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Gabriel Marcel (1889-1973) was a French existentialist philosopher, playwright, and music critic. He studied philosophy at the Sorbonne in Paris, and then worked as a school teacher, a literary critic, and an editor at a publishing company. His philosophy books and essays deal with existentialist themes such as authenticity, freedom and meaning, as well as with the dangers of depersonalization in our mass society. He grew up as an atheist and converted to Catholicism at the age of 40, and his philosophical writings have a general spiritual orientation. They do not contain religious dogmas, but often discuss themes such as hope, faith, and the sacred.

It is impossible to summarize Marcel’s philosophical worldview in one integrated picture. His writings seem more like a concert of interrelated variations than a unified approach. Even his magnum opus, The Mystery of Being (1951), does not succeed to integrate the pieces into a coherent whole. His texts often resemble a journey through a landscape, or a piece of music that never summarizes itself. Overall, his philosophy is existentialist, although very different from the existentialism of Sartre, whom he often criticizes. Unlike Sartre’s empty and lonely world, Marcel’s world has the possibility of true togetherness (“inter-subjectivity”) and faithfulness to a light.

An important theme in Gabriel Marcel’s philosophical writings is FIDELITY (or faithfulness) – a person’s willingness and courage to follow a personal value, an inner calling, a light. This is what makes your life worth living. Merely doing whatever you want doesn’t make your life meaningful; you must also devote yourself to a meaningful goal. But fidelity must be distinguished from obedience, which means following something or somebody blindly and automatically. True fidelity is always personal, creative, and free.

The following text was adapted from Marcel’s short essay “Obedience and Fidelity,” which was written in 1942, and appeared in his book Homo Viator: Introduction to a metaphysics of hope. Here he suggests that in fidelity we are faithful to an inner call, and in this way our life is a testimony to a light that touches it.

Note Marcel’s notion of MYSTERY, which he distinguishes from a PROBLEM. A problem is an issue which can be resolved with sufficient information, skill, or sophistication. In contrast, a mystery is an aspect of life which can never be resolved. It is always part of the living person and can never be made an “object” of his investigation or analysis. The self, therefore, is an example of a mystery.

It seems to me impossible to consider the spiritual decadence which has been happening in our country for more than half a century, without noticing the growing disrespect for the value of fidelity. It is, therefore, crucial for anyone who wants to start the immense necessary work of moral reconstruction, to strive to re-establish this value where it belongs: in the center of human life, when life is no longer degraded, alienated or prostituted, but lived in the fullness of its true significance. […]

When can we say that an artist is faithful to himself? Supposing that he works to imitate himself, that he strives to reproduce what enables him to obtain the “effects” to which he owed his first success. Should we say that he is faithful to himself? Certainly not, because really, if he works to reproduce the same “effects,” he stops being himself. Instead of an artist, he becomes a manufacturer. […] Between him and his work there will always be a bond of affection and pain, but he will continue to be himself only if he breaks free from it to some extent.

From the special case of the artist, then, it appears that to be faithful to myself is to respond to a particular inner call which tells me not to be hypnotized by what I have done, but on the contrary, to get away from it, that is to say – to go on living and thus find renewal.

[…] The question is not very different for a person in general. If I say unthinkingly that to be faithful to myself means to be faithful to certain principles which I have adopted once and for all, then I am in danger of introducing into my life a foreign – and even destructive – element just like the artist who copies himself. […] In this way, I spare myself the trouble of revising my opinions. It may happen that these principles or opinions end up hiding and oppressing my special reality – in that case, how am I faithful to myself? I am no longer there, I do not exist anymore. I have been replaced by a machine.

[…] So, I have to recognize that fidelity to myself is difficult both to achieve and to identify. In order to be faithful to myself, it is first of all necessary to remain alive, and that is precisely what it is not so easy to do. There are many causes, within me and outside me, which push for sclerosis and de-vitalization. But these words are not perfectly adequate. It would be better to say that I tend to become more profane in my relation to a certain mystery of my self, and my access to it is more and more forbidden to me.

[…] Contrary to what we might expect, my presence of myself to myself is not a fact which I can take for granted. The truth is, rather, that this presence tends to be eclipsed and must constantly be re-conquered. You may ask what this presence is, and what is the self to which it is so difficult to remain faithful. One might reply that it is the particle of creation which is in me, the gift which has been given to me of participating in the universal drama, for instance of working to humanize the earth; or on the contrary, to make the earth less livable. But eventually, such definitions must be wrong. Whoever has loved, knows well that what he loved in the other person cannot be reduced to describable qualities – and in exactly the same way, the mystery of what I am in myself is the thing about me which is only revealed to love.

[…]

Fidelity cannot be separated from the idea of an oath. Therefore, it implies the consciousness of something sacred. I give you an oath not to abandon you, and I regard this oath as more sacred the more freely I give it. […] Although this oath is my act – or, to go deeper, BECAUSE it is my act – it is the greatest possible obstacle against anything in me which tends to become weak. […] Fidelity then, and the oath which expresses it, cannot be vulgarized.

[…]

It is generally true that the quality of a person can be recognized and proved by the fidelity of which he is capable. Yet, we might add that there are probably unnoticeable fidelities, and that nobody is authorized to claim that another person is entirely unfaithful. Moreover, you cannot demand fidelity any more than you can demand love or life. […] It is because fidelity is creative that, like freedom, it infinitely transcends the limits of what can be prescribed. Fidelity is creative when it is authentic, and fundamentally so, because it has the mysterious power to renew not only the person who practices it, but also the receiver – however unworthy he may be of that fidelity. It is as if fidelity had a chance (there is certainly nothing final here) of making you open to the spirit which animates you when you devote yourself inwardly. In this way fidelity reveals its true nature, which means that you are an evidence, a testimony.

The following text is taken from the chapter “Freedom and Grace” of Marcel’s major book Mystery of Being (1951). Here Marcel argues that the category of “light,” which is based on the metaphor of physical light, helps us to understand the nature of generosity, and more generally the metaphysics of values: truth, freedom, generosity, etc. This is because light, unlike a physical object, never stays inside itself; it always radiates out, and it is therefore a metaphor for a reality that goes beyond itself. Thus, in this text Marcel moves between three levels: light as a physical phenomenon, generosity as light, and the light of everything that is valuable in life.

To give is to expand, to expand oneself. But we must be careful not to interpret this phrase in a semi-material way, as if something that is too full flows out. The soul of the gift is its generosity, and obviously generosity is a virtue, which must be carefully distinguished from excess. Wouldn’t an accurate definition of generosity be: A LIGHT WHOSE JOY IS TO GIVE LIGHT, TO BE LIGHT? We cannot use instead the term conscience, for example. The special property of light is that it illuminates, it illuminates for others. This goes beyond the distinction which contemporary philosophy tries to make between being for oneself and being for the other. We might even say that this distinction does not exist for the light. If the joy of light is to be light, then it can only wish to be always more so. Light knows itself, then, as illuminating; and this knowledge is not like a sense of weakening and wasting itself, but on the contrary – it helps to increase its power. Like fire, generosity nurtures itself.

A certain distortion is possible here, however, and we must be careful of it. Once generosity starts enjoying itself, it disintegrates into self-satisfaction that is pleased with itself. This enjoyment of itself is not joy, because joy is not a satisfaction but an exaltation. Once joy is turns inwards, it becomes enjoyment.

At first, this distinction may seem too subtle. The best way to fully understand it is to think about participating in an orchestra, or in a choir. Here, we will no doubt find that joy is fundamentally connected with the awareness of being together with everybody. […] Enjoyment, on the contrary, always involves retiring into oneself. It would not be an exaggeration to say that, at least to some degree, there is something of masturbation in it.

The term “light” has the important advantage that it allows us to interpret experiences which are very different from each other – like those of the artist, the hero, or the saint. “Radiance” is the only word that can express these experiences, and this radiance must emanate from the person’s being, through its actions, the example it gives, or its work. If we define a human being in a way which excludes the possibility of this light or this radiance, then we can be sure that our definition is false. The definition will have to be corrected in order to agree with the fundamental data.

Let us try to take further both of these analyses at the same time: that of generosity and that of the comparison between generosity and light. And let us try to see how this double analysis might lead us to a metaphysics of light. There is a double relation between generosity and a gift. On the one hand, generosity makes the gift possible, although it is not the CAUSE of the gift – or, to be exact, saying this has no precise or significant meaning. More precisely, generosity is the soul of the gift. On the other hand, having generosity is itself having a gift. This means that generosity is not something which you can get from yourself or from another person. You can get a thing only by being insistent and stubborn, and what you acquire is always the result of an effort. A gift, in contrast, is not a result – it arises spontaneously.

We may therefore understand why generosity tends to arouse in other people resentment as well as admiration. Somebody who reacts with resentment compares the generous person to himself: “Why has he treated me in this way? Why this difference between us? It seems that he tried to put me down by forcing me to make this comparison between us. Besides, his behavior is not admirable […] It is only through luck that he has a richer potential than mine, and there is nothing admirable in luck.” Just as light can be recognized only through the thing which it illuminates – in itself light is blinding and I cannot look straight at it – so generosity can be noticed only through the gifts which it pours out.

It seems to me important that our reflection on generosity puts us in a better position to understand the nature of light; and I am no longer speaking of physical light. We may schematically describe our reflection as made of three stages: light as a physical phenomenon helped us to think about generosity; and generosity showed us the road to understanding the metaphysical light […] Our argument leads us, then, to what seems to me an absolutely essential idea: that you cannot separate different values from each other – freedom and truth, for example – without losing their character [as light]. And I may add that they can be regarded as values only by somebody who has placed himself (so to speak) at the center of intelligible light. By this I do not mean a light that can be understood – this is a meaningless phrase – but a light which is at the root of every understanding.

The following text is adapted from Marcel’s essay “What can be expected of philosophy?” which appeared in his book Tragic Wisdom and Beyond (1968). The essay begins with a general discussion of the nature of philosophy (presented here), and then continues to discuss the task of philosophy today.

In this first part of the text Marcel explains that philosophy is based on a “philosophical experience,” which requires having a special sensitivity which he calls a “philosophical ear,” analogous to a “musical ear.” (Remember that Marcel was a professional pianist!) Not everybody has this sensitivity, although almost everyone has a philosophical experience at least sometimes. This is the experience of wonder at the foundation of existence, or what Marcel calls “being.” It appears when we encounter the great mysteries of life such as death, love, or birth, and it is motivated by the human yearning (“inner demand”) for understanding and enlightenment. Yet, philosophy is not enclosed in a private experience, but is essentially inter-subjective; it is a “symphony” and not a “solo.”

Philosophy, like art or poetry, rests on a foundation of personal involvement, or to use a more profoundly meaningful expression – it originates in a vocation, in the full sense of the word “vocation.” I think that philosophy, in its essential meaning, must be considered a personal response to a call. Of course, like all other human activities, philosophy can be degraded. It can degenerate, to a larger or lesser degree, into a caricature of itself.

[…] Surely there is not, and there cannot be, any philosophy worthy of the name without a special kind of experience, which I will try to describe by comparing it with the world of music. There can be no authentic music where there is no EAR for hearing […] – a certain ability to appreciate musical relationships, or perhaps a certain attitude of consciousness towards what is presented to hearing. For a person who lacks an ear in this sense, there is no difference between a noise and a sound, and what we call a melody may seem to him just a sequence of noises.

The philosophical attitude is perhaps not very different from this “musical ear.” Notice that I am using the word “attitude” now, whereas before I spoke about “experience.” But there is really no contradiction here, because the philosophical attitude can reveal itself only through its experiential reaction to the fundamental human situation.

Let us now try to specify more precisely the nature of this reaction. It should be defined, it seems to me, as a wonder which tends to become uneasiness. Negatively speaking, it consists above all in not taking reality for granted. […] What I mean here is reality as a whole, and it is this ensemble, or this totality which is put in question in the philosophical attitude.

[…] Now, there is something quite remarkable to notice here, and this is that different philosophical (or artistic) experiences can enter into communication with each other. I would even say that a philosophical experience that cannot welcome another experience in order to understand it, or if necessary go beyond it, should to be regarded as insignificant. It is essential that a philosophical experience, once it is explicitly formulated, should confront other experiences which are themselves fully formulated in systems. We could go further and say that this confrontation itself is part of the philosophical experience, as it becomes clarified and crystalized in concepts.

[…] In any case, it seems that philosophical experience, even if it necessarily begins as a musical solo, needs to become part of a whole symphony. This is true even where such an experience opposes the views of other philosophers, because opposition is a form of dependence. This, for example, was the relationship between Kant and David Hume.

[…] Every thinking person, especially in our time, has at least moments when he experiences a philosophical experience. This experience appears as a kind of vibration in the presence of those great and mysterious realities which give all human life its concrete structure: love, death, the birth of an infant, and the like. There is no doubt in my mind that every emotion that one feels as a result of contact with such realities is like the embryo of a philosophical experience. In the great majority of cases, of course, this embryo not only fails to develop into an articulated experience, but even seems to require no such development. Yet, it is also true that almost every human being, in certain special moments, has experienced this need to be enlightened, to receive an answer to his own questioning.

[…] A philosophy is a kind of experience. It is an adventure that takes place within the greater adventure of human thought itself. Or, if philosophy is a manifestation of the Spirit and the Word – if it is a theophany – then it is an adventure taking place at the heart of something that transcends human thought.

But from another point of view, what I said earlier implies that a philosophy depends on a certain inner demand. The history of philosophical doctrines is mostly the history – not yet fully revealed – of the inner demands of the human spirit.