欧洲：芬兰化的幽灵
“芬兰化”这个词——意思是在与苏联保持友好关系的幌子下，一个国家的主权被削弱的过程或状态——尽管赫尔辛基的抗议进入了政治词典，赫尔辛基的西方井-许愿者、俄罗斯人和一些美国新孤立主义者。
每当地理术语获得政治意义时，就会有不公平的因素——拜占庭并非所有事物都是拜占庭式的，黎凡特并非所有事物都是黎凡特式的，并非上海的每个人都是上海人，如果巴尔干半岛被巴尔干化，那主要是外部的错权力。
无论如何，“芬兰化”将继续存在：它已成为文章、书籍甚至博士论文的主题。
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虽然这个词是最近出现的，但它的起源绝不是确定的。
据称，奥地利外交部长卡尔·格鲁伯 (Karl Gruber) 于 1953 年首次描述了这种现象，警告他的政府不要效仿芬兰的榜样。
然而，他并没有真正创造这个词。
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Richard Lowenthal 教授在 1974 年接受时代杂志采访时说，他可能是 1966 年某个时候第一个使用这个词的人，当时华约国家在布加勒斯特举行的会议上建议解散所有军事集团。
随后，皮埃尔哈斯纳、我和许多其他作家都使用了这个词。
当然，谈论芬兰化被认为是非常冒犯性的，并且有损芬兰本身的国家声望。
但外部观察人士也警告不要使用这个词。一些人认为它传达了对芬兰真实情况的错误描述。
其他人坚持认为芬兰是一个独特的案例，将这个词应用于其他国家是一种误导。
还有一些人声称，芬兰化进程不是什么值得谴责的事情，而是一种值得效仿的积极现象。
最后，一些乐观主义者表示相信，无论如何，到目前为止，西欧对芬兰化没有什么可担心的，当然比俄罗斯的东欧卫星国少。
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由于西方对芬兰本身知之甚少，因此对芬兰为其他国家提供什么样的榜样知之甚少，因此要处理芬兰化现象变得更加困难。
赫尔辛基没有系统的新闻报道，现有的除芬兰语以外的其他语言的学术文献并不广泛；
它也不完全可靠，因为芬兰内部实行的自我审查已经感染了有关该国的西方出版物。1个
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芬兰于1917年获得独立，1939年遭到苏联进攻，经顽强抵抗而战败。它不得不割让一部分领土。
为了夺回失去的东西，芬兰于 1941 年 6 月与德国一起进攻俄国；1944年与苏联单独讲和，转而反对德军。
斯大林本可以在 1944-45 年吞并芬兰，但他宁愿不这样做。这种宽宏大量可能有几个原因。
毕竟战争还没有结束，在这个时候吞并芬兰可能会引发与西方的冲突。
此外，在战略上，芬兰不如其他被俄罗斯吞并的领土重要。
然后，俄罗斯人也对芬兰人怀有健康的尊重，芬兰人长期以来为自由而顽强地斗争，而且比起拉脱维亚人和爱沙尼亚人，芬兰人更难以消化。
斯大林想让芬兰成为展示俄罗斯对世界其他地区善意意图的窗口也不是不可想象的。
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不管是什么原因，芬兰都没有成为苏维埃共和国。
但是必须付出代价，并且直到今天仍在继续付出代价。
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那个价格是多少？
首先，芬兰是一个中立国家，但与苏联不同，它对苏联负有特殊义务。
未经苏联批准，
它不得反对任何重大的苏联外交政策倡议或作出任何承诺，
并有望积极支持苏联外交政策的某些方面。
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其次，允许芬兰拥有军队，但只能在苏联规定的范围内。
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第三，只有苏联认可的政党才能参政，总统和总理更不用说了。
苏联没有审查制度，但芬兰人应该进行自我审查。
共产主义参与政府并不是绝对必要的，但芬兰政治家被非正式地要求经常发表声明，强调他们与苏联的友好互利关系。
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第四，芬兰有望与共产主义集团建立密切的商业关系，但在这方面没有硬性规定，而且压力比其他领域更为零星——也许是考虑到芬兰作为贸易伙伴的重要性有限， 經濟互助委員會COMECON 供应消费品的能力有限。
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最后，否认它的存在是整个过程的一部分。
预计芬兰人会说，只有无知或恶意的外国观察家才会发现芬兰与苏联关系中的任何不祥之处，甚至是异常之处。
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首先从中立问题开始，这也许是芬兰困境中最不重要的方面（尽管它已被无休止地讨论）。
根据 1948 年的苏芬条约和随后的协议，芬兰对苏联有某些明确的承诺。
诚然，芬兰发言人，例如马克斯·雅各布森，
曾辩称该条约并未约束芬兰在保卫本国领土之外的任何事情。
不幸的是，这种解释并没有被俄罗斯人接受。
雅各布森关于这个主题的书遭到了苏联媒体的猛烈攻击——考虑到政治和军事力量的事实，
苏联的解释才是最重要的。
（雅各布森先生几年前竞选联合国秘书长职位时，苏联否决了他的任命；他是犹太人血统可能没有帮助，但决定性的考虑无疑是人们认为他在政治上不“安全”。也就是说，他被怀疑认真对待中立。）
芬兰总统凯科宁经常声称“所有大国都明确承认芬兰的中立”是一种意图声明，而不是事实。
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比中立更重要的是自由问题，它与芬兰人民的政治、社会和文化生活有着直接的实际联系。
与俄罗斯的东欧卫星国相比，芬兰既独立又自由。
它有许多政党（十个）和许多（太多）选举。
它的机构是民主的，它的宪法得到严格遵守。
没有任意逮捕；事实上，从来没有人因政治原因被送进监狱。
芬兰人可以自由出国旅行。
芬兰经济的大部分并未国有化。
这里有生机勃勃的文化生活，苏联对它的影响当然不是压倒性的。
外国书籍和报纸随处可见。
简而言之，芬兰享有与西方国家相同的自由。
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但画面还有另一面，不太明显但始终存在，
这是凯科宁“路线”的结果，即只有保持苏联的信任才能确保芬兰的生存。
仅举几个例子：
1956年苏联入侵匈牙利后，联合国投票赞成苏联军队撤出匈牙利时，
芬兰政府没有加入多数，
而是坚持由苏联和匈牙利政府决定达成协议。
当 Kekkonen 在 1968 年苏联入侵一年后访问布拉格时，
他告诫他的东道主不要以不引发冲突的方式行事。
外交部长莱斯基宁在 1971 年的讲话中说，
华约和北约对捷克斯洛伐克危机的处理是“欧洲谅解的胜利”。等等。
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如果仅以外国政治让步为代价就能保持苏联的信心，芬兰的代价可能是可以承受的；
无论如何，考虑到芬兰的地理位置，这是可以理解的。
但根据 Kekkonen 的路线，芬兰的政治领导人、政党、媒体和公民个人都必须“负责任地”行事；
否则，他们将危及国家的生存。
“负责任”的行动意味着不做任何俄罗斯人可能不喜欢的事情，
这不仅涉及自我审查，
还需要预见到苏联的意愿，
甚至在自我审查失败时愿意接受苏联的否决权。2个
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Kekkonen 路线的支持者在事实面前公然否认苏联否决权的存在。
但事实上，在过去的二十年里，苏联否决了很多次；
如果说近年来他们的人数有所减少，那正是因为芬兰政府愿意避免可能激怒他们的行动。
苏联最明目张胆的干预发生在
1958年，当时苏联要求社会民主党的法格霍尔姆政府辞职，而在
1961年，苏联威胁要援引1948年的条约，除非凯科宁重新当选为总统。
回想起来，芬兰在 1958 年顺从苏联的意愿是完全没有必要的，
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苏联的其他干预没有这些干预那么引人注目，主要是因为这些干预有助于建立游戏规则。
因此，尽管芬兰总统或总理或内阁成员是民主选举产生的，
但也必须得到苏联驻赫尔辛基大使馆或莫斯科适当机构的“批准”。
未经批准的政党和个人可以在议会中有代表，但他们不得处于影响力或决策地位。
1958 年危机之后，芬兰社会民主党——该国最大的政党——只有在他们的老领导辞职并且年轻的领导人全心全意地拥护凯科宁路线之后，才有资格在政府任职。
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然而，尽管芬兰政治领导人和媒体进行了自我审查，但苏联对芬兰违法行为的抱怨几乎没有中断。
Kekkonen 及其支持者，例如社会民主党领袖 Kalevi Sorsa 的警告，进一步强化了这些抱怨。
但苏联的责难与赞扬交织在一起——例如，对于那些支持苏联外交政策倡议的芬兰领导人，比如呼吁中立挪威，如果成功，显然会违背芬兰的最大利益。
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典型的“建立信任”官方政策是凯科宁每隔几年以俄文和英文发表的频繁演讲和声明，
其主旨是苏芬关系非常好，而且一直在好转。
收到列宁奖后，凯科宁——他不是马克思主义者，甚至不是左翼分子——赞扬了列宁在芬兰独立方面的巨大作用。
在赫尔辛基举行的共产主义青年节上，他对芬兰国歌的演唱热情表示钦佩。
在另一个场合，他声称俄罗斯人面对西方的焦虑是真实的，
"因为我在俄罗斯的历史上读到，她在过去150年中被攻击了14次，白俄的首都明斯克在敌人手中被攻击了101次"（这完全是幻想）。
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Kekkonen 的支持者认为，不应过于认真地对待这种卑鄙的言论。
如果某些为保护芬兰的自由而做出的声明碰巧是不真实的，那么它们毕竟奏效了。
如果芬兰人因良心行事而失去自由，谁会受益？
在说服俄罗斯人相信芬兰目前的领导层是可以信任的之后，
芬兰获得了特别豁免，成为欧洲自由贸易联盟 (EFTA) 的准成员，
并与欧洲经济共同体签署了一项协议。
即使是 Kekkonen 将共产党人纳入政府的政策，他的支持者坚持认为，也没有产生致命的后果；
相反，共产党分裂了，
而更自由派则毫不含糊地谴责苏联入侵捷克斯洛伐克——这与芬兰政府本身形成鲜明对比。
当一位苏联大使过于公然支持共产党的斯大林派时，
他在芬兰向莫斯科提出交涉后被撤职。
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人们可以举出其他例子来表明芬兰人对付俄国人非常熟练。
但是，尽管取得了所有明显的成就，
凯科宁线却削弱了芬兰人抵制苏联侵犯其主权的意愿。
因为，
即使凯科宁演讲中关于苏联政治和社会制度的精彩言论只有一半是真实的，
也很难向年轻一代的芬兰人解释为什么他们仍应尽量保持距离，
不成为苏联的一部分。
苏联，那个“自由人民的伟大联邦”，就像他们的卡累利阿兄弟已经做过的那样。
芬兰西苏_（粗略翻译为胆量）经常受到外部观察者的称赞，
但不断重复一种基本上是欺诈性的官方意识形态势必会产生影响。
正如 Carl-Gustaf Lilius 所写：
“在盛行的氛围中，伪善和冷漠很容易蔓延，
假装一切都应该如此。
这种心态会导致一定程度的腐败，不利于民族自强的精神。”
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纵观历史，小国不得不让自己的政策适应更强大邻国的意愿、利益和一时兴起。
传统上，小国的态度从不去激怒附近的大国，到向大国进贡，积极百般安抚。
至于大国，他们经常干涉弱邻国的内政，挑选自己的领导人候选人，排斥那些他们不信任的人。
正如爱德华 N. 卢特维克最近在罗马帝国的大战略中所展示的那样，
东部附庸国的统治者实际上不必看到罗马军团向他们的城市进军以回应罗马的命令，
因为他们可以想象不服从命令的后果。
自我审查也不是前所未有的现象。
例如，在被拿破仑打败的国家，以及二战爆发后的瑞士和瑞典，当当局要求报纸以“负责任”的方式撰写关于纳粹德国的文章时，就必须实行这种做法。
与凯科宁总统近年来对苏联使用的相同。
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鉴于芬兰的地理位置和面积小（人口不到 500 万），
很明显，要作为一个独立的国家生存，
它必须考虑到苏联的外交政策利益，并且必须谨慎行事：
“所以离北约很远，离苏联很近，”
这是墨西哥总统的一句名言。
当其他更遥远的国家能够毫无恐惧地大声疾呼时，芬兰不得不保持沉默。
但是，考虑到所有这些情况后，将苏联干涉芬兰内政合法化仍然是一个致命的错误。
虽然保留了如此多的自由令人钦佩，但芬兰在任何公认的意义上都不是独立的。
正如苏联领导人自己长期以来所主张的那样，它是一个与众不同的国家，
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这让我们回到关于芬兰化的争论。
乔治·F·凯南 (George F. Kennan) 在他的最新著作《危险之云》(The Cloud of Danger)中,
称赞芬兰人在他看来在与苏联打交道时表现出的镇定和坚定，
并反对将“芬兰化”一词普遍使用为表示屈辱和没有骨气的东西。
沿着某种类似的思路，凯科宁总统在几年前的两次不同演讲中承认确实存在芬兰化这样的事情，但接着说这应该被视为一种积极的现象。
其他人也采取了同样的立场：
他们认为，
芬兰远非可怜的对象，而是通过两全其美的方式从“适应”中获益。
它与西方和东方都有良好的关系，包括经济联系；
由于与苏联的防御协定，它的安全得到保证；
它为缓和和加强权力集团之间的合作做出了超出其应尽的努力。
因此，芬兰化并不是什么值得遗憾的事情，而是实际上为其他必须与苏联共处的国家提供了一个模式。
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《华盛顿邮报》的一位专栏作家在 1972 年撰文称，
芬兰是“大部分欧洲国家希望成为的地方”，
这个国家不依赖外国军队的存在，
而且比一些现在害怕外国军队的国家拥有安全和更多真正的自由。
被芬兰化。
在学术层面，
David Vital 教授在《小国的生存》一书中将芬兰称为未来的典范——
解决一个孤立的小国与强大的军事强国对抗所面临的问题的解决方案。
Vital 先生，与《华盛顿邮报》形成鲜明对比专栏作家，并没有想到欧洲，而是特别是中东，他看到中东“在单一大国的优势下慢慢下降——在这种情况下是苏联”。
在这种情况下，一个小国（中东）的持续生存
将首先取决于它是否有能力“在它与它在其利益范围内的优势大国之间
保持克制和压力的平衡，
就像芬兰一样。 ”
虽然维塔尔没有具体说明他指的是哪个小国，但他指的不太可能是利比亚。
约翰·P·弗洛扬特斯 (John P. Vloyantes) 与这些观点截然相反，他是一位美国政治学家，也是一本关于苏芬关系的书的作者，丝绸手套霸权 ( Silk Glove Hegemony ) (1975)。
在他看来，说芬兰化是无稽之谈，因为芬兰的情况是独一无二的。
Vloyantes 先生写道，
认为俄罗斯的影响力有可能取代美国在欧洲的影响力是“不可思议的”，
他引用了“欧洲复兴”以及法国、意大利和英国政治和经济实力的增强作为佐证。
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欧洲强大不怕芬兰化不言而喻，但欧洲到底有多强大？
时间并没有善待弗洛扬特斯先生关于欧洲实力增强的证据。
很可能苏联不会在武力威胁下对西欧提出具体要求。
但 1958 年也没有苏联的武力威胁，当时芬兰人屈服了，尽管他们自夸无所畏惧和坚强——
谨慎地说，其他欧洲国家没有同等程度的表现。
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芬兰的情况在某些方面是独一无二的。
该国在第二次世界大战中战败；
战争结束时，它显然在苏联的势力范围内；
西方从未表示，在与东部邻国发生冲突的情况下，它能够或愿意向芬兰提供支持。
相比之下，
其他欧洲国家要么属于北约，要么与苏联没有共同边界。
（奥地利是个例外，但它处于更幸运的位置，因为苏联不是唯一的占领国——还有西方的存在。）
然而，所有这一切只意味着，芬兰的类比，就像任何类比一样，有其局限性。
但这肯定不是某些人声称的“神话”。
随时随地收听最好的播客。
因为当考虑到芬兰情况的所有独特性时，芬兰仍然是一个模范，苏联领导人也将其视为模范。如果说波兰或匈牙利是苏联与其较小邻国之间密切关系的一个例子，那么芬兰就是另一个例子。
在某些情况下，这种关系可能会传播到全球其他地区。
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这些“某些条件”在某种程度上已经在欧洲可见。
在目前的状态下，欧洲是虚弱和分裂的，对其政治决心的怀疑是合理的。
离心压力、狭隘的民族主义利益已经造成了很大的损害，这使得更紧密的一体化变得不可能，意大利和法国目前面临的国内困难可能会对欧洲其他国家产生影响。
但最重要的是，多年来一直困扰着非洲大陆的是嗜睡和忧郁症的混合体。
____________
欧洲的衰落并非不可避免或不可逆转，但目前人们仍然徒劳地寻求潮流的转变。
另一方面，一个人不每当必须面对来自外部的挑战或威胁时，都必须努力寻找妥协的迹象，缺乏勇气的迹象。
这些事件本身可能看起来微不足道——
苏联试图改变威尼斯电影节的节目；
苏联对法国防御力量的规模表示不满；
苏联施压西班牙不要加入北约；
苏联建议奥地利人不要使他们的军队现代化，并建议土耳其人不要对侵犯其领空的行为如此挑剔；
苏联向所有欧洲国家施加压力，要求它们不要向自由欧洲电台和自由电台提供设施；
苏联努力削弱西柏林的地位。
但是，如果这些和其他苏联倡议没有什么令人吃惊或新鲜的东西，那么新鲜的是西欧有影响力的圈子对它们的态度发生了微妙的变化，
欧洲对卡特总统早期的人权倡议的反应就是一个例子；
虽然这项政策过去（现在）在整个欧洲人中非常受欢迎，但一些主要报纸的反应是极度担忧或愤怒。
季斯卡尔德斯坦总统是唯一公开表示反对的人，但其他政府首脑私下里也或多或少地表达了同样的看法。
他们并不是反对人权，而是担心激怒俄国人，加剧国内问题；
更重要的是，他们似乎对在意识形态斗争中摆脱防御的想法感到害怕。
在这些圈子里，苏联接待外国共产党领导人并与外国共产党合作已被认为是合法的，但是，如果西方政治家看到苏联主要持不同政见者或表示支持他们的活动，则被认为品味低下。
同样，
苏联使用西方语言进行的广播被认为是合法的，
但对于使用苏联人民所使用的语言进行的西方广播则需要极其谨慎。
###
可以说，这种行为虽然不够勇敢，但也只能反映出欧洲在当今世界地位的下降，以及低调妥协的政策不仅对苏联，而且对所有人都适用，东方和西方，北方和南方。
讨论原则性问题时，总是会出现这样的论点，即英国（或法国）是一个经济生存依赖外贸的国家，必须让好客户满意。
依赖他人善意的国家必须相应地调整其政策。
###
每当力量平衡发生根本性变化，或预计会发生这种变化时，个人和整个社会都会进行此类调整。
纳粹德国的学生熟悉著名的Gleichschaltung1933 年的潮流，数百万德国人突然加入了希特勒的政党；
他们没有面临最后通牒，也不必担心自己的工作和职位。
他们这样做只是作为一种保险行为，就像过去几年一些意大利报纸和知识分子通过加入意大利共产党或至少不批评它来为“历史性妥协”做准备一样。
他们甚至不必像芬兰记者被总统建议那样“负责任”地行事；
他们从骨子里就觉得有必要这样做。
###
确实，目前，外国直接干涉任何欧洲国家的内政都是不能容忍的。
欧洲政党及其领导人不需要苏联批准的印章；
从这个意义上说，欧洲还没有芬兰化，甚至（意大利可能除外）自我芬兰化。
如果目前的情况成为永久性的，也许必须找到一些新的术语来定义欧洲在世界上的地位——一个低于芬兰化的词，但也低于它迄今为止享有的独立性。
但时间不会停滞不前。
如果经济危机加深，
如果民族主义和共产主义继续阻止更紧密的欧洲合作，
如果北约缩小或削弱，不再提供有效保护，
如果政治意志的麻痹不被克服，妥协似乎必然会变成绥靖政策，
1芬兰年轻作家彼得·坎科宁 (Peter Kankkonen) 最近出版的一本书Suomettuva Suomi: Raportii rappion politikasta (Finland Finlandized: A Report on the Politics of Decadence) 对芬兰的情况进行了非常坦率的分析和描述，除了 Kils Orvik 的书Sicherheit auf Finnisch（安全，芬兰风格）和 George Maule 最近的The Finnish Dilemma，伦敦，1976 年，它几乎比任何西方作品都直言不讳。
2参见 Carl-Gustaf Lijius，“芬兰的自我审查”，审查制度索引，1975 年春季。
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为什么斯宾诺莎被逐出教会
1656 年 7 月 27 日，阿姆斯特丹葡萄牙社区一名 24 岁的犹太人被判处绝罚，记录在社区记录簿中如下：
ma'amad的成员[即长老或parnasim of the council] make known to you that having long known of the evil opinions and acts of Baruch d’Espinoza, they have endeavored by various means and promises to turn him from evil ways. Not being able to find any remedy, but on the contrary receiving every day more information about the abominable heresies practiced and taught [to others] by him, and about the monstrous acts committed by him, having this from many reliable witnesses who have deposed and borne witness on all this in the presence of said Spinoza . . .; all this having been examined in the presence of the wise gentlemen [i.e., the rabbis], they have decided, with the consent of the latter, that the said Espinoza be excommunicated and banished from the people of Israel, and they accordingly excommunicate him as follows:
By the decrees of the Angels and the proclamation of the Saints, we hereby excommunicate, ban, and anathematize Baruch d’Espinoza, with the agreement of the Blessed Lord and his Holy Congregation. . . . May he be cursed in the day and cursed in the night, cursed in his lying down and cursed in his rising up. Cursed in his going forth and cursed in his coming in; and may the Lord not forgive him, and may His wrath and jealousy destroy him utterly, and may the Lord blot out his name from under the sky and separate him from all the tribes of Israel with all the curses of Heaven that are contained in this book of the Law. But you who cleave to the Lord your God are alive every one of you this day.
And we hereby warn you that none may communicate with him by word of mouth or writing, nor show him any charity whatsoever, nor stay with him under one roof, nor come into his company, nor read any composition made or written by him.
The object of this excommunication, Baruch d’Espinoza, belonged to the upper crust of the Jewish community. His father, Michael, was a highly respected merchant active in civic affairs who had served several times as a parnas (elder), an extremely powerful office in Amsterdam. The young Baruch (Bento) received a traditional Jewish education, studying Hebrew and Scripture, Talmud and Jewish philosophy, and also read independently on secular subjects (including works in Hebrew on mathematics, physics, and astronomy), preparing himself for a life in commerce. At the age of six he had lost his mother, Hana Devora, and from then on death visited the family frequently, taking his younger brother, Yitzhak, his sister, Miriam, his stepmother, Esther, and finally his father.
Spinoza was twenty-two when his father died. Together with his brother, Gabriel, he founded a commercial company, “Bento et Gabriel d’Espinoza,” for the import and export of fruit. The venture was only moderately successful, and on one occasion the brothers suffered losses due to a shipwreck. During this period, Spinoza continued to attend the Keter Torah yeshivah headed by Rabbi Shaul Levi Mortera, and apparently also kept up his connection with his former teacher, Rabbi Menasseh ben Israel, whose home was a kind of center for scholars and educated Jews passing through Amsterdam. On the surface, at least, no change was as yet perceptible in Spinoza’s relations with the Jewish community; for more than a year after his father’s death he continued to be on good terms with the synagogue authorities, was scrupulous in the payment of his dues and the honoring of his pledges, and was not involved in any open conflicts with authority.
Nevertheless, he was apparently full of doubts and heretical thoughts. He knew the Bible by heart and found many contradictions in it. The notion of miracles, for example, seemed to him to contradict both reason and the laws of nature, and in the prophets he found evidence of great imaginative power but not of ordered rational thought. The ordinances of the Torah and the halakhah seemed to him arbitrary and merely historical, having nothing to do with the laws of God: if God did indeed have laws, they could only be inherent in the universe itself in the form of the universal and immutable laws of nature. Moreover, in view of the death which awaits us all (and which Spinoza himself had already encountered from the years of his early childhood on), there was no comfort in the vain idea of a life to come. Death was the absolute end of every living creature, of both body and soul; if there was any value or purpose in life, it had to be found in this world—in a life of inquiry and understanding and in the intellectual freedom of the individual.1 Spinoza still clung to the idea of the eternal, the infinite, the perfect—in other words, the idea of God—but this deity was not in his view a unique and separate persona existing outside the world and the nature he had created. God, the object of our love, was, rather, the universe itself, insofar as it could be grasped as a single whole. Nature and God were one, and the knowledge of nature was therefore the knowledge of God.
We do not know when these ideas matured in the mind of the heterodox youth, but the process apparently began at a rather early stage. About four years after his excommunication, the first part of Spinoza’s most important work, the Ethics, containing the essence of his pantheism, already existed in manuscript form. With these ideas Spinoza excluded himself from both Judaism and Christianity, and even from the accepted philosophical tradition; he was a heretic not only from the point of view of the established religions, but also from the point of view of the free thinkers, and the several varieties of philosophic deism they were espousing at the time. Deism rejects religion in the name of an external and remote “philosophic” deity which does not intervene in the affairs of this world and does not possess the attributes of particular providence, punishment, and reward, or commandment and ritual. But the deistic heretics at least acknowledged the existence of a transcendent deity elevated above the world, whereas Spinoza dismissed this idea and identified God with the whole of the universe. In short, Spinoza proclaimed himself a heretic not only among the faithful, but also among representatives of the accepted heresy of his period, thus cutting himself loose from all the main spiritual currents of his time.
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In its mature form, Spinoza’s system is one of the most important in the history of philosophy. Although he had few actual disciples, it has simply not been possible, ever since the republication of his works, to participate in the enterprise of philosophy without taking his world view into account. In the words of Henri Bergson: “Every philosopher has two philosophies: his own and Spinoza’s.” It is no coincidence that minds as opposed as Hegel’s and Nietzsche’s, for example, both saw Spinoza as their great forerunner: his doctrine is more complex and many-faceted than it might at first appear.
But Spinoza’s ethics and metaphysics—the essence of his teaching—were not his first achievements. They were preceded by a profound critique of religion and a vigorous attack on its sacred texts—first and foremost the Bible. When he wrote this critique, the young Spinoza, who did not know Latin, had not yet read the new scientific and philosophical works which would change the face of the age. He had not come into contact with the students of Descartes and the scholars of the Royal Society of London, and was not acquainted with Hobbes, Machiavelli, or Galileo. He developed his reflections and criticisms of religion solely from within the world of contemporary Judaism—a world far more complex and various than we tend to imagine today.
The Jews of Amsterdam in Spinoza’s time have been described both in literary works and by historians (mainly those following Graetz) as a narrow-minded and fanatical lot who deliberately shut themselves off from any spark of illumination or enlightenment from the outside world. This picture is inaccurate. The truth of the matter is that the Amsterdam community was one of the most enlightened and cosmopolitan Jewish communities of the period. The people who inhabited Amsterdam’s Jewish Street—which was worlds apart from the closed ghettos of Eastern Europe—were former Marranos or sons of Marranos, most of them prosperous businessmen living in relative freedom within a tolerant state. Engaged mainly in import and export and other forms of international commerce, they were accustomed to mingling with Gentiles, and were rather openminded and receptive, having been educated in the schools of Spain and Portugal, or later on in the flourishing educational system developed by the community itself. At the same time, their experience as former Marranos was a never-ending source of perplexity and self-questioning to them, an experience which led to numerous difficulties of adjustment and deep-seated problems of identity. It is against this background of the experience of the former Marranos that we must understand both Spinoza’s heresy and the excommunication which was its result.
Some, like Richard Popkin in his study of the subject, have seen in the Marranos the “beginning of modernization in Europe.” But even without going so far, it is clear that a man who had been educated as a Christian and who then chose to return to Judaism could not belong entirely or simply to either faith. He would of necessity be faced with enormous difficulties in reintegrating himself into the community to which he indeed belonged, but whose daily life and whose deepest values and symbols were not actually part of his experience. This is not the place to discuss the variety of nuances to which the Marrano experience gave rise in those who returned to Judaism as adults (or, for that matter, among those who became Christians), though interesting research on this subject is currently under way. But it is not hard to understand how a man who is not simply either a Christian or a Jew but who is divided between the two, or who possesses memories of the one existing within the other, might be inclined to develop doubts about both, or even to question the foundations of religion altogether. As Yosef Yerushalmi has argued,2 the wonder is not that the return of the Marranos to Judaism gave rise to doubts and heresies, but rather that the majority should have succeeded as far as they did in reintegrating themselves into the framework of normative Judaism. In any case, Spinoza did not lack for predecessors in his heresy among the Marranos—this dough of the “new Jews” seems to have contained a leavening agent which gave rise to a constant intellectual ferment from within.
For rejecting the oral law and the rabbinical canons of Judaism and for denying the immortality of the soul, Uriel da Costa had twice been excommunicated. Twice he had recanted, only to commit suicide in the end, after many harassments and humiliations, by shooting himself. Indeed, Bento d’Espinoza, who was only eight years old when da Costa killed himself, may very well have been among the little boys whose persecutions da Costa complained of during his ordeal. Whether or not he was, by the time Spinoza grew up and began to think for himself, both the fate and the views of Uriel da Costa must have provided him with food for thought, just as he must certainly have been aware of the less spectacular cases of nonconformity which were then troubling the community. It is commonly claimed that Spinoza’s critique of religion was influenced above all by his reading of Jewish philosophy. But why should the boy have pored over ancient Jewish texts and extracted from them elements which might have sounded heretical out of context (although in context they were still within the framework of legitimate Judaism) unless there was some incentive for him to do so in his external environment? There is no doubt that Spinoza’s apostasy contained an element of spontaneous awakening—that spiritual breakthrough of a single genius which cannot be fully explained by a set of foregoing events. Yet this breakthrough did not occur in the void but within a specific social and cultural milieu, which must be taken into account if we are to understand the phenomenon of Spinoza at all.
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The curious fact that, until a mere six months before his excommunication, Spinoza continued to conform externally to the norms of Jewish life in his community, may be explained by his own rules of caution, which state that “we must speak to the multitude in the language it understands” and “conform to the customs of the land which are not opposed to our aims.” Although he was one of the most independent thinkers of his generation and displayed an extreme and extraordinary boldness in his intellectual attitudes, Spinoza was not interested in making a public show of his opinions or boasting of his intellectual independence. On the contrary, a combination of spiritual elitism and personal caution (both of which he inherited from Maimonides, among others) led him to speak in disguised language and to confine his activities to a small circle of trusted friends and acquaintances. (Even in his most provocative book, the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, Spinoza continued to disguise his true opinions and to speak in the “language of the multitude.”) The ring he wore on his finger—this freest and boldest spirit of his generation—was engraved with the warning “caute” (be careful), and to this combination of daring and caution Spinoza remained true all his life. How then can we account for the fact that one day in the autumn of 1655 he suddenly began making his opinions public and became so disruptive a presence in the synagogue that, after several warnings, he was finally excommunicated and anathematized?
Two conjectures are possible here, and they are mutually compatible. Spinoza’s first biographer, Jean M. Lucas, claims that the break with the Jewish community was a product of Spinoza’s own wishes; at a certain stage, according to Lucas, Spinoza discovered that his pretended conformity with the “customs of the land” was beginning to conflict with his spiritual goals, and so he discontinued it. Other sources point to the influence of Juan de Prado, an Andalusian doctor who had been active for many years in the Marrano underground in Spain. By leading an underground life, Prado had succeeded in escaping the clutches of the Inquisition, only to fall prey, in the very midst of his activities as a secret Jew, to profound theological doubts. By the time he finally escaped to Amsterdam (less than a year before Spinoza’s excommunication), these doubts had become articulate—he began to express his deistic opinions publicly, to mock the rabbis, and to transgress openly against the commandments of Judaism. Prado was an educated man who had studied science and philosophy, but he was also vain and arrogant, and could not resist the temptation to boast of his scholarship and enlightened views. He was about twelve years older than Spinoza, and it is reasonable to suppose that when he arrived in Amsterdam the young Baruch found in him a man with whom he could discuss his own doubts. Along with Prado, an even more famous heretic appeared in Amsterdam at this time—the Calvinist theologian, Isaac La Peyrère, who was one of the first Bible critics.
It is possible that meeting these two men accelerated processes in Spinoza which were already well under way. If nothing else, these meetings must have helped to put an end to Spinoza’s isolation—the isolation of a young man who had no one with whom he could share his doubts—and must have encouraged him to be more explicit both with himself and with others. More specifically, it is possible that these contacts helped Spinoza make up his mind to declare his independence and detach himself from the daily rituals of Judaism, even at the possible cost of cutting himself off from the community.
Once Spinoza had reached this decision, nothing could stop him. He ceased attending services at the synagogue, broke the commandments of the Torah, and began to reveal his doubts to those of his acquaintances he felt he could trust. He still did not perpetrate these deeds in public but he did, at least, put an end to his former pretense. The heads of the community did what they could to dissuade him, and there is even a conjecture that among the “various means and promises” they employed (as itemized in the writ of excommunication) was an attempt to bribe him to take part in synagogue services. Similar pressure was put on Prado, since the scandal involved them both, but the reactions of the two friends were very different. Prado preferred to continue the double life he had become accustomed to in the Marrano underground in Spain and fought doggedly to remain within the Jewish community. Spinoza, however, stood up openly for his ideas, composed a detailed defense of his actions which has unfortunately not survived (although the main points seem to be included in the Tracta-tus), and resigned himself to excommunication and isolation.
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Drastic though it sounds to modern ears, excommunication was a fairly common sanction in the Amsterdam Jewish community. Although only the most prominent cases have come down to us, one contemporary Canadian scholar has estimated that there were as many as two hundred cases in Amsterdam, including that of Rabbi Menasseh ben Israel himself who was excommunicated—though only for a day—for alleged implication in some affair involving taxes and the misuse of propaganda materials. Grounds for excommunication, as laid down in the community regulations, were not confined to heresy and blasphemy, but also included such seemingly minor transgressions as speaking too loudly or carrying weapons in the synagogue, disseminating libelous literature, organizing a private minyan, representing the Jewish community without the permission of the parnasim, and associating with people who had refused to pay taxes—all of which indicates that excommunication was primarily an internal sanction used by the community as a way of maintaining authority over its members.
Those empowered to pronounce the sentence of excommunication, moreover, were not the rabbis but the “civil” authorities. These were represented by the council known as the ma’amad which was made up of six parnasim or elders, and a gabbai or treasurer. The ma’amad, which enjoyed both executive and judicial powers, was accountable to no one, and was not even elected by the community, its members having been appointed by their predecessors. Among the functions of the parnasim were those usually associated with rabbis or religious officials, such as supervision over ritual slaughtering practices. But they also had authority to impose excommunication, though it was carried out in consultation with the rabbis and with their consent.
Many hypotheses have been put forward to explain Spinoza’s excommunication. One school argues that the reasons were political, and stemmed from the community’s relations with the outside world rather than its own internal needs. Those who hold this view base their case chiefly on a document known as the “Remonstrance” which regulated the legal status of the Jews in the Dutch republic. Adopted in 1619, this document states that the presence of “atheists and godless men” will not be tolerated in the Jewish population; that such individuals are to be “properly isolated from the others and punished without mercy,” and that all Jews fourteen years of age and older are required to declare to the civil authorities their belief in God, Moses, and the prophets, and in the existence of life after death. Furthermore, any person disseminating ideas contrary to these would be liable to “the death penalty, or corporal punishment, in accordance with the gravity of the crime.” While there is no reason to suppose that these harsh penalties were ever actually imposed, it is nevertheless clear—in the opinion of those who hold this view, at least—that the Amsterdam community would in the circumstances have been apprehensive about its status in the Dutch republic, and would have done anything possible to prevent manifestations of atheism among its members.
Plausible though it sounds, this hypothesis has its weaknesses. It is true that in 1619, at the time of the Remonstrance, the Jewish community was still in its infancy and fighting to secure its position in the Dutch republic. It is also true that at the time of the Remonstrance, Calvinist orthodoxy was at the height of its powers, calling for the subjection of the state to the laws of religion and persecuting its opponents within the Christian faith. But Spinoza’s excommunication took place about forty years after the Remonstrance and in completely new and different circumstances. Calvinist orthodoxy was in retreat by this time, and the Republican party, much more tolerant in its views, was in power. Indeed, no more than about six months after Spinoza’s excommunication, the Netherlands States-General approved a resolution stating that theology and philosophy were two separate subjects which were not to be confused with each other, thereby providing a basic legal safeguard for the freedom of philosophical inquiry. Moreover, Jan de Witt, the strong man of the republic (later to become Spinoza’s friend), was himself an ardent defender of the freedom of philosophical inquiry at the universities. It is thus difficult to imagine that the excommunication took place simply in the name of the ancient Remonstrance, which had never been literally enforced anyway, and had by now lost much of its force as a statement of principle as well. Indeed, there is room to suppose that Spinoza’s excommunication was if anything opposed to the official religious policy just then taking shape within the circles in power in the Netherlands. At the same time, however, it is also possible that the Jewish leadership became conscious of this political change only gradually, so the question must remain open.
This being the case, some scholars have argued that the political reason for Spinoza’s excommunication had nothing to do with the position of the Jews in Holland, but hinged rather on the possibility of their return to England.3 On the very day of the excommunication, Spinoza’s former teacher Rabbi Menasseh ben Israel was in London, where he was attempting to persuade Oliver Cromwell to allow Jews to resettle in England. Scholars have argued, accordingly, that Spinoza’s excommunication was a means of facilitating this scheme. To mollify opponents of Jewish resettlement and dispose of their fears that the Jews might bring heretical ideas and religious apostasy to Puritan England, it was necessary to nip any manifestations of apostasy in Amsterdam in the bud. This is an intriguing theory, but there is no evidence to support it. In the first place, Rabbi Menasseh was not that influential in Amsterdam; in the second place, the notion of the return of the Jews to England was probably Menasseh’s own personal (and essentially messianic) idea rather than the official policy of the Amsterdam Jewish community.
Interestingly enough, there is yet another variant of the “political” explanation of Spinoza’s excommunication and one which has a peculiarly contemporary ring. This is the argument that blame for the excommunication rests not on the Jewish community of Amsterdam, but rather on the burgomasters of the city, who had intimated to the parnasim that Spinoza should be excommunicated. This theory, however, completely distorts the contemporary significance of the excommunication and prevents us from seeing its inner justification—as well as the drama embodied in the whole affair.
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Even if the decision to excommunicate Spinoza was influenced by external political considerations, this should not blind us to the fact that the inner life of the Amsterdam community and its unique situation provide sufficient reason for the excommunication. The need to rid itself of Spinoza (as also of da Costa and Prado) stemmed primarily from the requirements of the community’s survival and the difficult task of creating a shelter for the refugees fleeing the Inquisition. The rabbis and elders of the Amsterdam community were faced with a historic responsibility: that of reintroducing the “new Jews” into the religious traditions of Judaism, and of renewing a process of historic continuity that had been cruelly disrupted. There is no need to point out that this was a far from simple task, in some respects, indeed, an impossible one: organic continuity could not simply be mandated, nor could the Christian-Marrano past of the “new Jews” be effaced and replaced by a simple, uncomplicated Jewish identity. We have already seen that Spinoza’s apostasy stemmed in part from this problem, but so did the deep inner necessity for his excommunication.
Because the Amsterdam community was engaged in a daily and hourly struggle to reintegrate the Marranos into Judaism, the issue of unity was necessarily more crucial than any other. The problem faced by the Amsterdam rabbis, and by the community’s teachers and publicists, was not only to translate Jewish culture into the idiom of the Iberian peninsula, but, even more important, to restore the daily pattern of Jewish life in accordance with the ancient customs of Israel. In the light of this necessity, acts like Spinoza’s, which challenged tradition in the name of freedom of thought and sabotaged the endeavor to repair the torn fabric of Jewish life, could not be tolerated. And in fact, the emphasis throughout the proceedings against Spinoza was more on his acts than on his opinions (so long as he kept those to himself); for the survival of Judaism—as Spinoza himself was later to maintain—had never depended on theory, but rather on a complex network of specific and particular actions.
The Amsterdam community, it must be remembered, was still living in the shadow of the Inquisition, whose persecutions continued unabated on the Iberian peninsula. Refugees from Spain and Portugal continued to arrive in Holland in a steady stream. In May 1655, fourteen months before Spinoza was excommunicated, one Avraham Nuñez Bernal, who had relatives and acquaintances in-Amsterdam, was burned at the stake in Cordova; the community was much shaken by the news. Two months before, another young martyr, Yitzhak da Alameida Bernal, was burned at the stake in Galicia, and Spinoza himself speaks in his letter of yet a third victim of the Inquisition whose fate must surely have shocked him deeply. Given these events, the Amsterdam community felt itself to be living in a state of emergency: it was fighting to crystallize its own Jewish life from within and at the same time to provide both physical security and a new social and spiritual identity to the refugees from the Inquisition. Against this background, Spinoza’s challenge could only be interpreted as profoundly dangerous to the community, and an action which had to be defended against by every possible means.
On the other hand—and there is no need to elaborate here—Spinoza’s stand was also justified. As against the weight of tradition, Spinoza demanded that the tradition itself be subjected to the test of his individual judgment and reason, and refused to accept any truth—or any practical or moral commandment—unless it was compatible with his own subjective consciousness when following the guidelines of universal reason. From the point of view of the guardians of the tradition he was questioning, this was a destructive and subversive principle; but from the point of view of his own dignity and freedom as a man, it was an act of progress and emancipation. In this sense, Spinoza’s break with both Judaism and Christianity was a harbinger of the modern era.
Spinoza’s excommunication should thus be seen as a non-tragic clash between two valid points of view. Hegel defined tragedy as the clash of justice with justice; but in Spinoza’s case the drama ended without a fall, without death or extraordinary suffering, and therefore without tragedy. Indeed, popular legend has greatly exaggerated his case. He was never impoverished, he was never the victim of persecution, and he did not live out his life as a social outcast. Although he had cut himself off from all religious affiliations, and although he was alone in the deepest sense of the word (having no true intellectual or spiritual peers even among his colleagues), Spinoza did not lead the life of an embittered or alienated man, but remained open to social relationships and acquired both friends and admirers. Nor did he lack the means of a livelihood. Though his needs were modest, he did not deny himself the small pleasures of life, and he scorned the ascetic ideal both personally and on principle.
The notion that he was obliged to grind lenses for a living is also highly exaggerated: in fact, Spinoza lived on a rather generous allowance provided by friends to enable him to pursue his studies. He ground lenses mainly in order to further his own research into optics, which was then a new and pioneering science. In one respect, though, the legend is not entirely inaccurate: it is possible that the glass dust from the lenses may have hastened the progression of the hereditary lung disease (apparently consumption) from which Spinoza suffered, a disease for which the causes were not then known, and from which Spinoza died at the age of forty-four on February 21, 1677—three hundred years ago this year.
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From time to time, petitions are made to have Spinoza’s excommunication revoked. In 1925, the late critic and historian Joseph Klausner stood on Mount Scopus and proclaimed: “Baruch Spinoza, you are our brother, you are our brother.” In the 1950’s, David Ben-Gurion conducted a campaign to have the ban lifted. And in 1953, the then Chief Rabbi of Israel, Yitzhak (Isaac) Halevi Herzog, replied to an application from the late G. Herz Shikmoni, director of the “Spinozeum” in Haifa, asking him if the excommunication was still in force from the point of view of the halakhah. The rabbi divided his response into two parts. In reply to the question of whether the excommunication was intended to apply only to Spinoza’s lifetime or also to future generations, Rabbi Herzog did not rule, leaving the matter open to further consideration. But with regard to the ban on Spinoza’s works, the rabbinical ruling was clear:
. . . I have examined the text of the proclamation [the writ of excommunication quoted at the beginning of this article] and I have found: (a) at the end in regard to his books and composition it is written only “we warn” and not “we warn to excommunicate”; (b) even if we say that we can deduce the end from the beginning, it is shown by the language of the above sentence that the intention is not specified for future generations, but only for the period of Spinoza’s lifetime. It is possible that it was thought unnecessary to prolong the period of the ban, and it is possible that due to modesty the authorities did not wish to rule for future generations. Be this as it may, it seems that the ban on the reading of Spinoza’s books and compositions no longer stands.
A legalistic quibble, in other words, enabled the Chief Rabbi to rule that there was no longer a ban on the reading of Spinoza. And one gains the impression from the beginning of the letter that Rabbi Herzog was also seeking a loophole that would have enabled him to rule that the excommunication, too, was no longer in force.
But the question remains as to whether all these attempts to have the excommunication revoked are not really beside the point. In my opinion, they are. Spinoza does not stand in need of certification by the authorities, whoever they may be, and one cannot but be struck by the astonishing discrepancy between his importance in the history of civilization and the attempts being made to gain institutional legitimization for him today. (Those who seem unaware of this discrepancy should perhaps be reminded that even according to the halakhah, “an Israelite, even when he has sinned, is nevertheless an Israelite,” and this includes those who have been excommunicated and anathematized.) Spinoza remains a Jew—heretical, sinning, or secular, as we wish; his problematic Jewishness is a fact which cannot be blotted out.
The significance of the excommunication was in isolating Spinoza from the actual Jewish community of his day, and whoever wishes to revoke it today is therefore late by three hundred years. The demand to revoke the excommunication would not sound anachronistic only if we were to see its meaning as symbolic—national, perhaps, or ideological—rather than purely religious; in such a case, however, we would be in the untenable position of both adopting the religious concept of excommunication (as implied in the demand to revoke Spinoza’s ban) and at the same time rejecting it (by changing its meaning).
Lastly, and this is perhaps the crux of the matter, who in the Jewish world today might be authorized to accept Spinoza back into the Jewish fold? The Lubavitcher Rebbe? The Prime Minister of Israel? The President of Yeshiva University? The B’nai B’rith? There is no longer a single normative Judaism today—a development of which Spinoza himself was one of the harbingers.
In abandoning the observant Judaism of his day, but refusing to convert to Christianity, Spinoza unwittingly embodied the alternatives which lay in wait for Jews of later generations. Perhaps we can see in him the first secular Jew, at a time when this category did not yet exist in any sense; with equal justice, we might regard his case as embodying the assimilationist option. In short, Spinoza prefigures a number of the problems stemming from the encounter of Judaism with the modern world. As a result of this encounter, we no longer have one norm of Jewish existence today. We have Orthodox and secular Jews, Conservative and Reform Jews, Zionist and anti-Zionist Jews, and nuances and sub-categories within all of these; in fact our Judaism today is determined by the way we live it, and not by any one compulsory model. This being the case, we no longer possess an institution or an individual empowered with the authority to include or exclude, to excommunicate or bring back to the fold (even symbolically). Since Spinoza himself foretold this development (less in his philosophy than in his biography and personal fate), he has once more become central to our thinking about Judaism and the complexities of its existence and survival.
1斯宾诺莎确实在伦理学中谈到了一种灵魂的不朽，但不是在任何个人意义上；个体消亡，留下的是一种“永恒的真理”。
2 从西班牙宫廷到意大利贫民区，1971 年。
3 JL Teicher，“斯宾诺莎为何被禁？” Menorah Journal 45 (1957)，第 41-60 页。
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