Rio de Janeiro, the opening of the carnival. On the Friday evening preceding Mardi Gras, the mayor of Rio hands over the keys to the city to King Momo, sovereign of the carnival. Immediately the samba breaks out in the brightly lit streets of the city. Newspapers, magazines and television feature big headlines describing the event and glorifying the holiday kingdom. They all report that the city is being shaken by winds of madness, that licence and inversions of every variety are rampant, that the leveling of individuals and the abolition of social distances illustrate the resolutions of conflicts in a collective dream of joy and happiness…

A citizen of Basel wrote in 1908, “When the great and long-expected day has finally arrived, and at the stroke of four the signal is given for the entrance of His Majesty Carnival, the city becomes the theater of intense life and activity whose meaning and value only the natives of Basel can appreciate”. This opinion, according to which only “Baselers” understand the real meaning of their fêtes, is still quite widespread, and it is almost a sacrilege that someone from the outside, such as I am, should try to explain the customs that give Basel its eminent place in folklore.

The word “real” (from the Latin “res” = thing) was coined in the 13th century to signify “having Properties” (Pierce. 1958, p. 358), whereas a “model” refers to an analogical representation, the structure of which should correspond to the structure or properties of that which it represents. For Scudder the mind is a system of models and each mind develops different models. We all have a different reality in mind and so we each live in a slightly different world (Scudder, 1975). Hence the real nature of the model and the model nature of reality are often indistinguishable. A snail, for example, when exposed to four tactile stimuli per second (with a rod on his belly) will be compelled to crawl upon that non-existing coherent spatial surface (Brecher, 1966). For the snail four tactile stimuli per second correspond to, or are isomorphic with, the structure of a spatial surface, but it is impossible for the snail to “know” which of the two structures is real.

For the last two centuries the novel has been the predominant literary genre; but the generic identity of the novel is far from established. Attempts to define the novel have focussed on formal features of particular types of texts, with the result that definitions of “the” novel have merely canonized one or another of the innumerable novelistic manifestations—Bildungsroman, eighteenth-century English novels, novels of the kind George Eliot or Henry James or Marcel Proust or Feodor Dostoevsky wrote, etc. By basing themselves upon such formal attributes, such definitions exclude a vast number of potential texts on essentially normative grounds. Further, the history of the novel has outgrown and contradicted those conceptions; no sooner than a theory has been formulated, the novel itself has moved forward, adapting to changing conditions and substituting for those formal properties a set of new ones, thus rendering the theories obsolete and revealing the inadequacy of formalist categories to define the genre. This predicament is certainly not unique to the theory of the novel but rather a necessary concomitant of any theoretical project; what makes any attempt to theorize about the novel particularly vulnerable is the genre's resistence to formalist analysis, its lack of precisely those organizing categories upon which a formalist theory of any genre can be built.

God as a term denoting that which is ultimately real and absolutely valuational is simultaneously the necessary presupposition of all thought and action and also their ultimate goal. Yet, it is equally true that it is neither known nor even knowable in principle in the sense that any finite being or set of such beings may hope to know it in any determinate manner. Being generally conceived as beyond both space and time and transcending them in the sense that, even when considered as immanent in the world, It can never be regarded as completely revealed at any particular point in space or time, it cannot but be unknown and unknowable in the deepest sense of the word. Yet, however paradoxical the idea of God may be, it is a symbol of that which man as a self-conscious reflective being, who both knows and acts, has to encounter at every turn.

Since time immemorial, the most varied divinatory practices have flourished in India. Their prognostications were supplied by the interpretation of quite diverse omina and portenta: Thus “meteors” (lightning, rain or comets) earthquakes, the flight and cries of crows and other birds, the degree of clarity of a subject's image reflected in melted butter (gharta), lines and marks on a body, the direction taken by smoke rising from the altar once the rite had condensed a certain magic power from it (prabhāva), dreams, all were thought to furnish the diviner with presages. As the abundant lists of the Garga samhitā and the Brhat Sarnmitā testify, for a conscience attentive to the intersigns there is no reality, even the most insignificant, that does not lend itself directly or by contiguity to systematic interpretation.

The historical literature of the past two centuries testifies to disputes about what historical knowledge is and the relationship of the historian to it. The disputes have been fierce enough for each side to declare that any position other than its own is untenable. It would be futile to try to convince those who so staunchly defend their own ground that the other side might have a legitimate contribution to make. Yet, it might be worthwhile to classify the positions so as to focus the arguments on legitimate issues, and, in some measure, to begin to resolve them.