Mary Ann Glendon: The Forum and the Tower: How Scholars and Politicians Have Imagined the World, from Plato to Eleanor Roosevelt. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011.

Originally published in Social Science and Modern Society, Volume 49, Number 4, November/December 2009.

 

The forum here is the public forum, the tower is the ivory tower. The publishers have not served Professor Glendon well with that subtitle; her argument has little or nothing to do with imagining the world. Quite the contrary: Almost unfailingly, she points her readers to the real world. She wants them to think about the relationship of the life of politics to the life of the mind, “the political and active way of life” as distinguished from that “which is divorced from all external things,” as Aristotle puts it in Book VII of the Politics. She addresses her argument particularly to the intelligent young, whom she has met and taught at Harvard Law School for some years. And it is for them that this book will prove most valuable. Most of the persons she considers have attracted much commentary, and she offers few novel interpretations. Combining biography with textual analysis, she draws from her examples sober and (one hopes) sobering lessons for smart and ambitious individuals drawn to the alluring role of ‘public intellectual.’ Glendon sits them down and tells them plainly, “the qualities that make a first-rate thinker are not the same as those required for success in statesmanship.” And if you think you have both sets of qualities, consider the fates of the very few who did. The melancholy truth is that you and your country might be better off if you just become a lawyer.

Taking ‘the ancients’ first, she begins with the instructively inauspicious life of Plato, himself ever mindful of the execution of Socrates by Athenian democrats. Plato’s timely twenty-year sojourn to a variety of cities undoubtedly enriched his political thought, but none of his three journeys to Syracuse ended well, despite (or maybe because of) his attempts to improve the regimes there. Upon returning to Athens, he “finally concluded that there are times when circumstances are so unfavorable that the only reasonable course for a wise man is to ‘keep quiet and offer up prayers for his own welfare and for that of his country.'” Plato devoted these last years to composing the Laws, in which “the ultimate concern” turns out to be forming good citizens—presumably, citizens who might incline toward leaving philosophers in peace. In turn, philosophers will also leave citizens in peace, aspiring not to the status of lawgiver except in the indirect manner of teaching the future lawgivers. Upon being asked, at the end of this longest Platonic dialogue, to join with his politician-friends in the founding of a new city, the Athenian Stranger maintains “a resonating silence”—the political science of politic silence. Glendon cheerfully suggests that this means the Stranger wants them to proceed by themselves from now on, which is one way to put it.

With his long experience at the highest level of Roman politics, Cicero cuts a politically more impressive figure than Socrates or Plato; his life ended as badly as Socrates’ did, but his accomplishments up until that time bespeak genuine statesmanship. Glendon admires Cicero’s understanding of political limits—not for him the grand project of re-making a regime at one pass—married to a courageous fidelity to justice; “he never abandoned his efforts to preserve republican principles from the encroachment of dictatorship on the one hand and mob rule on the other.” At the same time, he proved an eloquent defender of philosophy; his Hortensius set Augustine on a thoughtful path. These virtues came together in his defense of natural law: a restatement of natural right in terms clear enough for the defense of such right in civil societies by means of civil laws.

This Roman respect for law disappeared in the chaos that descended in the West following Rome’s debacle, but found a home in the Eastern Empire, where Justinian I and his legal adviser, Tribonian, systematized the Roman texts, producing the several magisterial legal works of the Corpus Juris Civilis. The Justinian laws clearly defined such extra-legal concepts as justice and prudence, simultaneously tying them to particular laws establishing “natural reason” among “all human beings” under those laws. lost for centuries after the Eastern Empire collapsed in its turn, the Justinian Corpus continues to form “the base from which all of today’s civil law systems emerged.” It might be added that Justinian and his team of scholars incorporated the way of life of a prophetic religion into a system of law founded on reason—no mean feat, and one attempted with less long-lasting success elsewhere.

Glendon’s next triptych of thinkers consists of the early moderns: Machiavelli, Hobbes, and Locke. With a woman’s sure eye, she questions not only Machiavelli’s virtue (he “assert[ed], rather than prov[ed], the inadequacy of classical and, by implication, biblical thought”) and his piety (he said on his deathbed that Heaven would bore him), but also his manliness. She recalls Plato’s Seventh Letter: “Plato’s counsel was that [advisers to princes] should never pander to power”; those who do “I should consider unmanly.” Having inserted this knife, Glendon gives it a firm twist: “One wonders whether Machiavelli, il Machia, ever measured himself by Plato’s standards of manliness.”

To assert rather than prove the inadequacy of classical thought is to deny reason’s right to rule the human soul. Following Machiavelli, Thomas Hobbes made reason the scout or servant of the passions. This instrumental and deductive reason, modeled on geometry, collided with the English common law tradition as articulated by the great jurist Edward Coke—enemy of Francis Bacon, Hobbes’s mentor. The legal reasoning praised by Coke was not deductive but dialectical; its “recursive self-scrutiny” enabled the English to set limits to arbitrary power—as seen most famously in the Magna Carta but also centuries later in Coke’s own career, during the course of which he defied James I in the name of Parliamentary prerogatives. “Squarely at odds with practically everything that Edward Coke had stood for,” Hobbes limited monarchic power only by the sovereignty of the people, who retained their right to self-preservation. The centrality of self-preservation in Hobbes perhaps underscores the unmanliness Glendon detects in the Machiavellian spirit.

Her third ‘modern,’ John Locke, led “a life Machiavelli would have envied, except for the absence of wenching and carousing,” as a friend of the great organizer of the Whig party, Lord Shaftesbury. A man of caution if not of Hobbesian timidity, Locke shared exile with his patron when the Catholic James II ascended to the throne, returning to England after the Glorious Revolution and publishing several of his seminal works a year later. He found a new patron, Lord Somers, and gained recognition as “the intellectual leader of the Whigs.” Such Lockean principles as the right to free religious practice, government by consent, and property eventually “penetrated American legal consciousness,” where they remain to this day to the extent that subsequent waves of philosophic revision haven’t eroded them. Glendon finds it puzzling that Locke established these principles upon natural rights rather than the “ancient ‘rights of Englishmen'”; in this she may underestimate what Locke owed to Hobbes, and therefore to Machiavelli. Perhaps the ease to which one may underestimate the Hobbesianism of Locke accounts in part for the truth of Glendon’s remark, “Few scholars or statesmen…have bridged the worlds of forum and tower as successfully as he, or with such lasting influence.”

Rousseau, Burke, and Tocqueville compose Glendon’s third group. All of them resist—in different ways—the Lockean settlement. She agrees with historian Paul Johnson in calling Rousseau “the very archetype” of “the secular intellectual who emerged in the eighteenth century to fill the vacuum left by the decline of clerical influence.” At the same time, Rousseau broke with his older contemporaries, the Philosophes, denying that the Renaissance and Enlightenment restoration of the classical liberal arts and sciences had improved the mores of Europeans, denying that property was a natural right, and further denying that human beings are naturally endowed with reason—thereby “striking at the very heart of the Enlightenment project.” Secularizing the Christian principle of charity or compassion by reducing it to a sentiment, Rousseau provided “a shaky foundation on which to build a just society” because “compassion, unlike charity, is not a virtue acquired by self-discipline and habitual practice. It is only a feeling and a fleeting one at that.” Although Rousseau did not lack patrons (or more accurately matrons), the link between his life and the politics of his time and of all subsequent times so far has rather been the way in which his brilliant catch-phrases (usually removed from his carefully-designed philosophic architecture) have influenced demagogues and have been deployed by them. The mood of impassioned self-indulgence that permeates so much of the life of our contemporary democracies seems to follow Rousseau, although Rousseau would be among the first to denounce us were he alive to see the spectacle we have made of ourselves.

The political philosopher of this group that Glendon admires learned the rudiments of prudence from the Catholics and Quakers who educated him in a country where non-Anglicans still felt the sting of bigotry; “children had to be taught caution at an early age,” and so Edmund Burke was taught. Unlike Rousseau, whose writings valorized sincerity, Burke commended “economy of truth.” “It is a sort of temperance,” he observed, “by which a man speaks truth with measure that he may speak it the longer.” He took up membership in Locke’s party, the Whigs, becoming “the chief theoretician, strategist” of a section of the party opposed to King George III’s over-exercise of executive power. In this capacity, exercised not behind the scenes but while serving in Parliament, Burke attempted to conciliate the dispute between Great Britain and her American colonies, supported free trade, opposed the oppressive regime of the East India Company (Glendon compares Burke’s indictment of Warren Hastings to Cicero’s prosecution of Verres), and, most memorably, predicted that the French Revolution—still in its relatively moderate phase—would descend first into terror and then into despotism under “some popular general.” “No one since Cicero had been at once so gifted in politics, and so grounded in philosophy”; by no coincidence, both men also grounded themselves in the constitutional law of a decent regime.

Tocqueville made himself a public man in a country that had no immediate or even near-term prospects for such a regime, despite his best efforts to persuade his countrymen to move in that direction. Glendon blames Tocqueville’s failure on his fragile health, mediocre oratorical skills, and overall lack of “leadership qualities”-—he was no Burke—but she credits him for opposing the arbitrary and hidebound rule of the Bourbons. She sees that France was a mess that only time, disasters, and great statesmanship would ameliorate, a nation in which two kinds of monarchists, republicans, socialists, and the Bonapartists who eventually prevailed in Tocqueville’s lifetime bubbled in a political stew of rancor, suspicion, and contempt. Tocqueville “confronted the problem facing any politician who refuses to accept party discipline or follow a party line: How could he maintain his independence without rendering himself isolated and ineffective?” He couldn’t. In his defense, could anyone have done so, under those circumstances? In fact, no one did.

Not only France but the West generally headed for ruinous times. Max Weber, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and the human-rights collaborators Eleanor Roosevelt and Charles Malik form Glendon’s final constellation. Weber is well-suited to her theme, having written lectures squarely on it: “Science as a Vocation” in 1917 and “Politics as Vocation” in 1919. Weber described the increased specialization of life in Europe; this meant that “most scholars today could expect to spend their entire academic lives working within rather narrow confines” and therefore not directly confronting the problem of the forum and the tower. Weber went farther: Science as such has nothing much to say to politicians, beyond advice on technical matters. Scientists contemplate ‘facts’; politicians invoke ‘values.’ Scientists are not therefore amoral, however. On the contrary, the scholar who knows himself as a scholar fulfills the duty of responsibility for that vocation, that role within the modern state. Like Socrates, he “finds and obeys the demon who holds the fibers of his very life.” Yet not quite like Socrates: Glendon’s Weber makes no mention of philosophic eros. In keeping with his regime, Weber spent the Great War as a director of military hospitals. But he was no mere product of the regime; he remarked that Bismarck, for all his greatness, had fatally damaged the give-and-take of any genuinely political life in Germany and he wisely urged Germany to make peace at the end of 1915, seeing that the militarists’ infatuation with submarine warfare would only draw the United States into the war. He was that rare European who did not underestimate the military prowess of the Americans. After the war, he deplored the victors’ draconian program of severe reparations and attempted to strengthen republicanism in his work on the ill-fated (because ill-designed) Weimar Constitution. Perhaps predictably, given his esteem of science, including contemporary political science, he hoped to make German civil servants into a political class. But given his underlying dichotomy of ‘facts’ and ‘values,’ he could not find a way to avoid the unstable political dichotomy for ‘scientific’ administration on the one hand and ‘charismatic’ leadership on the other. Glendon admires Weber’s stern admonition to develop a “trained relentlessness in viewing the realities of life” and his commendation of “the ability to face such realities and to measure up to them inwardly.” One might add: Given his mistaken premises, he had no way of discovering a way for Germans to measure up to such realities outwardly.

Oliver Wendell Holmes is Glendon’s first and only American ‘public intellectual.’ Perhaps because she omits consideration of earlier American specimens of the breed—the American founding period did not lack them—she misses the radical character of Holmes’s thought. When Holmes argues that the life of the law is not logic but experience she sees that he opposes not only Kant, not only Blackstone, but also Coke—very much in the name of an updated Hobbesianism. That is, Holmes’s invocation of experience finally amounts to the rule of force over the law; Glendon quite rightly asserts that “legal realism, pragmatism, sociological jurisprudence, the law-and-economy movement, and the various schools of critical legal theory are all little more than elaborations of themes memorably articulated by Holmes.” His rejection of “human rights” as the foundation for law and for any regime featuring the rule of law stems not, however, from Hobbes—who, after all, did not claim a natural human right to self-preservation—but to historicism, which allows statesmen to posit ‘ideals’ to be ‘actualized’ in the future but only at the cost of validating those ideals solely from the fact of that actualization. That is, historicism solves Weber’s ‘facts and values’ dilemma by synthesizing facts and values. That this can be a hard moral and intellectual price to pay may be seen from the careers of the tyrants who appeared after Holmes and his generation passed away.

Charles Malik served as a Lebanese delegate to the first meeting of the United Nations in San Francisco in April 1945. Impressed by his mastery of languages, his government had persuaded him to take leave from his position as a philosophy professor. They also saw his popularity with both Muslim and Christian students and may have liked his previous American connection; he had taken a degree from Harvard under the tutelage of Alfred North Whitehead. Upon arriving at the conference, Malike learned that the smaller countries wanted to include a declaration of human rights in the U. N. Charter. They succeeded in establishing a Human Rights Commission, which became active two years later under the chairmanship of Eleanor Roosevelt. A distinguished committee including Julian Huxley, E. H. Carr, Richard McKeon, René Cassin, Jacques Maritain, and Malike undertook what one might have supposed to haven the fruitless task of compiling a list of rights recognized across national, regime, and civilizational borders. The trick turned out to be the avoidance of any discussion of he basis of the rights; the good Catholic Maritain quipped, “We agree about the rights, but on condition no one asks why.” Communist delegates balked at the inclusion of individual rights against the states but here Mrs. Roosevelt brought them around by saying that the rights could be achieved by a variety of methods. Malik added a bit of Whiteheadian ‘process’ philosophy to bridge the gulf between individual and group rights. One may guess that Comrade Stalin weighed the propaganda value of going along with Third-World aspirations—however regrettably bourgeois they may have been—along with the amplitude of the language about means and ends (why quarrel about how to break the egg that goes into the omelet?) and gave the thing his wolf-print of approval: the sort of ideological popular-front strategy that would soon issue, he trusted, in the Socialist Tomorrow predetermined by History’s iron laws, as laid bare by Marx and Lenin. Be this as it may have been, Glendon contentedly concludes that “The Universal Declaration of Human Rights—like the Justinian Corpus Juris Civilis, the Code Napoleon, and the United States Constitution—stands as a monument of what can be achieved through creative collaboration between statespersons and scholars,” and that “Eleanor Roosevelt pioneered a mode of leadership that was highly effective in a multicultural and multidisciplinary setting.”

This book can teach ambitious young persons—whether studying law, politics, or literature—in at least two ways. First, it gives them some notion of the history of political philosophy, which they may not have received in the confusion of contemporary undergraduate education. While lifting their minds toward the heights, the book equally insists on keeping feet on the ground. Most of her heroes failed to achieve their ends, and a noticeable percentage of them died trying.

Biancamaria Fontana: Montaigne’s Politics: Authority and Governance in the ‘Essais.’ Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008.

 

Far from being politically detached or disengaged from the political life of his country, Montaigne worked in his provincial parliament (albeit not in its main assembly) and served at both the Parisian court of Henry III of Valois and the provincial court of Henry of Navarre, the future king. He spent four years as Mayor of Bordeaux during a period of civil unrest. France itself found itself torn by civil wars of religion throughout his lifetime, reason enough for his famed guardedness in writing. The certainty and indeed fanaticism of partisans and the confusion of authorities alike pointed him toward skepticism concerning all claims to rule. Biancamaria Fontana, a historian at the University of Lausanne, nonetheless defends Montaigne from suspicions of religious unbelief. She does notice divergences from Christian teachings: denial of original sin in view of the “plasticity” of “human nature”; adherence to Christian sentiments but not to articles of faith; appreciation for the “exotic kaleidoscope of human practices,” suggesting that “conscience” contains little “science” or knowledge; the suspicion that laws derive more from custom than from God; and Montaigne’s inclination to equate belief with opinion. Fontana equally defends Montaigne against charges of Machiavellianism, rightly considering him less openly audacious than the Florentine. I am reminded of young Henry Adams, who recalls asking the old political fixer Thurlow Weed, “Is no political man to be trusted?” Weed mused, “I never encourage a young man to begin by thinking so.” Fontana may be said to encourage new readers of the Essais not to begin by thinking Montaigne Machiavellian.

She begins by observing that Montaigne aims at redirecting his readers away from “abstract schemes and models” in politics and towards a consideration of “the complexity and instability of human circumstances.” Is it not wiser to stay closer to the experiences and sentiments of ordinary and practical people, “rather than addressing them”—indeed one another—”from above”? Appeals to the ‘above’ enable clever men to “commit crimes under the pretense of serving justice or religion, insulting their victims with their hypocrisy and arrogance”—’adding insult to injury,’ as we might say. “If he was an attentive reader of the City of God, and if he brought into the Essais echoes of its tragic vision of humanity, Montaigne placed his own analysis on rather different ground.” Indeed: But what was it?

Preliminarily, Fontana proposes that Montaigne grounded his thought on himself. “Against the tide of debased, deceitful discourse, the author of the Essais was determined to speak ‘by his own universal being,’ not ‘as a grammarian, poet, or jurisconsult but as Michel de Montaigne’; the expression of a personal viewpoint, divested of any technical authority, would alone prove truly universal,” universally understood and felt. Montaigne humbly presents himself as the least authoritative man, as a man nonetheless speaking to other men from and to what is common to them all. Which is to say that he humbly presents himself as the Universal Man, as distinct from God Who Became Man, and from men who claim to speak for that God.

Fontana divides her book into six chapters on six topics: laws, virtue, toleration, opinion (particularly conscience), trust (particularly political legitimacy), and politics. “The practice of the law representing Montaigne’s main public activity,” as his subcommittee work in the Bordeaux Assembly centered on litigation—what we today would call administrative law. He criticizes French law as “a judicial monstrosity,” an incoherent combination of Roman law, feudal custom, and kingly edicts, too numerous to be understood yet never enough to cover every case, and all further confused by a “vertiginous accumulation of interpretations and commentaries” by jurists. With the rule of law so profoundly compromised, corruption and sectarian cruelty took hold, sparking and fueling the civil wars. Tradition, long-established custom, offered no help in a country in which the Reformation decried existing customs as tainted, while Catholics denounced the Reformers as damnable heretics. At the same time, customs will always be with us; human beings need regular habits, some accepted way of life, even if the ways of life in one country differs sharply from those in another. To top matters off, appeals to a higher, divine law will also fail, inasmuch as “human beings had simply no access to a certain knowledge of the law of God and could never reach an agreement about its content.” At best, the law of God might enter through the individual conscience, whereby men “recogniz[e] instinctively when some obvious instance of injustice, abuse, or cruelty had occurred.” This too had evidently proved a weak reed, easily bent by passions secular and religious.

What then of virtue, an appeal to character? Augustine’s critique of “pagan” virtue, and Machiavelli’s invitation to transform Roman virtus into his commended virtù had left men without any clear, rational standard of morality. Montaigne doubted Augustine’s emphatic critique of classical virtue as refuted by the Biblical teaching on original sin, but he also saw substantial evidence before his eyes that any valorization of the military virtues, as seen either in Rome or, in a more sinister way in Machiavelli would not strengthen but weaken societies pervaded by its spirit. “People became fatalistic, careless of danger, indifferent to the sufferings of others as well as to their own, insensitive to cruelty”; in Montaigne’s words, with such an ethos “any opinion is strong enough to make men espouse it at the price of life.” Accordingly, Montaigne “pursued an emphatically unheroic, modern ideal of ‘ordinary’ virtue.” In Fontana’s estimation this amounts to a peaceable form of Christianity, although underneath this piety there may be a peaceable form of Machiavellianism. On that point, David Lewis Schaefer’s careful exegesis of the Essais in his The Political Philosophy of Montaigne remains persuasive.

Whether a tamed Christianity or a tamed Machiavellianism animates Montaigne’s soul, that soul does strive to tame other souls in addition to itself. One sees this in what Fontana aptly calls his “politics of toleration,” and specifically in the essay “Of Freedom of Conscience,” “set at the center of the text, in the middle of Book II.” In what some readers may see as a sobering feature, and others as a sly one, Montaigne constructs his argument “around a single historical figure, the Roman emperor Julian, known as ‘the Apostate,'” in the process “turning this traditional enemy of Christianity into a classical hero and a great tragic figure.” Fontana also notices that Montaigne doesn’t openly call for religious pluralism, quite understandably regarding religious contention dangerous to civic peace. Instead, he confines himself to castigating cruel treatment of heretics and to questioning the self-righteous certitude of those who practice such treatment. The political circumstances of sixteenth-century France differed radically from those of, say, 1920s America; H. L. Mencken and Clarence Darrow would not have survived. Montaigne was preeminently a ‘survivor.’

In treating matters of conscience generally, Fontana describes Montaigne’s Julian as a “heroic figure”—”a reborn Alexander the Great without the Macedonian’s drinking habits,” “the incarnation of a classical ideal that had sadly disappeared from the modern world.” One recalls Machiavelli’s similar use of ‘ancient’ figures for his own ‘modern’ purposes.  Among those ‘modern’ purposes for Montaigne was his support of his patron Henry of Navarre, a man of very dubious faith in the eyes of French Catholics, for the French throne. A professing Protestant, Henry faced a problem: “If he chose to recant in order to take up his crown, the king was exposed to the risk of becoming ‘a state Catholic,’ while an opportunistic conversion would turn him into an atheist, with no particular attachment to any religion.” Henry successfully rose to this challenge by exercising a decidedly Montaignian skill, namely, obfuscation, “blurr[ing] in his statement some aspects of the Catholic doctrine he found especially unconvincing, such as the cult of saints and the existence of purgatory.” With Henry, “Catholic” meant “catholic” or universal, and not so much identification of Catholicism with “the Church of Rome.”

As philosophers will do, Montaigne deepened his analysis of a political dilemma into a consideration of “the puzzling nature of belief” itself. In the longest essai, the “Apology for Raymond Sebond,” Montaigne denies that faith derives from “human reasons and discourses” but from “irrational, ultimately superhuman motivations.” This sounds like the work of the Holy Spirit. But Montaigne distinguishes the superhuman dimension of faith from its “imperfect human dimension,” which consists of “a package of myths, norms, and practices that defined a specific culture”; thus, “one was a Christian in the same way in which one happened to be German or from Périgord, by an accident of birth.” In “this anthropological dimension,” Christianity “was just like any other religion.” In this sense “Montaigne used opinion and croyance as synonymous.” Politically speaking, questions of faith have no spiritual dimension at all, but remain in the realm of eminently fallible but formidable public opinion. Opinion is neither rational nor spiritual but a matter of passion, imagination, and habit; “the content of opinion was generally arbitrary.” Given that, as Fontana finely phrases it, Montaigne thought that “Christianity had already accumulated a sufficient number of martyrs and did not need to add to an already impressive score.”

Faith suggests trust and, politically considered, trust constitutes the bulk of legitimacy or lawfulness. In this way Fontana recurs to the theme of her opening chapter, having guided the reader to a more thoughtful understanding of the foundation of law. Montaigne raises a rather high standard, when it comes to trust generally. “If an authoritative Christian writer like Saint Augustine described a miraculous event…supporting his narrative with the testimony of two learned bishops, one should perhaps suspend one’s judgment before dismissing the whole story as simply incredible.” He starts with distrust, hedging trust with a doubtful “perhaps,” thereby leaving the authority of the “authoritative Christian writer” in question.

In political societies, Machiavelli had argued that force crucially supplements trust or fidelity. Again, Montaigne holds back, given the malign effects of force seen in the French civil wars. He blames the recourse to violence on prior “corruption of public discourse,” on “the Machiavellian tradition” commending the use of “deceit and mendacity as suitable instruments of governance.” Similarly, violations of the rule of law lead societies to violence by destroying public trust. Despite his apparent support for monarchy, Montaigne then argues that the very position of the monarch, ruling alone, has proved “morally disabling,” inasmuch as they seldom experience any of “the essential components of a good moral education,” namely, “the sincere appraisal of their conduct and the confrontation, on a ground of equality, with the abilities and views of others.” Flattery corrupts them, from childhood on. He therefore applauds his patron Henry IV, who invited an assembly of notables at Rouen to give him their counsels, vowing to trust them. Even if Henry didn’t quite “transform the nature of the French monarchy” by such gestures, Montaigne “believed him at least capable of performing convincingly enough in this novel role of monarch ruling by popular consent.” One is left wondering if this is not really a Machiavellian adjustment of Machiavellianism misused.

Use and misuse are matters of practice, not theory, and Fontana concludes her book with a discussion of Montaigne as a practitioner of politics, or more precisely Montaigne’s reflections upon the practice of politics. Given the weakness of human reason in political life and men’s inability “to act consistently according to God’s law”—in other words the political inadequacy of both reason and revelation—the Machiavellian attempt to conquer fortune must be scaled back. It is not clear, even on Fontana’s account, that this means that the attempt must be abandoned altogether. If “mediocrity” must replace “grandeur,” and yet Aristotelian “mediocrity”—the location of virtue in the middle of extremes, with courage (for example) amounting to a “mean” between cowardice and rashness—also seems unattainably rational, what then? By Fontana’s accounting, Montaigne recommends that the prince turn not to God but to a wise advisor. And what might such a man look like? How will the prince know him when he meets him?

He will be “someone of middling condition, independent and satisfied with his own status,” a man who “would have nothing to lose from telling the truth, and nothing to gain from concealing it,” a man with connections “with ordinary people,” not only the elites. A man not unlike Michel de Montaigne, as he presents himself in the Essais, one is inclined to think. No fideist, no rationalist, but a man of experience. In America, two centuries later, Benjamin Franklin listened and learned.

Fontana avers that “Montaigne’s work shows a stern attachment to basic Christian principles such as individual responsibility, freedom, charity, and mercy, an attachment that is indicative of the writer’s moral disposition, even if it can tell us little about the precise nature of his religious beliefs”—such as, for example, whether he attached himself to Jesus as the Christ. “What was truly original about Montaigne’s contribution was not his defense of Christian values (or possibly of some unorthodox version of these), but the tension the Essais masterfully established between the values themselves, and their practical enforcement in the context of existing human societies.” In terms of the practice, the experience Fontana recognizes as Montaigne’s test for truth, “The Essais gradually but effectively dismantled the view that the legislation of human societies had its foundation in natural law; they also utterly destroyed the credibility of the claim that Christian states, and Christian rulers, were the guardians and enforcers of a divine order on earth.” There might still be natural law and/or a divine order, but no one quite knows what they are, if anyone ever did.

 

Aristide Tessitore, ed.: Aristotle and Modern Politics: The Persistence of Political Philosophy. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002.

Originally published in Interpretation: A Journal of Political Philosophy. Volume 35, Number 2, Spring 2008.

Republished with permission.

 

By ‘modern politics’ Aristide Tessitore means first and foremost modern liberalism, variations of which continue to flourish, despite rumors of liberalism’s imminent demise, some of them more than two centuries old. In recent years the debates over liberalism often center on Aristotle, of all people, a philosopher rightly described here as “unacquainted with modern politics” (2).

Then again, philosophers tend toward some acquaintance in principle with every major human possibility. For example, Aristotle’s firm critique of those who elevate the life of acquiring goods, for the household above the management of those goods after they arrive in the household stands as an expression of reluctance toward any project such as that introduced by Machiavelli in The Prince, which begins with an invitation to a life of acquisition. What is more, intelligent non-philosophers or would-be philosophers or self-imagined philosophers—contributors to scholarly journals, for example—have reached for help from Aristotle in their attempts either to shore up modern liberalism or to bring it down, whether those attempts address the question of the structure of political communities (liberalism vs. ‘communitarianism’), the moral foundations of liberalism, or the relations between political economy or ‘acquisition’ and government or ‘management.’ Finally, Aristotle continues to offer guidance on the vexed question of philosophy’s relationship to political life, a question ideologues of the past hundred years—with their grand claims to wisdom and their often squalid, vicious effects in practice—sharpened to an edge that with which even Aristotle might be supposed unacquainted.

Another theme ought to be mentioned, however, as it haunts many of these essays rather in the matter that the specter of communism haunted industrializing Europe, according to Marx. Machiavelli conceived of a political device instrumental to his politics of acquisition, namely, the state. Centralized, bringing government to bear throughout the prince’s realm in a way not seen since the ancient polis, and yet extending far beyond the polis in the size of the territory it could rule; ruling with a material effectiveness impossible for the Church; dominating hitherto independent nodes of authority such as aristocracies, towns, and provinces, the state might be formed into one of at least two regimes—monarch and republic. But, as it actually developed, the state folded into every regime an indispensable regime-unto-itself: a new kind of regime of ‘the few.’ This regime-within-the-regime, required in practice by every modern state, features a new kind of aristocracy (eventually called ‘meritocracy’ and imbued with technical competence as its chief virtue) with a new kind of oligarchy (the rule of the few who were not personally rich, but rich by virtue of their command of the wealth of the state, and by the state’s command, its regulation, of the wealth of the wealthy). Aristotle never saw such a thing, but contemporary Aristotelians have, and must address it.

This is why Tessitore’s concentration on liberalism makes sense. Insofar as political life, ruling and being ruled, finds some direct expression in modernity, within its states, liberal states permit that life in ways not seen in (for example) Wilhelmine Germany or today’s Russia or China, let alone in the tyrannies that oppressed those nations in the twentieth century.

The first three essayists bring Aristotle to bear on considerations of modern liberalism and communitarianism. In his unfailingly sensible contribution to the volume, Bernard Yack recalls Aristotle’s insistence that the political community is in some sense ‘prior to’ the individuals who compose it. He rightly observes that this priority does not support any aspiration to communal harmony; Aristotle understands political communities as scenes of “conflict, competition, and compromise”: “Just as there are peaks of virtue and cooperation that can be found only among citizens, so there are forms of distrust, conflict, and competition that only citizens experience” (6). Aristotle rejects the communism of Plato’s guardians, let alone “the exaggerated hopes for moral harmony and elevated behavior associated with today’s communitarianism” (20).

Aristotle’s zoon koinonoikon finds pleasure in his group, finding in his capacity to reason a means “to see the mutual advantage to be gained” from ‘groupishness.’ Human groups comprise persons who differ from each other in some significant (at best complementary) ways but who also share goods and dangers, establish ways to manage what they share and their mutual relations to those things, and who bind themselves to one another by ties of friendship and justice. But Aristotelian fathers, villagers, tribesmen, and citizens differ from the communalists envisioned by such moderns as Rousseau, in at least two ways. “Nowhere will you find in Aristotle’s writings the lyric celebration that Rousseau, among others, has taught us to associate with community. Nor will you find a discussion of Rousseau’s favorite passion, love of country, in Aristotle’s account of the passions in the Rhetoric” (22). Aristotle formulates no General Will; rather, it is “individual actors”—”fathers, ship-captains, oligarchs, demagogues, or tyrants—who speak in the name of Aristotelian communities” (23). Aristotle wants to know, Who rules? Aristotelian friendship “means a disposition to give individuals what is good for them,” and rests on “a sense of mutual obligation,” not an impassioned attachment (26-27). Justice is still less a sentiment but develops rather from long habituation and requires “extensive training and moral education” (29). Justice derives from nature, not in the Rousseauian sense of natural sentiment but from the distinctively human capacity to speak and to deliberate about the good. “[W]hile many animals surpass human beings in social friendship and mutual concern, only human beings hold each other accountable to standards of justice” (30). Justice differs from friendship, “which involves other-regarding actions we are ourselves disposed to perform,” because it “concerns other-regarding actions that we are disposed to demand from others” (30). Establishing such habits of action in any community must “reflect a choice that some individuals make and impose on others” (30); in political communities, these are the regimes.

Thus Aristotle does not involve himself in such modern dichotomies, fundamentally derives from Rousseau, as mechanism versus organism, Gemeinschaft versus Gesellschaft. Not regarding human communities as contracts among anti-social or a-social beings in a state of nature, nor needing to respond powerfully to other thinkers who do so regard those communities, Aristotle feels no temptation to run to the other extreme. “Aristotle’s understanding of community cuts right across these familiar modern dichotomies” (32).

“Communitarians have been making vain predictions about the coming dissolution of liberal and individualistic societies since the end of the French Revolution” (35). But the countries where modern liberalism is oldest give every appearance of the greatest social stability—far more so than many communities that would hold themselves together with much stronger social bonds. The experiences of the past two centuries provide “good reasons for doubting that communion always arises out of community and that the sense of belonging that communitarians seek can be anything more than a temporary social phenomenon” (36). Aristotle would not be surprised, himself having doubted famously, that harmony can be reduced to a single beat.

Martha C. Nussbaum writes on “Aristotelian Social Democracy.” This is an unusual theme, inasmuch as Aristotle more than suspects that the many who are poor, when they rule, will (as the expression goes) ‘soak the rich.’

Rightly observing that Aristotle “spoke about human being and good human functioning” along with “the design of political institutions,” and that he “connected these two levels of reflection through a certain conception of the task of political planning,” Nussbaum argues that the task of such planning “is to make available to each and every citizens the material, institutional, and educational circumstances in which good human functioning may be chosen; to move each and every one of them across a threshold of capability into circumstances in which they may choose to live and function well” (47). For Aristotle, such considerable political and material ambitions immediately raise the question, ‘Who is a citizen?’ Nussbaum seems to take this as settled, however, at least in the modern West. There, most residents of each country are citizens of that country. But the debaters over immigration in Europe and North America remind us that Aristotle’s question remains pertinent.

Public health, common meals for the poor, free and equal citizenship for all adults, the setting aside of half of privately-held lands for common use as in Sparta (48-49), without either the slavery or the military aristocracy of Sparta: these begin the list, which also includes “being able to laugh, to play, to enjoy recreational activities” and “being able to live one’s own life in one’s very own surroundings and context” (70). “The job of government, on the Aristotelian view, does not stop until we have removed all impediments that stand between [the] citizen and fully human functioning” (60). The liberalism of this social democracy—its share of liberty—inheres mainly in one feature: “The government aims at capabilities, and leaves the rest to the citizens” (59). That is (for example) Nussbaum’s social democracy will provide us with parks but will not force us to stroll in them. “The entire structure of the polity will be designed with a view to these functions” (76). In order to choose freely and prudentially citizens need coercively to frame and enforce a set of social and political structures in which choice can flourish (85).

With Yack, Nussbaum acknowledges Aristotle’s interest in the way practical reasoning distinguishes human sociality from animal sociality—indeed, how it distinguishes all non-autonomic human activities from animal activities. “Practical reason is both ubiquitous and architectonic. It both infuses all the other functions and plans for their realization in a good and complete life” (72). Here, however, is where the silent presence of the modern state begins to loom. “It is important to notice that in defending common ownership Aristotle is not defending state ownership. Common ownership is in a very real sense ownership by all the citizens in common, and not by some remote bureaucratic entity” (77). “[I]t is especially difficult to foster common ownership under modern conditions of size and population,” she prudently notes, citing as an example the worker-controlled industry (77). She does not here sufficiently reflect upon the size and bureaucratic character of modern industrial corporations themselves, which Tocqueville already compared to empires.

Perhaps in response to the difficulties of modern statism, Nussbaum finds that social democracy “needs a scheme of basic rights in order to give further definition to the concept of strong separateness,” by which she means individuality or personal integrity (85). “In this area the Aristotelian must diverge from Aristotle” (86). Aristotle is too paternalistic and harsh in ways “likely to horrify most liberals” (86). He does not engage in “sustained philosophical reflection on the limits of the law” (86).

This criticism might strike one as implausible, given the dialogue between the citizen and the philosopher Aristotle presents in the late chapters of the Politics and indeed given the importance for Aristotle of the very prudential reasoning in which citizens engage—quite apart from questions of the philosopher’s way. But Nussbaum’s dilemma really reflects the problem of the modern state itself, the problem faced squarely by such writers as Benjamin Constant and Tocqueville. The next essay does not take up this problem. Susan D. Collins raises instead an ethical question, which in turn leads to the volume’s second set of essays, on moral virtue.

Collins addresses the question of justice in Aristotle, considering not the Politics but the Nicomachean Ethics. Today’s “neo-Aristotelians” would bring Aristotle into the camp of liberalism. In doing so, they tend to favor one of two aspects of human life that Aristotle tries to balance: virtue “as a quality of civic devotion” and virtue “as a constituent of human flourishing” (106). As a quality of civic devotion, justice differs “in different political orders or regimes,” and also according to circumstances” (106). The political and the exigent can make human flourishing possible, but they can also limit it. The magnanimous man, whose soul “comprises all the virtues and each to the greatest degree” (107), might find his great soul limited in any regime, even in a kingship ruled by him.

Neo-Aristotelian liberals (among whom Collins numbers the social-democratic Nussbaum) incline to see politics and human flourishing as mutually reinforcing, in principle if not in practice. Aristotle doubts this: “Aristotle confronts in a full and systematic way the questions of either side of virtue’s coin” (111). Although human beings are indeed political animals who require the polis in order to flourish, and although politics is “the ‘authoritative’ voice with respect to the human good,” it “does not follow” that politics is therefore “the correct or true voice” (111).

Accordingly, Aristotle presents “two meanings of justice”: justice as the lawful—”general” justice—and justice as the fair—”particular” justice (113). Justice in its “lawful” aspect points not merely to conventionality; if it did, there would be no theoretical problem, inasmuch as one could easily say that there is justice defined by the polis and justice according to nature. But “lawful” justice points to the unique feature of justice, its ‘other-directedness.’ “[J]ustice is not complete virtue simply but complete as the sum of the virtues ‘directed toward another'”; “justice is thus identical with the ‘use [chresis] of complete virtue,'” the use of virtue “‘with a view to another, and not only with a view to [the virtuous individual] himself'” (115). “Citizenship in the community means that any action, including a virtuous action, has a dual aspect: it can be understood from the point of view either of one’s own good or another’s good” (115). These two things might easily contradict one another, as anyone who considers the policy of military conscription will see.

Further, the same problem arises with respect to “particular” justice, which is that part of general justice that “pertains to the desire for gain” (117). Justice as fairness refers to either the distribution of goods, including public honors and offices, or the redress of unjust distributions. Once again, in practice it is the regime that determines what acts of particular justice will be practiced, from one polis to another. And an act of distribution that serves the common good might not entirely serve the good of the individual to whom the distribution is made. “[T]his is the dilemma of moral virtue: as justice, it looks to the good of the community, and as virtue, it looks to the good of the virtuous individual, yet these are different ends and different perfections” (122). The dilemma would be eased but not removed by taking up residence in the best regime—a regime notoriously difficult to find, even in the pages of Aristotle’s Politics. 

The dilemma of justice may disappear among friends, who share all things and wish one another’s good. Thus Aristotle “is at one with liberalism in marking a sphere outside of the political that might be called private” (123). But in the modern state the virtues seen in true friendship are only “one possibility among many possible pursuits of happiness” (123). That is to say, liberalism in modernity means liberty first, perhaps because privacy marks out a sphere of protection against the state, a formidable type of political organization Aristotle does not contemplate.

The collection next turns not toward a consideration of the state, however, but to a consideration of virtue in essays by Tessitore, David K. O’Connor, and Charles R. Pinches. Tessitore takes up Alasdair MacIntyre’s critique of modern rationalism. MacIntyre charges that the teachings of such moral philosophers as Diderot, Hume, Smith, and Kant depend upon “a shared historical background” their rationalism rejects; the substance of that moral tradition owes its existence to Aristotle (136). In rejecting, contra Aristotle, “any notion of a human telos, rationalists “ensured the failure” of their project, leaving only an account of human nature and a set of “moral injunctions” without “their teleological context” (137). But human nature without a telos wrecks itself on nihilism, as Nietzsche eventually insisted.

MacIntyre himself rejects the foundations of Aristotelian moral teleology—its “now discredited metaphysical biology,” its “understanding of community” that assumes “the Greek polis,” and the Platonic notion of “the unity of individual and political virtue” (138). For these MacIntyre substitutes, first, what he calls “practice” (“a complex form of socially established human activity that leads to the attainment of a good internal to the activity of the activity at issue”—for example, chess, which aims at the good of checkmate, or victory); second, what he calls “narrative unity” (“the historical narrative of a particular human life”); third, “tradition” (“a set of practices and a particular understanding of their importance and meaning” (138-140). To put it perhaps too bluntly, MacIntyre purges Aristotelian moral philosophy of nature and of politics. In Tessitore’s words, MacIntyre “attempts to establish a delicate balance between Nietzsche’s insight into the historicity of all truth claims without surrendering the Aristotelian argument for an objective order, a larger truth to which and by which our efforts are and must be measured” (140).

But, Tessitore rejoins, far from being a passive ‘epistemological’ victim of his historical circumstances, Aristotle “questions authority” (141). This may be seen in Aristotle’s “notoriously problematic teaching on the relationship between ethical and intellectual virtues” (142), the account of the rival modes of life, political and philosophic, to which Aristotle provides precisely no conventional answer, and no clear answer at all. “Against MacIntyre’s view that Aristotle inadvertently codifies an existing and authoritative Greek tradition of class-based morality, his account…in fact preserves and reveals, rather than dispels, a wide range of persistent tensions that necessarily characterize human attempts to live well” (146). The polis itself turns out to be imperfect, thus “a catalyst for the full development of both practical and theoretical excellence” (47). Prudence and the capacity for political philosophy are “permanent political needs,” needs “logically prior to the notion of political authority in Aristotle’s thought,” providing “the ground by which the authoritative good held out by the polis is established and evaluated” (147). Although Aristotle never saw the modern state, he of course did see a form of political organization other than the polis, namely, the empire in which he lived, to say nothing of the sub-political communities of household, village, and tribe. “It may well be the case that the fortuitous set of circumstances that gave rise to the development of the Greek polis becomes the locus classicus for Aristotle’s study less out of cultural bias, and more because it offers the most transparent window from which to view the ethical capacities and problems of political animals” (148); one might agree with Tessitore by observing that the polis may be the one circumstance in which human beings can fully achieve autarchia or self-sufficiency. One might also add that Tocqueville’s critique of modern statism rests on a similar judgment, a fact that gives evidence for the non-‘relative’ character of Aristotle’s argument.

MacIntyre’s attempt to replace Aristotle’s natural teleology with a historical teleology or “narrative unity” is unnecessary if one does not assume that biology is destiny. Aristotle does not so assume, and neither does much of the modern biology that has in many ways superseded Aristotelian biology. Enlightenment mechanism does not fully explain nature, which turns out to be more complicated than Newton supposed, in the estimation of Newton’s modern-scientific successors. It is Newtonian physics that underlies the attack on teleology seen in the Enlightenment moralists.

MacIntyre’s traditionalism too easily elides the distinction between Aristotle (and philosophy generally) and the Bible. Tessitore reminds his readers that the Great Tradition didn’t start out as a tradition at all; it took Aquinas to convince generations of thinkers that philosophy and revelation could mix. And Aquinas rests the authority of his achievement not on “the verdict of human history” or “the powers of human rationality” (156). “Paradoxically, MacIntyre’s historicist defense of the superiority of the Thomistic perspective is unable to account for the heart and soul of the very version of inquiry he upholds as the example par excellence of the rationality of tradition” (156). “Notwithstanding the profound differences separating the Thomistic tradition from the modern paradigms of [Enlightenment] encyclopedia and [Nietzschean] genealogy, there is one respect in which all three versions of inquiry have more in common with each other than with Aristotle—all are imbued with some form of the historical consciousness that  informs MacIntyre’s own analysis. The Thomistic, or more generally biblical, tradition elevates history as the locus of divine revelation and lives from a hope that is directed to the City of God. The encyclopedic tradition looks to a secularized version of Christian hope, one that will be fully achieved in history based on the gradual and steady progress of science. The genealogical perspective registers disappointment at the loss of Enlightenment hopes for rational progress, unmasking all claims to larger purpose as disguised expressions of the will to power. MacIntyre’s critique of contemporary sensibilities is circumscribed by the historical consciousness from which it arises.” (156-157)  None of what Tessitore here classifies as historicist versions of inquiry actually refutes the Aristotelian understanding of human ‘groundedness’ in nature or an “unchanging ground of being from which these [historical] variations arise” (157). Aristotle’s “account of nature” moreover “is free from both the hopes and disappointments entangled in historical consciousness” (157) and, if so, may prove morally superior to them. MacIntyre’s account of biblical revelation may itself partake too much of a later historicism. ‘History’ or the course of human events may be the locus of divine revelation, but, according to the Bible, the origin of such revelation is God, creator of that locus and of all else besides. That is, the Holy Spirit of the Bible is not the Absolute Spirit of the historicists. Holiness is not immanence.

In contrast to MacIntyre, Leo Strauss turned to Aristotle after listening to the most radical of the historicists, Martin Heidegger. David K. O’Connor’s essay on “Strauss’s Aristotle” is a highlight of this collection.

“The existential choice between the political life and the philosophic life informs all of Aristotle’s investigations of political affairs,” O’Connor contends (163), and Strauss’s interpretation of Aristotle “became the central vehicle through which Strauss worked out his own complicated appropriation of and resistance to Martin Heidegger” (164). Strauss appropriated some of Heidegger’s “account of philosophy’s responsibilities to prephilosophic experience” while resisting “Heidegger’s attack on the Aristotelian dichotomy between political engaged practical reason and detached or disinterested theoretical reason” (164). Heidegger’s conflation of theory and practice (seen in his celebration of ‘resoluteness’ and ‘authenticity’) struck Strauss as political dangerous and philosophically dubious, but that conflation does at least follow from giving the prephilosophic pragmata their due. Strauss aimed to show that the Aristotelian insistence on the integrity of prephilosophic experience as the ground of philosophy need not issue in radical historicism, as it does in Heidegger, where it “infect[s] philosophy with the very aspects of willfulness, passion, and partisanship that made Heidegger’s view of philosophy distasteful to Strauss” (167).

Philosophy for Heidegger consists of an energeia or “being-at-work” that forms as well as informs human beings through their national culture and political existence; philosophy “is essentially ‘practical'” and “essentially ‘patriotic'”—inherent in the patria or fatherland (168). This energy, it might be said, resembles Hegel’s Absolute Spirit not of course in its dialectical rationality but in its immanence and its thoroughgoing ‘historicity.’ O’Connor finds in Strauss’s exchanges with his philosophic friend, Alexandre Kojève, a dialogue with Heidegger ‘once removed.’ (There are limits to the Heidegger-Kojève parallel. O’Connor mentions Kojève’s employment as “a minister playing midwife to the birth of the Common Market” (193). It is unlikely that a Heideggerian would find such a job interesting; as Nietzsche said about the ‘common good,’ is not the Common Market ineluctably common?)

In Strauss’s estimation, the “unqualified attachment to human concerns” seen in historicism leads not to philosophy but to tyranny (176), to an ultimately mad attempt at godlike creation, a comprehensive re-shaping of reality beyond the capacities even of the highest human beings. Although O’Connor does not quite say this, Strauss regards the historicist project—in its very resolute commitment to practice—as profoundly imprudent, and therefore impractical as well as self-deluding. Genuine wisdom must ‘place’ human individuals, nations, and even humanity itself within their real context, which is nature. The desire to know is not the same as care for the human (178). At the same time, the philosopher does rightly and prudently care for those who do or might in his estimation share in his enterprise. This philosophic care for philosophers and for potential philosophers rests not on the historicist concern for “intersubjectivity and recognition” (179) but on the shared love of wisdom, “the intrinsic nobility of resolute openness to questioning” (180, italics in original). Philosophic resolution differs from political resolution in needing no enemies to ‘energize’ it; “philosophic friends may be quite different from one’s fellow sectarians,” as the Strauss-Kojève friendship demonstrates (180). For such friendships no philosopher need engage in “the total direction of human affairs” (Strauss, quoted 181). Indeed, the attempt to direct human affairs through the impersonal bureaucratic structure of a modern state or would-be super-state might likely preclude friendship, insofar as that attempt absorbed the attention of the philosopher.

Strauss’s Aristotle addresses political men “without inflaming political passion” and addresses philosophic men “without inflaming political passion” (182, italics in original). Strauss’s Aristotle makes this dichotomy sharper than Aristotle himself does, O’Connor argues, because historicism has changed the political and intellectual circumstances in which philosophers live. Aristotle’s own treatment of the choice between the political and the philosophic life gives more “autonomous dignity” to “morality and politics” than Strauss’s Aristotle because radical historicism has transformed nomos into pure will, not pure reason (185). “In resisting the Heideggerian intensification of this common ground between theory and practice, Strauss intensifies instead the philosophic perception of the ‘secondary’ status (Nicomachean Ethics 10.8, 1178a9) of merely political action” (185). Secondary status does not imply either strict subordination or a complete separation of the practical from the theoretical. A philosopher might find himself a place not as a citizen-philosopher, then but as a foreigner or ‘stranger’ who serves as “a teacher of legislators” (195), a role unlikely to endanger either the body of the philosopher (landing it in a circumstance in which it must ingest hemlock) or the philosopher’s soul, untempted by the ambition of making ‘its’ philosophic inclinations “essentially formative of nation and state” (196). “To steel oneself to Machiavellism is not to untrammel one’s mind, but to close it” (197).

O’Connor closes with some remarks on Strauss’s abiding philosophic interest in piety, an interest O’Connor describes as more Socratic than Aristotelian. That is to say, Strauss’s Aristotle does not exhaust the philosophic interests of Strauss. Piety is the topic of this volume’s third and concluding essay on virtue. Charles R. Pinches points to another man who “transforms Aristotle as he uses him” (208). Unlike Strauss, Thomas Aquinas “runs [Aristotle] through the mill of Christian theology” (208), but they share what Pinches calls a non-instrumental understanding of virtue, an appreciation of virtue as a condition of the soul ‘good for its own sake.’ As a Christian, Pinches regards neither Aristotle nor Thomas as congruent with modern liberalism and resists efforts by liberals to appropriate either.

A crucial distinction between modern liberal and “classical accounts” of virtue is simple: “According to liberalism, one does not need to be good (be virtuous) to know the good”—”a substantial change” from the Aristotelian and Thomistic views (212-213). For modern liberals, for example, ‘prudence’ means only the ability to identify “what is advantageous or useful to the attainment of goals that suit us or me” (213); prudence is no longer “perfected practical reason” (214), a thing noble in itself.

Recent liberal thinkers friendly to Christianity tend to want to use Christianity: “Liberalism as a [political system has a need for virtue among its citizens if it is to be sustained,” such liberals argue. “Put bluntly, liberalism is in need of virtue capital” (215). “[T]his is a deal the church can do without,” Pinches’ own prudence tells him (217). The Christian regime—specifically, the Christian Bios ti or way of life—must not lend itself to the task of propping up something other than itself, subordinating itself to some way of life other than that commanded and exemplified by Jesus. Among the several extant liberalisms, Pinches prefers the attempt by Richard Rorty to make liberalism into a sort of religion, albeit a ‘secularized’ one—the sort of progressivist historicism seen in John Dewy and Walt Whitman. This effort at least refuses to abstract from the circumstances of America, but rather makes of American history a sort of teleological story or myth. Pinches clearly regards Rorty’s project as wrong, but at least it has the modest virtue of avoiding cynicism. More profoundly, it shares with Christianity (as Pinches understands it) and also with Aristotle (as Pinches understands him) a rootedness in a particular “social location” (222), not in a state of nature, a categorical imperative, or an original position. Rorty “embraces his particular location as an American ‘reformist liberal’ at the turn of the twenty-first century, even as Aristotle “presumed the setting of the polis in fourth-century Greece” and as (if I understand Pinches) a Christian will understand himself as part of the concrete and Providential circumstances that inflect his own life (222). Liberals are insufficiently historicist, to use that term in a loose, none-too-Hegelian way. 

Christians must also finally reject Aristotle as well as liberalism, Pinches argues. Following Harris Rackham, Pinches translates megalopsychia as “pride” (221). Aristotle understands vice, which he regards as reparable, but not sin, which Christians learn to regard as humanly irreparable, because Aristotle does not know the God of the Bible, or the Bible’s Satan, for that matter. In contrast with Aristotle, “according to St. Paul and to Augustine, there is nothing we can do to break the power of sin in our lives” (225). Only God’s grace can free us from that power. That is why Aquinas “insists that the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity, which transform the life of virtue particularly as they transform prudence, are ‘infused’ rather than ‘acquired'” (225). Human equality “resides in that we are all equally condemned by a righteous God”; but “Aristotle knew nothing of such ideas,” regarding human beings as decidedly unequal, at least with respect to virtue and vice (225-226). Rorty’s progressivism shares the pride of Aristotelianism (if little else?) and therefore cannot satisfy Christians, even if it is in Pinches’ estimation superior in honest to non-historicist versions of liberalism.

Pinches does not clarify the Christian’s proper relationship to the modern, liberal state. If Christianity must not serve that state, should, can, Christians nonetheless make it serve them? Not in the sense of making of the state an instrument of Christian education or legislation, but rather in the sense of using the liberal state as early Christians arguably used the Roman Empire: as a sort of dangerous but often convenient platform for Christian evangelism. Liberalism’s hard-won freedoms of travel, of speech, and of religion itself present themselves as instruments for Christian use. Might these features of the liberal state not commend themselves to Christians, even if Christians politely and piously decline to serve as instruments of liberalism? the liberal state might not so much “buy virtue from the Christians” (as Pinches acidulously describes the ambition of some liberals [215]) but find a loving limit in their free activities and spirit, thus remaining liberal.

The liberty of citizens within the liberal state requires the right of property defended by the rule of law—limits to the liberal state. That Miriam Galston, Jill Frank, Douglas J. Den Uyl, and Douglas B. Rasmussen find Aristotle a helpful adviser in these matters betokens his status as a philosopher and not merely as a thoughtful observer and critic of ancient Greek politics.

Galston considers the varieties of legal theory in the United States, recalling the textual formalism of the nineteenth century, largely replaced in the twentieth century by the legal realism of Oliver Wendell Holmes and the sociological jurisprudence of Roscoe Pound. She sees in recent years a “renewed interest in formalist-type theories, such as neo-Aristotelian natural law theory” (234), in the writings of such scholars as Russell Hittinger, John Finnis, and Robert P. George, as well as a turn toward anti-rationalist theories—critical legal studies, post-structuralism, and some forms of feminism. In their several ways, all American legal theories address not only the ‘rule of reason’ but the role of reason in the rule of law. Between the “two extremes” of formalism and subjectivism/relativism lie “theorists of the middle way” who “reject the idea that knowledge must be absolute and unchanging to be worthy of the name” (234); Cass R. Sunstein, Suzanna Sherry, and Bruce Ackerman exemplify this approach.

Aristotle famously teaches that the precision possible in mathematics does not obtain in ethics. He does not call this “a practical concession to the limitations of human cognition” or an admission of the superior truth of the precise sciences (235). Similarly, “middle-way” legal theorists do not quickly advert to ‘abstract’ moral and political principles, principles “that exist independently of a particular legal order”; at the same time, they do “recognize and incorporate such principles into reasoning about human affairs to some extent” (235). Middle-way theorists prefer community-wide debate, government by consent, and “transformative political participation” to any more elite-centered account of lawmaking and legal interpretation (237); they pay attention, therefore, to the conditions under which such debate is conducted and such consent attained, lest some citizens be excluded.

Galston finds a philosophic precedent for this in Aristotle’s practice of reviewing prevailing opinions and putting them to the dialectical test. But Aristotle differs from middle-way theorists in widening the dialogue to include those not present and even those long dead; in America he would engage not only his neighbors but Publius and Jefferson. Nor does Aristotle assume the democratic principle of equality: “Aristotle equates the force of the opinion of one wise man with the opinion held by all or most people” (238). Aristotle does not use the word ‘autonomy’ to describe the formation of law by citizens; rather, “the importance of being able to govern oneself (and be governed by others) finds pride of place in his philosophy” (239). He defines politics itself as such reciprocal ruling and being-ruled, a practice that requires practical wisdom. “Aristotle thus differs from contemporary legal theorists in identifying self-governance with the active exercise of reason rather than the initiation of, participation in, or assent to rules by which a person is governed” (239). One might say that Aristotle never loses sight of the regime behind the rules, of the political character of decent regimes, or of the life of reasoned discussion seen in those regimes.

Middle-way legal theorists also incline toward what might be called transformative conventionalism. They hope to generate public goods and also moral virtues in individuals out of sociopolitical processes engaged in by adults. Less optimistic than they are about the malleability of human nature, Aristotle looks to childhood education as the main source of “the moral qualities upon which social cooperation depends” (240). If you would have a moral citizenry, begin before your children are old enough to join in citizenship. Moral virtue culminates in citizenship, is not ‘created’ by it. Concomitantly, Aristotle does not understand political association merely as one social activity among many; it is the authoritative political community that most clearly requires us to think comprehensively of the good life as such. “Aristotle warns the reader against imagining that fitness to govern any one type of association can be generalized to fitness to govern any other” (240).

Galston sees in this tendency among middle-way theorists a reflection of life in the modern state. “Given our enormous and diverse country, it may well be that intermediate associations bear a closer resemblance to certain aspects of the classical city than our nation as a whole ever can” (241). But such civic associations, however salutary, seldom consider the common good in the way a self-governing political community must. Further, middle-ground theorists, in imagining the production of the common good, assume an egalitarianism that modern states—centralized, anti-aristocratic, bureaucratic—themselves encourage. In one sense these theorists aim too high, expecting a selflessness not to be found in this world, a selflessness they imagine could be found if only each voice can make itself heard through the right social preconditions undergirding the political process itself. On the other hand, the very assumption that the political playing field can be so effectively leveled reflects and conduces to the anti-political statism that middle-way theorists abhor. But the common good’s commonness inheres in its political character; in ruling and being ruled, not everyone exhibits the same degree of practical wisdom. This is an ineluctable natural reality, not only an excrescence of unjust social institutions. “Aristotle’s ideas thus expose a conceptual difficulty at the core of theories of liberal constitutional democracy” (248)—or, at least, at the core of the theories of the theorists of the middle way.

Under liberal constitutions the laws protect and regulate private property as a means of the reciprocal rule of civil society and the central state. Jill Frank asks, “What form of private property might more successfully integrate private right and public good and so facilitate rather than obstruct the practices integral to liberal-democratic politics?” (259). Consulting Aristotle, she argues that private property has not only exchange value but also value in use. The ‘use value’ of private property can bind the individual and the family to “the practices of citizenship” (259).

As a thing to be exchanged, private property means “the power to hold, to withhold, and to exclude” (261). I hold my property against you, and against the state, limiting both social and bureaucratic-governmental encroachment. This might often be very good. But it might also “thwart rather than…enable common action and therefore…be inimical to the social coalition integral to the practices of democratic politics” (261). Private property might conduce to what Tocqueville calls individualism, a comfortable anti-civic isolation that invites the very overweening statism private property rights are intended to prevent by leaving government up to the officials.

Frank cites Thomas Jefferson’s phrase, “the earth belongs in usufruct to the living” (263). That is, the earth belongs to each living generation as a trust fund belongs to its trustees; the right to use comes with an obligation, “that the beneficiaries must hand the trust over to the next set of trustees” (263). Jeffersonian agrarianism rests upon this principle. Whereas feudal aristocracy consisted of the few ruling the many, who did not own the property they used, and modern commerce “allows for and encourages the accumulation of wealth unlimited by use,” fostering a new kind of “privilege and hierarchy,” agrarian property-owners are (now in Jefferson’s words again) “the most precious part of the state” because their property combines the stability and limitation of natural property in land with self-governing ownership of that property and the fruits thereof (264). “Their property, via its use, anchors their independence and freedom, and it allows them to cultivate the virtues necessary for self-governance, good citizenship, and the pursuit of the common good” (264). Jefferson’s friend James Madison broadens this understanding of property to include human nature; one’s property includes “a person’s opinions and faculties, his labor, leisure and time, and his liberty of conscience” (265). In this sense it helps to constitute our civic identity “insofar as the use of one’s faculties relates individual owners to society at large” (265).

Aristotle gives a fuller account of “the relation between property and virtue” (265). For example, he elaborates parallels between the rule of the household and the rule of the polis, both of which subordinate acquisition of property to the management of it for the good of the whole. As both private and public, property is “a site of the practice of virtue” (267). In this property instantiates virtue itself, which consists both of ‘holding’ (I might be said to ‘have’ certain virtues) and of ‘using’ (I act according to my virtues, strengthening or weakening my moral habits with practice and with disuse). “[G]ood habit, as a matter of holding [property] properly depends on using properly what is held, that is, acting well. And we can see that acting well, as a mode of proper use, depends on holding properly what one has as one’s own, hence ownership. As the practice of holding and using things properly, property, like any activity, already calls for good habit conjoined with acting well, that is, virtue. And, as the practice of holding and using habits properly, virtue calls for property. It is by understanding property as a verb and not strictly as a noun, as an activity of use and not strictly as a fungible thing, that property is bound to, is indeed a site of virtue.” (268)  Property “emerges in the presence of the proper ordering of the soul, even as the practice contributes to that proper ordering,” cultivating “the individual virtues associated with both self-government and the pursuit of the common good” (270). In so doing it not only resists the encroachments of the modern state but connects citizens to the state, interesting them in the common good as considered by their representatives ‘in’ the state.

Douglas J. Den Uyl and Douglas B. Rasmussen give Aristotle an (announced) ‘libertarian’ twist—doing with Aristotle what Aquinas does with him, but less elaborately, and on behalf of ‘classical liberalism’ not Christianity. Beginning with might be termed the Lysander Spooner thesis—that moral action requires freedom of the will, therefore the conditions of free willing must be secured first and foremost—they reconcile libertarianism with the Aristotelian esteem for “self-perfection” (280). “The single most common and threatening encroachment upon self-directedness and consequently self-perfection is the initiation of physical force by one person (or group) against another”; this in practice requires the establishment of “a sphere of freedom whereby self-directed activities can be exercised without being trampled by others or vice-versa” (281), to “structure a political principle that protects the condition for self-perfection rather than leading to self-perfection itself” (282-283).

Central to this sphere of freedom is the right to property. Because “human beings are material beings, not disembodied ghosts, and being self-directed is not merely some psychic state,” “human beings need to have property rights to things that are the result of their own productive efforts” (283). Property inheres primarily not in non-human nature but in “the intellectual and physical efforts of individual human beings,” who are “in a significant sense value creators” (284-285). Den Uyl and Rasmussen endorse the labor theory of value, first propounded by John Locke; “there is no such thing as pre-existing (in other words, pre-transformed) wealth” (286). Also like Locke, they regard the right to property as natural, and the indispensable precondition to the “human flourishing” sought by Aristotle (289).

On the economic side of the human ledger this of course leads to the free market. On the political side the right to property in this sense leads to civic friendship, an association for mutual advantage among citizens. Friendships founded upon mutual advantage are not “friendships of virtue,” which only “occur in circles must smaller than those that characterize a state” (299). “All highly pluralistic and commercial cultures fail to live up to this standard,” they rightly observe (300). At best, such large political societies can achieve the virtue of just rather than unjust mutual advantage, but they can never achieve an ethos of selflessness. In turn, this “confirms our view, not always or necessarily shared by Aristotle himself, that the attainment of the good life is an individual quest” (301). “The aim of politics is not virtue, but peace and order,” “the natural right to liberty” (301).

Aristotle might well regard the regime of commercial republicanism as the best practicable regime under the conditions of modernity. He would not defend it on the ‘voluntarist’ grounds libertarians defend, inasmuch as that would entail treating a means—personal property—as an end—human flourishing. He would therefore remain skeptical of the claim that the attainment of the good life is an individual quest primarily, recognizing the need for self-government and thus, realistically, the need for political life. If the aim of politics is not virtue but peace and order, do peace and order not aim at some virtue or human good? And are not peace and order likely in need of coercive defense and of at least mildly enforced cooperation?

It is to politics that the three final essays of the volume turn. Beyond the protection of property rights broadly understood, modern liberalism usually attempts to address the problem of how political life, understood as reciprocal ruling and being-ruled, can be sustained within the framework of the state, which centralizes authority and tends toward bureaucracy. Each author here addresses this problem.

Gerald M. Mara contributes an excellent discussion of Aristotle’s Regime of Athens. Mara praises John Rawls’s last book, Political Liberalism, for its attentiveness to the need for “political culture” (307)—roughly the equivalent of Aristotle’s notion of the ‘way of life’ of a political community. Noticing that in the tolerant regimes of modern liberalism many citizens pursue very different ways of life founded on different moral and religious principles, Rawls seeks an “overlapping consensus” among citizens—the ‘overlap’ consisting of all principles and practices consistent with liberal politics (308). As Jefferson remarked, it matters not whether my neighbor believes in one god or a thousand; this neither picks my pocket nor breaks my leg. Muslim and Hindu alike may agree that robbery and battery are wrong, and citizens who agree on such things may be able to live together in the same political community, so long as they ‘agree to disagree’ on their more strictly theological convictions. Mara notes that Rawlsian “liberal culture” is “possible only for those who already accept liberal principles as compelling” (308). An especially stern Muslim or Hindu (or Christian or Marxist) might require the justification of liberal principles themselves, and such justification cannot come from a culture that effectively commands ‘Be tolerant.’ But why should the liberal tolerate even himself? Cultural liberalism “sees practical rationality as a cultural or political, rather than a natural or anthropological possibility” (309) and thus collides with philosophic problems long associated with conventionalism.

Aristotle understands reason as a capacity of “cross-cultural validity” (310). He treats democratic Athens not as the political equivalent of a windowless monad but “as a striking example of the most radical and most dangerous democracy, a popular regime with a (relatively) urban base which exercises its rule not by law but by decree,” yet also a regime animated by “a gentleness or mildness that could be extended into a certain kind of moderation” (312). In Athens Aristotle saw more than Athens, but “simultaneously the most and the least typical, the worst and the best, of democracies” (312). His study of Athens presents three themes: He considers the regime’s “central principles,” freedom and equality, as they are institutionalized and not as they might be conceived ‘abstractly’; he considers the regime’s purposes and the dual temperament that strives for them, boldness and gentleness; he considers “models of democratic political activity” as seen particularly in prominent Athenian statesmen.

The many poor overthrew the oligarchs; the new rulers’ sense of freedom derived ‘negatively’ from their prior feeling of oppression. But of course a regime does require rule, rule now by the many poor, who might enslave the few, contradicting the principle of freedom. Aristotle suggests that a certain kind of institutionalized equality, equality before the law, can limit the rule of the many, as seen in the reforms of Solon. Equality before the law gives both the many poor and the few rich a kind of political equality, a capacity to rule and to be ruled: Aristotle’s definition of political rule simply. “Solon’s reforms do not much make Athens more democratic as make it more political” (315). Solon’s reforms opened some political institutions to every class of citizens and more generally made “the regime’s legal structures into frameworks that manage conflict, rather than into strategic weapons for use within power contests” (315). “Solon does not attempt to homogenize difference by creating a common civic ethos which would make social distinctions either irrelevant or pernicious. While the institution of legal equality makes the social differences between noble and base irrelevant from the point of view of justice, in another sense it maintains respect for differentiation among social classes since class positioning cannot justify social aggression.” (316)  This made Athenian democracy more like a ‘mixed regime’—the decent form of the rule of the many—than it otherwise would have been. But such institutional forms, however well designed, will not work without a certain way of life consonant with them.

Aristotle would move democracy away from the aggressive boldness displayed in revolution and toward “the peaceful virtues,” above all “a prudent gentleness” (320). hence his reservations about democratic imperialism. “He indicates that Athens’ boldness toward other cities and the demos‘ boldness within the politeia are reciprocally related,” a point illustrated by Pericles’ Funeral Oration. Democracy brings war; war feeds democratization. (And not only in Athens: See the account of America in the War of 1812 by Henry Adams and Henry Cabot Lodge, “Von Holst’s History of the United States,” North American Review, October 1876—an account brought to my attention by my colleague Robert Eden). “To the degree that boldness compromises prospects for regime gentleness, it threatens to undermine those activities that are most politically worthwhile” by hardening souls for combat not only against foreigners but against fellow-citizens at home (321). It damages “one of the central requirements for good citizenship”: “the ability to understand that what is good for the community as a whole is not simply reducible to the interests of any single economic, social, or cultural class” (323). Citizenship requires “a sort of rationality,” an ability to look at partisan concerns and not only to engage in struggles over them (323).

The Solonian founding failed not because its institutions failed but because subsequent Athenian statesmen misused them. Along with his policy of imperialism, Pericles democratized the regime by paying the poor to serve in the law courts, partly in order to compete with a political rival. Aristotle praises the contrasting policies of Theramenes, the founder of two moderate oligarchic regimes in Athens, policies that aimed at “mov[ing] democratic and oligarch regimes away from conditions of extremism” (329). In this Theramenes resembled Socrates: Both men attempted “to make the regimes in which they [found] themselves less unjust,” and both were “eventually executed at the hands of extremists” (330). They diverged in that the philosopher did not exercise rule or compete with others for public honor, whereas the political man’s “moral hardness” “ensnar[ed] him in political violence” (331).

What does Aristotle’s assessment of Athenian democracy teach moderns? He first teaches that modern liberals such as Rawls, Habermas, and Connally fail to see the “inherently strained and inconsistent” character of democratic politics—freedom and equality, boldness and gentleness, democrats and oligarchs competing for rule (332). “The present focus on liberal culture can be challenged for not taking cultural complexities seriously enough” (332). This means, secondly, that none of the principles advance by modern liberals—pluralism, proceduralism, and the like—will really serve as a guide for liberal democracy because those principles themselves result in “drawbacks” as well as “goods” (333). Precisely because any understanding of democracy that remains on the ‘cultural’ or conventional level involves us in such contradictions and difficulties, no purely cultural/conventional account of liberalism or of democracy will do. A “full consideration” of “the possibilities and dangers of the Athenian polity” will require “a rationality that is not culturally circumscribed”—an ascent form the cave, to coin a phrase (333). “The Regime of Athens‘ need for this sort of theoretical supplementation is signaled by its own incompleteness” (333).

Such supplementation need not involve us in that bugbear of modern philosophy, metaphysics. It emerges rather from the nature of politics itself, from the universal intention of citizens to identify “better and worse public choices” (333). This intention is not exhausted by what has come to be called ‘public choice theory.’ Citizens who reason with one another “practice substantive intellectual and moral virtues”; they do not merely practice “a conversation structured in a certain way” (333). They ruled and are ruled, willingly, and this points them not toward pure democracy or the unfettered rule of the many but to the mixed regime, that institutional embodiment of “political life itself” (334). Theory “should not be understood as a set of systematically related concepts, but as a kind of attentive regard which considers the full range of possibilities and problems facing people living together in a democratic regime”; “political theory is a resource for practical choices, rather than the derivation of political norms from abstract rational or moral principles” (335). For Aristotle, that is what natural right is. Under conditions of modernity, one “decent, flawed regime is liberal democracy,” and it is from there that we must proceed (335).

Stephen S. Salkever distinguishes Aristotelian deliberation from the neo-Kantian theory of ‘deliberative democracy’ advanced by Habermas and Rawls. Deliberative democracy opposes modern liberal contractarianism, liberal utilitarianism, the ‘participatory democracy’ advanced in the 1960s by the New Left, and the communitarianism of such writers as Charles Taylor and Robert Bellah. Deliberative democrats follow Rousseau and Kant in their identification of humanity as “the natural species whose dignity lies in its transcendence of mechanical nature, in moral freedom in obedience to laws its gives itself” (343). Unlike many contractarians and utilitarians, they prize reason as central to good citizenship. They do not, however, recur to reasoning as understood by Aristotle, as “the ability to discover true things about the world and our interests” (346). Rather, they regard public reason as the means by which human beings conquer their own ‘given’ natures as complex but ‘determined’ machines—even as scientific reason discovers and invents the means by which we conquer ‘external’ nature. The need for democratic deliberation comes from the moral requirement of universal consent to the laws formulated by the citizens within political societies: ‘no adult left behind’ might be its slogan.

The deliberation prized by deliberative democrats occurs only within the confines of the regime of democracy itself and only by means of a form of reason that does not question the wisdom of the modern project of the conquest of nature. That is to say, the public reason of deliberative democracy rests on a dogma. It demands that human self-legislation proceed without human self-knowledge or, at least, without reopening the question of human self-knowledge, regarding that question as settled. What it calls the triumph of reason rests on a triumph of the will. Deliberative democracy has decided once and for all on the truth of its own foundations.

“My central contention is that, for Aristotle, the core project of pre-philosophic moral education or character (ethos) development is not to instill duty or responsibility…but to develop a certain kind or practical rationality; and that the business of moral and political philosophy is not to anchor character in theoretical certainty, but to supply us with a set of questions and standards for examining our own characters and regimes and those of others” (354). Practical reason or phronesis aims at particular actions, but it “calls for the study” of political science, which aims at knowledge of human beings as political animals, neither beasts nor gods (355). Reciprocally, one cannot know human nature without the ability to reason about particulars, without the sort of character that has the presence of mind, so to speak to see particulars clearly before ‘generalizing’ from the particulars. Human beings who are fully human exercise prohairesis: “not merely ‘choice’ or ‘intentional choice,’ and certainly not ‘free will,’ but the ability and the inclination to think through the options available to us and then to act on the basis of those deliberations” (355). This is “very hard to do” (355). “We are to learn to treat ethical practices not simply as the endoxa [reputable opinions] that they are, but as if they were criticizable solutions to problems posed by our inherited biological nature under various distinct circumstances, problems concerning how the prohairetic life can best be realized” (356). Ehtics does not consist finally, either in learning rules or in legislating for ourselves. Ethics does not require us to dare to know but to want to know, for our own good.

‘Wanting’ does not oppose reasoning or knowing, Aristotle argues, because desire does not mean a passive response to external stimuli. Desire or eros animates all living beings; human beings differ from others in our capacity for deliberation and reflection upon our desires and their objects. But deliberation and reflection do not oppose the desires as such; therefore, Aristotle needs nothing that transcends the desires—a rational will or categorical imperative, for example. Ethical life instead requires character or ethos, the combination of “emotion, desire, and reason in summing up an individual’s ‘nature,’ an identity formed initially by habituation on the basis of biologically transmitted potentials, but gradually in the course of education becoming active, a motive force in an individual life” (359).

How exactly does character arise, and what has it to do with politics? Fred D. Miller concludes the volume (and continues Salkever’s task of distinguishing Aristotelian ethics from Kantian morality) with an essay distinguishing Aristotelian self-sufficiency or autarchia from modern autonomy, a distinction crucial to understanding the differences between ancient and modern political philosophy. Miller compares the account of education in the Nicomachean Ethics and the Politics with the account of the soul in De Anima, and finds that he has a lot of explaining to do. The moral and political books present the soul as educable for a life of reasonable citizenship, for “knowing both how to rule and how to be ruled on a basis of justice” (376). But in De Anima it seems that desire or orexis animates human beings; at best, then, reason would be a scout for the passions and education would consist of teaching the scout to see farther and more clearly.

But “a careful reading of De Anima reveals that Aristotle is really committed to the rule of reason in his theoretical psychology, so that his philosophy of education is after all supported by his psychology” (380). The reading that follows proves indeed both careful and persuasive. Over-simply put, desire has objects; objects move the soul via desire “but the way in which the object of desire plays this role depends on the cognitive condition of the agent” (382). The ‘I’ that desires the object knows or imagines things ‘about’ what is good for it. Whether I “do the right thing ultimately depends upon whether [I] seek a truly good end as opposed to a seemingly good end, and this depends upon how [I] exercise [my] thought and imagination” (384). This is where prohairesis comes in, as described also by Salkever; Miller identifies three forms of it: deliberative desire (bouleutike orexis); cognitive desire (orexis dianoetike); and desiderative thought (orektikos nous). “This characterization of choice as a commanding element is consistent with the thesis that reaons ultimately initiates action” inasmuch as “reasoning may lead a person to wish for an object” (385). With education, what I want will become more and more reasonable, more and more a reflection of what I should want as a human being living in my circumstances, not the least of which will be the regime of my city. “By revealing to agents their natural end, [reason] enables this end, which is as such unmoved, to become an object of action for the agent, and thereby to bring about desire, the movement or change in the soul which is the proximate cause of action” (385).

Autarchia means this rule of reason in the individual soul, which then recognizes that, as an individual, and even as a member of a family, village, or tribe, it cannot achieve all the goods that it should have. This is where autarchia (usually understood and translated as ‘self-sufficiency’ rather than more literally as ‘self-rule’) finds fulfillment rather than contradiction in the interdependence of political life. The city or polis enables human beings to develop their “natural potentials,” a task they cannot do “on their own” (386). “Hence, the city-state is one of the greatest human goods,” and “when Aristotle declares in De Anima that the faculty of desire is the moving principle in human beings as well as animals, he does not compromise his political ideal of reason’s rule in the human soul,” inasmuch as political ‘autonomy’ for Aristotle consists of “self-government of the citizens under law” (386).

Although Aristotle did not see the modern state, his political science speaks to those who engage in ‘state-building,” not to say regime change, in modernity: “A population fit for political rule satisfies three requirements,” Miller writes, summarizing Aristotle’s observations. “It is capable of defending the city-state, it possesses sufficient wealth, and it is capable of sharing in governance. Such a population must know how to rule as well as be ruled, or else they will only be capable of despotic rule. The hallmark of such a population is equality: ‘The city-state wishes to consist of equal and similar persons as far as possible….'” (387). Moreover, “Political rule requires that the citizens share in governance, taking turns in ruling and being ruled or holding different offices. Each person must be willing to rule with a view to the advantage of others and to yield up authority when it is another person’s turn. This requires that individuals abide by legal procedures governing their term of office, the selection of new officials, and the rights and duties associated with each office.” (387)  A political founder or law-giver must “prepare the citizens for rational self-rule” (390). “Political autonomy (political rule according to law) requires some measure, at least, of individual autonomy (self-governance of the soul): that is, a city-state is (politically) autonomous only if the citizens are (individually) autonomous to some degree” (390). the rule of law consists not of blind obedience but of the prudent and moral use of the law for the ends of the city, including justice.

Whereas modern or ‘Kantian’ autonomy splits reason fro desire and conceives of autonomy as freedom from desire or the conquest of desire by rational self-legislation, Aristotle ‘works with’ desire, seeing that desire pervades all animals, including human animals, and is not in itself bad. Reason is rightly neither the scout for the desires nor their stern ruler but their guide. The autarchic individual “is both ruled by reason and motivated by desire” (394).

This fine volume of essays suggests a concluding thought on what Aristotle might offer to those who think about modern politics. Any science classifies the objects it know; Aristotle’s political science classifies political communities according to their ‘regimes.’ Regimes consist of four elements: ruling persons, ruling structures, an overall end or purpose, and a characteristic way of life. Ruling structures and ends are impersonal; persons and ways of life are not. The ‘personalism’ of Aristotelian political science contrasts with the principled impersonality of the modern state, whether considered as a structure—a bureaucracy in which each employee directs his loyalty to his function in the apparatus, not toward some person—or as an expression of the General Will, impersonal because general. The impersonality of the modern state is one result of the impersonality of Machiavellianism; if the ruler or ‘prince’ means not to be good or evil, but to use good or evil, then ‘he’ is nothing more than a throbbing nerve of libido dominandi, one set against persons divine and human who have characters. Rule by persons distinguishes itself from rule by persons who want to remake themselves into forces by its origin in speech and deliberation, particularly speech and deliberation about what is good and how to attain that good. The conquest of nature commended by Machiavelli must finally require the conquest of human nature, embodied in persons who speak and deliberate.

Liberalism therefore seem un-modern in its commitment to freedom of speech. Modern liberals much esteem speech, so much so that they require toleration of all speech, marking off a sphere for talk within the modern state, the ruling apparatus of which wants above all to act. This great achievement of liberalism has moderated the Machiavellian project, which might otherwise have done even more to efface humanness from the world.