Eloge de la punition? Apology of punishment ?

L'escalier de la maison de tante Léonie à Illiers Combray

Ce matin alors que je cherche dans Du côté de chez Swann, à illustrer la punition, sujet d'un livre qui vient de sortir: Apologie de la punition, écrit par le "philosophe de la gentillesse" Emmanuel Jaffelin, rencontré à Sceaux et dont j'ai pu vite constater qu'il avait une qualité très rare pour un homme, il est "partageur", je tombe sur un article du New York Times, Is Atheism Irrational? où j'apprends qu'en Amérique les philosophes, à une énorme majorité, sont athées. Et, coïncidence qui ne m'a pas échappé, un des arguments employés pour démontrer qu'une explication matérialiste du monde ne suffit pas, est (franchement je ne trouve pas ça très clair, et je pense que si on aime Proust passionnément, c'est justement qu'on a le cerveau branché d'une certaine manière) ; "First, if materialism is true, human beings, naturally enough, are material objects. Now what, from this point of view, would a belief be? My belief that Marcel Proust is more subtle that Louis L’Amour, for example? Presumably this belief would have to be a material structure in my brain, say a collection of neurons that sends electrical impulses to other such structures as well as to nerves and muscles, and receives electrical impulses from other structures. But in addition to such neurophysiological properties, this structure, if it is a belief, would also have to have a content: It would have, say, to be the belief that Proust is more subtle than L’Amour.

Mais revenons à la punition, un sujet que le narrateur enfant connaît bien:

Je savais que le cas dans lequel je me mettais était de tous celui qui pouvait avoir pour moi, de la part de mes parents, les conséquences les plus graves, bien plus graves en vérité qu’un étranger n’aurait pu le supposer, de celles qu’il aurait cru que pouvaient produire seules des fautes vraiment honteuses. Mais dans l’éducation qu’on me donnait, l’ordre des fautes n’était pas le même que dans l’éducation des autres enfants et on m’avait habitué à placer avant toutes les autres (parce que sans doute il n’y en avait pas contre lesquelles j’eusse besoin d’être plus soigneusement gardé) celles dont je comprends maintenant que leur caractère commun est qu’on y tombe en cédant à une impulsion nerveuse. Mais alors on ne prononçait pas ce mot, on ne déclarait pas cette origine qui aurait pu me faire croire que j’étais excusable d’y succomber ou même peut-être incapable d’y résister. Mais je les reconnaissais bien à l’angoisse qui les précédait comme à la rigueur du châtiment qui les suivait; et je savais que celle que je venais de commettre était de la même famille que d’autres pour lesquelles j’avais été sévèrement puni, quoique infiniment plus grave. Quand j’irais me mettre sur le chemin de ma mère au moment où elle monterait se coucher, et qu’elle verrait que j’étais resté levé pour lui redire bonsoir dans le couloir, on ne me laisserait plus rester à la maison, on me mettrait au collège le lendemain, c’était certain. [...}

Mon père me refusait constamment des permissions qui m’avaient été consenties dans les pactes plus larges octroyés par ma mère et ma grand’mère parce qu’il ne se souciait pas des «principes» et qu’il n’y avait pas avec lui de «Droit des gens». Pour une raison toute contingente, ou même sans raison, il me supprimait au dernier moment telle promenade si habituelle, si consacrée, qu’on ne pouvait m’en priver sans parjure, ou bien, comme il avait encore fait ce soir, longtemps avant l’heure rituelle, il me disait: «Allons, monte te coucher, pas d’explication!» Mais aussi, parce qu’il n’avait pas de principes (dans le sens de ma grand’mère), il n’avait pas à proprement parler d’intransigeance. Il me regarda un instant d’un air étonné et fâché, puis dès que maman lui eut expliqué en quelques mots embarrassés ce qui était arrivé, il lui dit: «Mais va donc avec lui, puisque tu disais justement que tu n’as pas envie de dormir, reste un peu dans sa chambre, moi je n’ai besoin de rien.» «Mais, mon ami, répondit timidement ma mère, que j’aie envie ou non de dormir, ne change rien à la chose, on ne peut pas habituer cet enfant . . . » «Mais il ne s’agit pas d’habituer, dit mon père en haussant les épaules, tu vois bien que ce petit a du chagrin, il a l’air désolé, cet enfant; voyons, nous ne sommes pas des bourreaux! Quand tu l’auras rendu malade, tu seras bien avancée! Puisqu’il y a deux lits dans sa chambre, dis donc à Françoise de te préparer le grand lit et couche pour cette nuit auprès de lui. Allons, bonsoir, moi qui ne suis pas si nerveux que vous, je vais me coucher.» Du côté de chez Swann

This morning, as I try to illustrate by a Swann's Way excerpt, punition, a topic of a just published book written by the philosopher Emmanuel Jaffelin: Apologie de la punition, I discover an article in the New York Times, Is Atheism Irrational? in which I learn that in America philosophers, by a vast majority, are atheists. And I notice a coincidence in the argument to demonstrate that a materialist explanation of the world does not work (I don't really understand the point, but for me philosophy is a very cryptic matter); "First, if materialism is true, human beings, naturally enough, are material objects. Now what, from this point of view, would a belief be? My belief that Marcel Proust is more subtle that Louis L’Amour, for example? Presumably this belief would have to be a material structure in my brain, say a collection of neurons that sends electrical impulses to other such structures as well as to nerves and muscles, and receives electrical impulses from other structures. But in addition to such neurophysiological properties, this structure, if it is a belief, would also have to have a content: It would have, say, to be the belief that Proust is more subtle than L’Amour".

But back to punition, something the narrator as a child knows very well:

I was well aware that I had placed myself in a position than which none could be counted upon to involve me in graver consequences at my parents’ hands; consequences far graver, indeed, than a stranger would have imagined, and such as (he would have thought) could follow only some really shameful fault. But in the system of education which they had given me faults were not classified in the same order as in that of other children, and I had been taught to place at the head of the list (doubtless because there was no other class of faults from which I needed to be more carefully protected) those in which I can now distinguish the common feature that one succumbs to them by yielding to a nervous impulse. But such words as these last had never been uttered in my hearing; no one had yet accounted for my temptations in a way which might have led me to believe that there was some excuse for my giving in to them, or that I was actually incapable of holding out against them. Yet I could easily recognise this class of transgressions by the anguish of mind which preceded, as well as by the rigour of the punishment which followed them; and I knew that what I had just done was in the same category as certain other sins for which I had been severely chastised, though infinitely more serious than they. When I went out to meet my mother as she herself came up to bed, and when she saw that I had remained up so as to say good night to her again in the passage, I should not be allowed to stay in the house a day longer, I should be packed off to school next morning; so much was certain. [...}

My father used constantly to refuse to let me do things which were quite clearly allowed by the more liberal charters granted me by my mother and grandmother, because he paid no heed to ‘Principles,’ and because in his sight there were no such things as ‘Rights of Man.’ For some quite irrelevant reason, or for no reason at all, he would at the last moment prevent me from taking some particular walk, one so regular and so consecrated to my use that to deprive me of it was a clear breach of faith; or again, as he had done this evening, long before the appointed hour he would snap out: “Run along up to bed now; no excuses!” But then again, simply because he was devoid of principles (in my grandmother’s sense), so he could not, properly speaking, be called inexorable. He looked at me for a moment with an air of annoyance and surprise, and then when Mamma had told him, not without some embarrassment, what had happened, said to her: “Go along with him, then; you said just now that you didn’t feel like sleep, so stay in his room for a little. I don’t need anything.” “But dear,” my mother answered timidly, “whether or not I feel like sleep is not the point; we must not make the child accustomed . . . ” “There’s no question of making him accustomed,” said my father, with a shrug of the shoulders; “you can see quite well that the child is unhappy. After all, we aren’t gaolers. You’ll end by making him ill, and a lot of good that will do. There are two beds in his room; tell Françoise to make up the big one for you, and stay beside him for the rest of the night. I’m off to bed, anyhow; I’m not nervous like you. Good night.” Swann's Way