This paper sketches a comprehensive methodology to analyse the elementary structures of prehistoric art. A formal analysis of art is proposed through the distinction between pictograms, ideograms and psychograms. The dynamic between these elements and the thematic contents of the represented scenes is related to the four main types of social organization: early hunters, early gatherers, late hunters, pastoralists and complex economy societies. Cultural patterns of these societies and formal elements of art may appear as sharing the same elementary structures.

Fifteen years after the first translations of Anglo-American feminist film theories, this gender approach is finding it hard to gain acceptance in France. The main reason is the elitist view of cinema d’auteur that is still prevalent in academic circles, where the art is seen as a genius's creation outside social determinations in general and gender relations in particular.

However, under the influence of historians and sociologists, who dominate gender research in France, French work on film privileges a historical and sociocultural approach, whereas American research is dominated by psychoanalytical approaches. French gender analyses privilege the expression of dominant relations but also of contradictions at work in the films, whether popular or by an auteur-e, as well as in the stars’ image or in tv fiction. Finally some research explores the changes brought about by the emergence of female film-makers on the French scene.

This issue of Diogenes includes short papers by prominent officers of 18 of the member-associations of the International Federation for Modern Languages and Literatures (Fédération Internationale des Langues et Littératures Modernes - FILLM) with a view to introducing and explaining the history, purpose, and function of these international learned societies representing different branches of the modern languages field at a time when the role of such bodies is often questioned even by professional academics working within the discipline, and their very existence largely unknown outside it, even to educated persons. The FILLM is one of the earliest member organizations of the International Council for Philosophy and Humanistic Studies (CIPSH) which had indeed had a prior existence since its foundation in Oslo in 1928 as the Commission Internationale d'Histoire Littéraire Moderne and was subsequently reorganized in its present structure in 1951 following the formation of UNESCO.

The teaching of an ‘imperialist’ language like English in a postcolonial era presents not only unprecedented difficulties to the teacher, it also raises disconcerting questions about the paradigms underlying the concepts of language, language teaching, and culture. This new perspective renders inadequate, on the one hand, the peda-linguistic categories of EFL (English as a Foreign Language) and ESL (English as a Second Language), and, on the other, the postcolonial critique in general of hegemonic languages.

No problem is more crucial in the history of the Old World than that of the relationship between opposite shores of the Mediterranean. We should like to approach it from a particular though historically central viewpoint: namely, from the connection existing between Canaan and the Aegean basin, or, in other words, between a Semitic Orient or Levant which the Greeks called Phoenicia, and a Europe which was the Occident, the region of Sunset, to the Near-Eastern Semites.

By a model I understand some familiar kind of object the idea of which we extend by an analogy or metaphor in order to assist our understanding of other things. When we say, “All the world's a stage,” we are using the familiar antics and attitudes of the theatre as a model for thinking about our woes and joys and our activities.

Sometimes a complex model is used by a thinker, by a group, or by a whole age as a guiding pattern suggesting ways of thinking in many areas. One model may even determine an inclusive view about the world from which derive emotional attitudes as well as ruling concepts and ways of thinking for our knowledge of the world. It is often said that the mechanism of a clock served in this way as a ruling model for much thought in the 17th and 18th centuries. Despite their novelty, clockworks were then becoming well known, and they were peculiarly fascinating. Reflection on them made very vivid such notions as regular motion, interchangeable parts, precise mechanical connection, influence by push and pull, and design for specific function.

At a time when there is general speculation about civilization, or civilizations, as well as on what the relationships are between Western and other civilizations, it is logical to try to define precisely what the men of ancient Greece thought about the question, since Western civilization owes so much to them.

It may be that they did not think about it at all, or at least they thought nothing that could be expressed in modern terms. The fact is that ancient Greece did not have a word for civilization: the French and English words come from Latin, not from Greek, while the first examples given in French and English dictionaries are the privileged example of Greece, “the civilization of Greece.” Did the Greeks use a paraphrase? Or a different word? If we consult a English-Greek dictionary we are surprised to see that the word given for “civilized” is hèmeros) that is, “docile,” “tamed.”

“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.

The scene takes place in O'Higgins Park, in Santiago, Chile, on 1 October 1995. Some women have just taken their place on the stage and the enthusiastic audience is applauding, the women have started singing accompanied by a guitar, but they cannot be heard, for the audience is still applauding. One of the women gets up. Like the others, she is wearing a white blouse and a long black skirt, she is old and her hair is grey. She moves to the front of the stage, chooses her place and stops, her eyes search the horizon but do not wander aimlessly, her eyes are fixed somewhere between the here and the hereafter. When she finds what she is looking for, she raises her right hand to wave a white handkerchief, and the dance begins. The audience, suddenly attentive, watches. And what do they see? Not the woman alone on the stage, but the empty space which she traces. The empty space disturbs us, as Chilean spectators, because the cueca, the national folklore dance, is danced by two people, or it is not danced at all. The invisible other is invoked by this woman's every gesture and we do not smile when faced with the absence of her man because we have a premonition that she is not pretending, we have a premonition that she can see him. The image of women dancing alone has become one of the symbols of the struggle of the families of the disappeared under the dictatorship of General Pinochet. The families are commemorating, on 1 October 1995, the twentieth anniversary of their organization into an association in 1975. The term “the disappeared” has progressively become accepted to indicate the victims of a novel, coercive practice in Chile, since the coup d’état on 11 September 1973. The forced disappearance of people differs from political assassination, as Amnesty International never ceases to indicate in the various reports which it commissions on them. In the Chilean case, this speciality is in part due to the security system which has taken on the responsibility of destroying all organized opposition to the military dictatorship: the DINA, the intelligence service created by the military junta, which is only answerable for its actions to the junta. More fundamentally, the special character of disappearance is due to the invisibility of the victim's body and to the doubt that this invisibility arouses within the victim's family circle: the disappeared is not identified as dead because his death is never certified, on the other hand his sudden and unexplained absence indicates that he is a person in danger and that this danger extends to all those who notice his absence.

The respectably legitimate offspring of an age-old affair between writing and picture-making, the calligramme — that is, “a poem in which the typographical layout creates a picture, generally related to the ‘subject’ of the text” (Dictionnaire des littératures, Larousse) — is often seen as an esoteric minority art of dubious reputation. Starting from an exclusively Western approach to the history of the calligramme, my aim is to demonstrate that this artform may in fact represent something more than simply (here I deliberately use a metaphor from the far east, as a counterargument to my theme) the “Kyogen of the No theatre” — i.e., more than a lightweight interlude between more literary, aesthetic, even metaphysical preoccupations — more elevated, more serious, or, in general terms, more extended. Apart from the play and the pleasure of an approach that is creative in terms of letters and language, it contains serious elements related to the actual exercise of writing in our media civilization.

This paper argues that the emergence of humanistic values is not a purely modern phenomenon. If by humanism we refer to secular learning and the development of science, there were periods in the history of Islam when this was encouraged. Humanism in the sense of the respect for ‘human values’ such as democracy is equally widely distributed in time and space, so that the idea that the West, as heirs of Ancient Greece, has a monopoly is quite untenable. Tribal societies often practise versions of direct democracy; representation is an aspect of many more complex regimes. Even with monarchical states, few can afford to neglect public opinion over the longer term. Modern representative democracies moreover often fail to consult their people on major issues such as declaring war. In any case that is only one mode of representation among others and does not have the monopoly of virtue, especially in religiously divided communities. Elsewhere it may be adopted as a legitimating device in a specific context, as I suggested had been the case with Israel.

We are pleased to offer our readers an unpublished article by Roger Caillois, a posthumous text which takes its place alongside his other studies on the myth and the imaginary. The octopus, the praying mantis and the fulgora in the real world led Roger Caillois to reflections similar to those which he exposes here relative to the narwhal and the imaginary unicorn. The importance of the unicorn in the author's work comes from the relationship established by the narwhal's tusk between two squares on Roger Caillois’ chess board: myth and dissymmetry. (Editor's note).

This inquiry will be limited to an analysis of Turkic borrowings that have been attested in inscriptions found in Mongolia and southern Siberia in the period beginning around the year 700 A.D., as well as in Turkic-Uighur manuscripts, beginning around the year 900 A.D., conserved in northern Tarim (especially in the Turfan region) and in Dunhuang, which is a Chinese outpost on the main road of the silk trade. We will look only at borrowings that predate Islamization, a process that developed rapidly during the eleventh century and of which some borrowings are still part of the language of the Islamic Turkish world. Although most of our study will concentrate on pre-Islamic borrowings that were fully assimilated into written words, we will will also investigate some transcriptions of foreign terms that are mentioned in various manuscripts of a theological bent (most notably of Indian, Iranian, Chinese, and Syriac origin and found in Buddhist, Manichaean, and Nestorian Christian texts) as well as words of a very technical nature. We will also look at more contemporary terms that are derived from several major semantic fields.

The year 1992 is a year for reflection, because whether or not the quincentenary celebration of the arrival of the Europeans to this continent seems justified, one cannot escape thinking about the impact of this event on our land.

As archeology is my area of study, my reflections are directed toward the changes that came about in the relationship between man and animals after 1492, specifically toward what occurred in Mexico once the Spaniards established themselves in this territory.

To take a structural approach to genealogy means dealing with it as a story written in a language that is unknown and yet to be deciphered. It is the very language of time—individual and familial—in which a human being situates, often in a striking manner, the principal life and death events of his own destiny. Or better perhaps, it means discovering this in genealogies, which must first be exhumed from the dusty cabinets where a solid and excessively documentary tradition has too long confined them, in order to consider them now, in a sense, as venerable “black boxes”, potentially containing secrets of the intimate functioning of families, capable of providing unknown information on this subject, with meaning and logic winning out over the apparent fantasy with which they have been coated.

Following the Grammarians, the Poets in ancient India concerned themselves with certain problems of semantics, the solution of which, they felt, would make possible a better perception of the relationships between language and thought. Thus they distinguished the meaning of words, depending upon whether it was directly expressive or indirect and allusive. The indirect meaning, they said, is introduced whenever the primary meaning has been hampered by some sort of incompatibility. At times it retains its connection with the primary sense : this is precisely what is termed “metaphoric” meaning; at others, it frees itself from the primary sense entirely or in part, and this constitutes the gamut of “implicit” meaning. In addition, the indirect meaning is “internal”; the other is “external.” This, to be sure, can signify that one is concealed and the other apparent; but what is indicated above all is that one is profound or essential while the other is superficial or minor.

If we admit that Latin-American literature is a part of what is called Western culture, why, I ask myself, has it not been able to influence any of the great literatures of the West, outside of the Spanish? To be more precise, when I speak of influencing, I am not referring to the historico-cultural event that signifies Latin America, which has changed the West, but specifically to literature, that is, writing, the book, the language, the contents, the creative structure and the symbols. From its origins until today, Latin-American literature, like Jugoslavian literature—in spite of the Nobel prize awarded to Ivo Andric—or Bulgarian or Icelandic, remains a marginal phenomenon. It is produced within a closed circuit, having no real resonance except in Spain. Furthermore, it struggles between two guilt feelings: one, that of being late with regard to renovating currents of fashions of the day and the other, that of not responding to its own reality. Because of those burdens of a guilty conscience, it often feigns innovation by following outside models or exalting a nationalist realism that has not produced the slightest new form but only a mediocre art of propaganda. It simulates and copies, or it lags behind. It either tries to be up to date or pretends to overcome this uneasiness by inventing an intransigent Americanism, behaving like a telluric barbarian or accepting traditional popular forms that may produce works such as Martin Fierro, whose value for the Latin-Americans cannot be denied but whose range is limited.