## 1. Biographical Sketch



Marcel was born in 1889. His mother died when he was only four, and
Marcel was raised by his father and aunt, who later married. He
excelled in school, but did so without enjoying his studies prior to
his encounter with philosophy. He associated with many of the
prominent philosophers of his day, in part due to his hosting of the
famous "Friday evenings." Paul Ricoeur, Emmanuel Levinas,
Jean Wahl, Simone de Beauvoir, Nicolas Berdyaev and Jean-Paul Sartre
were among the many noted philosophers who attended these gatherings
at one time or another. These informal meetings were an occasion for
engaged thinkers from a variety of perspectives to discuss together
various philosophical themes, frequently ones Marcel himself was
working on that week. After passing his *agregation* in
1910, he taught philosophy intermittently in Sens, Paris, and
Montpellier; however, his main professional occupations were that of
drama critic (for *Europe nouvelle* and later for *Nouvelles
litteraires*) and editor (for the *Feux
croises* series at Plon).



Marcel's philosophical legacy includes lectures, journal entries
and dramatic works in addition to more orthodox philosophical
expression in essays and monographs. Of these various genres, Marcel
was perhaps most pleased with his dramatic works. In fact, reading
between the lines of his autobiographical remarks, one can discern
some puzzlement and no small amount of frustration at the success of
his philosophical works and the relative obscurity of his dramatic
works. Complicating the diverse expression of his ideas is the fact
that Marcel was a consciously unsystematic philosopher, something he
realized as early as the publication of his *Journal
metaphysique* (1927).
 [1]
 Nevertheless, while the diverse expression of his thought and the
related lack of systematicity cause some difficulty for those
interested in Marcel's work, the main themes of his thought are
present in many of his works. Especially noteworthy are: *The
Mystery of Being, Creative Fidelity,* *Homo Viator*,
*Being and Having*, *Tragic Wisdom and Beyond* and the
concise "On the Ontological Mystery."



Marcel's philosophical methodology was unique, although it bears
some resemblance to both existentialism and phenomenology broadly
construed. He insisted that philosophy begin with concrete experience
rather than abstractions. To this end he makes constant use of
examples in order to ground the philosophical ideas he is
investigating. The method itself consists in "working...up
from life to thought and then down from thought to life again, so that
[one] may try to throw more light upon life" (Marcel 1951a, p.
41). Thus, this philosophy is a sort of "description bearing
upon the structures which reflection elucidates starting from
experience" (Marcel 1962a, p. 180). In addition, Marcel
expressed a refreshing preference for philosophizing in ordinary
language. He maintained that "we should employ current forms of
ordinary language which distort our experiences far less than the
elaborate expressions in which philosophical language is
crystallized" (Marcel 1965, p. 158).

 Marcel was consistently
critical of Cartesianism, especially the epistemological problems with
which Cartesianism is mainly concerned (such as the problem of
skepticism). Like many of the existentialists, his critique was
motivated by a rejection of that account of the nature of the self
which was assumed in Descartes' overall approach to the question
of knowledge, and how the mind comes to know reality. The Cartesian
picture of the self assumes that the self is a discrete entity with a
neatly defined "inside" and "outside," so that
our ideas, which are "inside," can be fully understood
without reference to the world, which is "outside."
"Cartesianism implies a severance ... between intellect and
life; its result is a depreciation of the one, and an exaltation of
the other, both arbitrary" (Marcel, 1949, p. 170). Marcel agreed
with other thinkers in the existentialist tradition, such as
Heidegger, that the Cartesian view of the self is not
*ontologically basic* for the human subject because it is not a
presentation of how the self actually is. Part of Marcel's task
is to try to reveal phenomenologically the true nature of the subject,
which will have implications for many philosophical issues, including
those relating to the nature of knowledge. However, on the issue of
the true nature of the subject, Marcel differs from both Heidegger and
Sartre; indeed, his views are closer to those of Jewish philosopher,
Martin Buber, than they are to many of the existentialists.

## 2. The Broken World and the Functional Person



In line with his preference for concrete philosophy that speaks in
ordinary language, Marcel begins many of his philosophical essays with
an observation about life. One of his central observations about life
and experience, from which he is able to derive many of the
philosophical distinctions that follow, is that we live in a
"broken world." A world in which "ontological
*exigence*"--if it is acknowledged at all--is
silenced by an unconscious relativism or by a monism that discounts
the personal, "ignores the tragic and denies the
transcendent" (Marcel 1995, p. 15). The characterization of the
world as broken does not necessarily imply that there was a time when
the world was intact. It would be more correct to emphasize that the
world we live in is essentially broken, broken in essence, in addition
to having been further fractured by events in history. The observation
is intended to point out that we find ourselves *hic et nunc*
in a world that is broken. This situation is characterized by a
refusal (or inability) to reflect, a refusal to imagine and a denial
of the transcendent (Marcel 1951a, pp. 36-37). Although many
things contribute to the "brokenness" of the world, the
hallmark of its modern manifestation is "the misplacement of the
idea of function" (Marcel 1995, p. 11).



"I should like to start," Marcel says, "with a sort
of global and intuitive characterization of the man in whom the sense
of the ontological--the sense of being, is lacking, or, to speak
more correctly, the man who has lost awareness of this sense"
(Marcel 1995, p. 9). This person, the one who has lost awareness of
the sense of the ontological, the one whose capacity to wonder has
atrophied to the extent of becoming a vestigial trait, is an example
of the influence of the misapplication of the idea of function. Marcel
uses the example of a subway token distributor. This person has a job
that is mindless, repetitive, and monotonous. The same function can
be, and often is, completed by automated machines. All day this person
takes bills from commuters and returns a token and some change,
repeating the same process with the same denominations of currency,
over and over. The other people with whom she interacts engage her in
only the most superficial and distant manner. In most cases, they do
not speak to her and they do not make eye contact. In fact, the only
distinction the commuters make between such a person and the
automatic, mechanical token dispenser down the hall is to note which
"machine" has the shorter line. The way in which these
commuters interact with this subway employee is clearly superficial
and less than desirable. However, Marcel's point is more
subtle.



What can the inner reality of such a person be like? What began as
tedious work slowly becomes infuriating in its monotony, but
eventually passes into a necessity that is accepted with indifference,
until even the sense of dissatisfaction with the pure functionalism of
the task is lost. The unfortunate truth is that such a person may come
to see herself, at first unconsciously, as merely an amalgamation of
the functions she performs. There is the function of dispensing tokens
at work, the function of spouse and parent at home, the function of
voting as a citizen of a given country, etc. Her life operates on a
series of "time-tables" that indicate when certain
functions--such as the yearly maintenance trip to the doctor, or
the yearly vacation to rest and recuperate--are to be exercised.
In this person the sense of wonder and the *exigence* for the
transcendent may slowly begin to wither and die. In the most extreme
cases, a person who has come to identify herself with her functions
ceases to even have any intuition that the world is broken.



A corollary of the functionalism of the modern broken world is its
highly technical nature. Marcel characterizes a world such as
ours--in which everything and everyone becomes viewed in terms of
function, and in which all questions are approached with
technique--as one that is dominated by its
"technics." This is evident in the dependence on
technology, the immediate deferral to the technological as the answer
to any problem, and the tendency to think of technical reasoning as
the only mode of access to the truth. However, it is clear that there
are some "problems" that cannot be addressed with
technique, and this is disquieting for persons who have come to rely
on technics. While technology undoubtedly has its proper place and
use, the deification of technology leads to despair when we realize
the ultimate inefficacy of technics regarding important existential
questions. It is precisely this misapplication of the idea of function
and the dependence on technics that leads to the despair that is so
prevalent in the broken world. Obviously, we cannot turn back the
clock with regard to technological progress, and Marcel acknowledges
that technology is not necessarily detrimental to the life of the
spirit; nevertheless, it often is, because: "does not the
invasion of our life by techniques today tend to substitute
satisfaction at a material level for spiritual joy, dissatisfaction at
a material level for spiritual disquiet?" (Marcel 1985, p.
57).



## 3. Ontological Exigence[2]



"What defines man," claims Marcel, "are his
*exigencies*" (Marcel 1973, p. 34). Nevertheless, these
*exigencies* can be smothered, perhaps even silenced, by
despair. Such is the case in the example of the
"functionalized" person. The broken world can smother
transcendent *exigencies*, leaving only quotidian, functional
needs intact. Ontological *exigence*, the need for
transcendence, is linked to a certain dissatisfaction--one that
is all the more troubling because one is unable to soothe this
dissatisfaction by one's own powers. However, without a feeling
that something is amiss, without the feeling of dissatisfaction,
ontological *exigence* withers. This is why the functional
person, the person who no longer even notices that the world is
broken, is described as having lost the awareness of the ontological
and the need for transcendence. In the face of this potential despair,
Marcel claims that:



> 
> Being is--or should be--necessary. It is impossible that
> everything should be reduced to a play of successive appearances which
> are inconsistent with each other... or, in the words of
> Shakespeare, to "a tale told by an idiot." I aspire to
> participate in this being, in this reality--and perhaps this
> aspiration is already a degree of participation, however rudimentary.
> (Marcel 1995, p.
>  15)[3]
> 



Thus, ontological *exigence* is a need and a demand for some
level of coherence in the cosmos and for some understanding of our
place and role within this coherence. It is the combination of wonder
and the attendant desire, not to understand the entire cosmos, but to
understand something of one's own place in
 it.[4]
 Note that, for Marcel, ontological *exigence* is not merely a
"wish" for being or coherence, but is an "interior
urge" or "appeal." "Otherwise stated, the
[ontological] exigence is not reducible to some psychological state,
mood, or attitude a person *has*; it is rather a movement of
the human spirit that is inseparable from being human" (Keen
1984, p. 105).


## 4. Transcendence



Marcel is very clear that the term "transcendence" has, in
his view, become degraded in modern philosophy. Transcendence cannot
mean merely "going beyond" without any further
specification. It must retain the tension of the traditional
distinction between the immanent and the transcendent, one that
emphasizes a vertical rather than a horizontal going beyond, a
transcendence toward a height, a
 trans-ascendence.[5]
 Although the transcendent is juxtaposed with the immanent, Marcel
insists that "transcendent" cannot mean
"transcending experience." "There must exist a
possibility of having an experience of the transcendent as such, and
unless that possibility exists the word can have no meaning"
(Marcel 1951a, p. 46). The tendency to discount the idea of
experiencing transcendence is the result of an objective view of
experience. However, experience is not an object and therefore it
cannot be viewed objectively. Speaking metaphorically, the essence of
experience is not an "absorbing into oneself," as in the
case of taste, but "a straining oneself towards something, as
when, for instance, during the night we attempt to get a distinct
perception of some far-off noise" (Marcel 1951a, p. 47). Thus,
while Marcel insists on the possibility of experiencing the
transcendent, he does not thereby mean that the transcendent is
comprehensible.



> 
> There is an order where the subject finds himself in the presence of
> something entirely beyond his grasp. I would add that if the word
> "transcendent" has any meaning it is here--it
> designates the absolute, unbridgeable chasm yawning between the
> subject and being, insofar as being evades every attempt to pin it
> down. (Marcel 1973, p. 193)
> 


## 5. Being and Having



Marcel discusses being in a variety of contexts; however, one of the
more illustrative points of entry into this issue is the distinction
between being and
 having.[6]
 In some cases this distinction is one that is obvious and therefore
not particularly illuminating. For example, most people would readily
acknowledge a difference between having a house and being hospitable.
However, there are other cases where the distinction between having
something and being something is much more significant. For example,
when we hope, we do not *have* hope. We *are* hope.
Similarly, we do not have a belief. We are a belief.



Marcel's hallmark illustration of being and having is one that
actually straddles the distinction between them: "my
body." My body, insofar as it is *my* body, is both
something that I have and something that I am, and cannot be
adequately accounted for using either of these descriptions alone. I
can look at my body in a disassociated manner and see it
instrumentally. However, in doing so, in distancing myself from it in
order to grasp it *qua* object, *qua* something I have,
it ceases to be "my" body. I can have "a"
body, but not "my" body. As soon as I make the connection
that the body in question is my body, not a body, it can no longer be
something that I have pure and simple--this body also is me, it
is what I am. On the other hand, it cannot be said that I simply am my
body either. I can dispose of my body in certain circumstances by
treating it instrumentally. A person who loses a limb in an accident
is not less of a person and, therefore, there is a sense in which our
bodies are objects that we have.



The ambiguous role played by my body not only points out the
distinction between being and having, but also shows that we relate to
other things and persons differently in these two modes. Having
corresponds to things that are completely external to me. I have
things that I possess, that I can dispose of--and this should
make it clear that I cannot "have," for example, another
person. Having implies this possession because "having always
implies an obscure notion of assimilation" (Marcel 1949, p. 83).
While the encounter with otherness takes place in terms of
assimilation when speaking of having, the encounter with otherness
(e.g., other persons) can also take place on the level of being. In
this case Marcel maintains that the encounter is not one that is
purely external and, as such, it is played out in terms of presence
and participation rather than assimilation.



Both being and having are legitimate ways to encounter things in the
world; however, the misapplication of these two modes of comportment
can have disastrous consequences.


## 6. Problem and Mystery



The notion that we live in a broken world is used--along with the
person who is characteristic of the broken world, the functionalized
person--to segue into one of Marcel's central thematic
distinctions: the distinction between problem and mystery. He states
that the broken world is one that is "on the one hand, riddled
with problems and, on the other, determined to allow no room for
mystery" (Marcel 1995, p. 12). The denial of the mysterious is
symptomatic of the modern broken world and is tied to its technical
character, which only acknowledges that which technique can address:
the problematic. The distinction between problem and mystery is one
that hinges, like much of Marcel's thought, on the notion of
participation.



> 
> A problem is something which I meet, which I find completely before
> me, but which I can therefore lay siege to and reduce. But a mystery
> is something in which I am myself involved, and it can therefore only
> be thought of as a sphere where the distinction between what is in me
> and what is before me loses its meaning and initial validity. (Marcel
> 1949, p. 117)
> 



A problem is a question in which I am not involved, in which the
identity of the person asking the question is not an issue. In the
realm of the problematic, it makes no difference who is asking the
question because all of the relevant information is
"before" the questioner. As such, a problem is something
that bars my way, placing an obstacle in front of me that must be
overcome. In turn, the overcoming of a problem inevitably involves
some technique, a technique that could be, and often is, employed by
any other person confronting the same problem. Thus the identity of
the questioner can be changed without altering the problem itself.
This is why the modern broken world only sees the problematic: the
'problematic' is that which can be addressed and solved
with a technique, e.g., changing a flat tire on an automobile or
downloading security software to fix a virus on one's
computer.



> 
> When I am dealing with a problem, I am trying to discover a solution
> that can become common property, that consequently can, at least in
> theory, be rediscovered by anybody at all. But...this idea of a
> validity for "anybody at all" or of a thinking in general
> has less and less application the more deeply one penetrates into the
> inner courts of philosophy... (Marcel 1951a, p. 213)
> 



Marcel often describes a mystery as a "problem that encroaches
on its own data" (Marcel 1995, p. 19). Such a
"problem" is, in fact, meta-problematic; it is a question
in which the identity of the questioner becomes an issue
itself--where, in fact, the questioner is involved in the
question he or she is asking. On the level of the mysterious, the
identity of the questioner is tied to the question and, therefore, the
questioner is not interchangeable. To change the questioner would be
to alter the question. It makes every difference who is asking the
question when confronting a mystery. Here, on the level of the
mysterious, the distinctions "in-me" and
"before-me" break down. Marcel insists that mysteries can
be found in the question of Being (e.g., my ontological
*exigence*), the union of the body and soul, the
"problem" of evil and--perhaps the archetypal
examples of mystery--freedom and love. For example, I cannot
question Being as if my being is not at issue in the questioning. The
question of being and the question of who I am (my being) cannot be
addressed separately. These two questions are somehow incoherent if
approached as problems; however, taken together, their mysterious
character is revealed and they cancel themselves out *qua*
problems.



Another example is the "problem of evil" (Marcel, 1995,
pp. 19-20). Marcel distinguishes between what philosophers refer to as
the existential problem of evil (how a particular individual responds
to an experience of evil in his or her own life), and the
philosophical problem of evil (how a philosopher might think about the
"problem" of evil--how evil is to be reconciled with
the existence of an all-good and all-powerful God, for instance). He
notes that the existential problem cannot be fully discussed at the
philosophical level precisely because the experience of the questioner
is left out. He notes that, "Evil which is only stated or
observed is no longer evil which is suffered: in fact, it ceases to be
evil. In reality, I can only grasp it as evil in the measure in which
it *touches* me--that is to say, in the measure in which I
am *involved*...being 'involved' is the
fundamental fact" (Marcel, 1995, p. 19). In addition, the
philosopher seeks solutions to the problem of evil that can be
presented to everyone in a logically objective manner, so almost by
definition these solutions cannot fully address the existential
question. Marcel also proposes that sometimes philosophers can fall
into the error of thinking that the philosophical problem should be
the main way to approach the experience of evil, and as a result can
fail to appreciate the necessity of helping people deal with the
existential problem. In general, this failure is something we can
observe in many different areas of primary reflection, including
academic disciplines, which sometimes lose touch with the experiences
that gave rise to the problems the disciplines are supposed to be
addressing.



Unlike problems, mysteries are not solved with techniques and
therefore cannot be answered the same way by different
persons--one technique, one solution, will not apply in the
different cases presented by different persons. Indeed, it is
questionable if mysteries are open to "solutions" at all.
Nevertheless, it would be incorrect to call the mysterious a gap in
our knowledge in the same way that a problem is. "The mysterious
is not the unknowable, the unknowable is only the limiting case of the
problematic" (Marcel 1949, p. 118).



Although a mystery may be insoluble, it is not senseless; and while
its inexpressibility makes it difficult to fully describe in
communicable knowledge, it can still be spoken of in a suggestive way
(Marcel 1964, xxv). Marcel notes in a journal entry dated December
18th, 1932 that:



> 
> The metaproblematic is a participation on which my reality as a
> subject is built... and reflection will show that such a
> participation, if it is genuine, cannot be a *solution*. If it
> were it would cease to be a participation in a transcendent reality,
> and would become, instead, an interpolation *into* transcendent
> reality, and would be degraded in the process... (Marcel 1949, p.
> 114)
> 



Referring back to the idea of a broken world, the technical and the
problematic are questions that are addressed with only
"part" of a person. The full person is not engaged in the
technical because a person's self, her identity, is not at
issue. "At the root of having [and problems, and technics] there
lies a certain specialization of specification of the self, and this
is connected with [a] partial alienation of the self..."
(Marcel 1949, p. 172). Problems are addressed impersonally, in a
detached manner, while mysteries demand participation, involvement.
Although some problems can be reflected on in such a way that they
become mysterious, all mysteries can be reflected on in such a way
that the mystery is degraded and becomes merely problematic.


## 7. Primary and Secondary Reflection



The distinction between two kinds of questions--problem and
mystery--brings to light two different kinds of thinking or
reflection. The problematic is addressed with thinking that is
detached and technical, while the mysterious is encountered in
reflection that is involved, participatory and decidedly
non-technical. Marcel calls these two kinds of thinking
"primary" and "secondary" reflection. Primary
reflection examines its object by abstraction, by analytically
breaking it down into its constituent parts. It is concerned with
definitions, essences and technical solutions to problems. In
contrast, secondary reflection is synthetic; it unifies rather than
divides. "Roughly, we can say that where primary reflection
tends to dissolve the unity of experience which is first put before
it, the function of secondary reflection is essentially recuperative;
it reconquers that unity" (Marcel 1951a, p. 83).



In the most general sense, reflection is nothing other than attention
brought to bear on something. However, different objects require
different kinds of reflection. In keeping with their respective
application to problem and mystery, primary reflection is directed at
that which is outside of me or "before me," while
secondary reflection is directed at that which is not merely before
me--that is, either that which is in me, which I am, or those
areas where the distinctions "in me" and "before
me" tend to break down. The parallels between having and being,
problem and mystery, and primary and secondary reflection are clear,
each pair helping to illuminate the others.



Thus, secondary reflection is one important aspect of our access to
the self. It is the properly philosophical mode of reflection because,
in Marcel's view, philosophy must return to concrete situations
if it is to merit the name "philosophy." These difficult
reflections are "properly philosophical" insofar as they
lead to a more truthful, more intimate communication with both myself
and with any other person whom these reflections include (Marcel
1951a, pp. 79-80). Secondary reflection, which recoups the unity
of experience, points the way toward a fuller understanding of the
participation alluded to in examples of the mysterious.

 Marcel
argues that secondary reflection helps us to recover the experiences
of the mysterious in human life. Secondary reflection is best
understood as an act of critical reflection on primary reflection, and
as a process of recovery of the "mysteries of being." It
begins as the act of critical reflection (a "second"
reflection) on ordinary conceptual thinking (primary reflection). This
"second" or critical reflection enables the philosopher to
discover that the categories of primary reflection are not adequate to
provide a true account of the nature of the self, or of the
self's most profound experiences. Here secondary reflection
involves ordinary reflection, but unlike ordinary reflection, it is a
critical reflection directed at the nature of thought itself. The act
of secondary reflection then culminates in a discovery or in an
assurance of the realm of mystery, and motivates human actions
appropriate to this realm. This discovery is a kind of intuitive grasp
or experiential insight into various experiences that are non
conceptual, and that conceptual knowledge can never fully express
(Sweetman, 2008, pp. 55-60). Marcel therefore develops the view that
human beings are fundamentally beings-in-situations first, and then
thinking or reflective beings second. Yet, in developing a critique of
the obsession with primary reflection (with the world of
"having"), he is not advocating any kind of relativism, or
even suggesting that conceptual knowledge is not important; his aim is
to illustrate where it fits into the analysis of the human subject,
and to point out that it is important not to overstate its range or
its value. In presenting these themes, Marcel wishes to do justice to,
and to maintain the priority of, human subjectivity and individuality
while at the same time avoiding the relativism and skepticism that has
tended to accompany such notions. In this way, many of his admirers
believe that he avoids the relativistic and skeptical excesses that
have plagued recent European thought since Heidegger and Sartre.

## 8. The Spirit of Abstraction



Although secondary reflection is able to recoup the unity of
experience that primary reflection dissects, it is possible that
secondary reflection can be frustrated. One example of the frustration
of secondary reflection and the mysterious is the functional person;
however, this is really just one example of a more general phenomenon:
the person who has given in to the "spirit of
abstraction." When we engage in primary reflection without
proceeding to the synthesizing, recollecting act of secondary
reflection, we fall victim to what Marcel calls the spirit of
abstraction. "As soon as we accord to any category, isolated
from all other categories, an arbitrary primacy, we are victims of the
spirit of abstraction" (Marcel 1962b, pp.
 155-156).[7]



Abstraction, which is in essence the kind of thinking that
characterizes primary reflection, is not always bad per se. However,
neither is it, always an "essentially intellectual"
operation (Marcel 1962b, p. 156). That is, contrary to what the
successes of science and technology might tell us, we may succumb to
the spirit of abstraction out of passional reasons rather than
intellectual expediency. Abstraction--which is always abstraction
from an embodied, concrete existence--can overcome our concrete
existence and we may come to view abstracted elements of existence as
if they were independent. As Marcel describes it: "it can happen
that the mind, yielding to a sort of fascination, ceases to be aware
of these prior conditions that justify abstraction and deceives itself
about the nature of what is, in itself, nothing more than a
method" (Marcel 1962b, p. 156). The significance of this
phenomenon for Marcel would be difficult to overstate--indeed, in
*Man Against Mass Society*, Marcel argues that the spirit of
abstraction is inherently disingenuous and violent, and a significant
factor in the making of war--and there is a sense in which his
whole philosophical project is an "obstinate and untiring battle
against the spirit of abstraction" (Marcel 1962b, p.
 1).[8]


## 9. *Disponibilite* and *Indisponibilite*



Marcel emphasizes two general ways of comporting ourselves towards
others that can be used as barometers for intersubjective
relationships: *disponibilite* and
*indisponibilite.* These words--generally
translated as either "availability" and
"unavailability" or, less frequently, as
"disposability" and
"non-disposability"--bear meanings for Marcel that do
not fully come across in English. Therefore, in addition to the sense
of availability and unavailability, Marcel suggests the addition of
the concepts of "handiness" and "unhandiness"
to his English readers in an attempt to clarify his meaning. Handiness
and unhandiness refer to the availability of one's
"resources"--material, emotional, intellectual and
spiritual. Thus, the term *disponibilite* refers to the
measure in which I am available to someone, the state of having my
resources at hand to offer; and this availability or unavailability of
resources is a general state or disposition. While it may appear that
there is the possibility of a selfish allocation of one's
resources, the truth is that when resources are not available, their
inaccessibility affects both the other and the self. Marcel comments
frequently on the interconnected nature of the treatment of others and
the state of the self.



*Indisponibilite* can manifest itself in any number of
ways; however, "unavailability is invariably rooted in some
measure of alienation" (Marcel 1995, p. 40). Pride is an
instructive example of *indisponibilite*, although the
same state of non-disposability would also exist in a person who has
come to view herself in functional terms, or one who is blinded by a
purely technical worldview. Pride is not an exaggerated opinion of
oneself arising from self-love, which Marcel insists is really only
vanity; rather, pride consists in believing that one is
self-sufficient (Marcel 1995, p. 32). It consists in drawing
one's strength solely from oneself. "The proud man is cut
off from a certain kind of communion with his fellow men, which pride,
acting as a principle of destruction tends to break down. Indeed, this
destructiveness can be *equally* well directed against the
self; pride is in no way incompatible with self-hate..."
(Marcel 1995, p. 32).



For the person who is *indisponible*, other people are reduced
to "examples" or "cases" of genus "other
person" rather than being encountered *qua* other as
unique individuals. Instead of encountering the other person as a
'Thou', the other is encountered as a 'He' or
'She', or even as an 'It'.



> 
> If I treat a 'Thou'as a 'He', I reduce the
> other to being only nature; an animated object which works in some
> ways and not in others. If, on the contrary, I treat the other as
> 'Thou', I treat him and apprehend him *qua*
> freedom. I apprehend him *qua* freedom because he *is*
> also freedom and not only nature. (Marcel 1949, pp. 106-107)
> 



When I treat the other person as a He or She, it is because he or she
is kept at arm's length but within my grasp, outside of the
circle that I form with myself in my *cogito* but inside the
circle of "my world."



> 
> The other, in so far as he is other, only exists for me in so far as I
> am open to him, in so far as he is a Thou. But I am only open to him
> in so far as I cease to form a circle with myself, inside which I
> somehow place the other, or rather his idea; for inside this circle,
> the other becomes the idea of the other, and the idea of the other is
> no longer the other *qua* other, but the other *qua*
> related to me... (Marcel 1949, p. 107)
> 



When I treat the other person as a 'Her', I treat her, not
as a presence, but as absent. However, when I treat the other as a
'He' or 'She' rather than a
'Thou', I become incapable of seeing myself as a
'Thou'. In deprecating the other I deprecate myself.



If I treat the other person as purely external to me, as a
'Her', a generic Ms. *X*, I encounter her "in
fragments" as it were. I encounter various aspects of the other
person, elements that might be used to fill out a questionnaire or
form (name, occupation, age, etc.). I am not present to the other
person and I am closed off and indifferent to the presence she offers
me. However, in encountering the other person in this manner--not
as another person but as a case or example of certain functions, roles
or characteristics--I myself cease to be a person, but take on
the role, speaking metaphorically, of the pen that would record these
disparate elements onto the form. Any other person could encounter the
other in this impersonal manner. If this is the case, I myself have
become interchangeable, replaceable. I have ceased to encounter her in
the absolutely unique communion of our two persons. This functional
view of the other and, consequently, of the self, is a direct result
of the "spirit of abstraction." When the other is
encountered as a generic case, I who encounter am myself a generic
case in the encounter. But the situation can be otherwise.



In contrast, "the characteristic of the soul which is present
and at the disposal of others is that it cannot think in terms of
*cases*; in its eyes there are *no cases at all*"
(Marcel 1995, p. 41). The person who is *disponible*, who is
available or disposable to others, has an entirely different
experience of her place in the world: she acknowledges her
interdependence with other people. Relationships of
*disponibilite* are characterized by presence and
communication between persons *qua* other, *qua*
freedom--a communication and communion between persons who
transcend their separation without merging into a unity, that is,
while remaining separate to some degree. "It should be obvious
at once that a being of this sort is not an autonomous whole, is not
in [the] expressive English phrase, self-contained; on the contrary
such a being is open and exposed, as unlike as can be to a compact
impenetrable mass" (Marcel 1951a, p. 145). To be
*disponible* to the other is to be present to and for her, to
put one's resources at her disposal, and to be open and
permeable to her.



> 
> It will perhaps be made clearer if I say the person who is at my
> disposal is the one who is capable of being with me with the whole of
> himself when I am in need; while the one who is not at my disposal
> seems merely to offer me a temporary loan raised on his resources. For
> the one I am a presence; for the other I am an object. (Marcel 1995,
> p.
>  40).[9]
> 


## 10. "With" (*avec*)



Thus, while I encounter objects in a manner that is technical and
objectifying, the encounter with the other person offers another,
unique possibility: I can have a relationship "with"
another person.



> 
> When I put the table beside the chair I do not make any difference to
> the table or the chair, and I can take one or the other away without
> making any difference; but my relationship with you makes a difference
> to both of us, and so does any interruption of the relationship make a
> difference. (Marcel 1951a, p. 181)
> 



The word "with," taken with its full metaphysical
implication, corresponds neither to a relationship of separation and
exteriority, nor to a relationship of unity and inherence. Rather,
"with" expresses the essence of genuine *coesse*,
i.e. of pluralism, of separation with communion (Marcel 1995, p. 39).
As *indisponibilite* is illustrated with the example of
pride, *disponibilite* is best illustrated in the
relations of love, hope and fidelity.



Marcel--contra Kant--does not shy away from declaring that
the participation in a relationship "with" someone has a
significant affective element. It is not knowledge of the other that
initially binds us to another person--though we may indeed grow
to know something of the other--but "fraternity," the
sense that the other is beset by joys and sorrows common to the human
 family.[10]
 It is that which allows us, upon seeing the misfortune of another, to
say, "There, but for the grace of God, go I." To go to
someone's side or to assist another out of a sense of
"duty" is precisely not to be present to her.
 [11]
 The person who is *disponible* does not demure from saying
that she truly does desire the best for the other person and that she
truly desires to share something of herself with the other (Marcel
1964, p. 154). In fact, because *disponibilite* is only
a philosophical way of describing what we mean by love and trust,
*disponibilite* is inconceivable without this affective
element.



Yet, it is not enough for one person to be *disponible* in
order for the full communion of *disponibilite* to
occur. It is entirely possible for one person to come to an encounter
in a completely open and available manner, only to be rebuffed by the
total unavailability of the other person. Ideally, a relationship of
availability must include an element of reciprocity. However, the fact
that reciprocity is necessary in an intersubjective relationship does
not mean that reciprocity may be demanded of such a relationship.
*Disponibilite* does not insist on its rights or make
any claim on the other whatsoever. It is analogous to the situation of
"a being awaiting a gift or favor from another being but only on
the grounds of his liberality, and that he is the first to protest
that the favor he is asking is a grace [*que cette grace
demandee est une grace*], that is to say the exact
opposite of an obligation" (Marcel 1962a, p. 55). Nevertheless,
the fact that *disponibilite* does not demand
reciprocity and that some kind of relationship is indeed possible
without such reciprocity does not alter the fact that such reciprocity
must be present if the relationship is to fully flower. "One
might therefore say that there is a hierarchy of choices, or rather
invocations, ranging from the call upon another which is like ringing
a bell for a servant to quite the other sort of call which is really
like a kind of prayer" (Marcel 1951a, p. 179).



Marcel characterizes *disponibilite* as charity bound up
with presence, as the gift of oneself. And therefore, at the extreme
limit, *disponibilite* would consist in a total
spiritual availability that would be pure charity, unconditional love
and disposability. However, a problem arises here insofar as Marcel
has insisted on an affective element in *disponibilite.*
How is such a gift of self possible for temporal beings, persons for
whom the vicissitudes of time may alter feelings or opinion of the
other?


## 11. Opinion, Conviction, Belief



Marcel draws a sharp distinction between opinion and belief. Opinion
always concerns that which we do not know, that with which we are not
familiar. It exists in a position between impression and affirmation.
It is often the case that opinions have a "false" basis,
which is most clear in case of stereotypes and prejudices
("everybody knows that..."). Furthermore, opinions
are invariably "external" to the things to which they
refer. I have an opinion about something only when I disengage myself
from it and hold it at "arm's length." Nevertheless,
we hold or maintain these opinions in front of others, and given the
elusive foundations on which these opinions are based, it is easy to
see how an opinion slides slowly from an impression we have to a claim
that we make. This transition invariably takes place as part of an
absence of reflection on the given subject and the entrenchment of the
opinion due to repetition. Our opinions are often
"unshakable" precisely because of the lack of reflection
associated with them.



While opinions are unreflective and external, convictions--which
are more akin to belief than opinion--are the result of extensive
reflection and invariably concern things to which one feels closely
tied. Like opinions that have entrenched themselves to the point of
becoming actual claims, convictions are felt to be definitive, beyond
modification. However, when I claim that nothing can change my
conviction, I must either affirm that I have already anticipated all
possible future scenarios and no possible event can change my
conviction, or affirm that whatever events do occur--anticipated
or unanticipated--they will not shake my conviction. The first
possibility is impossible. The second possibility is based on a
decision, a decision to remain constant whatever may come. However,
upon reflection such a decision seems as over-confidant as the claim
to have anticipated the future. By what right can I affirm that my
inner conviction will not change in any circumstance? To do so is to
imply that, in the future, I will cease to reflect on my conviction.
It seems that all I am able to say is that my conviction is such that,
at the present moment, I cannot imagine an alteration in it.



Belief is akin to conviction; it is, however, distinguished by its
object. Marcel insists in many places that proper use of the term
"belief" applies not to things "that" we
believe, but to things "in which" we believe. Belief is
not "belief that..." but is "belief
in..." Belief *that* might be better characterized
as a conviction rather than a belief; however, to believe *in*
something is to extend credit to it, to place something at the
disposal of that in which we believe. The notion of credit placed at
the disposal of the other is another way of speaking about
*disponibilite*. "I am in no way separable from
that which I place at the disposal of this *X*...
Actually, the credit I extend is, in a way, myself. I lend myself to
*X*. We should note at once that this is an essentially
mysterious act" (Marcel 1951a, p. 134). This is what
distinguishes conviction from belief. Conviction refers to the
*X*, takes a position with regard to *X*, but does not
bind itself to *X*. While I *have* an opinion, I
*am* a belief--for belief changes the way I am in the
world, changes my being. We can now see how belief refers to the
other, and how it is connected to *disponibilite*:
belief always applies to "personal or supra-personal
reality" (Marcel 1951a, p. 135). It always involves a thou to
whom I extend credit--a credit that puts myself at the disposal
of the thou--and thus arises the problem of
 fidelity.[12]


## 12. Creative Fidelity



The discussion of "creative fidelity" is an excellent
place to find a unification, or at least a conjunction, of the various
themes and ideas in Marcel's non-systematic thought. Ontological
*exigence*, being, mystery, second reflection, and
*disponibilite* all inform the discussion of creative
fidelity, which in turn attempts to illustrate how we can experience
these mysterious realities in more or less concrete terms.



The "problem" posed by fidelity is that of constancy.
However, fidelity--a belief in someone--requires presence in
addition to constancy over time, and presence implies an affective
element. Mere constancy over time is not enough because "a
fulfillment of on obligation *contre-coeur* is devoid of love
and cannot be identified with fidelity" (Marcel 1964, xxii).
Thus, the question is posed as follows. How are we able to remain
*disponible* over time? How can we provide a guarantee of our
"belief in" someone? Perhaps the best way to address this
complex idea is to address its constituent parts: the problem posed by
fidelity and the answer given by creativity.



The extension of credit to another is a commitment, an act whereby I
commit myself and place myself at the disposal of the other. In
extending credit to the other I am also placing my trust in her,
implicitly hoping that she proves worthy of the credit I extend to
her. However, we sometimes misjudge others in thinking too highly of
them and at other times misjudge by underestimation. Recalling that
there is an affective element of spontaneity involved in
*disponibilite*, how can I assure that I will remain
faithful to my present belief in the other? Like the question of
conviction over time, my present fidelity to another can be questioned
in terms of its durability. Though I presently feel inclined to credit
the other, to put myself at her disposal, how can I assure that this
feeling will not change tomorrow, next month, or next year?
Furthermore, because I have given myself to this other person, placed
myself at her disposal, when she falls short of my hopes for
her--hopes implicit in my extension of credit to her--I am
wounded.



However, the "failure" of the other to conform to my hopes
is not necessarily the fault of the other. My disappointment or injury
is frequently the result of my having assigned some definite,
determinate quality to the other person or defined her in terms of
characteristics that, it turns out, she does not possess. However, by
what right do I assign this characteristic to her, and by what right
do I judge her to be wanting? Such a judgment drastically
oversteps--or perhaps falls short of--the bounds of
*disponibilite.* In doing so, it demonstrates clearly
that I, from the outset, was engaged in a relationship to my *idea
of the other*--which has proved to be wrong--rather than
with the *other herself*. That is to say that this encounter
was not with the other, but with myself. If I am injured by the
failure of the other to conform to an idea that I had of her, this is
not indicative of a defect in the other; it is the result of my
inappropriate attempt to determine her by insisting that she conform
to my idea. When I begin to doubt my commitment to another person, the
vulnerability of my "belief in *X*" to these doubts
is directly proportional to the residue of opinion still in it (Marcel
1964, p. 136).



Nevertheless, practically speaking, there are innumerable times when
my hopes for the other are not in fact met, when my extension of
credit to the other--which is nothing less then the disposability
of myself--results only in a demand for "more" by the
other. Such situations invariably tempt me to reevaluate the credit I
have put at the disposal of the other and to reassert the question of
durability concerning the affective element of my availability to the
other. Thus, again, the mystery of fidelity is also the question of
commitment, of commitment over time



"How can I test the initial assurance that is somehow the ground
of my fidelity? ...this appears to lead to a vicious circle. In
principle, to commit myself I must know myself, but the fact is I
really only know myself when I have committed myself" (Marcel
1964, p. 163). However, what appears to be a vicious circle from an
external point of view is experienced from within, by the person who
is *disponible*, as a growth and an ascending. Reflection
*qua* primary reflection attempts to make the experience of
commitment understandable in general terms that would be applicable to
anyone, but this can only subvert and destroy the reality of
commitment, which is essentially personal and therefore, accessible
only to secondary reflection.



Returning to the question of durability over time, Marcel insists
that, if there is a possible "assurance" of fidelity, it
is because "disposability and creativity are related
ideas" (Marcel 1964, p. 53). To be disposable is to believe in
the other, to place myself at her disposal and to maintain the
openness of *disponibilite*. "Creative
fidelity" consists in actively maintaining ourselves in a state
of openness and permeability, in *willing* ourselves to remain
open to the other and open to the influx of the presence of the
other.



> 
> The fact is that when I commit myself, I grant in principle that the
> commitment will not again be put into question. And it is clear that
> this active volition not to question something again, intervenes as an
> essential element in the determination of what in fact will be the
> case...it bids me to invent a certain *modus
> vivendi*...it is a rudimentary form of creative fidelity.
> (Marcel 1964, p. 162)
> 



The truest fidelity is creative, that is, a fidelity that
*creates* the self in order to meet the demands of fidelity.
Such fidelity interprets the vicissitudes of "belief
in..." as a temptation to infidelity and sees them in terms
of a test of the self rather than in terms of a betrayal by the
other--if fidelity fails, it is my failure rather than the
failure of the other.



However, this merely puts off the question of durability over time.
Where does one find the strength to continue to create oneself and
meet the demands of fidelity? The fact is that, on the hither side of
the ontological affirmation--and the attendant appeal of
Hope--fidelity is always open to doubt. I can always call into
question the reality of the bond that links me to another person,
always begin to doubt the presence of the person to whom I am
faithful, substituting for her presence an idea of my own making. On
the other hand, the more disposed I am toward the ontological
affirmation, to the affirmation of Being, the more I am inclined to
see the failure of fidelity as my failure, resulting from my
insufficiency rather than that of the other.



> 
> Hence the ground of fidelity that necessarily seems precarious to us
> as soon as we commit ourselves to another who is unknown, seems on the
> other hand unshakable when it is based not, to be sure, on a distinct
> apprehension of God as someone other, but on a certain appeal
> delivered for the depths of my own insufficiency *ad summam
> altitudinem*... This appeal presupposes a radical humility in
> the subject. (Marcel 1964, p. 167)
> 



Thus, creative fidelity invariably touches upon hope. The only way in
which an unbounded commitment on the part of the subject is
conceivable is if it draws strength from something more than itself,
from an appeal to something greater, something transcendent--and
this appeal is hope. Can hope provide us with a foundation that allows
humans--who are radically contingent, frequently fickle, and
generally weak--to make a commitment that is unconditional?
Marcel acknowledges, "Perhaps it should further be said that in
fact fidelity can never be unconditional, except where it is Faith,
but we must add, however, that it aspires to unconditionality"
(Marcel 1962a, p. 133).


## 13. Hope



Hope is the final guarantor of fidelity; it is that which allows me
not to despair, that which gives me the strength to continue to create
myself in availability to the other. But this might appear to be
nothing more than optimism--frequently misplaced, as events too
often reveal--that things will turn out for the best. Marcel
insists that this is not the case. Following now familiar
distinctions, he makes a differentiation between the realm of fear and
desire on one hand and the realm of despair and hope on the other.



Fear and desire are anticipatory and focused respectively on the
object of fear or desire. To desire is "to desire that
*X*" and to fear is "to fear that
*X*." Optimism exists in the domain of fear and desire
because it imagines and anticipates a favorable outcome. However, the
essence of hope is not "to hope that *X*", but
merely "to hope..." The person who hopes does not
accept the current situation as final; however, neither does she
imagine or anticipate the circumstance that would deliver her from her
plight, rather she merely hopes for deliverance. The more hope
transcends any anticipation of the form that deliverance would take,
the less it is open to the objection that, in many cases, the
hoped-for deliverance does not take place. If I desire that my disease
be cured by a given surgical procedure, it is very possible that my
desire might be thwarted. However, if I simply maintain myself in
hope, no specific event (or absence of event) need shake me from this
hope.



This does not mean, however, that hope is inert or passive. Hope is
not stoicism. Stoicism is merely the resignation of a solitary
consciousness. Hope is neither resigned, nor solitary. "Hope
consists in asserting that there is at the heart of being, beyond all
data, beyond all inventories and all calculations, a mysterious
principle which is in connivance with me" (Marcel 1995, p. 28).
While hope is patient and expectant, it remains active; and as such it
might be characterized as an "active patience." The
assertion contained in hope reveals a kinship with willing rather than
desiring. "Inert hope" would be an oxymoron.



> 
> No doubt the solitary consciousness can achieve resignation
> [stoicism], but it may well be here that this word actually means
> nothing but spiritual fatigue. For hope, which is just the opposite of
> resignation, something more is required. There can be no hope that
> does not constitute itself through a we and for a we. I would be
> tempted to say that all hope is at the bottom choral. (Marcel 1973, p.
> 143)
> 



Finally, it should be no surprise that "speaking metaphysically,
the only genuine hope is hope in what does not depend on ourselves,
hope springing from humility and not from pride" (Marcel 1995,
p. 32). And here is found yet another aspect of the withering that
takes place as a result of *indisponibilite* in general
and pride in particular. The same arrogance that keeps the proud
person from communion with her fellows keeps her from hope.



This example points to the dialectical engagement of despair and
hope--where there is hope there is always the possibility of
despair, and only where there is the possibility of despair can we
respond with hope. Despair, says Marcel, is equivalent to saying that
there is nothing in the whole of reality to which I can extend credit,
nothing worthwhile. "Despair is possible in any form, at any
moment and to any degree, and this betrayal may seem to be counseled,
if not forced upon us, by the very structure of the world we live
in" (Marcel 1995, p. 26). Hope is the affirmation that is the
response to this denial. Where despair denies that anything in reality
is worthy of credit, hope affirms that reality will ultimately prove
worthy of an infinite credit, the complete engagement and disposal of
myself.


## 14. Religious Belief



Throughout the course of his work, Marcel arrived at an essentially
theistic, specifically Christian, worldview, leading many to describe
him as a Christian or theistic existentialist (especially in
opposition to Sartre). Indeed, some thinkers regard Marcel's
philosophical writings on religious belief as his most profound
contribution to philosophy: "From the beginning of his
philosophical career, Marcel's main interest has been the
interpretation of religious experience, that is, of the relation
between man and ultimate reality" (Cain, 1979, p. 87).
Marcel's early reflections, especially in *Being and
Having*, laid the seeds for his conversion to Catholicism at the
age of 40, though he believed that his philosophical ideas, and
central Christian themes, though complementary, were in fact
independent of each other: "It is quite possible that the
existence of the fundamental Christian data may be necessary *in
fact* to enable the mind to conceive some of the notions which I
have attempted to analyze; but these notions cannot be said to depend
on the data of Christianity, and *they do not presuppose it* .
. . I have experienced [the development of these ideas] more than
twenty years before I had the remotest thought of becoming a
Catholic" (Marcel, 1995, pp. 44-45). Marcel became a Catholic
when the French novelist, Francois Mauriac (1885--1979),
recognized various themes in his writing concerning commitment,
forgiveness, moral character and the religious justification of the
moral order. Mauriac wrote to Marcel and explicitly asked him whether
he ought not to join the Catholic Church, a call to which, after a
period of reflection, Marcel assented. It is noteworthy that his
conversion did not significantly change his philosophy, although it
did lead to an increased focus on how various experiences, especially
moral experiences, may point to the presence of the transcendent in
human life.



Marcel, as one would expect, does not engage in philosophy of religion
in the traditional sense. He is often critical of various attempts to
"prove" the existence of God in the history of philosophy,
such as those to be found in Thomism. He regards such attempts as
belonging to the realm of primary reflection, and as such, they leave
out the personal experience of God, which is necessarily lost in the
move to abstraction. Marcel notes that committed religious believers
are not greatly interested in arguments for God's existence, and
may even look upon these arguments with suspicion; atheists are also
usually not persuaded by such arguments (Marcel, 1951b, p. 196;
Marcel, 1964, p. 179). Another reason for the lack of efficacy of
formal arguments is that many in the contemporary world are not open
to the religious worldview. Marcel introduces a distinction between
"anti-theists" and "atheists" to make this
point. Whereas an atheist is somebody who does not believe in God, an
anti-theist is somebody who does not want to believe in God. It is
possible, Marcel observes, to close oneself off from the experience of
the religious in human life, not for rational reasons, but for reasons
of self-interest, or from a desire to avoid religious morality, or to
avoid submission to an outside authority. This view is prevalent, he
believes, not just in modern life, but also in modern philosophy:
"The history of modern philosophy seems to supply abundant
illustration of the progressive replacement of atheism by...an
*anti-theism*, whose mainspring is to will that God *should
not be*" (Marcel 1951b, p. 176). The prevalence of this
attitude makes it even more difficult to pursue a purely rational
approach to God's existence.



However, Marcel develops another approach to the question of God, and
many themes in his work are concerned in one way or another with this
topic. He belongs to the line of thinkers, which includes Soren
Kierkegaard and Martin Buber in philosophy, and Karl Barth and Paul
Tillich in theology, who draw attention to the non-theoretical
dimension of religious belief, and moral experience. His approach is
phenomenological in character, involving a description of various
human experiences and the attempt to reveal their underlying meaning
and justification. Marcel's position is that there is a set of
profound human experiences (some of which we have described earlier)
that reveal the presence of God (the 'Absolute Thou') in
human life. These experiences are present in the lives of most human
beings, even though a particular individual might not necessarily
connect them with a religious worldview, or come to an affirmation of
God based on them. The experiences mentioned above of fidelity, hope,
presence and intersubjectivity, which all involve profound commitments
that cannot be captured and analyzed in objective terms, but that are
nonetheless real and can at least be partly described conceptually (in
philosophy, but especially in literature, drama and art [Marcel,
1963]), are best explained if they are understood as being pledged to
an absolute, transcendent reality. As noted, the experience of
fidelity is one of his favorite examples. Fidelity involves a certain
way of being with another person. The other person is not seen as a
person with a certain set of desirable characteristics, or as
identified with a function, or even as a rational, autonomous subject;
rather he or she is experienced as a "thou," a person with
whom I identify and am one with on the path of life (Anderson, 1982,
p. 31). Fidelity is an experience that the other will not fail me, and
that I will not fail them, and so, as we have seen, it is deeper than
constancy (in many relationships, fidelity is reduced to constancy).
Marcel suggests that such experiences have religious significance,
because the individual often appeals to an ultimate strength which
from within enables him to make the pledge which he knows he could not
make from himself alone (Pax, 1972, p. 60).



Marcel holds that unconditional commitments such as these are best
explained if understood as being pledged to an absolute transcendence.
Indeed, given that life is full of temptations and challenges, the
recognition of an absolute Thou also helps the individual to
*keep* his or her commitments. Of hope he observes: "The
only possible source from which this absolute hope springs must once
more be stressed. It appears as a response of the creature to the
infinite Being to whom it is conscious of owing everything that it has
and upon whom it cannot impose any condition whatsoever"
(Marcel, 1962a, p. 47). "Unconditionality," as he has also
noted, "is the true sign of God's presence" (Marcel,
1950-51, p. 40). In general, his position is that the affirmation of
God can only be attained by an individual at the level of a
being-in-a-situation, or secondary reflection. At the level of primary
reflection, the existence of God cannot be demonstrated, because the
individual must be personally involved in the various experiences that
can lead to an affirmation, but such genuine involvement is precluded
at the level of abstraction. Yet, this does not mean that philosophy
of religion in the traditional sense is not important; indeed
Marcel's reflections just mentioned must be regarded as part of
an attempt to show, however indirectly, that belief in God is
reasonable, but, as with all areas of primary reflection, we should
recognize the limitations of a purely rational approach to religious
belief.


## 15. Marcel in Dialogue



Four decades after his death, Marcel's philosophy continues to
generate a steady stream of creative scholarship that, if modest in
volume, nevertheless attests to his continued relevance for the
contemporary philosophical landscape. Marcel's influence on
contemporary philosophy is apparent, for example, in the work of Paul
Ricoeur, his most famous student. Through Ricoeur, Marcel has
influenced contemporary philosophy in and around the hermeneutic
tradition. The pattern of "detour and return" that
characterizes Ricoeur and some of his students closely resembles
Marcel's dialectic of primary and secondary
 reflection.[13]
 Likewise, Marcel's understanding of otherness--illustrated
by his image of "constellations," conglomerations of
meaningfully connected but non-totalizable beings--is an explicit
challenge to philosophers of absolute otherness including Emmanuel
Levinas, Jacques Derrida, and John D. Caputo, and a valuable resource
for philosophers with a chiastic understanding of otherness, including
Ricoeur and Richard Kearney. In addition, Marcel's philosophy
offers rich possibilities for dialogue with contemporary ontologies
struggling to address the problem of "being" without
succumbing to ethical "violence" or
"ontotheological" conceptions of God. As such, his
philosophy should be of interest to scholars interested in the work of
Martin Heidegger, Jean-Luc Marion, Merold Westphal and others
philosophizing at the intersection of philosophy and theology.
Finally, his insistence that philosophy should illuminate our lived
experience and his insistence on concrete examples have much in common
with thinkers who view philosophy as a "way of life,"
including Pierre Hadot and Michel Foucault. The resources of
Marcel's philosophy have only begun to be tapped, and one may
hope that the recent republication of what are arguably Marcel's
two most important works, *The Mystery of Being* (by St.
Augustine's Press) and *Creative Fidelity* (by Fordham
University Press), will help to fuel a renaissance in scholarship
concerning this remarkable thinker.



Marcel's thought continues to endure and a steady stream of
studies regularly appear in different disciplines that draw attention
to the relevance of Marcel's central ideas for our concerns in
twentieth first century philosophy, theology and culture. These works
include Sweetman (2008), an analysis of Marcel's view of the
person and its implications for issues in epistemology and philosophy
of religion; and Hernandez (2011), a detailed study of Marcel's
religious philosophy from the point of view of his reflections on
ethics. Traenor's work (2007) places Marcel into dialogue (and
debate) with Levinas on the question of the other, while at the same
time arguing that their views on the other are incompatible; Tunstall
(2013) discusses and develops Marcel's ideas about
dehumanization with regard to the topic of racism; Tattum (2013)
places Marcel in dialogue with thinkers such as Bergson, Levinas,
Ricoeur and Derrida on the concept of time, while Pierre Colin (2009)
returns to Marcel's views of the experience of hope.



Marcel remains one of the most influential thinkers of the twentieth
century, and his major themes continue to be relevant for the plight
of humanity in the twentieth first century. Many find Marcel's
thought attractive because he emphasizes a number of significant ideas
that have been influential in twentieth century thinking in both
philosophy and theology: the attempt to preserve the dignity and
integrity of the human person by emphasizing the inadequacy of the
materialistic life and the unavoidable human need for transcendence;
the inability of philosophy to capture the profundity and depth of key
human experiences, and so the need to find a deeper kind of
reflection; the emphasis on the human experience of intersubjectivity,
which Marcel believes is at the root of human fulfillment; and a
seeking after the transcendent dimension of human experience, a
dimension that he believes cannot be denied without loss, and that
often gives meaning to many of our most profound experiences. Marcel
is also regarded as important by a range of thinkers in different
disciplines because he presents an alternative vision to challenge the
moral relativism and spiritual nihilism of his French rival, Jean Paul
Sartre, and other representative existentialist philosophers (Marcel,
1995, pp. 47-90). For this important reason, his work continues to
speak to many of our concerns today in ethics, politics, and
religion.