedom to its non-Chinese adherents.

As we approach the end of the twentieth century, humanity is facing a crisis in definition and ways of thinking across the boundaries of identity, politics, and culture. This paper briefly addresses unusual forums and forms for expressing the anxiety surrounding change and the ability to analyze it, forms linked to the media and its intensive focus on particular “human interest” stories, but also to the uncertainty that a lack of precedent for thinking creates. One of the questions that most interests me is how the malaise of society and the malaise of political change is expressed through the debates around maternity, birth, and the custody of children, how socio-political problems are made intelligible through dramatization of individual struggle involving family relations. What is compelling is the way in which certain stories followed by the media gravitate around facts that speak of what we do not know. Recent advances in reproductive technologies have put into question the belief (whether implicit or explicit) that biology, as a teleological process, can hold cultural chaos in abeyance. The doors have been opened wide as the definition and status of mother, father, and child have all been deeply questioned. Yet at the very moment when the so-called nuclear family is endangered, it is the extraordinarily powerful metaphor of the family that rings insistently in social and political discourse. There is a sense that the threat to the family signals a disintegration of order, leaving the contemporary sense of self bereft of a discourse that can represent universal order.

Contemporary bio-ethics shares with the ancient tradition of natural theology the characteristic of assuming, in the face of the advances of a fundamentally materialist science, an opportunistic function, which is that of the adaptive rescue of spiritual values. Bioethical humanism exists only in the process of this perpetual movement of repossession, and its effort, established to this effect, leads back incoherently to the interminable dualistic confrontation between science and conscience, having failed to take upon itself the task of constructing a rationally-informed thinking on the relationships between the order of development of positive knowledge and the order of development of moral feelings, both in human evolution and in the history of societies. These matters hardly concern today's fashionable philosophers, whose dominant preoccupation seems to be to find a still-unfilled job - something between an esoteric magus and a preacher in vogue - on the great stage of the inessential upon which inconsequential thought is exhibited.

Human experience is rich in singular bursts and flashes that not everyone can participate in, that can only be the doing of a very small number of persons, and yet which, exceptional or strange as they are, have the capacity to enlighten us all. The extraordinary has something to say about the ordinary. Sometimes individuals travel alone along divergent paths, seeking a destination that perhaps only they can anticipate. In such cases the method used is not one that proceeds from the unknown to the known, from what the infant or newcomer doesn't know to what science or society considers as established knowledge. For those who travel to the zenith of experience, discoveries are of a different order because the person is transformed by them.

Terra incognita: the space is vibrant with reality and yet, as to its essentials, it eludes, like a hypothesis, all the modes of knowledge that I have at my disposal, and it appears that it ought to remain unaffected by every research procedure, whether intuitive or discursive, indirect or direct, whatever its process of creation, through experience, conscience or reasoning. Moreover, I have to speak without the protection of any critical distance, since the question that has been put to me concerns the status of the unknowable in my own work. This means that we are talking about a testimony that already implies the transgression of several taboos. During a radio interview, Matisse once explained: “I said to my young students: Would you like to paint? First of all, you will have to cut off your tongue, because this decision deprives you of the right to express yourselves in any other way than with brushes.” If what the painter wants to say could be expressed in words, he would be a novelist, a poet, or a philosopher rather than a painter. Further, I believe that there is an antinomy today—and perhaps even a kind of open conflict, a permanent tension—between painting and writing. It is partly this conflict on which my research is based. Everything that follows should therefore be taken with caution. These are sketches and random ideas; extracts from reflections haphazardly jotted down during my work, arranged in some order only for the purposes of this article.

Socrates’ exact words are unknown. Nor do we know precisely what the Buddha said. All we have, in both cases, are statements attributed to them. Our ignorance of their own words is irremediable. This is not the only trait that these two contemporaries share. The statements ascribed to them are similar in many ways, particularly the therapeutic concern that motivates them. Both the Athenian and Prince Gautama strive to cure the ravages of ignorance, to treat the ills ignorance engenders and eliminate its source. This common aim produces comparable results, such as the use of dialogue to remove illusory questions rather than the teaching of a doctrine.

The adverse report of the Academy of Sciences, published in 1784, failed to put an end to the proselytism of Mesmer's early followers, nor did it scale down their ambitions to gain scientific recognition. The allure of mystery, the taste for wonders and the call of the unknown prevailed, and throughout that century numerous clashes occurred between the scientific establishment and those demanding its recognition. Their demand was founded not so much on a theoretical construct as on people's personal experiences as actors or witnesses, which were perceived to be true simply because they were nearly always profoundly disturbing. The fact is that, despite the observations of scientists such as Faraday, anyone could put questions to an ecstatic in a state of trance, have a medium summon the dead, or communicate with the “other world” by table-turning. Insofar as it rejected the validity of the most commonly accepted “research programmes”, the challenge to the institutions that were the guarantors of received knowledge was a major one.

Let us think about metaphysics not as the subject matter of a discipline—as classical rationalism puts it—but as the “natural place” that arouses our curiosity. Let us see in it something that completes and exceeds, shelters and disables, inspires and invalidates all the questions raised by the effect of a primeval impulse. Rather than metaphysics we should hence speak of “the metaphysical,” a horizon rather than a form of knowledge which vainlessly tries to emulate divine wisdom, we are forced to ponder our point of view, the inquisitive gaze cast on that horizon, not so much as determining a position—since horizons tend to dissipate positions, to blur all point of references—but as a sign revealing a disposition, i.e., the trace of an attitude. As an attitude, this dis-position is a disruption or decentering of our habitual positions concerning the world and a bias that stimulates us to demand another kind of responses to questions which obviously are not those of every day.

In all societies certain groups of people make knowledge their way of life, dedicating themselves to research and the acquisition and use of knowledge. Thus sorcerers and priests, shamans and scientists, make up special—albeit minority—groups to whom society acknowledges an extremely important role.

The scientist and the layman are separated by a void which for more than a century has been occupied by various communication networks. It constitutes the domain of that which, in French, is rather inelegantly termed “la vulgarisation scientifique” and, in English, is known as “the popularization of science.”