An Infamous Past: E. M. Cioran and the Rise of Fascism in Romania
To confront ideas so opposed to the aspirations of liberal democracy, so unapologetically anti-Semitic, elitist, and authoritarian, startles one at first. But then the encounter stirs curiosity, until one recognizes in these ideas a fleeting contemporary echo, which makes them even more unsettling. Cioran, an errant Romanian intellectual provided fascism with one of its most powerful and disturbing paeans in his 1936 book, The Transfiguration of Romania. After 1941, having fled his country and his native language for Paris and French, he spent the next 54 years swearing off politics in an attempt to separate himself from his youthful "error." Petreu, a historian of Romanian philosophy, is a sure and unobtrusive guide to the fevered, alienated milieu that turned Cioran, an apolitical philosopher of history and culture, into a passionate partisan of Hitler, Mussolini, and Lenin, filled with contempt for the lassitude and failings of Romania's crippled democracy and enraptured by the creative potential of the irrational, the unconstrained, and the ruthless.
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On the surface at least, the Gaullist régime in France now looks substantially stronger than before the May crisis. The June elections gave General de Gaulle and his then Prime Minister, Georges Pompidou, a massive parliamentary majority that for the next five years seemingly insures M. Pompidou's successor, former Foreign Minister Maurice Couve de Murville, against every normal political hazard-except, perhaps, the eventual loss of his master's confidence. What is probably even more important, the deep national consensus indicated by the scale and circumstances of the Gaullist electoral victory has clearly restored the General's momentarily shaken faith in his own thaumaturgic powers. If a new confrontation between the state and the revolutionary students and workers develops during the next few months, as it may, General de Gaulle can no doubt count this time on a prompt reawakening of the "national instinct" that responded so sluggishly to his leadership last spring. The loyalty of the police, which wavered for a few dangerous days in May after Pompidou's apparent surrender to the students, has been consolidated by appropriate administrative measures during the summer months; the loyalty of the army, which had to be won over at the crucial moment by the amnesty promised General Raoul Salan and other former rebels or conspirators against de Gaulle's Algerian policies, is thought to be fully dependable today. The split between the orthodox Communists and the revolutionaries of the New Left, which probably helped more than either General de Gaulle's charisma or General Massu's armored force-in-being to save the bourgeois republic in its hour of peril, seems to have become even more bitter and unbridgeable since the elections. There is no direct and overt threat to the General's authority from the Right. The personal rivalries and ideological tensions that unquestionably exist within the majority do not seem incoercible. The economic and financial problems that confront the Government are serious, but not, as far as one can judge, unmanageable.
For the third time in a generation-1938, 1948, 1968-Czechoslovakia has transformed the political atmosphere of the civilized world. The eight- month "Prague spring," the Soviet invasion of August 20 and its grim consequences have stirred strong emotions throughout Europe and beyond. Not since the Hitler-Stalin Pact, perhaps, has the outrage at Kremlin policy been so general, embracing Richard Nixon and Herbert Marcuse, Chou En-lai and Josip Broz-Tito, Bertrand Russell and Yevgeni Yevtushenko, Luigi Longo and Paul VI.
