J. M. G. Le Clézio and Gérard Gouesbet’s cosmic,ecocentric framework for understanding the nature of human violence

Introduction

This article explores Le Clézio’s relatively neglected experimental text Terra Amata (1967) from the lens of the interdisciplinary theories proposed by the eminent French scientist Gérard Gouesbet in his first major work of philosophy Violences de la nature (2016). Specifically, this investigation will demonstrate that the cosmic, ecocentric framework for comprehending the nature of human violence more fully outlined by Le Clézio and Gouesbet deepens our understanding of the origins of aggression. Delving into the basic tenets of modern science, both writers posit that the veritable roots of violence are cosmic or elemental. According to Le Clézio and Gouesbet, the human predilection for violence is inextricably linked to the chaotic, turbulent, indiscriminate, ecological forces that spawned all life on this planet, starting with the big bang nearly 14 billion years ago. In an interconnected and interdependent universe, in which every sentient and non-sentient organism has the same material essence, Le Clézio and Gouesbet suggest that violence grounds our very being. The destructive, indifferent, cataclysmic elements that eventually thrust our species into the chaos of existence are the essential building blocks of all life. Moreover, Le Clézio and Gouesbet persuasively affirm that existence itself is an inherently violent act that necessitates inflicting a certain amount of aggression upon the earth for the sake of sustenance. Their philosophical reflections, inspired by contemporary scientific erudition, encourage us to rethink the true nature of violence and our attempts to limit it to the greatest extent possible.

Furthermore, an evident aim of this present study is to compel other researchers from a plethora of divergent disciplines to (re-)engage with the complex nuances of Le Clézio’s early novel Terra Amata. In comparison to his more canonical narratives such as Le Procès-verbal, Désert, Le Chercheur d’or, La Quarantaine, and Révolutions, Terra Amata is overdue for recognition. This exploration will illustrate that this extremely experimental text is one of the most thought-provoking and philosophical works that the author has ever written in his illustrious career, which spans more than half a century. In a similar vein, this article endeavours to promote the cogent theories developed by Gouesbet in his latest book, which promises to be one of the most important contributions to the field of French environmental philosophy in the twenty-first century. Although this analysis focuses on the utility of Gouesbet’s theories about violence, the author addresses many other interrelated themes that render this philosophical treatise inexhaustible.

Brief contextualisation of Violences de la nature and Terra Amata

Gouesbet reveals that Violences de la nature (2016) is the first instalment of a ‘tétralogie dédiée aux victoires de la violence et à la défaite des doux’ (2016: 9). In the opening paragraph of his interdisciplinary essay that seamlessly blends science, philosophy, literature and theology, Gouesbet explains the structure that undergirds his reflections about human aggression. After underscoring ‘les violences de la Nature, incompréhensible et brutale’, the scientist-philosopher weaves connections between this omnipresent cosmic violence and deadly forms of human behaviour (2016: 9). Despite the fact that he received most of his formal academic training in the hard sciences, Gouesbet possesses a formidable grasp of Western philosophy from antiquity to the present. Additionally, it is obvious that the author has a deep appreciation of Eastern forms of spirituality. In this rigorous and accessible work, mainly devoted to the subject of violence, Gouesbet also broaches timeless philosophical questions linked to the pursuit of happiness in an absurd universe in which mortality is inescapable.

Originally published in 1967 by Gallimard, Terra Amata is one of the most ambitious novels that Le Clézio has ever written. In this unclassifiable text that mingles prose, poetry and sporadic drawings, the Nobel Laureate attempts to recount the universal saga of existence through the archetypal and enigmatic protagonist Chancelade. Although the common practice in the field of Le Clézio studies to divide the author’s works into two distinct phases is somewhat controversial, as noted by Miriam Stendal Boulos, the influence of both existentialism and the so-called French new novel upon the writer’s early works is apparent in this unconventional narrative (1999: 72). Similar to Alain Robbe-Grillet, Nathalie Sarraute, Michel Butor, Georges Perec and Marguerite Duras, Bronwen Martin asserts that works like Terra Amata are emblematic of ‘a transgression of all boundaries’ (2004: 1). In a concerted effort to break the mould and to create something original, Le Clézio rather subversively defies traditional literary conventions in Terra Amata. For instance, the author often speaks directly to the reader in numerous passages. Pushing the limits of artistic experimentation to the extreme, Le Clézio even creates his own incomprehensible language in the chapter ‘En disant des mots incompréhensibles’ (1967: 119). This short section is reminiscent of the famous nonsensical poem ‘Karawane’ composed by the Dadaist writer Hugo Ball. It is perhaps due to the eccentric nature of the literary techniques employed by the writer in Terra Amata that this novel has received a rather lukewarm reception overall among the general public and in academic circles. Nonetheless, it would be hasty to dismiss the intellectual and artistic rigour of Terra Amata based upon these kinds of atypical passages. A close reading of this early novel reveals that Le Clézio articulates a coherent, ecocentric worldview that strives to understand the minute place of humanity in the biosphere more fully. Like the philosopher of science Michel Serres, Le Clézio embraces the daunting challenge of trying to write the ‘Grand Récit’ of the universe and our relationship to it in Terra Amata (Serres, 2003: 68). As the author explicitly confesses near the beginning of the book, Terra Amata is his version of the ‘HISTOIRE DE LA TERRE’ ¹ predicated upon scientific logic (1967: 15). Thus, Chancelade is not only a universal symbol of humanity, but this mysterious character without a precise identity ² also embodies the universal properties that define life itself. It is in this context in which certain poignant depictions of violence in the narrative should be understood as well.

Examining the cosmogonic and elemental nature of violence

Throughout Terra Amata and Violences de la nature, both writers indicate that the cosmogonic origins of the earth shed light on the nature of human aggression. First, Gouesbet reminds the reader that the appearance of life on this planet was initiated by an improbable chain of events set into motion by the gradual expansion of space and the big bang. The result of this expansion and these rather violent cataclysmic explosions was that the earth’s core temperature cooled and matter began to form. Matter, the rudimentary essence of all life, was conceived from these eruptions. For this reason, Gouesbet concludes that matter itself is inherently violent. As the scientist elucidates, ‘alors il vous faut conclure que la violence est tapie dans le cœur même de la matière, dans ses éléments’ (2016: 124). Given that our current ontological shell of being is merely one modality that matter temporarily adopts before it changes forms at the end of our ephemeral existence in this shape, Gouesbet argues that this initial violence still lurks beneath the surface inside of us. For the scientist-philosopher, it should come as no surprise that modern Homo sapiens are still prone to extreme acts of aggression, since this elemental fury permeates us to the very core. Inhabiting a body comprised of volatile, recycled material particles that existed for eons before the first humans ever roamed this planet, Gouesbet posits that ‘rien ne [nous] distingue ontologiquement, ni en dignité, ni en nature-sinon une apparence trompeuse’ from any of the other creatures that live on this biosphere (2016: 140–1). The physicist further clarifies, ‘l’analyse chimique nous révèle que nous sommes fabriqués des mêmes éléments que ceux qui constituent le monde, quoique en des proportions différentes’ (2016: 116). Like all of the other life forms in the world of things to which we belong, Gouesbet asserts that sometimes our hidden, primeval rage reaches boiling point as it rises to the surface.

In the aptly named section ‘L’humiliation biologique’ from chapter 3, the physicist hypothesises that social conventions serve to conceal this innate violence from which there is no escape. After outlining the ‘humiliation’ induced by Darwin’s discoveries linking various species of monkeys and our human predecessors to a common evolutionary ancestor, Gouesbet asserts that mankind is afflicted with the same destructive impulses as all other beings. As the scientist declares, ‘nous voici issus de cette mascarade de masques de violence, enfants de la jungle et des herbes folles, infectes d’instincts puissants inclinés vers la dévoration ³ et la déchiration’ (2016: 159). Gouesbet offers the concrete example of the institution of marriage as an attempt to soften our penchant for aggressive and possessive behaviour, or to hide it from public view in a socially acceptable fashion. Specifically, the scientist contends that marriage provides a space in which our violent sexual urges to possess and dominate the Other can be limited, keeping them from spiralling out of control. Peeling back all of the thick layers of social convention related to human sexuality in Western society, Gouesbet exposes ‘nos poils perdus, nos sauvageries cachées derrière le vernis-léger de nos cultures et notre soif de sexe et de stupres encastré derrière les liens sacrés du mariage’ (2016: 159). In this passage, Gouesbet suggests that the institution of marriage was conceived to reduce sexual violence to the greatest extent possible. Additionally, the scientist directly implies that social conventions create an appealing, romantic facade that allows us to think of ourselves as being more civilised than our relatives from the jungle who are filled with the same erotic desires.

In chapter 2, Gouesbet connects his ideas about human sexuality to the Gaia myth or the notion of ‘Mother Earth’. Numerous ecocritics and environmental philosophers such as Damiano Bondi (2015), Robert Segal (2015) and Pierluigi Barrotta (2001) have explored various manifestations of the Gaia hypothesis, but Gouesbet adds an original wrinkle in Violences de la nature. After declaring that ‘Gaïa, la Terre Mère, nous a portés pendant des milliards d’années’, the scientist affirms, ‘Elle nous oblige par des hormones et autres astuces moléculaires à jouer son jeu, à nous embarquer dans des mouvements de la sexualité qui n’ont qu’un sens, celui des fins stupides qu’à travers eux la nature se propose, à savoir se propager’ (2016: 119). Gouesbet concludes that Mother Earth could be more accurately described as a ‘marâtre’ than a benevolent giver of all life (2016: 119). The physicist explains that a chemical analysis of our DNA reveals that we are hardwired for sexual predation from an evolutionary angle. Dismissing any romantic explanations for the primordial instincts that push us to engage in coitus, Gouesbet maintains that we are merely obeying the summons to procreate when we fulfil our erotic desires. It is difficult to refute Gouesbet’s hypothesis that sexual motivation is largely driven by hormonal factors that are a vital part of our genetic composition. Nevertheless, one important nuance is missing from the scientist’s reflections about human sexuality. Similar to dolphins and perhaps all animals, ⁴ Homo sapiens seek sexual gratification because the act of intercourse is pleasurable (Maria, 2012). Hence, it could be argued that erotic intimacy cannot always be reduced to procreation. In this regard, people with no desire whatsoever to have children (or additional offspring) often have a healthy sexual appetite.

It is unfortunate that Gouesbet does not address this subject in Violences de la nature. However, the scientist’s point of view can be logically deduced from his larger reflections about the violent nature of the sexual act itself. Underscoring the elemental roots of erotic passion, Gouesbet theorises,

Alors, lorsque par quelque hasard lui viennent d’improbables enfants, elle les maltraite, en sorte que l’on croit même, dans ses plaisirs de débauches blanches et noires, que son but est de détruire pour le moins autant qu’elle crée. Elle est prolixe en discours organiques basés sur le tétraèdre du carbone et prodigue de ses pauvres richesses qu’elle éparpille aux vents fous et mauvais. (2016: 120)

According to the scientist, sexual ecstasy has all of the trappings of freedom, but it is really nothing more than a cruel game connected to a vicious cycle of life and death. From an evolutionary standpoint, it could be surmised that sex is enjoyable to encourage the accidental continuation of the species. This is precisely what Gouesbet appears to suggest in Violences de la nature. The rules of the sexual game have been predetermined by specific chemicals in our brain that render the act pleasurable for evolutionary purposes. The scientist unequivocally asserts that we are slaves to these base desires that often result in reproduction.

Returning to his main hypothesis about the cosmic roots of violence that lie beneath the surface in every parcel of matter, Gouesbet demystifies the concept of Mother Earth by painting a rending portrait of the chaotic forces that support all life. Counterpointing the reverence and veneration expressed by romantic thinkers like Rousseau for Gaia or the cosmic whole with a heavy dose of stark scientific realism, Gouesbet posits,

Elle [la Terre-Mère] nous condamne à un cannibalisme incessant et involontaire en nous faisant respirer de l’air déjà respiré par d’autres, peut-être infectés, et consommer chaque jour des particules de chairs putréfiées de nos ancêtres, dispersées aux quatre vents, dans un recyclage de bourreaux et des victimes … Il faut véritablement être un rêveur rêvasseur comme Rousseau pour voir une mère dans la nature! … Mère Nature nous donnant l’existence, puis nous abandonnant à la recherche d’illusions essentielles, avec un total mépris pour nos destinées … car la marâtre nous a vus venir sans nous désirer … et c’est son hasard nécessaire qui nous a jetés hors de la mer … l’homme regarde l’univers, mais l’univers ne regarde pas l’homme. Il l’écrase. Les poètes peuvent bien nous dire que nous vivons sous le regard des étoiles, mais c’est une imposture de rêveurs. (2016: 120–1)

As a later section of this article will highlight, the scientist maintains that it would be more appropriate to describe an indifferent, hostile universe in which every organism incessantly tries to stave off the forces of death as a ‘wicked stepmother’ rather than a compassionate, maternal entity. The irreverent humour in this passage is similar to the sections of the essay in which Gouesbet pokes fun at the Judeo-Christian conception of an omnipotent, omniscient and munificent god. As a scientist who understands the bittersweet, harsh material realities that undergird existence on this planet, Gouesbet takes aim at thinkers who over-romanticise indiscriminate ecological cycles. From an empirical perspective, the physicist describes Mother Earth as a vicious, disinterested, closed system that has no regard for human life. A few pages earlier, Gouesbet criticises Leibniz’s naïve optimism for similar reasons. In general, the scientist expresses a considerable amount of respect for Leibniz’s thought throughout Violences de la nature. He validates Leibniz’s main point that the cosmos has to operate in the manner that it does or life would cease to exist. Nonetheless, Gouesbet scoffs at the idea that we live in the ‘best of all possible worlds’ satirised by Voltaire in Candide. In a passage that recalls all of the ‘necessary’ suffering endured by Candide, Pangloss and Cunégonde in Candide, the scientist affirms,

il y a alors peu de chances que notre monde soit le meilleur des mondes possibles et il est presque certain qu’il est en de bien pires. Ces univers, véritablement au-delà du Bien et du Mal, ne témoigneraient que d’une immense force aveugle qui forge toutes les souffrances démultipliées. (2016: 102)

For Gouesbet, the only optimism that is justified from a scientific standpoint is that the ecological laws that govern existence in other galaxies are probably even worse than the ones that crush everything in their path on this physical plane. In short, the scientist cautions the reader from idealising a biosphere begotten by violence billions of years ago in which deadly forms of aggression ensure the continued presence of life.

Although Le Clézio is often labelled as ‘le plus mystique de nos romanciers contemporains’ by French literary critics, this perception is somewhat misleading (Montalbetti, 1985: 100). Indeed, the Franco-Mauritian writer possesses deep cosmic sensibilities that are apparent in numerous works. However, Le Clézio is anything but a naïve nature worshipper. In several works from 1963 to the present, including Terra Amata, he also reflects upon the cosmogonic and elemental nature of violence. The author’s descriptions of the natural world to which we are linked are extremely realistic and informed by the principles of modern science. In a testament to how much contemporary scientific theories have influenced his ecocentric Weltanschauung, Le Clézio confesses in the preface to La Fièvre, ‘C’est difficile de faire de l’art en voulant faire de la science’ (1965: 8). As he candidly admits to the reader, he is astutely aware that his narratives often blur the rigid, disciplinary demarcations that now separate the humanities from the hard sciences in Western society.

In particular, Le Clézio shares Gouesbet’s fascination with the cosmogonic origins of the biosphere and how they relate to the ubiquity of violence on this planet, including the aggression hidden inside of us. As numerous researchers such as Bruno Thibault (1999), Claude Cavallero (2005), Keith Moser (2013), Isabelle Roussel-Gillet (2011), Jeans Oliver Müller (1999) and Jean-Paul Mezade (1989) have noted, many of Le Clézio’s protagonists often engage in overt forms of cosmogonic reverie. In his essay ‘Le voyage à rebours’, Jean-Paul Mezade (1989) underscores the importance of the peculiar episodes in several of Le Clézio’s novels and short stories in which characters imagine a reverse trip through the corridors of time and space all the way back to the ‘niveau zéro’ ⁵ when life began to emerge after the aforementioned cataclysmic explosions (Le Clézio, 1967: 135). Despite the fact that such an imaginary voyage is undoubtedly impossible, these experiences are laden with symbolic and philosophical meaning in Le Clézio’s fiction. Not only are these moments of cosmogonic reverie connected to the quest of ecological self-actualisation in an interconnected and interdependent universe, they are also emblematic of an attempt to pinpoint the roots of human aggression.

Similar to Gouesbet’s depiction of the omnipresent violence that is part and parcel of our material essence, it soon becomes evident that the Leclézian ‘voyage à rebours’ is an arduous journey through the heart of the elemental violence that has existed for billions of years. As he seems to stroll aimlessly through the streets of an unidentified city, Chancelade no longer appears to be bound to the contingencies of time and space. He is transported back in time to the initial, violent bursts of energy that put indiscriminate, ecological cycles into motion. The narrator offers the following description of this unlikely encounter with the cosmogonic elements from which all life originated:

Les rivières s’étaient transformées en longs rubans de cristal, et les gouttes avaient séché sur les cailloux … les orifices étaient de vraies bouches de volcan, vomissant des flots de gaz … des tonnes de magma en fusion. Il y avait une étincelle, ainsi un jour, et depuis, plus rien n’avait été en repos. (1967: 175)

Later in this experimental novel, the narrator reiterates,

C’est la malédiction très ancienne qui perpétue son action ici, l’espèce d’ordre universel qui vibre à l’intérieur même de la vie. C’est inscrit au centre de chaque chose, comme une longue fissure qui progresse et divise. A l’origine, tout à fait au début, il y a eu cette explosion. (1967: 200)

During these poignant instants of cosmogonic reflection, Chancelade realises that the violence that he simultaneously relives in both the past and present is inscribed in every living creature. Moreover, Chancelade is struck by the epiphany that nothing has ever been or will ever be at peace in our chaotic, deterministic universe. The elemental ‘war’, which will be probed in another section of the article, continues to rage. As evidenced by natural disasters like earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, hurricanes and tornadoes, the biosphere incessantly transforms itself as it continues its indifferent trajectory. Chancelade recognises that human beings are a metonymical cog in an unending cycle of extreme violence. The big bang is not a story whose importance should be relegated to the past. The same chaotic forces that eventually conceived all life are still as violent and volatile as they have ever been. Like Gouesbet, Le Clézio reminds the reader that the present and future directions that the biosphere will ultimately assume are contingent upon how this elemental fury manifests itself.

As Claude Cavallero notes in his essay ‘Land of the sea; le pays de la mer de J. M. G. Le Clézio’ (1993), the violence inflicted upon all organisms by two specific elements (i.e. light and wind) stands out in the author’s diverse and prolific oeuvre. Although Le Clézio presents a rather nuanced portrait of all of the elements, Cavallero observes that several of the writer’s characters have a difficult time surviving in harsh terrains in which the intensity of the sunlight beaming down upon them is unbearable. As Cavallero explains in the context of a ‘bain de mer’, ‘il brûle et brutalise, et dans le même temps enivre, purifie et renouvelle, selon un processus qui fait songer aux rites anciens décrits par Mircea Eliade’ (1993: 36). This dualistic nature of the sun is one of the most important themes that Le Clézio develops at the beginning of Terra Amata. The narrator identifies the sun as the primordial source of energy that is necessary for the continuation of life on this biosphere. Yet he is also cognisant of the wrath that the sun sadistically unleashes on both the human and non-human population. Like Gouesbet, Le Clézio does not romanticise this elemental furore that wreaks havoc on everything caught in its path. Personifying the sun with the name ‘Kax’, the narrator underscores that this star is a

loupe posée sur le ciel … le petit point blanc d’où vient la vie … Car Kax n’est pas bon. Kax est un monstre sans pitié qui cherche à détruire le monde. Il lance ses dards invisibles, il use, il ronge imperceptiblement tout ce qui est à sa portée, et chaque fois qu’il disparaît, le soir, de l’autre côté de l’horizon, on entend comme un grand soupir de paix sur toute la terre. (1967: 12–13)

In this passage, the narrator reveals that there is often no reprieve from this elemental violence that spares nothing and no one. In Sartrian terms, Chancelade and other Leclézian protagonists quickly discover that there is ‘no exit’ from an indiscriminate universe replete with deadly forms of chaos that accost us from all sides. The physical and cerebral anguish actuated by Kax in Terra Amata also recalls the searing existential pain induced by the sun for the Camusian protagonist Meursault in L’Étranger.

Similar to Gouesbet, Le Clézio clearly does not create a utopian image of the chaotic forces that have always been indicative of life on this biosphere in Terra Amata. Yet the Franco-Mauritian author would undoubtedly take issue with Gouesbet’s aforementioned conclusions related to the Amerindian concept of Mother Earth. In Le Rêve mexicain (1988) described by Paul Archambault as ‘perhaps the best and most controversial of Le Clézio’s Mexican works’, the Nobel Laureate defends the intellectual rigor of the often misunderstood notion of Mother Earth (Archambault, 2010: 290). Contrary to pervasive misconceptions about this philosophical and spiritual concept in Western society, the veneration expressed by numerous autochthonous civilisations for our common ‘Mother’ is not a romanticisation of the universe. The nuanced and multifaceted notion of Mother Earth highlights both the life-giving properties of the cosmos and its utter disregard for human life. In essence, this key element of Amerindian philosophy and spirituality posits that Mother Earth is both a benevolent, maternal entity and a malicious ‘marâtre’. As Le Clézio explains in Le Rêve mexicain, ‘Le symbole d’une terre-mère à la fois nourricière et mortelle est au centre de la philosophie amérindienne’ (1988: 266). In his analysis of another one of the author’s Amerindian essays La Fête chantée, Bruno Thibault substantiates Le Clézio’s reflections about the ‘Terre-Mère’ and our relationship to it (Thibault, 1998). The Amerindian conception of the divine, reflected in the notion of Mother Earth, fits squarely within the scientific explanations of the world outlined by Gouesbet in Violences de la nature. Painfully aware of the violent, indifferent nature of the elemental gods that they revered, some Amerindian societies, including the Aztecs, resorted to extreme measures like human sacrifice in an attempt to appease these bloodthirsty divinities to ensure the perpetuation of organic cycles. ⁶

Exploring the biological parasitism that sustains all life and the relationship between entropy and violence

Even though Gouesbet and Le Clézio might disagree about the objectivity of the Amerindian concept of Mother Earth, they both recognise that violence is simply a part of the fabric of life. In addition to theorising that the initial cosmogonic chaos that tossed our species into being still pervades us to the core, they hypothesise that quotidian acts of violence render the continuation of our lives in this ontological form possible. Espousing a philosophical conviction similar to that of Michel Serres, Gouesbet highlights throughout Violences de la nature that all life forms are ‘parasites’, given that every organism must take from the earth in order to survive. According to Gouesbet, this violent and deadly parasitic chain cannot be averted due to the conditions that support life. In the larger previously mentioned context of his empirical scepticism concerning Leibniz’s assertion that our universe is the best of all possible worlds, Gouesbet elucidates,

Si l’on veut un monde d’êtres vivants et qu’il soit le meilleur, ce meilleur des mondes ne peut être qu’un univers de dévoration, dominé par les crocs et les griffes, les dents et les mandibules … Si l’on veut des êtres vivants, il faut qu’ils se dévorent, il faut qu’ils meurent … le meilleur des mondes ne peut être qu’un monde de chairs décharnées et de souffrance’ (2016: 152)

In this section of chapter 3 ‘La dévoration’, the scientist exposes the true face of this ‘meilleur des mondes’. Gouesbet further clarifies that this planet is ‘un royaume démoniaque pour d’autres succions et d’autres dévorations’ (2016: 153). For Gouesbet, the ecological laws that require all living things to devour other forms of matter on a regular basis are at odds with Leibniz’s optimism. The scientist’s theories about this unavoidable parasitism reinforce his earlier point that a much better universe is easily conceivable.

Compelling us to think harder about how the mere act of survival forces every organism to inflict violence upon the world of things around them, Gouesbet outlines the ‘dévoration’ that occurs on a subterranean level. Underneath the surface of our countryside and city streets, the scientist explains that the same ruthless war for survival epitomises life underground. As Gouesbet opines,

Ainsi, en vérité vraie de chez vrai, dans les forêts, au fond des gorges et des précipices, au bord des rivages et au fond des abysses, sous le tapis de verdure, de gazon, de feuilles d’automne pourrissantes, sont des monstres affairés, des parasites, qui aiguisent leurs pinces et leurs mandibules, élaborent leurs poisons mortels et liquéfiants, et dansent la grande orgie de la dévoration. (2016: 154)

From a stylistic perspective, it is noteworthy that the author employs a pleonasm to illustrate his objective, scientific approach to highlighting material realities that cannot be transcended. Instead of perceiving the biosphere to which we belong from a rosy, unrealistic perspective, the somewhat comical pleonasm ‘en vérité vraie de chez vrai’ encourages us to reflect upon how the universal laws of existence should inform our worldview. When analysing the evidence provided by contemporary scientific erudition, Gouesbet maintains that the only logical philosophical conclusion is that the universe is comprised of ‘de toutes petites vies condamnées avec sursis’ (2016: 154). Regardless of our current status on the food chain in this ontological form, the scientist reminds us that everything is devoured and recycled in the end. We are parasites surrounded by billions of other parasites that are also trying to prolong their life in their present shape for as long as possible through the act of consuming material particles. Gouesbet asserts that the common destiny that awaits us all after our demise is the subterranean ‘orgie de la dévoration’.

Not only is the inescapability of biological parasitism apparent beneath the earth’s surface, but the scientist also contends that this unending battle against the forces of death continually rages inside the human body itself. In addition to symbiotic bacteria that live inside us which aid in the digestive process, Gouesbet explains that our bodies are incessantly defending themselves against unhealthy bacteria, viruses and other pathogens. Even within the confines of our unique ontological shell of being, we find ourselves in the unenviable position of having to fend off constant attacks from other parasites. As the scientist reveals,

Pendant que l’esprit se porte sur le front … dans la production ou la consommation, l’activation ou la contemplation, qu’il bataille dans les ténèbres et les tranchées, face au monde extérieur hostile qui l’assaille, pendant ce temps donc, il se trouve exister une hydre sournoise, un ennemi de l’intérieur, caché sous le tapis, à savoir le corps lui-même … Des ennemis, petits mais nombreux-microbes, virus, virusoïdes, prions et autres agents pathogènes infectieux, toutes ces bestioles sans queues ni têtes-peuvent aussi franchir le front, pénétrer les lignes, un instant repoussés par des armes vigilantes, souvent boutés hors de l’organisme, mais parfois vainqueurs. (2016: 174)

Even on the most basic microscopic level, Gouesbet convincingly argues that there is not a peaceful spot anywhere on this earth that is immune to the nefarious effects of the ecological war that he terms biological parasitism. His concrete example of the myriad of microorganisms that devour us from the inside effectively conveys the scientist’s message that the universe is a hostile, closed system in which we are completely immersed in parasitic violence.

Gouesbet’s theories related to the constant battle for survival in an unforgiving biosphere are reminiscent of Michel Serres’s complex metaphor of a parasite that has multiple meanings depending upon the precise context in question, as noted by Ellen Welch (2012), Peter Remien (2014), Eric White (1991), Paul Kockleman (2010), Bonnie Isaac (1981), Anders Gullestad (2011) and Steve Brown (2002). Gouesbet’s reflections about this necessary ‘dévoration’ are similar to numerous passages throughout Serres’s oeuvre in which the philosopher of science outlines the ecological connotations of his notion of a parasite. In Violences de la nature, the scientist covers some familiar ground in this regard. Nevertheless, Gouesbet presents a highly original philosophical argument in his discussions about biological parasitism linking entropy to the origins of violence. The sections of the essay in which he probes the relationship between entropy and aggression could represent the scientist’s greatest contribution to the environmental humanities in this first volume.

In one of the many passages in which he exposes the naivety of any secular or religious philosophical claims concerning the ‘perfection’ of the universe, Gouesbet contends, ‘Dieu, sur ce sujet, possède-t-il davantage d’imagination? Était-il au-delà de son Pouvoir, à Lui, le Tout-Puissant, de créer un monde où l’entropie, source principale et ‘fondamentale’ de la violence n’eût pas le droit de subsister’ (2016: 152). First, the scientist asserts that standard theological and philosophical explanations that attempt to reconcile ‘le problème du mal’ with the idea of an omniscient, omnipotent and benevolent god do not hold up to empirical scrutiny at all in his estimation. Gouesbet maintains that an all-powerful deity could have easily created a universe that operated according to different and gentler ecological laws than the unavoidable ‘dévoration’. Furthermore, the scientist explores the connection between the parasitic chain that sustains all life and the scientific theory of entropy.

It is common to discuss the philosophical repercussions of the first law of thermodynamics in academic circles. In Violences de la nature, Gouesbet argues that the second law of thermodynamics is equally important. Providing a rudimentary overview of both of these scientific principles, the scientist-philosopher reveals, ‘Le premier principe énonce la conservation de l’énergie. Le second principe nous dit que l’énergie, bien que conservée, se dégrade, et introduit la notion d’entropie’ (2016: 65). Gouesbet identifies entropy as the fundamental essence of violence, because it is this gradual decline of energy that forces us to consume incessantly. In our attempts to limit this material deterioration as much as possible, Gouesbet underscores that we increase entropy for all of the other sentient and non-sentient beings with whom we share this planet. Our efforts to slow down the irreversible process of entropy have a devastating ripple effect on the rest of the biotic community of life. Additionally, when energy is lost, disorder and chaos exponentially increase as well. In other words, the biosphere is destined to become more violent and chaotic with each passing day due to this reduction in useable energy for which there is no solution. In a universe in which ‘tout ne naît que pour décliner et périr’ according to the second law of thermodynamics, the only way to preserve our fleeting existence in this ontological form is to fight this unending battle (2016: 166). Gouesbet implies that every organism is living on borrowed time because of the irremediable effects of entropy. This conviction explains the rather sombre dénouement of the essay. Offering no facile optimism that a remedy for this gradual decline of energy and the struggle for survival that it represents will ever present itself, the scientist concludes, ‘Nous ne sommes pas au bout des abominations ni des désolations’ (2016: 302). Whether or not the phenomenon of entropy will ultimately lead to a ‘big crunch’ to quote Einstein or a ‘heat death’ is a contentious subject within the scientific community. Regardless, Gouesbet persuasively contends that there is a relationship between this progressive degradation of energy and the origins of human violence that merits further investigation by the philosophical community.

In Terra Amata and in several other early works, Le Clézio discusses the same ecological ‘war’ or scientific laws to which every species is bound at great length. In fact, the ongoing and unending battle to defend oneself against the forces of death is one of the multiple meanings of the title of the author’s early experimental novel La Guerre (Moser, 2013). Likewise, Jennifer Waelti-Walters affirms that Terra Amata ‘is the book of life against death’ (1977: 75). In the chapter ‘J’ai peuplé la terre’, Chancelade suddenly realises that he is complicit in the perpetuation of a ruthless spiral of aggression that forces all living beings to inflict violence upon the earth due to his decision to have a child. Recognising that his two-year-old son will also have no choice but to prolong his existence through the act of ‘dévoration’, the narrator laments,

À vingt-quatre mois, on est déjà vieux, car on a déjà vécu deux ans. Et peut-être même la mort est déjà là, au fond du regard trouble, dans l’urine qui se répand sur le matelas, ou bien dans les rides rougeâtres des mains aux ongles striés. Mais, en attendant, il y avait cet homme miniature lancé dans la vie, abandonné, prisonnier du monde … C’était inutile de s’enfuir, ou d’oublier; parce que cette guerre-là était totale, sans merci. (1967: 145–6)

Further reiterating that there is no escape from the biological parasitism that will compel his son to devour other recycled, material particles in an effort to survive in an inhospitable, chaotic universe, Chancelade declares,

Chaque seconde, un corps nouveau naissait sur une partie de la terre, rejetant un corps ancien dans l’abîme … Ils mangeaient votre nourriture, ils respiraient votre air, ils s’en allaient même avec vos femmes. Mais ce n’était pas si injuste après tout: c’était simplement la vérité. Car vous avez volé vous aussi, comme eux, et comme eux vous aviez tué pour naître. (1967: 146)

The material realities that govern life on this biosphere outlined by the narrator in this chapter are the same universal ‘truths’ articulated by Gouesbet in Violences de la nature. Like every other sentient being that has ever existed before him, Chancelade’s son will have to kill or be killed. When his time on this earth comes to an end, he will in turn be devoured by other parasites that are engaging in the same kind of ecological warfare.

Near the end of the novel, Chancelade tries to find a way out of this perpetual cycle of violence in the chapter ‘J’ai fui’. However, the narrator soon realises that it is impossible to revolt against the hostile, indifferent cosmic forces that sustain life or to live otherwise. Moreover, Chancelade recognises that he is getting older and thus closer to becoming a victim himself of this cosmic aggression that will ensure the continued existence of another organism for a brief period of time. As the narrator confesses,

Mais, c’est que la fuite est vaine, et que chaque abîme laissé creuse davantage le vide qui va vaincre. La mort est déjà à l’intérieur de la fuite … Chancelade sait qu’il ne se sauvera pas. Il l’a toujours su. Il sait aussi que ses bourreaux portent des noms tendres et doux, des noms de fleurs, d’arbres, de gouttes d’eau … Il dit que la vie l’intéresse, il dit qu’il aime les étoiles, les insectes, ou les secrets du corps humain; mais ce n’est pas vrai. Ce qu’il aime, c’est fuir … quitter le plus vite possible le lieu de la menace indicible. (1967: 200–1)

The rending existential anguish experienced by Chancelade during these epiphanies highlights the misleading nature of the title of the novel. As Roland Racevskis underscores, ‘Terra Amata’ refers to a protagonist who is ‘amoureux’ or ‘ému’ with life itself (1999: 409). A careful reading of the text suggests that Chancelade has a love–hate relationship with life. The protagonist is often overtly euphoric about the gratuitous gift that he has been given by arbitrary ecological forces, but he also deplores the violence that existence in all of its divergent forms entails. For Chancelade, this universe is a ‘Terre parfaite, terre aimée, abhorrée’ (1967: 100). The protagonist tries to take advantage of every intoxicating moment that life has to afford, but he simultaneously decries the harsh nature of universal scientific laws. Similar to Gouesbet, Le Clézio clearly does not describe this biosphere as the best of all possible worlds. For both writers, to be alive is to be thrown into a cycle of violence for which there is no cure.

In the final pages of Terra Amata, the narrator denounces the ‘crimes’ that every organism has to commit for self-preservation. In a passage that immediately follows an advertisement for a type of poison (i.e. le gâteau ⁷ Fly Cake) that attracts and destroys flies, the narrator grumbles in disgust,

Crime! Crime partout … Les mouches mettent cinq secondes pour mourir … Partout, les couteaux sont aiguisés, les rasoirs sont prêts à trancher les gorges … La violence sordide est partout étalée … Il faut manger. Mais cette fois, cette dernière fois, horreur impuissante, c’est vous qui êtes servi. C’est vous qu’on va manger. (1967: 228–9)

It should be noted that this section of the novel is part of the chapter ‘Je suis mort’ in which Chancelade recounts the story of his death. As Gouesbet also outlines in Violences de la nature, Le Clézio reminds us in Terra Amata that it is only a matter of time until we are served as the main course at the proverbial table of another parasite. Gouesbet and Le Clézio’s reflections about biological parasitism underscore the grim reality that nothing exists outside the physical laws of the universe.

Reflecting upon the existential catalyst for the ecocidal war that humanity is waging against the remainder of the biosphere

Not only do both authors assert that the hidden roots of human violence are material or elemental, but they also propose strikingly similar theories for explaining the ecocidal war that humanity continues to wage against the remainder of the biosphere. In the face of stern warnings from the scientific community, Gouesbet and Le Clézio express their disquieting anxiety regarding our obstinate refusal to deviate from our current unsustainable path. In Violences de la nature, Gouesbet contends that our misguided attempts to possess every parcel of matter within our reach are a reflection of existential malaise. Unable to cope with the realisation that our species is a miniscule part of a larger Chain of Being, we despondently try to master everything around us in Cartesian terms. Our partial control of the universe reinforces the anthropocentric illusion that we are somehow different from the arbitrary cosmic forces that tossed us into the chaos of existence. Gouesbet posits that the more violence that we unleash upon the biosphere the easier it becomes for us to forget what and who we are from a scientific perspective. In essence, playing the role of master of the universe is an ontological remedy that momentarily dissipates the anguish induced by epiphanies that force us to confront the absurdity of our existence. Our limited ability to control various aspects of the world around us has firmly entrenched deadly, homocentric chimeras into the cultural fabric of human societies. Gouesbet argues that we are playing a potentially lethal game in the Anthropocene epoch by removing too many links upon which our existence depends inside a self-regulating entity that determines the rules that support all life. The scientist affirms that there is a heavy price to pay for comforting anthropocentric illusions that serve to conceal material realities and to quell our ontological angst.

Asserting that the crushing knowledge of our cosmic smallness and insignificance, which has become increasingly difficult to refute due to the discoveries of modern science, drives us to impose an illusory sense of human order upon the biosphere through extremely violent acts, Gouesbet declares in chapter 3, ‘L’Homme face aux choses’:

Ainsi, l’homme ne peut pas, quotidiennement, faire face à l’Univers sans en être écrasé, mais il peut faire face à certaines parties de l’Univers, à des détails où, en lieu d’une soumission sans rémission, il lui est loisible d’exercer une domination partielle ou pour le moins de croire qu’il puisse exercer une telle domination et se rendre en quelque sorte ‘maître et possesseur de la nature. (2016: 123)

Directly associating the existential suffering triggered by the awareness of the banality of the human condition in a deterministic, chaotic universe in which everything is comprised of recycled, material particles to our destructive ecological impulses, the scientist theorises, ‘C’est cette angoisse qui pousse les hommes à devenir maîtres du monde, et c’est cette angoisse qui fait d’eux, des bons à rien’ (2016: 248). Incapable of accepting our material essence and the philosophical implications of contemporary scientific erudition that debunk any unfounded notions of human ontological sovereignty, Gouesbet maintains that Western society has resorted to incessant acts of violence against the fragile entity that ensures our very survival.

Demonstrating that grandiose homocentric fantasies depicting a human-centred world are not only scientifically erroneous but also fraught with peril, the scientist explains,

Écrasés néanmoins! Écrasés toujours! Même si l’homme a atteint des échelles de destructions massives … écrasés! Et ridicules! Ridicules dans notre orgueil! Ridicules dans notre volupté de puissance! Et, contrairement au dicton rassurant qui dit que le ridicule ne tue pas, nous sommes des tueurs, Notre ridicule tue. Il tue par les violences des Hommes … Il faudra s’en désespérer et en pleurer. (2016: 300)

Given that it is impossible to live outside the scientific principles that form the basis of all life, Gouesbet asserts that indifferent ecological forces crush everything in the end. Additionally, the scientist reveals that our partial control over the universe, which has been greatly expanded by the astonishing sophistication of our technology during the past few decades, could be described as a pyrrhic victory. Gouesbet advocates in favour of a responsible parasitism or a more ecocentric way of being and living that protects the sanctity of the only host that supports human life. If we are to survive the anthropogenic crisis of our own creation, then the scientist posits that the ecological violence that Serres refers to as a ‘world war’ in La Guerre Mondiale must come to an end. Like Michel Serres and Edgar Morin, with whom he shares much in common, Gouesbet maintains that we have arrived at a crucial tipping point in which only ‘la maîtrise de la maîtrise’ will save our imperilled planet and ourselves in the process (Serres, 2004: 199). The scientist passionately affirms that it is time to find a new way of dealing with our existential suffering that is not indicative of ecocidal behaviour.

Several critics such as Denis Bachand (2009), Bronwen Martin (2004), Jennifer Waelti-Walters (1977), Thomas Trzyna (2012), Francine Dugast-Portes (1991) and Ghazi Karmaoui (2009) have noted that Le Clézio often expresses the same derision as Gouesbet for the ideal of Cartesian mastery. Furthermore, it is evident in his ecologically engaged works of fiction like Pawana, ‘Villa Aurore’ and ‘Orlamonde’ that the Nobel Laureate also articulates the same concerns about the possibility of an anthropogenic eco-apocalypse fuelled by unending human aggression against all other life forms. Ghazi Karmaoui highlights that the ‘angoissse dans la rencontre du chaos’ experienced by numerous Leclézian protagonists pushes them to engage in destructive behaviour that adversely impacts the larger biotic community of life (2009: 450). In her analysis of Terra Amata, Francine Dugast-Portes emphasises the importance of the troubling scene with the potato beetles (doryphores) from an environmental and philosophical standpoint. Assuming the role of master of the universe, Dugast-Portes explains that ‘le petit garçon Chancelade assume la fonction de Dieu par rapport aux doryphores’ (1991: 161). Dugast-Portes underscores how the senseless massacre of these insects for sadistic pleasure profoundly destabilises the reader in Terra Amata. For those who are well versed in Le Clézio’s fiction, the acts of deplorable violence perpetrated by Chancelade against these defenceless beetles are similar to scenes presented in Le Procès-verbal and Onitsha.

The paragraph that immediately precedes the uncontrollable rage that inspires Chancelade to destroy and torture the inhabitants of an entire potato beetle colony provides invaluable insights into this violent behaviour. As he is meticulously observing the movements of one particular beetle, the protagonist has an important epiphany. Chancelade realises that every species lives inside its own subjective, inner world that is connected to a larger network of life. Moreover, the protagonist also becomes cognisant that all organisms including Homo sapiens have the same intrinsic right to exist in a universe that operates according to indiscriminate ecological principles. As the narrator reveals,

On pouvait les suivre tous, chacun avec sa vie, avec ses aventures minuscules, avec son cœur, ses yeux, ses antennes, ses intestins, son sexe … Et on avait aussi sa vie à soi, bien close, bien tiède, comme s’il y avait eu quelque part quelqu’un assis sur les marches d’un escalier gigantesque, penché en train de vous regarder sans penser à rien. (2016: 21)

In this passage, it is apparent that Chancelade is now aware that the human story is intertwined with the larger cosmogonic narrative of the biosphere. Perhaps the most appropriate term for describing Chancelade’s ecocentric realisations at the beginning of Terra Amata would be the biosemiotic concept of an Umwelt. In biosemiotic circles, researchers have (re-)appropriated the word Umwelt to refer to the ‘personal semiotic space’ of a given organism (Kull, 2007: 172). Offering an operational definition of what the concept of an Umwelt encompasses for a biosemiotician, Dusan Galik explains:

Contrary to the contemporary meaning of ‘Umwelt’, which means [sic] organism’s external environment, Uexküll’s ‘Umwelt’ meant the inner world of [sic] ⁸ organism, the fact that every living organism creates its own world, its own reflection of the surrounding environment and acts in this environment according to this reflection. (2013: 860)

As Galik highlights, the biosemiotic notion of an Umwelt is heavily influenced by the groundbreaking studies of the German biologist Jakob von Uexküll. Le Clézio’s description of the hermetic, inner world of each life form in Terra Amata is similar to von Uexküll’s theory of an Umwelt. Like the German scientist, the Franco-Mauritian author claims that all species create their own mental representations of the world based on their surroundings. Recent empirical studies (e.g. Wheeler, 2015; Barbieri, 2007; Galik, 2013; Kull, 2007) which suggest that this ability is not a uniquely human trait could be the final coup de grâce that disproves any lingering notions of human exceptionalism. In Terra Amata, it is not by accident that Chancelade’s heightened state of consciousness about the coexistence of billions of different Umwelts is linked to the extermination of the potato beetles.

As Gouesbet theorises in Violences de la nature, ecocentric epiphanies that run counter to delusions of anthropocentric grandeur often provoke violent, visceral reactions against other material beings. In this sense, Chancelade’s outrage seems to be triggered by the realisation that separation from elemental matter and the physical laws of the universe is impossible. Incapable of coping with the knowledge that human beings are just like anything else that exists on this planet, which is an affront to his anthropocentric narcissism, the narrator exercises his partial control over the universe to place himself on an ontological pedestal as a member of an allegedly superior race. As the narrator indicates, ‘Quand le petit garçon comprit qu’il était le dieu des doryphores, qu’il avait sur eux pouvoir absolu de vie et de mort, il se décida à agir’ (1967: 21). In this rather early stage of his life, Chancelade is unable and unwilling to accept his cosmic smallness. The existential pain induced by the aforementioned realisations is simply too unbearable, so he lashes out in a subversive act of rebellion against the universal principles that govern all life. Even though this senseless violence does nothing to change the bittersweet conditions that undergird existence, this appalling aggression that threatens to damage the delicate web of life is replete with symbolic meaning from a philosophical angle. This destruction is an outward manifestation of the narrator’s inner existential turmoil.

Conclusion

Gouesbet’s and Le Clézio’s reworking of the origins of human violence is extremely insightful on multiple levels. In the provocative and highly original texts Violences de la nature and Terra Amata, both authors present credible philosophical arguments which posit that the roots of human aggression are cosmic, or rather cosmogonic, in nature. In a universe that was conceived in cataclysmic violence by the same tumultuous elements that constitute our very material essence, Gouesbet and Le Clézio compellingly assert that all living beings are immersed in violence that pervades us to the marrow. From birth, every species is thrown into a deterministic, chaotic universe filled with extreme acts of aggression that lurk around every corner. Gouesbet and Le Clézio’s theories about biological parasitism also underscore that the only way to sustain one’s existence for as long as possible in this ontological form is to be complicit in an incessant cycle of violence for which there is no solution. Even if it is impossible to avoid the parasitic chain of consumption altogether, the authors’ reflections about the existential angst actuated by ecocentric epiphanies do suggest a more sustainable path forward. Instead of playing the role of master of the universe and undermining the Chain of Being that renders our continued existence possible, Gouesbet and Le Clézio imply that we are in dire need of another coping mechanism for confronting the banality of the human condition. If we continue to revolt by violently imposing our illusory sense of order upon every chaotic particle around us, then we are hastening our own demise in the Anthropocene epoch. Cosmic violence eventually thrust us into being, but our heightened predilection for ecological aggression could destroy the entire biosphere if it remains unchecked. In this vein, the stakes of understanding the nature of human violence and controlling it have never been higher.