the former – which “calls for people accepting the social order” – is opposed to the latter – as “a haven for individuals poorly integrated into their own surroundings” (p. 36). “Modern sociology was born for the purpose of rebuilding French society after the destruction wrought first by the French Revolution and later by the Prussian War. But, behind Comte and Durkheim, there are Diderot, Rousseau and Montaigne” (p. 36). It would therefore be a mistake to draw a distinction, among French social scientists, between anthropologists who took over social criticism (Montaigne, Rousseau) and sociologists who sought to inspire legislative and governmental decisions (Comte, Durkheim). The applied approach of the latter was never cut off from the fundamental approach of the former, and the articles of the 1940s seek to maintain the link between theoretical argumentation and political initiative. They represent a similar kind of recourse, after a period of troubles, to “social philosophy.” In much the same way as Durkheimian philosophy had set out both to study the phenomenon of the social and to rebuild French society after the war of 1870, the Lévi-Strauss of the 1940s hoped to contribute (alongside others) to national and international political renewal in the aftermath of world war. And, here again, expertise was a matter of circumstance and position: that of an exiled Jewish scholar, himself situated between several worlds, just as the indigenous mediators whose praises he sang and who were able “to speak all the languages” of the Brazilian plateau (p. 142).
“National sovereignty is not a good in itself”
The essential question remains: why did this political dimension disappear from the writings of Lévi-Strauss after 1950? More to the point, when he selected the articles that were to form Structural Anthropology, why did he retain only those in which this aspect does not appear? And when he incorporated these reflections of the 1940s into other later works, especially Tristes Tropiques, why did he “edit” out the more political passages?
There is no simple, unequivocal answer to these questions. There is, of course, the contingent and quickly obsolete dimension of some of his references, but Lévi-Strauss’s political reflections were general enough that they could have survived the narrow circumstances of their production. It is important to remember, as he himself often pointed out, that the early 1950s were a period of crisis for him – at the theoretical, personal and professional levels.29 By his own account, his two consecutive failures at the Collège de France, in 1949 and 1950, were at the root of it: “After this double disaster, I was convinced that I would never have a real career. I broke with my past, rebuilt my private life.”30 To this series of ruptures must be added the sale at auction in 1951 of the collection of Amerindian art he had built in New York, a dispersion which must have been traumatic, not only because it represented a loss but also because, for Lévi-Strauss, “the passionate impulse to collect” was intimately linked to the construction of identity,31 and this breaking up of the collection symbolized the fragmentation of the personal and psychological unity he had rebuilt in exile. “I live in a grave,” he told Monique Roman, who was to become his third wife.32 In any case, his texts of the 1950s convey a change of mood as well as of tone: the optimistic planning of the political articles of the 1940s (which may be interpreted as a vestige of the reformist Marxism of his younger years)33 was no longer appropriate. At the end of his life, when he was asked about the disappearance of politics from his intellectual horizon, Lévi-Strauss agreed, upon his interviewer’s insistence, to date it not from the early 1930s but from the war, conceding that he had taken part in a few Gaullist meetings in the early 1940s, yet always playing down his diplomatic work as a cultural attaché in New York from 1945 to 1947 and then his activities as a member of UNESCO’s International Social Science Council, over which he presided from 1952 to 1961. No need to suspect him of bad faith – such a reconstruction shows, rather, how profound his change of course truly was, its self-evidence retrospectively shaping the past, especially for someone like Lévi-Strauss who frequently narrated his own life experience and whose autobiographical accounts eventually sedimented. In the early 2000s, in the margins of a letter he had written to his parents in September 1942 that declares his intention to write a book unrelated to anthropology which would hark back to his “former conversations with Arthur” (i.e. Arthur Wauters, the Belgian Marxist activist who had initiated him into politics) – a book intended to “clarify a number of ideas,” made necessary in his view by the confusion that marred the political discussions of the time – Lévi-Strauss laconically scribbled: “No recollection.”34
But whatever the date settled on for his break from politics, Lévi-Strauss’s explanation remained the same. He consistently evoked his disillusionment following the realization that his political analyses always turned out to be inadequate and his predictions systematically belied by events. He did not have the political “nose” that enabled some to sense new social tendencies and allow their thinking to be shaped accordingly, permitting some scholars also to act sometimes as decision-makers and political players. Hence, at the very apex of his professional recognition and intellectual celebrity, he decidedly and even deliberately withdrew from the concerns of public life and the ideological battles of his day. An anthropologist specializing in vanished pre-Columbian civilizations, he was to dedicate himself to his teaching at the Collège de France and spend summers at his country refuge at Lignerolles, where he “binged on myths” and wrote the four volumes and two thousand pages of the Mythologiques, removed from the unrest of the 1960s. It was at this time that he sketched the features of what was to become his public persona from the 1980s until his death.
The hypothesis of a fundamental and belatedly discovered mismatch between his personal temperament and the demands of political action should not be entirely dismissed, but it cannot account for the early 1950s about-face. We should note, first of all, that the disillusionment occurred at a specific time and place, namely France of the Fourth Republic. The anthropologist who had dreamt of renewal and tabula rasa was back in his home country thirteen years after his first trip to Brazil in early 1935; in the intervening years he had been back only for short periods, spending a total of ten of the previous thirteen years abroad. During this period, his status and identity had undergone major changes: an ambassador of French thought in Brazil (a university professor while he was not yet thirty years old), then a young and rising anthropologist upon his return to France, he is drafted in 1939 and experiences the “disorderly retreat” of the French army over several months, “from one billet to another” and from “cattle-trucks” to “sheep-folds”;35 his Jewish identity, which he thought he could discount, was thrown back in his face by the law of October 13, 1940, and he became “potential fodder for the concentration camp,”36 forced to flee into exile; having reached New York after a gruelling crossing, he gradually made his way in the world of American anthropology and forged local intellectual networks; he played an active role within the École Libre des Hautes Études and was appointed cultural attaché immediately after the war. But, upon his return, he found a country that did not want to see itself as having been defeated and that proved more interested in rewriting its history. Former institutional and intellectual divisions resurfaced (he experienced his own failures at the Collège de France as a victory of the “ancients” over the “moderns”), as did the same characters. It was the physical anthropologist Henri Vallois, a specialist in racial taxonomy appointed by the Vichy government in 1943 to replace Paul Rivet at the helm of the Musée de l’Homme, who was elected director of the institution in 1950, over Jacques Soustelle, a renowned anthropologist and a figure of Free France. As a result, Lévi-Strauss resigned from the position as assistant director of the museum which he had held since his return from the United States. This diffuse yet profound unease with regard to France is revealed in many passages of the early chapters of Tristes Tropiques – “confessions” he wrote over the course of a few months, in a state of “rage” and “irritation” that he would “never have dared publish if [he] had been competing for a university position.”37
The narrow-mindedness condemned by Lévi-Strauss was perfectly illustrated in the French refusal to open the national community “on the basis of equal rights” to the “twenty five million Muslim citizens” from the colonies, a timorous isolationism that contrasted with the audacity of the United
