はじめによんでください
文化システムとしての アート：03/03
Art as a Cultural System

Clifford Geertz
（講釈：池田光穂）

There is hardly a better example of the fact that an artist works with signs that have a place in semiotic systems extending far beyond the craft he practices than the poet in Islam. A Muslim making verses faces a set of cultural realities as objective to his intentions as rocks or rainfall, no less substantial for being nonmaterial, and no less stubborn for being man-made. He operates, and alway has operated, in a context where the instrument of his art, language, has a peculiar, heightened kind of status, as distinctive a significance, and as mysterious, as Abelam paint. Everything from metaphysics to morphology, scripture to calligraphy, the patterns of public recitation to the style of informal conversation conspires to make of speech and speaking a matter charged with an import if not unique in human history, certainly extraordinary. The man who takes up the poet's role in Islam traffics, and not wholly legitimately, in the moral substance of his culture.
In order even to begin to demonstrate this it is of course necessary first to cut the subject down to size. It is not my intention to survey the whole course of poetic development from the Prophecy forward, but just to make a few general, and rather unsystematic, remarks about the place of poetry in traditional Islamic society--most particularly Arabic poetry, most particularly in Morocco, most particularly on the popular, oral verse level. The relationship between poetry and the central impulses of Muslim culture is, I think, rather similar more or less everywhere, and more or less since the beginning. But rather than trying to establish that, I shall merely assume it and proceed, on the basis of somewhat special material, to suggest what the terms of that relationship--an uncertain and difficult one--seem to be.
There are, from this perspective, three dimensions of the problem to review and interrelate. The first, as always in matters Islamic, is the peculiar nature and status of the Quran, "the only miracle in Islam." The second is the performance context of the poetry, which, as a living thing, is as much a musical and dramatic art as it is a literary one. And the third, and most difficult to delineate in a short space, is the general nature--agonistic, as I will call it--of interpersonal communication in Moroccan society. Together they make of poetry a kind of paradigmatic speech act, an archetype of talk, which it would take, were such a thing conceivable, a full analysis of Muslim culture to unpack.
But as I say, wherever the matter ends it starts with the Quran. The Quran (which means neither "testament" nor "teaching" nor "book," but "recitation") differs from the other major scriptures of the world in that it contains not reports about God by a prophet or his disciples, but His direct speech, the syllables, words, and sentences of Allah. Like Allah, it is eternal and uncreated, one of His attributes, like Mercy or Omnipotence, not one of his creatures, like man or the earth. The metaphysics are abstruse and not very consistently worked out, having to do with Allah's translation into Arabic rhymed prose of excerpts from an eternal text, the Well-Guarded Tablet, and the dictation of these, one by one and in no particular order over a period of years, by Gabriel to Muhammad, Muhammad in turn dictating them to followers, the so-called Quran-reciters, who memorized them and transmitted them to the community at large, which, rehearsing them daily, has continued them since. But the point is that he who chants Quranic verses--Gabriel, Muhammad, the Quran-reciters, or the ordinary Muslim, thirteen centuries further along the chain--chants not words about God, but of Him, and indeed, as those words are His essence, chants God himself. The Quran, as Marshall Hodgson has said, is not a treatise, a statement of facts and norms, it is an event, an act:

It was never designed to be read for information or even for inspiration, but to be recited as an act of commitment in worship. . . . What one did with the Qur'’n was not to peruse it but to worship by means of it; not to passively receive it but, in reciting it, to reaffirm it for oneself: the event of revelation was renewed every time one of the faithful, in the act of worship, relived [that is, respoke] the Qur'’nic affirmation. 26
Now, there are a number of implications of this view of the Quran--among them that its nearest equivalent in Christianity is not the Bible but Christ--but for our purposes the critical one is that its language, seventh-century Meccan Arabic, is set apart as not just the vehicle of a divine message, like Greek, Pali, Aramaic, or Sanskrit, but as itself a holy object. Even an individual recitation of the Quran, or portions of it, is considered an uncreated entity, something that puzzles a faith centered on divine persons, but to an Islamic one, centered on divine rhetoric, signifies that speech is sacred to the degree that it resembles that of God. One result of this is the famous linguistic schizophrenia of Arabic-speaking peoples: the persistence of "classical" (muḍāri) or "pure (fuṣḥā) written Arabic, contrived to look as Quranic as possible and rarely spoken outside of ritual contexts, alongside one or another unwritten vernacular, called "vulgar" (cāmmīya) or "common" (dārija), and considered incapable of conveying serious truths. Another is that the status of those who seek to create in words, and especially for secular purposes, is highly ambiguous. They turn the tongue of God to ends of their own, which if it not quite sacrilege, borders on it; but at the same time they display its incomparable power, which if not quite worship, approaches it. Poetry, rivaled only by architecture, became the cardinal fine art in Islamic civilization, and especially the Arabic-speaking part of it, while treading the edge of the gravest form of blasphemy.
This sense for Quranic Arabic as the model of what speech should be, and a constant reproof to the way people actually talk, is reinforced by the whole pattern of traditional Muslim life. Almost every boy (and more recently, many girls as well) goes to a drill-school where he learns to recite and memorize verses from the Quran. If he is adept and diligent he may get the whole 6200 or so by heart and become a ḥafīẓ a "memorizer," and bring a certain celebrity to his parents; if, as is more likely, he is not, he will at least learn enough to conduct his prayers, butcher chickens, and follow sermons. If he is especially pious, he may even go to a higher school in some urban center like Fez or Marrakech and obtain a more exact sense of the meaning of what he has memorized. But whether a man comes away with a handful of half-understood verses or the entire collection reasonably comprehended, the main stress is always on recitation and on the rote learning necessary to it. What Hodgson has said of medieval Islam--that all statements were seen as either true or false; that the sum of all true statements, a fixed corpus radiating from the Quran, which at least implicitly contained them all, was knowledge; and that the way to obtain knowledge was to commit to memory the phrases it was stated in--could be said today for the greater part of Morocco, where whatever weakening faith has experienced it has yet to relax its passion for recitable truth. 27
Such attitudes and such training lead to everyday life being punctuated by lines from the Quran and other classical tags. Aside from the specifically religious contexts--the daily prayers, the Friday worship, the mosque sermons, the bead-telling cantations in the mystical brotherhoods, the recital of the whole book on special occasions such as the Fast month, the offering of verses at funerals, weddings, and circumcisions--ordinary conversation is laced with Quranic formulae to the point where even the most mundane subjects seem set in a sacred frame. The most important public speeches--those from the throne, for example--are cast in an Arabic so classicized that most who hear them but vaguely understand them. Arabic newspapers, magazines, and books are written in a similar manner, with the result that the number of people who can read them is small. The cry of Arabization--the popular demand, swept forward by religious passions, for conducting education in classical Arabic and using it in government and administration--is a potent ideological force, leading to a great deal of linguistic hypocrisy on the part of the political elite and to a certain amount of public disturbance when the hypocrisy grows too apparent. It is this sort of world, one in which language is as much symbol as medium, verbal style is a moral matter, and the experience of God's eloquence wars with the need to communicate, that the oral poet exists, and whose feeling for chants and formulas he exploits as Piero exploited Italy's for sacks and barrels. "I memorized the Quran," one such poet said, trying hard, to explain his art. "Then I forgot the verses and remembered the words."
He forgot the verses during a three-day meditation at the tomb of a saint renowned for inspiring poets, but he remembers the words in the context of performance. Poetry here is not first composed and then recited; it is composed in the recitation, put together in the act of singing it in a public place.
Usually this is a lamp-lit space before the house of some wedding giver or circumcision celebrant. The poet stands, erect as a tree, in the center of the space, assistants slapping tambourines to either side of him. The male part of the audience squats directly in front of him, individual men rising from time to time to stuff currency into his turban, while the female part either peeks discreetly out from the houses around or looks down in the darkness from their roofs. Behind him are two lines of sidewise dancing men, their hands on one another's shoulders and their heads swiveling as they shuffle a couple half-steps right, a couple left. He sings his poem, verse by verse, paced by the tambourines, in a wailed, metallic falsetto, the assistants joining him for the refrain, which tends to be fixed and only generally related to the text, while the dancing men ornament matters with sudden strange rhythmic howls.
Of course, like Albert Lord's famous Jugoslavs, he does not create his text out of sheer fancy, but builds it up, molecularly, a piece at a time, like some artistic Markov process, out of a limited number of established formulae. Some are thematic: the inevitability of death ("even if you live on a prayer rug"); the unreliability of women ("God help you, O lover, who is carried away by the eyes"); the hopelessness of passion ("so many people gone to the grave because of the burning"); the vanity of religious learning ("where is the schoolman who can whitewash the air?"). Some are figurative: girls as gardens, wealth as cloth, worldliness as markets, wisdom as travel, love as jewelry, poets as horses. And some are formal--strict, mechanical schemes of rhyme, meter, line, and stanza. The singing, the tambourines, the dancing men, the genre demands, and the audience sending up you-yous of approval or whistles of censure, as these things either come effectively together or do not, make up an integral whole from which the poem can no more be abstracted than can the Quran from the reciting of it. It, too, is an event, an act; constantly new, constantly renewable.
And, as with the Quran, individuals, or at least many of them, punctuate their ordinary speech with lines, verses, tropes, allusions taken from oral poetry, sometimes from a particular poem, sometimes one associated with a particular poet whose work they know, sometimes from the general corpus, which though large, is, as I say, contained within quite definite formulaic limits. In that sense, taken as a whole, poetry, the performance of which is widespread and regular, most especially in the countryside and among the common classes in the towns, forms a kind of "recitation" of its own, another collection, less exalted but not necessarily less valuable, of memorizable truths: lust is an incurable disease, women an illusory cure; contention is the foundation of society, assertiveness the master virtue; pride is the spring of action, unworldliness moral hypocrisy; pleasure is the flower of life, death the end of pleasure. Indeed, the word for poetry, öcir, means "knowledge," and though no Muslim would explicitly put it that way, it stands as a kind of secular counterpoise, a worldly footnote, to the Revelation itself. What man hears about God and the duties owed Him in the Quran, fix-worded facts, he hears about human beings and the consequences of being one in poetry.
The performance frame of poetry, its character as a collective speech act, only reinforces this betwixt and between quality of it--half ritual song, half plain talk--because if its formal, quasi-liturgical dimensions cause it to resemble Quranic chanting, its rhetorical, quasi-social ones cause it to resemble everyday speech. As I have said, it is not possible to describe here the general tone of interpersonal relations in Morocco with any concreteness; one can only claim, and hope to be believed, that it is before anything else combative, a constant testing of wills as individuals struggle to seize what they covet, defend what they have, and recover what they have lost. So far as speech is concerned, this gives to all but the most idle conversation the quality of a catch-as-catch-can in words, a head-on collision of curses, promises, lies, excuses, pleading, commands, proverbs, arguments, analogies, quotations, threats, evasion, flatteries, which not only puts an enormous premium on verbal fluency but gives to rhetoric a directly coercive force; candu klām, "he has words, speech, maxims, eloquence," means also, and not just metaphorically, "he has power, influence, weight, authority."
In the poetic context this agonistic spirit appears throughout. Not only is the content of what the poet says argumentational in this way--attacking the shallowness of townsmen, the knavery of merchants, the perfidy of women, the miserliness of the rich, the treachery of politicians, and the hypocrisy of moralists--but it is directed at particular targets, usually ones present and listening. A local Quran teacher, who has criticized wedding feasts (and the poetry sung at them) as sinful, is excorciated to his face and forced from the village: 28
See how many shameful things the teacher did; He only worked to fill his pockets. He is greedy, venal. By God, with all this confusion. Just give him his money and tell him "go away"; "Go eat cat meat and follow it with dog meat."


They found out that the teacher had memorized only four Quran chapters [this a reference to his claim to have memorized the whole]. If he knew the Quran by heart and could call himself a scholar, He wouldn't hurry through the prayers so fast. He has evil thoughts in his heart. Why, even in the midst of prayer, his mind is on girls; he would chase one if he could find any.

A stingy host fares no better:
As for him who is stingy and weak, he just sits there and doesn't dare say anything.
. . .
They who came for dinner were as in a prison [the food was so bad], The people were hungry all night and never satisfied.
. . .
The host's wife spent the evening doing as she pleased, By God, she didn't even want to get up and get the coffee ready.

And a curer, a former friend, with whom the poet has fallen out, gets thirty lines of the following sort of thing:
Oh, the curer is no longer a reasonable man. He followed the road to become powerful, And changed into a mad betrayer. He followed a trade of the devil; he said he was successful, but I don't believe it.
And so on. Nor is it merely individuals the poet criticizes (or can be paid to criticize; for most of these verbal assassinations are contract jobs): the inhabitants of a rival village, or faction, or family; a political party (poetic confrontation between members of such parties, each led by their own poet, have had to be broken up by the police when words began to lead to blows); even whole classes of people, bakers or civil servants, may be targets. And he can shift his immediate audience in the very midst of performance. When he laments the inconstancy of women, he speaks up into the shadows of the roofs; when he attacks the lechery of men, his gaze drops to the crowd at his feet. Indeed, the whole poetic performance has an agonistic tone as the audience cries out in approval (and presses money on the poet) or whistles and hoots in disapproval, sometimes to the point of causing his retirement from the scene.
But perhaps the purest expressions of this tone are the direct combats between poets trying to outdo each other with their verses. Some subject--it may be just an object like a glass or a tree--is chosen to get things going, and then the poets sing alternately, sometimes the whole night long, as the crowd shouts its judgment, until one retires, bested by the other. From a three-hour struggle I give some brief excerpts, in which just about everything is lost in translation except the spirit of the thing:

Well into the middle of the battle, Poet A, challenging, "stands up and says:"

That which God bestowed on him [the rival poet] he wasted to buy nylon clothes for a girl; he will find what he is looking for, And he will buy what he wants [that is, sex] and go visiting around all sorts of [bad] places.

Poet B, responding:

That which God bestowed on him [that is, himself, Poet B] he used for prayer, tithe, and charity, And he didn't follow evil temptations, nor stylish girls, nor tatooed girls; he remembers to run away from Hell-fire.

Then, an hour or so later on, Poet A, still challenging, and still being effectively responded to, shifts to metaphysical riddling:

From one sky to the other sky it would take 500,000 years, And after that, what was going to happen?

Poet B, taken off guard, does not respond directly, but, sparring for time, erupts in threats:

Take him [Poet A] away from me, Or I'll call for bombs, I'll call for airplanes, And soldiers of fearful appearance.
. . .
I will make, oh gentlemen, war now, Even if it is just a little one. See, I have the greater power.

Still later, the aroused Poet B recovers and replies to the riddle about the skies, not by answering it but by satirizing it with a string of unanswerable counterriddles, designed to expose its angels-on-the-head-of-a-pin sort of foolishness:

I was going to respond to that one who said, "Climb up to the sky and see how far it is from sky to sky, by the road."
I was going to tell him, "Count for me all the things that are in the earth."
I will answer the poet, though he is crazy.
Tell me, how much oppression have we had, which will be punished in the hereafter?
Tell me how much grain is there in the world, that we can feast ourselves on?
Tell me, how much wood is there in the forest, that you can burn up?
Tell me, how many electricity bulbs are there, from west to cast? Tell me, how many teapots are filled with tea?

At which point, Poet A, insulted, hooted, angry, and defeated, says,

Give me the teapot. I am going to bathe for prayer. I have had enough of this party.

and retires.
In short, in speech terms, or more exactly speech-act terms, poetry lies in between the divine imperatives of the Quran and the rhetorical thrust and counterthrust of everyday life, and it is that which gives it its uncertain status and strange force. On the one hand, it forms a kind of para-Quran, sung truths more than transitory and less than eternal in a language style more studied than the colloquial and less arcane than the classical. On the other, it projects the spirit of everyday life into the realm of, if not the holy, at least the inspired. Poetry is morally ambiguous because it is not sacred enough to justify the power it actually has and not secular enough for that power to be equated to ordinary eloquence. The Moroccan oral poet inhabits a region between speech types which is at the same time a region between worlds, between the discourse of God and the wrangle of men. And unless that is understood neither he nor his poetry can be understood, no matter how much ferreting out of latent structures or parsing of verse forms one engages in. Poetry, or anyway this poetry, constructs a voice out of the voices that surround it. If it can be said to have a "function," that is it.
"Art," says my dictionary, a usefully mediocre one, is "the conscious production or arrangement of colors, forms, movements, sounds or other elements in a manner that affects the sense of beauty," a way of putting the matter which seems to suggest that men are born with the power to appreciate, as they are born with the power to see jokes, and have only to be provided with the occasions to exercise it. As what I have said here ought to indicate, I do not think that this is true (I do not think that it is true for humor either); but, rather, that "the sense of beauty," or whatever the ability to respond intelligently to face scars, painted ovals, domed pavillions, or rhymed insults should be called, is no less a cultural artifact than the objects and devices concocted to "affect" it. The artist works with his audience's capacities--capacities to see, or hear, or touch, sometimes even to taste and smell, with understanding. And though elements of these capacities are indeed innate--it usually helps not to be color-blind--they are brought into actual existence by the experience of living in the midst of certain sorts of things to look at, listen to, handle, think about, cope with, and react to; particular varieties of cabbages, particular sorts of kings. Art and the equipment to grasp it are made in the same shop. "Art is the conscious production or arrangement of colors, forms, movements, sounds or other elements in a manner that affects the sense of beauty," a way of putting the matter which seems to suggest that men are born with the power to appreciate, as they are born with the power to see jokes, and have only to be provided with the occasions to exercise it.

「芸術とは、美の感覚に影響を与える方法で、色、形、動き、音、その他の要素を意識的に作り出したり、配置したりすることであ る」つまり言いかえると、人はジョークを見る力を生まれながらにして持っているように、鑑賞する力も生まれながらにして持っており、その力を発揮する機会 を与えられる、のだということになる。

（が、それを否定して）「「美の感覚」、つまり顔の傷、描かれた楕円、ドーム型のパビリオン、あるいは韻を踏んだ侮辱に知的に反応する能力は、それに「影響を与える」ために作られた物や装置に劣らず、文化的な産物である。」
For an approach to aesthetics which can be called semiotic--that is, one concerned with how signs signify--what this means is that it cannot be a formal science like logic or mathematics but must be a social one like history or anthropology. Harmony and prosody are hardly to be dispensed with, any more than composition and syntax; but exposing the structure of a work of art and accounting for its impact are not the same thing. What Nelson Goodman has called "the absurd and awkward myth of the insularity of aesthetic experience," the notion that the mechanics of art generate its meaning, cannot produce a science of signs or of anything else; only an empty virtuosity of verbal analysis. 29
          		美 学へのアプローチが記号論的と呼ばれるもの、つまり記号がどのように意味を持つかに関心を持つものであるならば、それは論理学や数学のような形式的な科学 ではなく、歴史学や人類学のような社会的なものでなければならないことを意味している。ハーモニーや韻律は、作曲や統語法と同様に放棄すべきものではない が、芸術作品の構造を明らかにすることと、その影響を説明することは同じではない。ネルソン・グッドマンが「美的経験の偏狭性という不条理で厄介な神話」 と呼んだように、芸術の仕組みが、その意味を生み出すという考え方は、記号や他の何かについての科学＝学問を生み出すことはできない。

If we are to have a semiotics of art (or for that matter, of any sign system not axiomatically self-contained), we are going to have to engage in a kind of natural history of signs and symbols, an ethnography of the vehicles of meaning. Such signs and symbols, such vehicles of meaning, play a role in the life of a society, or some part of a society, and it is that which in fact gives them their life. Here, too, meaning is use, or more carefully, arises from use, and it is by tracing out such uses as exhaustively as we are accustomed to for irrigation techniques or marriage customs that we are going to be able to find out anything general about them. This is not a plea for inductivism--we certainly have no need for a catalogue of instances--but for turning the analytic powers of semiotic theory, whether Peirce's, Saussure's, Levi-Strauss's, or Goodman's, away from an investigation of signs in abstraction toward an investigation of them in their natural habitat--the common world in which men look, name, listen, and make.
It is not a plea, either, for the neglect of form, but for seeking the roots of form not in some updated version of faculty psychology but in what I have called in chapter 2 "the social history of the imagination"--that is, in the construction and deconstruction of symbolic systems as individuals and groups of individuals try to make some sense of the profusion of things that happen to them. When a Bamileke chief took office, Jacques Maquet informs us, he had his statue carved; "after his death, the statue was respected, but it was slowly eroded by the weather as his memory was eroded in the minds of the people." 30 Where is the form here? In the shape of the statue or the shape of its career? It is, of course, in both. But no analysis of the statue that does not hold its fate in view, a fate as intended as is the arrangement of its volume or the gloss of its surface, is going to understand its meaning or catch its force.
It is, after all, not just statues (or paintings, or poems) that we have to do with but the factors that cause these things to seem important--that is, affected with import--to those who make or possess them, and these are as various as life itself. If there is any commonality among all the arts in all the places that one finds them (in Bali they make statues out of coins, in Australia drawings out of dirt) that justifies including them under a single, Western-made rubric, it is not that they appeal to some universal sense of beauty. That may or may not exist, but if it does it does not seem, in my experience, to enable people to respond to exotic arts with more than an ethnocentric sentimentalism in the absence of a knowledge of what those arts are about or an understanding of the culture out of which they come. (The Western use of "primitive" motifs, its undoubted value in its own terms aside, has only accentuated this; most people, I am convinced, see African sculpture as bush Picasso and hear Javanese music as noisy Debussy.) If there is a commonality it lies in the fact that certain activities everywhere seem specifically designed to demonstrate that ideas are visible, audible, and--one needs to make a word up here--tactible, that they can be cast in forms where the senses, and through the senses the emotions, can reflectively address them. The variety of artistic expression stems from the variety of conceptions men have about the way things are, and is indeed the same variety. 池田の感想：「美学研究における記号論の威力はたしかに20世紀で終わっていることはつくづく感じます。その理由は、記号論的変換はとてもスタティック で、パスティーシュやクリーシェがダイナミックに変化する現代ではついていけないのでしょう。バンクシーの図像を、もはやパノフスキーの解読格子をつかっ て読み解くことはできない。」
To be of effective use in the study of art, semiotics must move beyond the consideration of signs as means of communication, code to be deciphered, to a consideration of them as modes of thought, idiom to be interpreted. It is not a new cryptography that we need, especially when it consists of replacing one cipher by another less intelligible, but a new diagnostics, a science that can determine the meaning of things for the life that surrounds them. It will have, of course, to be trained on signification, not pathology, and treat with ideas, not with symptoms. But by connecting incised statues, pigmented sago palms, frescoed walls, and chanted verse to jungle clearing, totem rites, commercial inference, or street argument, it can perhaps begin at last to locate in the tenor of their setting the sources of their spell.

1 Quoted in R. Goldwater and M. Treves, Artists on Art ( New York, 1945), p. 421. 2 Quoted in ibid., pp. 292-93. 3 See N. D. Munn, Walbiri Iconography ( Ithaca, N.Y., 1973). 4 Quoted in Goldwater and Treves, Artists on Art, p. 410. 5 P. Bohannan, "Artist and Critic in an African Society," in Anthropology and Art, ed. C. M. Otten ( New York, 1971), p. 178. 6 R. F. Thompson, "Yoruba Artistic Criticism," in The Traditional Artist in African Societies, ed. W. L. d'Azaredo ( Bloomington, Ind., 1973). pp. 19-61. 7 Ibid., pp. 35-36. 8 R. Goldwater, "Art and Anthropology: Some Comparisons of Methodology," in Primitive Art and Society, ed. A. Forge ( London, 1973), p. 10. 9 A. Forge, "Style and Meaning in Sepik Art," in Primitive Art and Society, ed. Forge, pp. 169-92. See also, A. Forge, "The Abelam Artist," in Social Organization, ed. M. Freedman ( Chicago, 1967), pp. 65-84. 10 A. Forge, "Learning to See in New Guinea," in Socialization, the Approach from Social Anthropology, ed. P. Mayer (London, 1970), pp. 184-86. 11 M. Baxandall, Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy ( London, 1972). 12 Ibid., p. 38. 13 Ibid., p. 34. 14 Ibid., p. 40. 15 Quoted in ibid., p. 41. 16 Ibid., p. 48. 17 Ibid. 18 Quoted in ibid., p. 57. 19 Ibid., p. 80. 20 Ibid., p. 76. 21 Ibid., p. 86. 22 Ibid. 23 Ibid., pp. 87 - 89, 101. 24 M. Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators ( Oxford, 1971). 25 Baxandall, Painting and Experience, p. 152. 26 M. G. S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. 1 ( Chicago, 1974), p. 367. 27 Ibid., vol. 2, p. 438. 28 I am grateful to Hildred Geertz, who collected most of these poems, for permission to use them. 29 N. Goodman, Languages of Art ( Indianapolis, 1968), p. 260. 30 J. Maquet, "Introduction to Aesthetic Anthropology," in A Macaleb Module in Anthropology (Reading, Mass., 1971), p. 14.