Harvey C. Mansfield, Jr.: Machiavelli’s Effectual Truth: Creating the Modern World. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2023.

 

This review was originally published in Perspectives on Political Science. Volume 53, Number 2 (2024). Republished with permission.

 

In The Prince, Machiavelli adjures his reader not to attempt to understand things in terms of Platonic ideas or Aristotelian substances—in terms of what things are—but in the surer, more visible, terms of what their effects are. This evidently comports with his Heraclitan claim that nothing stable exists, that change is the only constant. To put it another way, “Machiavelli’s effectual truth is opposed to the truth according to nature” (3) This is a philosophic claim and Mansfield shows that Machiavelli is indeed a philosopher, unrecognized as such by most academic philosophers today—moreover, a philosopher whose influence has endured, not only among the philosophers who succeeded him but in the way our world now works. The effectual truth of Machiavelli is that he not only understood the modern world but created it. In keeping with such creativity, “Machiavelli appears to have invented the word effectual” (3). He was able to do so by giving his philosophic successors, preeminently Montesquieu (another philosopher unrecognized as such) the scope to exercise their own formidable capacities of invention or creation, while remaining within the line of thought Machiavelli forged. Mansfield opposes the assumption of most scholars, who take Machiavelli and his writings to have products of their time and place, the Italian Renaissance. Against these historicists, Mansfield assets that “modernity had a founding rather than an emergence, a founding by a philosopher, the philosopher being Machiavelli, who was a philosopher” (4).

These are large claims. Mansfield vindicates them in seven chapters, seven being the number of days in which, the Bible testifies, God created the world. The character of the world, and the character of creation, loom large in Mansfield’s interpretation of what Machiavelli calls his “enterprise.” Unlike God, Machiavelli could not effectively create a world in seven days, or even in his own lifetime. He needed the effectual truth to be instantiated by succeeding thinkers and doers, philosophers and political men.

They would do so by obeying what Machiavelli says is necessity. “Necessity pays no regard to the complete nature of a virtue that is distinct from accidental circumstances” (6). Necessity requires thinkers and doers alike to cultivate the classical or Christian moral virtues that complete or ‘save’ human beings according to their nature but to cultivate virtù, which empowers men to master the slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune, using them as weapons against their rivals. [1] “Using” is exactly the right word, as Machiavellians do not have honesty or dishonesty, fidelity or infidelity, charity or miserliness; they use them in order to rule. Although Machiavelli does not hold up Bacon’s project, the modern scientific project of conquering nature for the relief of man’s estate, he “anticipates” it “more or less clearly” (6). Scientific “facts,” etymologically related to “effectual” things, by necessity tell you what to do, but also enable men of virtù to manipulate them. Human nature itself is malleable. “The ‘is’ of necessity leads to the ‘ought’ of necessity” (8). That is, the lure of the conquest of fortune and of nature will keep subsequent philosophers and doers more or less in line, not despite but because of their own grand ambitions, ambitions fired by the experience of reading Machiavelli, whose overarching ambition they perpetuate and perfect.

Although Machiavelli famously or notoriously deprecates imagined principalities, such as Plato’s ideal republic or Augustine’s City of God, imagination itself remains, albeit redirected from “imagined things ‘above’ this world” to future things within it (12). Imagination must be “disciplined by fear and advantage in this world, fear of failure and perception of the main chance afforded by the effectual truth” (12). (“Strange but true, the word ‘effectual’ made its way into the king James version of the Bible in 1611,” about a century after Machiavelli passed on to his reward.”) (12). Thus disciplined, imagination enables one to conceive of an impresa, that is, an enterprise or a campaign in a war which, like Christianity, is a spiritual war primarily, one that may entail physical wars. Imagination and deed can now be brought together. “Borrowing their unification from Christianity, and transforming the sovereignty of God into the government of necessity,” Machiavelli “had to show that what Christianity did through revelation as opposed to philosophy, he would do through philosophy alone” (15). That is, God’s providence, acknowledged in the formidable, prayerful, “Thy will be done,” gives way to the combination of natural necessity and human virtù; the effectual truth of necessity now dominated by the effective thought, speech, and actions of Machiavellians. This Machiavelli has done, as seen in the continued existence of the modernity he founded. “By substituting necessity for the good, and effectual truth for the imaginary truth, Machiavelli has made a fundamental change in the relation of philosophy to politics” (20). In this, he is, despite his many successors, uno solo, a man alone (29). Machiavelli’s perspective on political science is that politics as Aristotle understands it, as ruling and being ruled in turn, should not and cannot really exist, that the ultimate relation is that of one ruler over the ruled, of masterly or perhaps parental rule, rule for the good of the master or for the good of the master and his subjects or ‘children’—their good now defined in terms of virtù, not virtue. The Christian as child of God gives way to the prince as child of Machiavelli, ruling children of his own.

Machiavelli, then, is the prophet of the modern world because he is a king or prince of the modern world; he created it by discovering and asserting “the fundamental principle that builds and maintains the modern world” to this day (32). He has been ‘saved’ not by God but by himself, having achieved “a life beyond life” by his own efforts, with no divine assistance. As for the soul, Machiavelli hints that it does not exist, either. Instead of souls, human beings have “humors”; the few seek dominance, the many seek to resist domination. Whereas Aristotle sought to reconcile the few and the many via his “mixed regime,” consisting of a harmonious agreement between the two factions, Machiavelli lauds the two factions. Both seek to acquire, in defiance of classical moderation and the Biblical injunction against greed. They must acquire because they fear one another, and so need to provide for themselves against one another. To found and maintain a sound political regime, men must be brought back to that primal fear of one another, and of fortune. Their very disharmony brings life to republics, animated not by agreement but mutual hatred. Animosity inspires virtù. “The goal of virtù,” the goal of the prince, whether spiritual or political, is the power and the glory, world without end (47). “The prudence of a prince can put his form on the material of his principality” (55), and Machiavelli’s principality is the modern world he foresees/imagines, rules (‘in spirit’) and creates, by the grace of fear and acquisitiveness, well-used.

But are they well used? “To make a judgment on the success of Machiavelli’s enterprise one must be aware of the alternative to it in the classical tradition” (70). For an account of that tradition, Mansfield turns to the one who upheld it against Machiavelli, Leo Strauss. Yet Strauss used one aspect of Machiavellianism against Machiavelli even as Machiavelli used one aspect of Christianity against God. He effected a line of philosophic captains, called ‘Straussians,’ of whom Mansfield himself has been rumored to number. And indeed, Mansfield acknowledges that in his book, Thoughts on Machiavelli, Strauss identifies Machiavelli as a philosopher and as the founder of modernity, judgments Mansfield has affirmed. Strauss further identifies the Bible as book that “sets for the demands of morality and religion in their purest and most intransigent form,” a formula that “appears to leave open the possibility that philosophy, whether classical or Machiavellian, might find a reasonable substitute that does not attempt an impossible purity, that does not seek to remove the taint of unreason arising from every human being’s (including every philosopher’s) necessary concern with his own body” (78). Machiavellian philosophy, by contrast, opposes both the Bible, “which says that man needs God, and the classical tradition, which says that he needs nature” (78).

Machiavelli thus partakes of some of the nobility of philosophy, the province or principality of only a few persons in any generation. He “teaches evil,” as Strauss wrote, in the sense that he undermines all antecedent forms of morality; accordingly, he makes the young his principal audience, not the old men brought up under those forms. Machiavelli does not, however, undermine morality simply, for the many who do not philosophize cannot be ruled very long unless convinced that what they are commanded to do is right. Machiavelli’s new morality will consist of orderly pursuit of acquisition by the many and resistance to princes who interfere with that orderly acquisition. He arranges things so that the great ambitions of the few will seem less blameworthy to the many, now with their own more modest ambitions.

As for Strauss, by juxtaposing Machiavelli to the Bible and to classical philosophy, he shows that the Great Tradition, seen in the Great Books, deploys a sort of Machiavellian device against any unthinking appropriation of Machiavellianism. Rather like the conflict between the few and the many in a republic, in which their opposition gives each a degree of liberty even as each side acknowledges the necessity of guarding itself against the other, so do the Great Books sustain the liberty of thought necessary to philosophizing by its train of authors who contradict one another. Ancients and moderns, reason and revelation confront one another, forcing those who attend to them to think. “Strauss has no enterprise aiming at conquering the world” but he does intend “to contribute towards the recovery of the permanent problems” (85 n.26). 

During the course of this chapter, Mansfield notes that Machiavelli lacks any sense of the tragic. In tragedy, we are invited to admire the hero while weeping at the consequences, the effectual truth, of his flaw. Like morality itself, the tragic hero demands to be taken seriously. Comedy inclines to deflate such claims, to laugh at flaws, to ridicule failure. Mansfield’s following chapter, central to the book, concerns Machiavelli’s comedy, Mandragola. “The Mandragola makes for a good introduction to Machiavelli” (95). If so, why does Mansfield place it fourth in a sequence of seven chapters? The placement is a spur to wonder, the beginning point of philosophizing. The chapter itself partakes of comedy and one might be pardoned for thinking it even more entertaining than the play itself. Although rather smutty, “the play is about morality, not about eros” (96). Machiavelli portrays a childless couple, a wife who cannot conceive a child because her husband is impotent or sterile. She needs a stud, a lusty lover, to inseminate her. The wife’s name, Lucrezia, recalls ancient Rome’s Lucretia, whose rape “occasioned the founding of a republic” (97) when outrage over the crime inspired people to raise against the tyrant who committed the crime. In his Discourse on Livy, however, Machiavelli treats “these affairs” in a manner “altogether distant from the chaste spirit of republicanism” in ancient Rome (98), the chastity that makes erotic longing more intense both in the classical world and in the Christian world of knights in shining armor. In the Mandragola, the seduction, rather than the rape, of Lucrezia is treated with a spirit equally distant from ancient republicanism. It is a play about keeping up the appearance of morality, depicting an intricate conspiracy in which all the players—wife, husband, lover, priest, matchmaker/pander—effectively collaborate to get what they want, betraying “every ordinary human trust” while never letting on that trust has been betrayed (101). Everyone acts out of considered necessity, including the necessity to pretend that morality and the trust that morality generates, the trust that holds republics together, has remained as inviolate, as chaste, as Lucrezia is persuaded, and persuades herself, to be. The priest/fox/sophist persuades her, and in doing so demonstrates that Christianity, or at least Christian priests, might be adapted, used, for Machiavellian ends, as indeed they were in many of the modern states founded by Machiavellian princes, who subordinated the church to the state in still another example of acquisition. In all, “Men need to believe in order to trust one another, and to trust one another in order to work together, and to work together in order to survive” (113). Morality is necessary, even if it is necessary to invent a new morality. Lucrezia’s impregnation is a parody of Mary impregnation by the Holy Spirit, whom Machiavelli thereby suggest was neither holy nor a spirit. The new morality of virtuosity aims at the mastery of Fortuna, to which topic Mansfield turns in the final three chapters.

He begins by contrasting Machiavelli with his contemporary ‘civic humanists,’ with whom he is often lumped by careless scholars. The matter is philosophically important: to borrow Socrates’ image, does Machiavelli ascend from the cave that represents the conventional opinions of his time and place, including the conventional academic opinions, or does he not? Is such an ascent even possible? Mansfield maintains that it is and proves it by contrasting Machiavelli’s thought with that of “the hero of ‘civic humanism,'” Leonardo Bruni, a serious man of formidable learning (127). The great historian Jacob Burckhardt errs in as it were folding Machiavellian thought into the Renaissance, in effect making the Renaissance somewhat ‘Machiavellian’; other, lesser, scholars even more carelessly fold Machiavelli into Renaissance humanism, making him seem more or less the same as Bruni and Petrarch. Mansfield has a high old time needling the likes of Hans Baron, J.G.A. Pocock, and Quentin Skinner, who take this position; it would be a mistake to assume that his own comedy ends with the chapter on the Mandragola. One such person, he writes, “seized on civic humanism and used it for all it was worth, and more” (13)). Another invokes Aristotle’s thought, as “beamed through the ontology of Martin Heidegger” (131). Admirers of the civic humanists “in fact” (as Machiavelli might say) “would not want to live in the polis if it meant doing without clean underwear—which it does” (132) While having his fun, Mansfield also gets down to business, remarking that while Bruni’s Laudato Florentinae Urbis “remains very much within the Aristotelian tradition” of epideictic rhetoric, praising Florence as Rome’s worthy successor in order to inspire it to live up to the praise, Machiavelli intends to set Florence and the rest of Italy and indeed the world generally on a course that will depart both from ancient and Catholic-Christian Rome. Most pointedly in terms of political science, Bruni looks to the classical idea of the regime as the central concern of that science. But “whereas Bruni, following Plato, considers the site [of the city] as a place for a regime, Machiavelli considers it so as to bring out the necessities that override the choice of regimes” (139). Machiavelli’s ‘geopolitics’ puts emphasis on the ‘geo’ as a means of spurring princes to conquer it. The earth is not God-given, only a pile of clay susceptible to remodeling by hands wielded by men of virtù. The regime question, which depends upon the answer to the question, ‘What is justice?’ takes second fiddle, at most. “The political is essentially tyrannical; no one who rules acts for the common good”; “effectually politics is acquisitive tyranny” (141). This notwithstanding, and speaking for himself, Mansfield is far from dismissing men like Bruni: “It seems to me that on the whole the humanists understood politics better than we do”—for starters, they took Aristotle seriously—and “possibly even better than Machiavelli” (146). The same cannot be said for their enthusiastic admirers of the past half-century.

It might even be that one could fault Machiavelli’s approach to the conquest of fortune from within the framework of his effectual truth. For such a critique, Mansfield turns to Montesquieu and his magisterial The Spirit of the Laws, a work in which the philosopher (whose philosophic status, like Machiavelli’s, is equally denied by academic philosophers today) makes a show of rejecting “Machiavellianism” while tacitly showing how its effectual truth can be made more effective. Again following Strauss, who demonstrates the importance of the central passages of certain kind of books but also the importance of the longest chapter within them, Mansfield devotes by far his longest chapter to Montesquieu not only because Montesquieu wrote an unusually long book himself but because he wrote an unusually subtle and important one. In writing about this chapter, one can only skim the surface, although it may be that the surface of a thing tells one something about what lies beneath.

“Through Montesquieu’s relationship with Machiavelli, one may find the key to the argument of this marvelous work as a whole” (151). While “draw[ing] the foundation of his work from Machiavelli’s critique of the ancients and of Christianity, summed up in his notion of effectual truth,” Montesquieu “corrects the influence of Machiavelli, known as Machiavellianism, because it maintains rather than removes the error it was meant to criticize” (151). By emphasizing the rule of “one alone,” the rule of a prince of the (modern) state or the rule of a prince of thought, Machiavelli is despotic, all-too-despotic. He is, one might even venture to say, insufficiently comical; he does not apply his characteristic ‘reductionism’ to the pretensions of loners. Montesquieu’s “disapproval of despotism” is “the spring behind his most characteristic political teaching, the constitutionalism of separation of powers and of checks and balances that is to ensure the power of ‘one alone’ does not prevail” (151). “Montesquieu departs from the orders of Machiavelli in replacing the shock of encountering the world”—the use of a spectacular act of cruelty to leave the people satisfied and stupefied—with “the impression (producing the ‘opinion’) of comfort and trust we know as ‘security'” (155). For him, necessity remains both a sobering reality and a thing to be mastered, but it is not as harsh. To be sure, Plato’s Laws, in which the argument might be said to circle back around to the argument of his Republic is (in Montesquieu’s phrase) “not suitable today” (157), and perhaps never—partaking, as it does, too much of an illiberal despotism. But so does Machiavelli’s republicanism, on display in the Discourses. Similarly, the Biblical God, preeminently “One Alone,” rules with an iron fist. But there is a way of ruling, and of acquiring the things that men want, that isn’t despotic. Commerce is “a topic of extreme importance to Montesquieu” because “commerce softens the harsh mores of the ancient republic and enables regimes to devote themselves to peace rather than incessant war” (159). Commerce requires the rule of law bolstered by an independent judiciary, neither conducive to despotism. Commerce replaces the passion despotism instantiates with mild “interest,” guided by a “sense of dispassionate calculation” (160, 161)—the ‘modern’ substitute for classical phronēsis. More precisely, it emerges from the Machiavellian passion of acquisition, tempering it without transforming it into a classical, much less a Christian, virtue. “Machiavelli is correct that the passions govern mankind, but he did not understand how they can work to cure their own vicious effects” (162). He may not have tried very hard to inquire into the possibility.

But what, exactly, does Montesquieu mean by the spirit of the laws? Machiavelli relegates law to the status of a mere product of force smartly or stupidly used. Montesquieu takes law much more seriously, although he too attends to the “spirit” that animates a given set of laws. While laws are formed and executed by spirited men, they also form “the general spirit, the mores and the manners of a nation,” Montesquieu insists (164). The modern philosophers writing in the centuries between Machiavelli and Montesquieu imagined a ‘state of nature’ whose necessities drove men to form the civil societies that framed laws for themselves, but “Montesquieu does not adopt the liberal state of nature” (165). Like Hobbes and Locke, he does want to “enlighten men by drawing from them their prejudices,” which they used the state-of-nature doctrine to do so, but he will do so by “relying on [men’s] flexibility, not on a fixed nature found by consulting the state of nature,” rejecting “the simplification of politics in the liberal state of nature previously set forth because it substitutes a theory for careful reasoning and thus abstraction for awareness” (166).

Far from rejecting the materialism of the moderns, Montesquieu “compares the government as well as the soul to the mechanism of a watch that has a spring that makes it work, distinct from other parts” (166) A “spring” of the soul obviously is not “spirit” in the Christian sense, resembling rather Machiavelli’s term, animo, which contrasts with anima, the Latin word for the Greek psyche, seen, for example, in the title given to Aristotle’s book on the subject. For Montesquieu, the effectual truth of the spirit of the laws is equally “as human as the mechanism of a watch” (167)—man-made. But the effectual truth of Machiavelli and Hobbes denies scope for human liberty, having yielded absolute monarchy or princeliness in European political practice. A more subtle and measured account of human action is, to borrow their own term, necessary. In the numerology deployed by both Machiavelli and Montesquieu, the number seventeen denotes nature. Sure enough, seventeen relations form the components of “what is called THE SPIRIT OF THE LAWS,” as Montesquieu fairly shouts to his readers. These include the main physical characteristics of the country, “to which the laws are related,” “the relations of the laws, both civil and political, to one another” (170) That is, for Montesquieu nature isn’t something to be understood as a whole, as a cosmos, let alone a cosmos created by God, but as a set of things, human nature being “the various encounters humans have with nature,” things “isolated in separate kinds, each responsible as the cause of human responses in their positive laws” (170). This could not be farther from a distinction without a difference with respect to its implications for political science. By ‘complexifying’ nature and the relationship of human beings to it, Montesquieu denies the possibility of effectively conquering it by the virtù of ‘one alone.’ Princeliness of philosophers and political men alike must stand aside, giving “room for choice” and balance among this “large number of specific necessities” (170). Not the “friendly companion,” the cosmos, the “home for man” posited by the classical philosophers nor the “enemy to be mastered” posted by the moderns, nature gives man space to be “neither passive nor aggressive but reactive in a spirit of self-defense against necessity, shown in human laws rather than in Machiavellian virtù, hence moderately” (170).Montesquieu downgrades necessity to “the ‘spirit’ that moves men to act, distinct from the reason or end toward which one moves,” as propounded by classical political science, while making the constitutional mechanisms of separation and balance of powers more consistent with if not identical to the Lucretian nature of things and the Machiavellian way of the world (171).

In Montesquieu, classification of forms of government follows neither Aristotle’s regime theory nor Machiavelli’s classification of states into principalities and republics, although he is closer to Machiavelli. He divides the rule of the one into monarchy, whose “spring” is honor—a false honor philosophically but “useful to the public” because it combines obedience to the will of the prince with obedience of both prince and people to the laws (173). It is therefore “moderate” in Montesquieu’s own, un-Aristotelian way, one “compatible with” the “materialism of effectual truth” (174). Despotism, whose “spring” is fear, is the rule of the one without the rule of law, much less useful to the people for that reason. When the people themselves ruled in the ancient republics, the “spring” of government was virtue, later “epitomized in the monks devoting themselves to the virtue of the Christian republic” (177). Such austerity amounts to still another form of despotism, a despotism of the many; “the virtue of the ancients runs into despotism and destroys itself,” as indeed it did in Rome, its republicanism giving way to Caesarism, its Caesarism to Christianity (178). Mansfield notes that all three of these political forms, including monotheistic Christianity, exemplify the rule of “one alone”; Christian and modern political thought and practice bear down hard on human liberty. “The practice of the ancient republics of relying on virtue leaves them in the situation of having to decide whether to excuse or punish its absence, which is either too weak or too strong” (180). This is precisely the situation of governments under the dominion of Christianity (itself “the effectual truth of Socratic philosophy” [188]): whether “to follow the New Testament and forgive or the Old Testament and punish severely” (186). Machiavelli’s critique is sound but his cure no better; modern states, Montesquieu famously writes, themselves need to be cured of their Machiavellianism.

The cure is a new republic, one constructed to avoid the despotism inherent in the old republics. Its “spirit” is “negativity, enshrined in the separation of powers, and its most characteristic end, the opinion of each person that his liberty is secure” (195). This republic derives not from the state of nature, which “the fearful one alone” escapes by contracting with similarly fearful ‘ones’ (196). It derives instead from the experience, the spirit, of England, in which Montesquieu discovers “the individual,” the one “we know today in a civil society of political liberty” (196). Montesquieu calls England “the only nation in the world whose constitution has political liberty for its direct purpose” (196). Borrowing the notion of “power” from Hobbes, Montesquieu shows that England separates and distributes it into the legislative, the executive, and the judicial branches of government. In the power of negation inherent in each, ‘between the slats,’ as the saying goes, the English citizen-individual enjoys the opinion of his own liberty. No philosopher designed this regime and no priest or set of priests rules it. Nor do the people, who register their opinions politically by the device of representation. The liberty of the people is best characterized not as full security but negatively, as a sense of inquietude; they rule themselves not by strict reason, as philosopher-kings might do, but by a sort of reasonableness. One thinks of Locke’s formula, the reasonableness of Christianity. They exercise reasonableness in civil society by practicing liberty of commerce; the few philosophers living in such regimes will practice commerce in what would later become known as the marketplace of ideas, practicing the study of what our contemporary academics now call the topic of ‘comparative regimes,’ a practice at which Montesquieu himself was no slouch. Incidentally, in his liberal—now in the sense of generous, hospitable—spirit does Montesquieu not seem reminiscent of a great man who lived between himself and Machiavelli, another man now seldom classified as a philosopher, Michel de Montaigne?

For both citizens and philosophers, “nature is not man’s enemy, as with Machiavelli, Hobbes, and Locke; the human spirit of liberty thrives in the cold [climate] that forces reactive industriousness upon us” (202). Lazy priests come out of the hot climates of the East and the South; they have no just place in the bracing winds of the North, since such men preach that industry is punishment for sin. At the same time, the ambition to conquer nature stoked by the philosophers of modern science resembles “in its rigid universality” the “religions it replaced,” tending toward “a universal doctrine of rigid destiny”—a not-so-divine form of providence (205). Belief in that doctrine accounts for the principal weakness of the English, their tendency to commit suicide, despairing of the very liberty they should enjoy. Such Baconianism must be cured, being a form of Machiavellianism—itself the one wrongful piece of Machiavelli’s thought. “A free constitution needs a free self” (207). A free self secures its preservation but also maintains the liberty that secures its pleasure and happiness.

Similarly, in philosophizing one needs the liberty to think for oneself. Hence the exoteric character of philosophic writing, ancient and modern, and the esoteric character of philosophic thought. “It is never enough for readers to be told what is there in the text, for they will never be convinced by someone else’s discoveries. One must make them for oneself; that is why they are hidden.” (209). One cannot discover a secret concealed by a writer without exercising reason, thought governed by the principle of noncontradiction, first enunciated by Socrates. In this, Montesquieu, Machiavelli, Aristotle, and Plato concur, and their disagreements also invite their readers to and then require their readers to exercise reason. Mansfield demonstrates that such inquiry can find things, that “one should not lose heart” in observing the contradictions of great men or the varieties of “spirit” seen in the world (209).

Mansfield characterizes “the three central books of The Spirit of the Laws” (Books 15-17) as a consideration of civil and political liberty against slavery, which at core is a consideration of how to “save” liberalism “from the slavery to philosophy it has inherited from Machiavelli” (210). If the modern state Machiavelli invented is large and centralized, and therefore inclined to tyranny, its very size (deemed necessary for effective self-defense and acquisition) enables its civil society to be distinguished from its government in a way that the small, centralized ancient polis could never be. In commending this distinction, Montesquieu extends and complicates the liberalism of John Locke. Locke finds political liberty in the social contract which men have made to emerge from the state of nature, a condition of “perfect freedom” nonetheless “within the bound of the law of nature” (210). But this oversimplifies nature, as Mansfield has shown, making it too much a thing of necessity, too ‘Machiavellian,’ impinging upon the liberty Locke esteems. To save political liberty from philosophers’ overly necessitarian conception of the nature of things, Montesquieu introduces the topic of “women,” who symbolize philosophers, and their relation to “men,” who symbolize politics. Women-philosophers are fickle of spirit and indiscreet, gossipy, as may readily be seen in such examples as Machiavelli and Socrates. But this is admissible in a modern republic, preferable to the enslavement of women seen in in the ‘Oriental despotism’ of, for example, Persia (where, the eunuchs, by the way, in Montesquieu’s hands symbolize “the priests of in the Church”) (212). Women-philosophers should enjoy the liberty republicanism affords them, but legislators should reign them in a bit by “giv[ing] effect to their natural modesty or shame”—in the case of philosophers, “the shame of their original imperfection, their ignorance” (212). (For Montesquieu, one might suppose, not a certain kind of knowledge but ignorance is the original sin.) That is, Enlightenment philosophes should rethink their project—set a “damper on “their ambition and turn it to moderation,” become more ‘politic’ (213). Philosophy is the highest form of commerce; ergo, its practitioners should take care to become ‘economical’ in their bearing. It is true that modern commerce, now far more wide-ranging and precisely aimed than its counterpart in earlier epochs—thanks to the compass, an instrument of modern science—cannot “produce voyages that compare with ‘the charms of the Odyssey and the magnificence of the Aeneid‘” (221), and the money that serves as the instrument of commerce lends itself to the establishment of “the impersonal state rather than Machiavelli’s stato,” and even “excludes a personal God as well” (222). It may be, Mansfield suggests, that Montesquieu contemplates a time when the wisdom of the ancients might “come in handy” (223), unironically, not in the Baconian spirit. If modernity “is not permanent, it may be wise not to obliterate previous sects, as new sects like to do” (223).

Consequently, “Montesquieu is careful to set himself at some distance from Machiavelli’s,” and the Enlightenment philosophe Pierre Bayle’s, “hostility to Christianity” (224). Christianity’s gentleness sets it apart from despotism, even if its monotheism tracks too closely to ‘one alone.’ (One might even suggest that its trinitarianism resembles the wholesome separation of powers.) Machiavelli’s conspiracy against the soul, which the Christian God would save for Himself and for its own good, and his liberation of the desire to acquire in the name of harsh necessity, will not simply be abandoned but it will be tempered. Montesquieu “softens the harshness of modern subordination to necessity—no extreme measures!—and calls it moderation” (228). (One recalls Nietzsche’s indignant counter-thrust: this is mediocrity that is but called moderation—to which Montesquieu might reply, ‘Just so, and consider the effective truth of your stricture, in the centuries since you wrote it.’)

Montesquieu’s political philosophy retains natural right among the several sorts of law. It is no longer “the dominant principle of all principles as with Plato’s idea of the good or Aristotle’s archē,” but it survives as knowledge of “how the order of laws must relate to the things of nature being enacted upon and in not causing confusion among the plural principles that should govern men” (228), a prophylaxis the principle of non-contradiction has the power to effect. Nor does human reason need “to conquer nature,” with the earlier moderns; “instead, it can come to terms with nature as the ‘order of things.'” (228). As for natural law, as distinguished from natural right, “natural sentiments” replace them both, in anticipation of Adam Smith, that eminent philosopher of commerce (229). Human law now “takes a path that could be understood as natural and in this way to replace natural law” (236). In all of this, Montesquieu carefully distances politics from philosophy, married by the Church and not divorced by Machiavelli. Looking ahead to future excesses, Montesquieu would reject any religion of humanity as a return to simplisme. Political philosophy is good, so long as it restrains itself from becoming all too political; Christianity is also good, so long as it restrains itself from becoming all too political. This is to say that Montesquieu “legislates not as a founder, all at once, like his predecessors the ancients and the early moderns, but in his way, ‘little by little,’ through history” (237). “He will be a rare prince of moderation and discretion” (237). If the spirit of the laws “is its reason,” reason is seen in the variety of laws, adapting itself circumstances in the in the variety of places for the varieties of people, as the peoples move through time (238). Reasoning that ‘abstracts from’ the various natural and conventional, and natural-conventional, things has the effect of despotism in philosophy and in the state—that is, in theory and in practice. Within that modern state, Machiavelli’s inclination to erase the forms of aristocracy, of nobility (along with the sense of the good and of the noble), foments despotism, as Tocqueville would warn, a century later. The modern state needs a civil society with groups of men organized to resist the despotic inclinations of ambitious ‘executives.’ Among these, the philosophers should thrive, so long as they do no more than inherit the quest of wisdom from one another and do not seek to rule as if they have achieved comprehensive wisdom, even and especially about the effectual truth of things, which becomes visible in time but is hard to see ahead of time. In light of this teaching, Montesquieu may be said to have issued a firm warning to the Enlightenment philosophes he inspired.

Mansfield concludes his study with that very Tocqueville and his “startling Machiavellianism” (247). He, too, “feared that philosophy had become dogmatic and was giving bad advice to society as well as to other philosophers,” concluding “that the best way to oppose a bad philosophy was to show it bad effects rather than to argue openly against its mistaken premises” (249). But perhaps going beyond Montesquieu’s correction of Old Nick, Tocqueville opposes materialism with praise of spirituality as a way of moderating the effects of civil-social egalitarianism. In civil society itself, he moderates egalitarianism not by opposing democracy with by-now-weakened aristocrats (who might at best serve as benevolent ‘guides’ of democracy), but with civic associations consistent with democracy but resistant to its excesses. The risk Tocqueville sees is that with Machiavelli’s “destruction of gentlemanly honor the principle of egalitarian democracy is given entrance, later to develop into the spiritless sort of democratic republicanism Machiavelli did not want,” a form of government wherein “the princely element of mastery becomes the centralized administration” the Tocqueville calls “the science of despotism” (251). For “if risk can be contained by rational control, there is little or no need for virtue—or even of Machiavellian virtù—and rigorous necessity can be led by degrees to security and comfort, leaving honor and glory behind” (251). “Instead of giving aristocracy new life, Machiavelli had destroyed it with his formula of ferocity and cunning, lion and fox,” thereby inadvertently founding “modern democracy” (255). Now, it should be observed that Tocqueville doesn’t quite say that, saying rather that modern democracy evolved in rather the manner Montesquieu might expect, beginning not with Machiavelli but Christianity. Further, Christianity revealed what the ancient philosophers had reasoned out for and among themselves, that human beings are all equal in the sense of being all of the same natural species. It is this that enables Tocqueville to combine, as Mansfield so well puts it, “democracy, Christianity, and ancient nobility in a whole”—although “democratic overall,” to be sure (256). In this sense, “From Machiavelli…Tocqueville has learned how to reacquire the world” (258).

 

Note

1. Strictly speaking, of course, Christian virtues do not save Christians souls; God does. Christian virtues are perfections of the soul made possible by the indwelling of God in the soul of the Christian, whose soul has been converted, turned around toward God thanks to the unmerited grace of God.

Pierre Hadot: Philosophy as a Way of Life: Spiritual Exercises from Socrates to Foucault. Michael Chase translation. Oxford: Blackwell, 1995.

 

One who loves wisdom, pursues it steadily as lovers will do, may organize his life around that love. To organize one’s life is to subject it to a regime, complete not only with a purpose but means of achieving that purpose—a way of life. Political communities also have regimes, and the individual, family, and social regimes within those regimes may find themselves in conflict with that more extensive regime, a conflict Socrates saw and eventually came to symbolize. 

Socrates wrote nothing. The evidence presented against him at trial was ‘hearsay’ evidence, exclusively. We know of him primarily because contemporary writers wrote about him: Aristophanes, Plato, Xenophon. Writers are equally subject to political regimes because what they write has a purpose and a way about it, a regime, either or both of which may or may not prove palatable to their fellow citizens. Writings, then, are also regimes within regimes. The form of any writing is its ‘genre.’ In considering philosophy as a way of life and philosophic writings as one aspect of that way, Hadot rightly observes that “a text should be interpreted in light of the literary genre to which it belongs.” For example, Augustine’s Confessions is “essentially a theological work,” not an autobiography as we moderns tend to think. Augustine’s long and even tortured story of stealing pears when a youth symbolizes “the forbidden fruit stolen from the Garden of Eden, and the episode gives him the opportunity to develop a theological reflection on the nature of sin.” (Similarly, André Malraux maintained that the Confessions isn’t really autobiographical at all, “and it ends with a treatise on metaphysics.”) In Augustine’s literary genre, “it is extremely difficult to distinguish between a symbolic enactment and an account of a historical event.” “Understanding a work of antiquity requires placing it in the group from which it emanates”—that is, its philosophic ‘school,’ itself a regime—in “the tradition of [the school’s] dogmas, its literary genre, and requires understanding its goals.” “One must attempt to distinguish what the author was required to say, what he could or could not say, and, above all, what he meant to say,” since “the ancient author’s art consists in his skillfully using, in order to arrive at his goals, all the constraints that weigh upon him as well as the models furnished by the tradition.”

Ancient philosophic writings, and indeed ancient writings generally, formed a link between speakers who wrote nothing and writers. Ancient writings were ‘oral’ in the sense of having been dictated to a scribe and having been intended to be read aloud. “Writing is only an aid to memory, a last resort that will never replace the living word.” If a writer intends to teach his readers, he must remember that “true education is always oral because only the spoken word makes dialogue possible, that is, it makes it possible for the disciple to discover the truth himself amid the interplay of questions and answers and also for the master to adapt his teaching to the needs of the disciple”; “what is inscribed in the soul by the spoken word is more real and lasting than letters drawn on papyrus or parchment.” That being so, there are still ways in which written words might be made to produce some of the effects of spoken words. “Although every written work is a monologue the philosophical work is always implicitly a dialogue,” “tak[ing] into account the level of the interlocutor, and the concrete tempo of the logos in which it is expressed.” Ancient philosophic writers are not ‘system builders’ in the manner of Kant or Hegel. “This is obviously true in the case of Plato’s dialogues, but it is equally true in the case of the lectures of Aristotle,” which are not “manuals or systematic treatises,” as “many Aristotelian scholars” now tend to assume. First and foremost, if not exclusively, Aristotle “intended to train his students in the technique of using correct methods in logic, the natural sciences, and ethics.” Ancient writings are “written not so much to inform the reader of a doctrinal content but to form him, to make him traverse a certain itinerary in the course of which he will make spiritual progress,” as seen in “all the detours, starts and stops, and digressions of the work”; “for the Platonists, for example, even mathematics is used to train the soul to raise itself from the sensible to the intelligible,” as seen in the Meno. We moderns “have forgotten how to pause, liberate ourselves from our worries, return into ourselves, and leave aside our search for subtlety and originality, in order to meditate calmly, ruminate, and let the texts speak to us”—submit to the regime of “a spiritual exercise, and one of the most difficult.” That is because “the works of antiquity are produced under entirely different conditions than those of their modern counterparts,” and with a somewhat different purpose. Hadot writes “to eliminate the preconception the word hilosophy may evoke in the modern mind.”

A spiritual exercise in the philosophic sense submits to the regime of reasoning, of thought ruled by the principle of non-contradiction. (Indeed, lawyers still employ the phrase, ‘the rule of reason.’)  If an ancient writer contradicts himself, this may be less a sign of incompetence as a strategy to provoke the reader into thinking for himself. More than that, a spiritual exercise is “existential,” “putting into action all kinds of means” with the intention of acting upon the reader’s whole soul, including the soul’s imagination and sentiments. “Philosophy thus took on the form of an exercise of the thought, will, and the totality of one’s being, the goal of which was to achieve a state practically inaccessible to mankind: wisdom.” In the spiritual exercise, “we must represent to ourselves in vivid colors the dangers of such-and-such a passion, and use striking formulations of ideas in order to exhort ourselves,” forming habits of life and “fortify[ing] ourselves by preparing ourselves against hardships in advance.” This is not the stuff of systematic treatises, which attempt to lay out the nature of things, including our own nature, by means of words, discourse. But the existence, the life, of a human soul is never quite reducible to such treatment. “That’s why it often happens that a poem or a biography are more philosophical than a philosophic treatise, simply because they allow us to glimpse this unsayable in an indirect way.” Spiritual exercises “correspond to a transformation of our vision of the world, and to a metamorphosis of our personality,” our psuchē. 

It does so by placing the soul “within the perspective of the Whole.” Reason abstracts, drawing out the universal from the particulars, as seen most simply in naming things by deploying common nouns. Since life as lived consists in large part of a passing parade of events, appetites, and passions, “he who remains faithful to the Logos risks losing his life,” as “was the case with Socrates,” but also in another sense intends to ‘lose’ his life, get beyond the demands of the body and of concrete particulars generally. Hadot calls this “the fundamental philosophical choice”: “the subjugation” of “the body’s will to live to the higher demands of thought,” a regime that “is the training and apprenticeship for death.” This life, ancient philosophers agree, makes life better than ordinary, more intensely lived because lived with attention to itself and the world around it. Hadot cites Socrates, who tells his interlocutor in the Phaedo, “those who go about philosophizing correctly are in training for death, and that to them of all men death is least alarming.” Philosophic spiritual exercise aims not at a trancelike state but at freeing reasoned thinking from the passions, at reorienting the soul, turning it around—in a word, conversion, “a transformation of one’s way of being and living, and a quest for wisdom.”. “The only ones even to attempt to do so are philosophers”; “beneath all their conceptions of death, one common virtue recurs again and again: lucidity.”

“From such a perspective, even physics becomes a spiritual exercise,” as (for instance) the contemplation of the heavens provides “joy and serenity to the soul,” “liberating it from day-to-day worries” by activating the disinterested intellect. [1] As Porphyry remarks, theoria brings happiness to the human soul not by storing it with knowledge, simply but by making what it learns “nature and life” within it. “The goal of physics as a spiritual exercise was to relocate human existence within the infinity of time and space, and the perspective of the great laws of nature.” Logic, another dimension of philosophy, also bids philosophers to the rule of reason. Hadot goes so far as to say that “philosophic theories are in the service of the philosophic life,” even for ever-elaborating Aristotle, who eventually earned the title, ‘master of those who know.’

Hadot says that all the ancient philosophical schools maintained that “people are unhappy because they are the slaves of their passions,” desiring “things they may not be able to obtain, since they are exterior, alien, and superfluous to them”; happiness “is the return to the essential,” to that “which depends on us,” on our inner nature. Philosophy aims not only at wisdom but at autarkeia,” literally self-rule, which Hadot translates as “inner freedom” and others as “self-sufficiency.” A soul can achieve this “with the help of a philosophical theory of nature, but above all through moral and existential exercises,” ethics. 

Self-rule, self-sufficiency, inner freedom: yes, but not isolation. Philosophy is the spoken word, and not only words spoken to oneself. “Ancient philosophy was always a philosophy practiced in a group,” very often in schools, such as Plato’s Academy and Aristotle’s Lyceum. “Ancient philosophy required a common effort, community of research, mutual assistance, and spiritual support.” And, after Socrates, it became political, especially among the Stoics, who even fielded a Roman emperor, Marcus Aurelius. For them, “an essential place is accorded to the duty always to act in the service of the human community; that is, to act in accordance with justice,” unblinded by “political passions, anger, resentments, or prejudices.” “Inner peace is indispensable for efficacious action.” On this, the schools varied: Stoics and Aristotelians evidently understood political philosophy as entailing advice to rulers, perhaps even ruling itself, whereas Platonists had more reservations (despite the famous commendation of ‘philosopher-kings’) [2], and Epicureans preferred to recline tranquilly on their couches.

How far could philosophizing extend? Here, Hadot follows the example of the ancients by introducing a contradiction. Philosophy, he writes, “is an attempt to transform mankind.” And “within each school, philosophy signified the attempt to raise up mankind from individuality and particularity to universality and objectivity.” This might or might not be the voice of a philosopher or a historian of philosophy, but it is surely the voice of a democrat, an egalitarian. Elsewhere, however, he affirms that “people such as these,” philosophers, who find their joy in virtue, celebrate a festival their whole life long,” but “to be sure, there is only a small number of such people,” their lives “like embers of wisdom kept smoldering in our cities, so that virtue may not be altogether snuffed out and disappear” from the human species. There is a “strangeness” to this “phenomenon,” even as it has endured “throughout the whole history of Western thought,” albeit with many permutations. [3] “Strange indeed all those philosophers whose behavior, without being inspired by religion, nonetheless [or perhaps consequently?] breaks with the customs and habits of most mortals.” This is why his contemporaries called Socrates atopos, unclassifiable, neither straightforwardly a citizen nor a sage. The philosopher’s love of wisdom, as distinguished from any claim to possess wisdom, makes him “foreign to the world,” a “stranger in it.”  Such a person “must live his life every day, in this world in which he feels himself a stranger and in which others perceive him to be one as well,” a condition of attempting “to see things as they are from the standpoint of universal nature and the conventional vision of things underlying human society,” a “conflict [that] can never be totally resolved.”

Hadot pays particular attention to the Platonic/Socratic philosophers and the Stoics. “In the ‘Socratic’ dialogue, the question truly at stake is not what is being talked about but who is doing the talking”; “the Socratic dialogue turns out to be a kind of communal spiritual exercise,” usually conducted not in private but in the marketplace or, if in a home, ‘with company.’ The “exercise” urges the participants “to comply with the famous dictum, ‘Know thyself,'” “invit[ing] us to establish a relationship of the self to the self, which constitutes the foundation of every spiritual exercise.” If I truly come to know myself, I know that I am no sage but at best “a philo-sophos, someone on the way toward wisdom.” Wisdom encompasses ethical self-knowledge, that is, knowledge of “one’s true moral state.” In dialoguing, in reading dialogues, I learn what Anisthenes called “the ability to converse with myself,” to philosophize without other persons as interlocutors, as Socrates may have been doing when he spent time standing still, thinking. “Only he who is capable of a genuine encounter with the other is capable of an authentic encounter with himself, and the converse is equally true.” Readers of these dialogues will see interlocutors who shut themselves down or storm out of the conversation: “We must let ourselves be changed.” The dialectic “demands the explicit consent of the interlocutor at every moment., and that isn’t easy to bring about, since by consenting to each logical step in the argument he “discover[s] the contradictions of his own position or admit[s] to an unforeseen conclusion”—usually in front of his fellow citizens. Platonic dialogues are spiritual exercises in two ways: “the dialogue guides the interlocutor—and the reader—towards conversion,” a ‘turning around’ of the soul toward the Good, as Socrates calls it in the Republic; the dialogue’s success depends on the eros inherent in reasoning, the desire “to submit to the rational demands of the Logos.” “In order to perceive the world, we must, as it were, perceive our unity with the world” because “we can know a thing only by becoming similar to our object.”

Who, what, is Socrates? Alcibiades compares him to “the little statues of Sileni”—trickster spirits—that “could be found in sculptors’ shops, which concealed little figurines of the gods inside themselves.” Outwardly, Socrates was “ugly, buffoon-like, impudent, almost monstrous,” but this costume conceals, if not divinity, the eros for the divine, the Good, within. Socrates’ outward mask consists of “that famous Socratic irony,” his pretension of ignorance and impudence. Irony is “a psychological attitude in which the individual uses self-deprecation in an attempt to appear inferior to what he really is,” thereby drawing out the thoughts of his overconfident interlocutor, thoughts which turn out to be self-contradictory. “At the end of the road, the general turns out to have no idea of what courage really is, and the soothsayer doesn’t know what piety is.” Meanwhile, by following Socrates’ line of questioning and reasoning, the reader learns that he, like Socrates, ‘knows that he does not know,’ thanks to this experience of “what true activity of the mind is”; “he has been Socrates himself.” Socrates approached Alcibiades as if he were in love with him; his verbal irony masks his dialectical strength, while his erotic irony, which “consisted in pretending to be in love” with the youths whom he converses, can bring themselves, and Plato’s readers, to fall in love with him, and more importantly, to fall in love with sophia. This could happen when the one who supposed Socrates loved him discovered his own inadequacy under the philosopher’s questioning, learning that while his body might be worthy of being loved, his soul was not. The loving soul sees itself no longer as beautiful, as ‘having it all,’ but as poor, needy, even “good-for-nothing.” As befits a lover, then, the barefoot, penniless Socrates “embodies desire.” “In Socratic Eros, we find the same basic structure as in Socratic irony: a divided consciousness, passionately aware that it is not what it ought to be. “What the young men “love in Socrates is his love for, and aspiration toward, beauty and the perfection of being.” “In Socrates they find the path toward their own perfection.” Hadot goes a step too far in his description of this Eros, calling it irrational and detouring into Nietzsche’s hope for “a musical Socrates,” the “genius of the heart” who will synthesize Apollonian rationality with Dionysian ardor. Not at all. Just as the soul’s spiritedness generates the love of honor and soul’s appetites generate the several loves of the body, so does the soul’s reason generates the desire for wisdom. The desire for wisdom is rational; reasoning is indispensable to it. For Plato’s Socrates, nature is not synthetic but a thing of articulation.

Indeed, “Socrates pulled off his enterprise of dissimulation so well that he succeeded in definitively masking himself from history,” leaving no writings behind. As a result, “Socrates has always been used as a mask by those who have spoken about him,” beginning with Aristophanes, Plato, and Xenophon. “Especially in the subtle, refined form given it by Plato, the Socratic dialogue was intended to provoke in its readers an effect analogous to that produced by the living discourse of Socrates himself,” a condition of “disquiet in the soul” that can lead to its ‘turning around,’ away from the conventions of the regimes in which the reader lives, toward (as it were) the regime of nature. Among the moderns, Kierkegaard is closest to Socrates, acknowledging that “to be a teacher in the right sense is to be a learner.” And, since actions often speak louder than words, Socrates himself teaches not only by words but by his actions, indicating that “we can never understand justice if we do not live it,” order our souls rightly to as to put our minds in a condition in which they can understand. Alcibiades shows why this is dangerous for the philosopher, saying “Socrates makes me admit to myself that, even though I myself am deficient in so many regards, I continue to take no care for myself, but occupy myself with the business of the Athenians,” who are unphilosophic, upholders of their traditional customs and opinions. They are suspicious of philosophic inquiry. “Concern for one’s individual destiny cannot help but lead to conflict with the state. This is the deepest meaning of the trial and death of Socrates.” And this is why irony is a philosophic necessity, first, because “direct language is not adequate for communicating the experience of existing, the authentic consciousness of being, the seriousness of life as we live it, or the solitude of decision making,” but also because ironic speech, which requires thought to understand, “can make indirect communication possible,” communication of thoughts at variance with prevailing customs and opinions. This understanding of philosophy sees that a real philosopher puts himself on the line, body and soul; he is in that sense an “existentialist,” serious in his play, avoiding philosophic system-building because he knows he is no sage. His school is “the school of the consciousness of not-knowing,” but of wanting to know.

The Stoics are much more explicitly undertaking an exercise, an exercise that “did not consist in teaching an abstract theory…but rather in the art of living.” The Stoics maintained that the passions were the main cause of “suffering, disorder, and unconsciousness” in human beings, bringing on “unregulated desires and exaggerated fears” in their souls. Philosophy is “a therapeutic of the passions,” a therapeutic linked, as in Plato’s Socrates, to the soul’s conversion or turning around. To achieve this, Stoics commend prosoche, attention, “a continuous vigilance and presence of mind, self-consciousness which never sleeps, and a constant tension of the spirit.” [4] What one should especially attend to is “the distinction between what depends on us and what does not.” One cannot change the past or control the future, but he can control our response to what is present by preparing his soul for whatever may befall. The Stoic does this by the exercise of meditation. “We are to represent to ourselves poverty, suffering, and death,” thinking of, then committing to memory, what we will do if, when, they befall us. “When the time comes,” the “maxims” we arrive at will enable us to “confront life’s difficulties face to face, remembering that they are not evils, since they do not depend on us,” but are “after all, part of the course of nature.” Nature is animated by reason; the things that happen to us happen ‘for a reason,’ and it our task to meet them with our own reason, not with wailing and gnashing of teeth. 

The title of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations is better translated as Exhortations to Himself. They are a collection of hypomnemata, notes written each day by the author to himself. It is neither a systematic treatise, as readers in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries supposed, nor is it a diary of Marcus’ inner workings, much less “a symptom of a psychological malaise”—attributable, according to certain twentieth psychologists, to a gastric ulcer or (in the doped-up mind of Thomas De Quincey), opium addiction. These exhortations are rather intended to prepare Marcus to place care of human things (he was, after all, an emperor) “within the perspective of universal nature,” a procedure Hadot calls “the very essence of philosophy.” Unlike so many political men, “Marcus has no patience for those who would try to console themselves for the brevity of existence by the hope that they will survive in the name they leave to posterity,” seeing that such a hope is almost always vain, and ‘in vain.’ “Marcus’ seemingly pessimistic declarations are not expression of his disgust or disillusion at the spectacle of life; rather, they are a means he employs in order to change his way of evaluating the events and objects which go to make up human existence.” He does this as the ancient philosophers so often do, by detaching those events and objects from “the conventional representations people habitually form of them.” By recognizing that a purple toga is by nature only a colored piece of cloth, he puts the passions we entertain when Romans see one—whether aspiration or envy, pride or resentment—very much in their place, their place in the rational order of the cosmos, which takes little note of such objects. It was Marcus, not one of Shakespeare’s characters, who first said, “What’s in a name?”

And so, “when Marcus speaks of the monotony of human existence, it is not in order to express his own boredom,” not to make much of a mood, “but in order to persuade himself that death will not deprive us of anything essential.” And as for “filth, dust, and other such apparently repulsive aspects of reality,” they are only “the necessary consequence of a natural process which, in the last analysis, goes back to universal reason,” the “accessory phenomena which accompany its transformations.” The “feelings of repulsion we eel in the presence of some phenomena which accompany natural processes are nothing but an anthropocentric prejudice.” Unlike the sentimental, ‘idealistic’ aesthetics of the modern Romantics, Marcus propounds “a realistic aesthetics which finds beauty in things just the way they are, in everything that lives and exists.” 

Marcus would discipline desire by strengthening the virtue of moderation, inclinations by the virtue of justice, assent by the virtue of truth, including the absence of hurried thought, which fails to find the truth. He “always sought to give to his thoughts the clarity, rigor, and striking formulations necessary to give them the sought-after therapeutical and psychagogic effect.” Far from evincing victimhood, taking himself to be the victim of fate or disease, Marcus “knew exactly what he was doing.” “It is extremely rare to have the chance to see someone in the process of training himself to be a human being.”

Epictetus propounded still another traditional Stoic idea: “the difference between discourse about philosophy and the practice of philosophy itself.” To discourse about philosophy was to separate its three parts: logic, physics, and ethics, each with its own set of topics for study. But “philosophy itself is the exercise of wisdom,” the exercise of logic, physics, and ethics. “On this level, we are no longer concerned with theoretical logical—that is, the theory of correct reasoning—rather, we are concerned not to let ourselves be deceived in our everyday lives by false representations. We are no longer concerned with theoretical physics—the theory of the origin and evolution of the cosmos—we are concerned with being aware at every instant that we are parts of the cosmos, and that we must make our desires conform to this situation. We no longer do ethical theory—the definition and classification of virtues and duties—we simply act in an ethical way.” To act ethically, Stoics weed out their desires, reducing them to those things obtainable by us because they “depend on us” and not on other persons and things. They then direct their remaining desires “first and foremost to human relationships within the city,” the duties of citizens, actions “bearing upon objects which do not depend on us—such as other people, politics, health, art.” “For him, the discipline of action consists precisely in acting in the service of the human community; in other words, in practicing justice oneself and in correcting injustices.” Finally, Stoics guard the realm of their freedom of soul by “assenting” only to the things that are really there, not to any phantasia, on the grounds that, in Epictetus’ words, “People are not troubled by things, but by their judgment about things.” In all of these exercises, the Stoics put theoretical reasoning at the service of practice, “so that, in concrete situations, we can act in conformity with mankind’s rational nature.”

The Epicureans practiced spiritual exercises, as well, but for different effects. For them, too, philosophy is “a therapeutics,” a way of “healing our own lives,” as Epicurus puts it. And, again like the Stoics, Epicureans held that unhappiness stems from fear of “things which are not to be feared” and desire “for things which it is not necessary to desire, and which are beyond” our control. They depart from the Stoics in identifying happiness not with duty but with pleasure, albeit refined pleasure. “The only genuine pleasure there is,” and one over which all human beings exercise control as long as they live, is “the pleasure of existing,” what a United States president once described as freedom from fear and from want. “This is why,” Hadot explains, “Epicurean physics”—a version of materialist atomism—can “liberate us from fear: it can show us that the gods have no effect on the progress of the world and that death, being complete dissolution, is not part of life.” There is a sort of “Epicurean piety,” expressed in Epicurus’ prayer, “Thanks be to blessed Nature, that she has made what is necessary easy to obtain, and what is not easy unnecessary.” Given materialist atomism, there isn’t really anyone to express thanks to; prayer itself becomes an element of the therapeutics. “For the Epicureans, in the last analysis, pleasure is a spiritual exercise.” Epicureans seek not pleasure in the form of mere sensual gratification, but the intellectual pleasure derived from contemplating nature, the thought of pleasures past and present, and lastly the pleasure of friendship,” which Epicureans hold to be “the spiritual exercise par excellence,” yielding “mutual affection and the confidence with which they relied upon each other.” This “invitation to relaxation and serenity” contrasts with Stoic tension and vigilance. It should be needless to say that Epicureans refused to trouble themselves with politics; political Epicureanism was invented in modernity, as seen in the writings of Thomas Hobbes and, among republicans, those of Thomas Jefferson.

What of the more familiar Christian spiritual exercises, most famously set forth by Ignatius of Loyola? “The conflict between pagans and Christians, from the second century AD on, is highly instructive,” in terms of the provenance of the texts in which philosophy and its spiritual exercises were expounded. “As both pagans and Christians recognized affinities between their respective doctrines, they accused each other of theft,” as Christians “claimed Plato plagiarized Moses,” while pagans “affirmed the contrary” regarding Christian humility as “nothing but a poor interpretation of a passage in Plato’s Laws.” The result was “a series of chronological arguments designed to prove which of the two was historically prior,” with Clement of Alexandria topping everyone by asserting that “the theft dated back even before the creation of humanity,” as “some wicked angel who, having discovered some traces of the divine truth, revealed philosophy to the wise of this world.”

For himself, Hadot regards Ignatius’ Spiritual Exercises as “nothing but a Christian version of a Greco-Roman tradition,” as what is called asceticism is in fact a ‘baptized’ version of the pre-existing philosophic tradition. “Since its inception,” he claims, ignoring a well-known passage in a Pauline epistle to the contrary, “Christianity has presented itself as a philosophia,” although in fairness he means only that Christianity “assimilated into itself the traditional practices of spiritual exercises,” as seen in the writings of Clement, Origen, Augustine, and in the rules of several of the monastic regimes. [5] “Ancient spiritual exercises were preserved and transmitted by an entire current of ancient Christian thought,” a task made easier because God is Logos, as it is (although in another sense) for the Stoics. Clement links philosophy reconceived as Christianity with paideia, “by which he means the education of mankind” in accordance with “the complete revelation of the Logos” in the New Testament, “the true philosophy.” Wisdom no longer needs to be wondered about. As revealed, it can be taught as doctrine and requires no arduous effort to attain. This amounts to a substantial democratization of philosophy.

But “with the advent of medieval Scholasticism, we find a clear distinction being drawn between theologia and philosophia.” The logos about God became the “supreme science,” the love of wisdom its handmaiden. This “emptied” philosophy “of its spiritual exercises which, from now on, were relegated to Christian mysticism and ethics,” making philosophy theology’s “handmaid,” its role to “furnish theology with conceptual—and hence purely theoretical—material.” Christianity, not philosophy, was the right way of life; philosophy wasn’t a proper way of life at all. As with ancient philosophy, spiritual exercise was no mere “code of good moral conduct” but “a way of being,” the best and only true regime. “Under the influence of Greek tradition, the monastic life continued to be designated by the term philosophia throughout the Middle Ages,” as seen in Bernard of Clairvaux, who upheld “the disciplines of celestial philosophy,” and John of Salisbury, who assures his readers that monks are the ones who have “philosophized” rightly. Invoking a well-known Socratic thought, and the meditation practiced in the philosophic schools, Christians of this time regarded “remembrance” of God and of His commandments as “the most radical method for ensuing one’s presence to God and to oneself.” Philosophic self-knowledge became the examination of conscience, the attempt to ensure that it conformed to those commandments and to the Holy Spirit. Enkratia or good rule meant what Dorotheus of Gaz called the “cutting off of self-will,” the substitution of self-will with God’s will and thereby the attainment of “perfect apatheia,” the complete absence of passions. Scripture provided the spiritual character of such meditation, but “the texts from Scripture could never have supplied a method for practicing these exercises,” which “always presupposed the assistance of God’s grace” and “made of humility the most important of virtues,” but which borrowed their techniques from the philosophers, in another instance of the subordination of philosophy to theology and to the Christian way of life, the Christian regime. “In the final analysis, all these virtues were transfigured by the transcendent dimension of the love of God and of Christ.” Learning how to die now meant “to participate in the death of Christ.” 

Philosophy’s subordination had an unintended consequence: modernity. “From the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries,” what Hadot calls “genuinely creative philosophical activity” would “develop outside the university,” under the rule of Catholic and Protestant churches, in the persons of Descartes, Spinoza, Malebranche, and Leibniz.” “Philosophy thus reconquered its autonomy vis-à-vis theology.” But in a strategy seen in the conduct of proponents of heterodox thoughts ever since, modern philosophers took care to win a place within the universities, and especially in the German universities, as seen in such luminaries as Kant, Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel, “with a few rare exceptions like Schopenhauer or Nietzsche.” But philosophy adapted itself to the university way of life, largely satisfied with its status as a theorizing activity even as it freed itself from ‘handmaidship’ to theology. “In the modern university, philosophy is obviously no longer a way of life or form of life—unless it be the form of life of a professor of philosophy.” Since so many universities, especially in Hadot’s Europe, are “state educational institution[s],” this may become a danger to philosophy’s independence. This had already happened in Eastern and Central Europe under the tyrannical and/or oligarchic regimes animated by Marxist ideology, the pseudo-philosophy of ‘scientific socialism.’ But in much of Western Europe and North America, “modern philosophy appears above all as the construction of a technical jargon reserved for specialists,” i.e., as ‘analytic philosophy.’

Writing in the mid-1990s, Hadot does see resistance to the notion of exclusively theoretical philosophizing. With Nietzsche, but then with university-employed Henri Bergson and the many Existentialists, philosophy began to “return to being a concrete attitude, a way of life and of seeing the world.” He is not entirely satisfied with results, at least as seen in the writings of Michel Foucault, then enjoying a decided vogue in academic circles. Foucault lauded the “practices of the self” seen in the Stoics, with their “art of living.” But “It seems to me, however, that the description M. Foucault gives of what I had termed ‘spiritual exercises,’ and which he prefers to call ‘techniques of the self,’ is precisely focused far too much on the ‘self,’ or at least on a particular conception of the self,” one that is far more Epicurean than Stoic. The Stoics distinguished hedone (in Latin, voluptas), pleasure, from eupatheia (in Latin, gaudium), joy. “For them, happiness does not consist in pleasure, but in virtue itself, which is its own reward. And joy does not inhere in a modern ‘self,’ as it does in Foucault, but in the “perfect reason” (as Seneca puts it) of the soul, which ascends “beyond the self” to “think and act in unison with universal reason,” which Foucault, along with the rest of the moderns, regards as a myth; “according to a more or less universal tendency of modern thought, which is perhaps more instinctive than reflective, the ideas of ‘universal reason’ and ‘universal nature’ do not have much meaning any more.” “I can well understand Foucault’s motives for giving short shrift to these aspects” of ancient philosophy, “of which he was perfectly aware.” Foucault’s way of life was aesthetic, and aesthetics is an invention of the moderns. This may be why he says so little about the Epicureans, who seem to be more compatible with his stance; the Epicureans weren’t aesthetes but rationalists, convinced that they possessed a coherent understanding of the cosmos, an understanding they deployed to reinforce their way of life. Foucault shares little of the ancient philosophers’ esteem for reason, and particularly for the universality of reason. Whereas Foucault wants individuals to ‘invent themselves,’ to “forge a spiritual identity” by “writing down and re-reading disparate thoughts,” for the ancients thoughts should not be disparate “but chosen for their coherence,” the absence of contradiction among them. It is simply “not the case that writing constitutes the self”; it rather assists the philosopher in making his thoughts coherent. And the same was true of many early Christians: one monk thought of writing as a substitute for dialogue, as he who writes “is no longer alone, but is a part of the silently present human community.” How will I present myself to this community, the writer asks, preferring not to look the fool by contradicting himself, searching his writings for embarrassing contradictions. Foucault’s aestheticism “may be a new form of Dandyism.” It is the great-great grandson of Rousseauian revery. [6]

Among the moderns of his century, Hadot prefers the ‘phenomenologists’ Edmund Husserl and Maurice Merleau-Ponty, who “want us to return to the world of lived perception or rather to perception-as-a-world, so that we may become aware of it.” This type of philosophy does not so much oppose science (“both, in their own way,” oppose “the world of habitual perception”) but philosophy as practiced by phenomenologists supplements science, which reduces the universe, “by both mathematical and technological means, to its quantitative aspects,” by “deepen[ing] and transform[ing] habitual perception, forcing us to become aware of the very fact that the we are perceiving the world, and that the world is that which we perceive.” For them, “disinterested, aesthetic perception of the world can allow us”—we moderns, saturated with modern science—to “imagine what cosmic consciousness might signify for modern man.” Painting, for example, “makes us feel the presence of things: the fact that” (in Merleau-Ponty’s words) “things are here,” not simply to be reduced to equations. “The experience of modern art,” which “makes things visible,” again, “allows us to glimpse the miracle of perception itself, which opens up the world to us.” Modern art is “the area of our experience in which there might be possible a relationship to the world bearing some resemblance to that which existed between the ancient sage and the cosmos: the world, that is, of perception.” Before Husserl or Merleau-Ponty, Bergson understood that modern man now “lives in the world without perceiving the world,” distinguishing “between habitual, utilitarian perception, necessary for life, and the detached, disinterested perception of the artist or philosopher.” And while “people in antiquity were unfamiliar with modern science, and did not live in an industrial, technological society,” most did not “look at the world any more than we usually do”; “such is the human condition.” The philosophers resisted the human condition, the conventions of the regimes they lived in, seeking to transcend them by the reasoning, philosophic ascent from ‘the Cave.’ 

Hadot most admires not the phenomenologists or the existentialists of his own century, however, but Goethe, the German philosopher-poet, friend of ancient thought and “a remarkable witness for the type of experience” he has been describing. Goethe’s Faust, “the personification of modern man,” searches for Helen, the symbol of the beauty of nature, “throughout all the mythical forms of ancient Greece.” Their meeting is “the meeting between two lovers” but also a “meeting between two epochs, and as full of meaning as the encounter of a human being with his destiny.” Modern man strives; ancient beauty soothes, consummates. In their dialogue, Helen begins to speak in rhyme, “the symbol of modern interiority”; like a Cartesian, she begins to have doubts; she “reflects upon her destiny,” that is, her past and her future. She begins to veer into ‘historicity’ or historicism in the modern philosophic sense. Goethe wants her to consider what she is doing to herself.  In a letter to a friend, he wrote that in antiquity the present moment was filled with meaning, to be “lived in all its reality and the fullness of its richness, sufficient unto itself”—an experience modern men no longer know how to grasp. For moderns, the present is banal; we place our hopes in the future. If Helen begins to feel ‘modern’ in her encounter with Faust, to Faust she reveals “what presence itself is: the presence of the world,” “that splendid feeling of the present. “It is ancient, noble Helen who reveals to him the splendor of being.” “This is what Goethe admired in ancient art, particularly in funerary art where the deceased was represented not with his eyes raised toward the heavens, but in the act of living his daily life,” in “knowing how to utilize the present,” “knowing how to recognize and seize the favorable and decisive instant (kairos).” This was the task of philosophy (both Epicurean and Stoic) and of poetry alike. Goethe strives to recover it, to “place the concentration of consciousness upon the present moment at the very center” of modern man’s way of life. True, “the Epicurean enjoys the present moment, whereas the Stoic wills it intensely; for the one, it is pleasure; for the other, a duty.” But in Faust, the two are combined in the phrases, “Only the present is our happiness” and “existence is a duty.” Not for the mature Goethe, the suicidal sorrows of young Werther. [7] For Goethe, “poetry in the truest sense is a kind of physics, in the sense we have define” as “a spiritual exercise, which consists in looking down at things from above, from the point of view of the nature or the all, and the great laws of nature.”

“Enjoying the present, without thinking about the past or the future, does not mean living in total instantaneousness.” It rather means not brooding upon past and future things, not “rehashing past defeats” or “cowering in fear of future difficulties,” distracting yourself from what is right in front of you, your life right now. “It is eternity—that is, the totality of being—which gives the present moment its value, meaning, and pregnancy,” the eternity as present in each moment of time. Goethe exhorts his readers to “Hold on to Being with delight!” As Hadot puts it, more prosaically, “for modern man in general, hypnotized as we are by language, images, information, and the myth of the future,” study of the philosophic life as lived by the ancients, yet still available to us, “provide[s] one of the best means of access to this wisdom, so misunderstood and yet so necessary. The call of Socrates speaks to us more now than ever before: ‘Take care of yourself.'” Order your soul rightly. What Goethe calls the “secular Gospel” of poetry, wherein Faust can meet Helen, each learning from the other, Christians can see, with Augustine, as the experience of turning the soul “inward upon itself” and finding “the fact that it is an image of the Trinity.” That is, “it is in the triple act of remembering God, knowing God, and loving God that the soul discovers itself to be the image of the Trinity.”

 

Notes

1. See H. G. Wells: The Island of Dr. Moreau in Seven Famous Novels by H. G. Wells (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1934.
2. See Ariel Helfer, ed.: Plato’s Letters: The Political Challenges of the Philosophic Life (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2023) and the two reviews on this website, “Plato’s Politic Practice: Plato’s Letters I-IV” and “What Is Politic About Platonic Political Philosophy?” under the category, “Philosophers.”
3. Hadot is especially fascinated by the Hellenistic period, wherein the Greek philosophic texts were translated into Latin and the Mediterranean, Europe, and Asia Minor became progressively Hellenized. “Hellenic thought had the strange capacity to absorb the most diverse mythical and conceptual schemes,” although it may be that the capacity was not so strange, since ‘Hellenization’ in terms of philosophy wasn’t simply Hellenic or ‘nationalist,’ making an appeal to reason, that is, to human nature, to ‘universality.’ The divisions that existed were rather within philosophy, in the form of philosophic doctrines. As the schools became better established, “the dogmas and methodological principles of each school [were] not open to discussion” by its members; “to philosophize [was] to choose a school, convert to its way of life, and accept its dogmas.” While this “does not mean that theoretical reflection and elaboration are absent from the philosophical life,” such reflection and elaboration “never extended to the dogmas themselves or the methodological principles” themselves. As a result, much philosophic activity consisted of the exegesis of texts, written by the founders of the school to which one belonged and “religiously preserved.” According to the schools, “truth was contained within these texts.” It is true that eventually Platonism “came to absorb both Stoicism and Aristotelianism in an original synthesis, while all the other traditions” became “marginal.” “Thanks to the writers of lesser antiquity but also the Arab translations and the Byzantine tradition, this Neoplatonist synthesis was to dominate all the thought of the Middle Ages and Renaissance and was to provide, in some fashion, the common denominator among Jewish, Christian, and Moslem theologies and mysticisms.” 
4. Hadot remarks that this attention to oneself, “the philosopher’s fundamental attitude, became the fundamental attitude of the monk,” as seen in Athanasius’ Life of Antony. Antony is “supposed to have said to his disciples on his deathbed: ‘Live as though you were dying every day, paying heed to yourselves and remembering what you heard from my preaching.” It is of course certain that what Antony’s disciples heard from his preaching concerned the Creator-God, not nature.
5. In the case of some writers of this period (Origen being an obvious example), Platonic philosophy dominates Christian revelation; Origen twists Christianity into Neo-Platonism. Hadot recognizes this, writing, “We may well ask ourselves if such an identification [of Christianity with philosophy] was legitimate, and wonder whether it did not contribute to a large extent to the notorious ‘Hellenization’ of Christianity, about which so much has been written,” “a tendency already at work in the Jewish tradition, particularly in Philo of Alexandria,” who “portrayed Judaism as a patrios philosophia: the traditional philosophy of the Jewish people,” a move also confirmed by the historian Flavius Josephus.
6. See “Rousseau’s Solitary Walker,” on this website under “Philosophers.” On the origin of modern “aesthetics,” Hadot refers to Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten’s 1750 work, Aesthetica, which contrasted veritas logica with veritas aesthetica, the latter being sincere emotion; the astronomer looks at the stars as a scientist while the shepherd talks about them to his beloved in a rather different way, with different intent.
7. See “Young Werther’s Wrongly Ordered Soul,” on this website under “Manners and Morals.”

 

Stephen Salkever: Finding the Mean: Theory and Practice in Aristotelian Philosophy. Part Two: Back Again. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990.

 

The Nicomachean Ethics leads into the Politics. Although “the greatest human good, happiness or flourishing (eudaimonia), is a kind of self-sufficiency,” Aristotle understands self-sufficiency as the energeia of a naturally political species, as part of “a life with parents and children and a wife and friends generally, since human being (anthrōpos) is by nature political” (Nicomachean Ethics 1097b8-11). As a result, “our political judgments should not differ in kind from the complex balancing of heterogeneous interests that characterizes the operation of practical wisdom in private life.” Ethical wisdom and political wisdom are both phronēsis. “There is no separate political sphere (as, say, for Hannah Arendt [or indeed for many ‘moderns’]) that defines a separate political interest.” Aristotle’s understanding of politics accordingly derives as much from his teleological biology as his ethics does. 

Politics means the relationship of ruling and being ruled in turn, in contrast to the relationship of master and slave. Whereas some modern philosophers (Carl Schmitt, but also many libertarians) regard politics as mastery, and mastery as a natural thing, while others regard it as a matter of convention and force only, unnatural, “in opposition to both slavemasters and abolitionists, Aristotle concludes that slavery is justified only insofar as (a) it is necessary for the leisure without which virtue cannot be developed, (b) it does not threaten the philia or friendship without which politics is impossible (Politics 1255b12-16), and (c) the slaves differ from the masters as much as the body from the soul or other animals from human beings generally.” If “the absolute solutions offered by slavemasters and abolitionists are wrong insofar as they rest on false theoretical presuppositions,” the choice between a political regime and a masterly regime (and then again between a regime that features both political and masterly rule), “will vary from circumstance to circumstance, depending on the dangers and possibilities of the moment.” The state of New Hampshire may not be wrong in requiring prisoners to stamp out license plates with the motto, “Live Free or Die,” in the spirit of regarding prisons as penitentiaries. Such choices cannot be reduced to a formula because “political goods are not commensurable in the way that economic goods are (1283b3-11)”; “they can be ranked, but not converted into units of exchange.” To think seriously about politics, one must never appeal to “misleading principles that abstract one human interest or possibility—even the highest or most definitive—from the complex range of human needs,” in the manner of “rule morality.” Political thought and speech need to be ‘politic,’ tactful, “a virtue systematically absent from all forms of rule morality.” Tact evinces a recognition of “the essential complexity of human interests.” “The link between theory and practice is not to furnish rules but to show why theoretically derived principles are mistaken if understood in an unqualified fashion” but instead to “perform the delicate task of thinking about what aspects of our knowledge of human needs and possibilities are most relevant to political choice.”

Although ethical and political goods are not quantitatively commensurable, they are commensurable relative to the mean, which lies between extremes, in two ways: “in relation to the ousia or specific nature of human beings, and in relation to the kairos, to the particular moment at which an action-choice arises and the particular individuals involved.” These ways of deliberating “describe two different kinds of rationality, politkē and phronēsis” the former assisting the latter by “drawing attention to the theoretical presuppositions of various possible courses of action and subjecting these to criticism in light of the human ousia, of the rankings appropriate at the level of nature.” Helpful, but not dispositive: politikē can inform choices but phronēsis remains indispensable to finding the mean. One destination on the road of human life is Athens, the other Thebes, and the serious person, the spoudaios, travels back and forth between the two, “though always bearing in mind the greater seriousness of phronēsis” when it comes to making choices. A well-ordered human soul will exhibit both kinds. 

Politikē and phronēsis are as readily, or more readily, endangered as any other natural human attribute. These dangers are political and nonpolitical; there are many “attractive activities and relationships” that draw us away from them, leaving bodies and souls alike unguarded. Salkever devotes one chapter to “a threat to political rationality that directly concerned him,” namely, “the Greek tendency to identify virtue and virility.” It should be remarked that Salkever taught at Bryn Mawr College; an emphasis on the defects of excessive manliness might go over well there. His choice of that topic can itself be described as Aristotelian—a gracious nod to circumstance. (Harvey C. Mansfield’s essay on the virtues of manliness may well exhibit a similar astuteness, as Mansfield teaches at Harvard, where men are present but embattled.) Salkever’s final chapters take Aristotelian political philosophy into modern America, “suggesting ways in which a concept of the virtue of rationality would enrich our theoretical justification of the modern liberal regime and indicating how such a justification might inform thinking about liberal public policy.” Are modern circumstances such as to make Aristotelian theory and practice impossible? A modern state is no polis, and self-sufficiency, self-government, may be harder to achieve there. Against the encroachments of modern states, modern philosophers and citizens assert individual rights, a move Aristotle doesn’t quite make. Such assertions often clash with the exigencies of modern political life, especially but not only in wartime. 

The Greeks listened to their great epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, both of which valorize manly virtues to the point of nearly identifying virtue with manliness. Aristotle offers a critique of the ethical and political opinions and practices of Greece, doing so not foolishly, by presenting “entirely new rules or systems to replace the norms and practices governing existing moral and political life” but prudently, by “enrich[ing] political deliberation by pushing the conversation, as it were, to take an evaluative step outside itself for a moment” and to reflect upon those practices, suggesting a wider “range of political options.” “Given this intention, the appropriate theoretical tone is one that avoids both prophetic certainty and self-abnegating neutrality.” 

Sharp distinction between the sexes have not confined themselves to antiquity. Modern political philosophers have associated nature with man and appearance with woman (Rousseau), sublimity with man and beauty with women (Kant), the public and universal with man, the private and particular with women (Hegel) patriarchy and class domination with man, matriarchy with woman (Engels), logic and language with man, body, expression, and feeling with woman (Nietzsche). Aristotle might ‘speak’ to them, too.

The manly, Periclean political ethos of Athens “formed the point of departure for the philosophizing of Plato and Aristotle,” and both “urge a significant improvement in the status of women,” without succumbing to anything like the ideologies of modern feminism. Rather, each entertains “significant reservations” about “the view that the best human life is that of the committed citizen” on the Periclean model, with its celebration of courage, honor, and fame—goods associated with the ‘thumotic’ or spirited aspect of the soul, which makes war and pursues glory. Plato and Aristotle consider this “a mistaken assessment of the relative importance of different human needs, and thus a mistaken understanding of the best human life.”  The Socratic way of life, as presented by Plato, is neither conventionally male or female, neither centered in the battlefield or even the “public space” broadly, nor in the household. Socrates dialogues with citizens in the marketplace, schools, and private homes, “spreading perplexity and self-concern among those” his way of life “touches by calling into question the language in which they have their being.” 

For his part, biologist Aristotle criticizes the conventional Greek notions “that virtue and slavishness are biologically inherited, the idea that virility or courage is the foremost human virtue, and the Periclean opinion that all quiet people and cities are useless.” He does this because he takes the nature of human beings to be political because they are capable of reason; that is what makes humans distinctive among the animals. If politics derives from rationality, then “living according to reasonable laws and customs” will enable us to “develop and support our biologically inherited potentiality for living rationally.” Masterly rule, by contrast, derives from an excess of thumos in the souls of the rulers and a deficiency of thumos in the souls of the ruled; neither is amenable to living rationally. Political rule should extend to the individual soul itself, with reason, nous, guiding but not commanding desire, orexis. If men are more apt to rule, they are entitled to rule politically, not tyrannically, framing their rule within the “impersonal” authority of the laws. “Women should not rule, but they should be ruled as fellow citizens—that is, they should get the same benefits from the political relationship as males—and not as children or slaves, whose needs, and hence whose status, are entirely different (temporarily or permanently) form the needs of their rulers.” Aristotle understands the needs of women, the benefits rightly “supplied by the political relationship” with men, as “a stable and reasonable order” or regime “in which they can become rational animals,” inasmuch as they share with men not only the need for security but the need to develop “the virtues or excellences whose potential expression we inherit biologically.” For this, men and women will need to develop the virtue of moderation, even as men will be more virile, women more industrious. Because politics is manly but less unreasonably so than war and tyranny, politics channels the distinctively manly virtue into peaceable but still honorable activity. 

And if the household is preeminently the domain of women, that domain, the realm of the family, “is needed not simply for procreation or bare living, but for the development of rationality and happiness,” for living well. The family can contribute to the “moral education” of children, and thereby to the polis. The polis is less dangerously masculine than the battlefield, but it still inclines to conflict. To counter manly virility and the hubris it easily descends into, children need to develop “the sense of shame that is an indispensable precondition for deliberative or thoughtful living.” Boys in whom mothers and fathers instill a sense of shame will likely to live their political lives as more rational adults than those who are reared to be shameless. And parenting itself gives husbands and wives “a real job to do,” one that “can check the danger of excessive civic-mindedness that seems always to threaten to turn the most tightly knit cities into armed camps,” into Spartas. A “habitual disposition to worry that one’s initial response to a situation might be wrong, or the fear of disgrace, is a necessary prelude to mature deliberation and paideia.” Neither shameless nor shy, the person capable of shame will live within the mean between those extremes, within household and polis alike.

In terms of those aggregations of families within the polis now called social classes, the middle class will serve as the balancer between the few who are rich and the many who are poor because “those of moderate means are subject neither to hubris nor to envy or hopelessness.” Middle-class citizens are “open to actualizing their logos, and not likely to be swept away” by such passions. With this balance, there can also develop certain kinds of friendships, social ties, whether of “mutual utility” in business, “mutual friendships” among the witty, and “a mutual sense of human virtue or goodness of character.” Political friendship forms still another set of ties, animated by a shared sense of honor. To prevent honor-loving from careening into political conflict, civil war, Aristotle commends not only the life of the household but music and, for a very few, philosophy. But even the honor-loving man par excellence, the great-souled or magnanimous man, the man “who represents the peak of moral virtue,” has so developed his sense of honor as to understand that he should live deliberatively, act slowly, “owing to a sense that nothing much in the realm of action is very great.” 

All very well, but does any of this translate into the regime of modern republicanism or “liberal democracy”? If so, how? Although Salkever esteems this regime as “a good thing,” one that “aim[s] at the elimination of arbitrary restraints on the power of individuals to make lives for themselves,” the predominant political-philosophic theories that attempt to defend it tend “incoherently to depend on a conception of liberal culture or character” that liberal theory “cannot defend.” In response, some political theorists have concluded that liberalism and democracy themselves do not cohere, that one or both must be jettisoned. But it is the theory, not the regime, that causes the problem, and especially the approach to theorizing that moderns have taken. Liberal theory has been “too abstractly political, concerned too much with just distributions and not enough with the question of appropriately virtuous character.” This has been true of libertarianism and socialism, alike. In proposing an alternative, Aristotelian approach to thinking about modern politics, Salkever cautions that “we do not learn how to construct a more Aristotelian society, precisely because there is no such thing. The function of theory is not to construct or imagine social blueprints or foundations.” 

Contrary to critics of Aristotle who haven’t read Aristotle with much care, Salkever maintains that “there is no essential conflict between [Aristotle’s] teleology and the liberal commitment to tolerating a wide variety of conceptions of the good,” corresponding to the wide variety of more or less decent human types. Against the claim of John Rawls, who imagines that Aristotle holds up “but one conception of the good which is to be recognized by all persons, so far as they are fully rational,” a “distortion typical of those who misread Aristotle as a Thomistic natural lawyer,” Salkever takes from Aristotle “a style of theorizing, a sense of the voice that is most appropriate for stating the problems of our society theoretically without imposing universal theoretical laws about which we can (and should) have no real conviction,” a voice that “follows from a complex understanding of human goods as theoretically commensurable, but not so precisely comparable as to allow conversion into commands.” An Aristotelian political philosopher is politic, not a prophetic lawgiver, not a Cartesian or Kantian or Nietzschean lawgiver, and not a Hegelian, Marxist, or Deweyan proponent of supposed laws of ‘History.’ Nor, finally, is democracy morally egalitarian in the sense of a regime that attempts, or pretends to, moral neutrality.

Rightly understood, democracy is neither “a value-neutral decision procedure,” such as majority rule, nor “a morally compelling ideal,” such as “a participatory community of equal citizens.” Neither morally neutral nor morally ideal, democracy is “a potential susceptible of a variety of actualizations; it is matter rather than form,” given the obvious fact that democratic regimes “can be wonderfully good, despicably evil, and much in between.” Liberal democracy is “the name we give to a good democracy,” one that governs itself by judgment that considers circumstances, not laws alone, and therefore “depend[s] primarily on the character of its citizens, and not in the first instance on the laws and institutions,” although law and institutions matter “because of the way they affect the character of citizens, and should be evaluated in that light.” It is the question of character that modern liberalism has inclined not to answer with sufficient insistence and clarity, a mistake Aristotle doesn’t make.

Modern liberalism’s vulnerability may be seen in the impressive critiques to which it has been subjected, many of which recommend cures worse than the supposed disease. Hegel, for example, maintains that liberal individualism destroys itself by subjecting societies to a misconceived liberty centering on “needs, accidental caprices, and subjective desires.” Marx denounces liberal individuals as “monads,” unfit for any genuine society. Both philosophers “view liberalism from the perspective of dogmatic belief in a progressive and substantial history; from that perspective, liberalism seems not only bad, but somehow false, illusory, not really there.” And even when thinkers reject progressivist historicism as implausible, they persist in regarding it as insubstantial, as seen in Nietzsche’s satirical portrait of the “last man,” in Weber’s description of what sociologist Talcott Parsons called the “iron cage” of bureaucracy that takes the place of aristocracies in democratic civil societies, in Heidegger’s railings against the utilitarianism of modern technology. All of these critiques originate in Rousseau’s inveighing against the “bourgeois” man, who is neither fully a citizen nor fully an individual, neither a Solon nor a solitary walker. But if liberal theory is incoherent in its neglect of the virtues needed to sustain liberal democracy, “the antiliberal view of liberalism’s incoherency appears to rest on an unwillingness to see—or perhaps a willing denial of—anything substantial in the historical form of life that brought modern liberalism into being,” not only the rejection of the modern middle class but the “rejection of Enlightenment rationality as either incomplete or simply wrong.” It is noteworthy that Rousseau’s sharp dichotomy—the resolutely political man and the philosopher—recurs to the pre-Aristotelian resistance to moderation and to the prudential reasoning that moderation supports.

In Salkever’s view, modern liberal philosophers have made themselves vulnerable to Rousseau and his progeny by making the mistake of abstracting from “historical circumstances,” positing a never-existing ‘state of nature’ in their attempt to overcome feudalism, the “family status and social institutions” that had imposed “arbitrary privileges of wealth and rank” upon the middle and ‘lower’ classes alike. But some of the moderns can be understood on non-theoretical grounds, as well: “the abstract quality of Hobbesian and Lockean political thought looks very different if we see it not as mechanistic atomism run wild, but as a reasonable estimate of the sources of restraints against individual liberty in their time.” And indeed Locke (for example) himself attends to the formation of character, as seen in Some Thoughts Concerning Education.  (Aristotle, however, would moderate, not denigrate, ‘poetic’ impulses to nobility.) Salkever doesn’t initially consider this aspect of Locke, taking him to be a sort of populist on the one hand and a defender of individual natural rights on the other, an unstable pairing: “Why should a majority consider the protection of private rights to be the chief political goal?” And why should an individual citizen in a democratic regime shirk his citizen responsibilities as much as possible, “attempt[ing] to secure the benefits of political cooperation without paying any of its costs,” leaving him, and his regime, vulnerable to the ambitions of anti-liberal ideologists? As to liberals’ increasingly rare invocations of religion, their God has been “little more than a great enforcer in the sky, called in at need to buttress the shaky foundation of civil authority,” a “patchy remedy rather than part of a plausibly attractive way of life.”

What Salkever proposes, and sketches, is “a direct challenge to the antiliberal argument that liberalism is the politics that answers the requirement of bourgeois nullities.” Here, he ‘corrects’ his portrait of Locke, remarking that the philosopher does indeed specify “the character of those who can be good citizens,” namely those who are (in Locke’s words) “honest, peaceable, and industrious,” ready to defend the natural rights of life, liberty, and happiness understood as health and freedom from pain, along with the “possession of outward things, such as money, lands, houses, furniture, and the like”—in a word, property in persons and in things. But, Aristotle-like, Salkever finds this good but not sufficient. In Locke and many of the moderns, “there is no explicit teleological argument linking” the modern liberal conception of virtue “to a conception of the human good,” and “no discussion of why the commonwealth should embrace those who are honest, peaceable, and industrious, and not, for example, the pious, charitable, and merciful, or the virile and patriotic,” although the seventeenth-century European penchant for devastating religious warfare obviously provided circumstances making honesty, peaceableness, and industry quite attractive, and the even more devastating ideological nationalist and ideological warfare to come hardly made them unattractive to the sane. But Salkever’s point is that the bourgeois virtues lend themselves to boredom among the ambitious, doing little to satisfy the heat in their souls. 

Aristotle would take a different approach. He would begin with the understanding that a political regime necessary, natural, but not in the sense of spontaneous or self-organizing. “Education is necessary for its establishment,” and since “the shapeless tyrannical dream is both deep and not accidental, an education equal to conquering it cannot take the form of mere preaching or admonition.” The difference “between the spoudaioi and the phauloi, between those who are serious about living virtuous lives and those who are concerned with pursuing particular pleasures in a disorderly way,” seeking thing after thing, power after power, in a quest that ceases only in death, remains constant in human beings. As the character in the gangster movie agrees, upon being asked what he really wanted, the phauloi want more. They define freedom as doing as they like. They adopt “the mistaken belief that an orderly life such as is lived within a genuine politeia (one whose goal is education in virtue) is slavery rather than salvation.” Good laws and education set limits on desires, but “such an education may run counter to our powerful attachment to our own survival…present[ing] an extremely difficult problem of persuasion or political education.”

Aristotle nonetheless finds some reason to hope for democratic regimes that are decent, if not entirely good. Some of ‘the many’ may have better souls than some among ‘the few,’ and all of the many may sometimes behave better than the few, as a whole. Further, to alienate the many altogether makes them enemies of the polis, and dangerous enemies, too, given their overwhelming number. For these reasons, “the dēmos may be more open” to the rule of law, passionless law, “a sort of reason without desire,” than “the rich or the well-born.” “The many are less corruptible than the few, since the people as a whole are less likely to be overcome by anger or by some response to angry feelings—such as spiritedness—and so to make the usual political mistakes,” mistakes originating in excessive ambition. “The basis for Aristotle’s explanation is not a romantic idealization of the virtues of every dēmos, but the predictive proposition that the wealthy will tend to be motivated by the love of honor”—they already enjoy a surfeit of material goods— and “the dēmos by love of gain, and that the greatest crimes…are consequences of an unlimited love of honor and preferential regard.” As a result, the vices of the many who are poor are “easier to check” than the vices of the few who are rich, “so under certain circumstances a democracy can be a regime in which a substantial degree of political virtue is realized.”

“The easiest way of securing this opinion” in a democracy “is not by direct instruction but by economic regulations that favor farming, limit the amount of property which may be held, reduce poverty, and separate political office from financial reward.” Such a regime will see its middle class increase, as the many who are poor prosper and the few who are rich offer them jobs that pay. “Familial prosperity” and “the rule of law,” along with a civic education consistent with both, can foster the formation of “decent characters” who have learned “to love and hate the right sort of things,” resisting the blandishments of the demagogues who see opportunity in democracies. 

Tocqueville describes an America that resembled what Aristotle had in mind for democracy. The beginning of wisdom in reading Democracy in America is to take Tocqueville’s opening remark seriously, that his book isn’t about America, that he did not come to America to study the United States but to study democracy, with the understanding that the United States was “the sample democracy” in the world at that time. And democracy, for him, isn’t primarily a political regime but an egalitarian civil society within the modern state, a civil society that contrasts with the declining social hierarchy that still prevails in Europe and elsewhere, a civil society whose most prominent families still burn with the love of honor, “rather than the need to live a life,” to “earn their livelihood by work of some kind and who will, therefore, be most concerned with acquiring the wealth they lack, rather than honor or military glory.” 

It is true that the United States is much larger than any ancient democracy in Greece, a modern state not an ancient polis. And the America Tocqueville saw was a commercial republic, even with respect to its agriculture, not based on the subsistence agriculture practiced by most of the ancients. It is true that Aristotle is no enemy of commerce, preferring “the very large, non-Greek, commercial city of Carthage” to any polis he saw near his home. But he never saw the large, international commercial markets that later prevailed in Europe, although of course he did see some international trade. The difference between ancient and modern international markets was finance, a market in finance itself, “a new form of human relationship, one not tied to political or religious traditions, an institution that enabled individuals to establish themselves by means of clever enterprise.” This market magnified the importance of money, and “the love of wealth as such is an appropriate and perhaps inevitable response to the conditions of life in a world in which birth or rank provides no security, in which lives must be lived, for better or worse, without the guarantee supplied by family ties.” From now on, independence must be “pecuniary independence” (as no less a moralist than Elizabeth Cady Stanton put it), not to-the-manor-born social status. 

As Tocqueville understood, the American Founders designed a new kind of republic with a new institutional structure for this new world of America (geographically) and of democracy (morally and socially). This is the familiar Constitutional order of a government with institutional checks and balances, not democratic or oligarchic but representative of the people as a whole—a people whose factions will play off one another, moderate their ambitions in spite of themselves, because representative government or republicanism enables democracy to extend itself over a large territory with a large and diverse population. “The political system can thus moderate the importance of habits and outcomes that belong to the system of market exchange.” Such a people will pursue their “need to amass exchange value in a reasonable and orderly way, a way of life that valued public service without despising the pursuit of financial security,” a way of life “that encouraged scientific inquiry as well as national prosperity,” having seen the link between the two. Benjamin Franklin’s famous list of virtues leaves courage and piety unmentioned, but hardly warrants the charge of philistinism with which he has been belabored by writers ranging from D. H. Lawrence to Alasdair MacIntyre. Franklin commends a life rather like his own, “one in which economic success supports and encourages political activity, both aiming an independent life rather than at an unlimited acquisition of power.” For Franklin and the modern middle class, living well means living comfortably—not mere self-preservation but “commodious” self-preservation, as Locke calls it. Comfort is moderate, not the flashy result of unmitigated greed.

To moderate desire, Americans have perfected in their private lives what Tocqueville calls self-interest properly understood. Such self-interest avoids the extremes of Kantian idealism and Benthamite-utilitarian selfishness—the latter, it should be said, amended by the second-generation utilitarian, John Stuart Mill, who at times sounds a bit like Aristotle. For both Aristotle and Mill, “human virtue is not a transcendence of humanity but is the name given to those personality traits or settled states of character that contribute to human happiness,” although Mill retains the utility maximization rule, alien to Aristotle’s approach. For Aristotle, “virtue must not be understood as separate from the goal of happiness, but as constituting eudaimonia, at least so long as bad luck does not intervene between a virtuous potentiality and a happy outcome.” Unlike the moderns, Aristotle never holds out the likelihood of mastering fortune. Human happiness “does not mean being pleased with oneself; it means living in a thoughtful way,” a way of life, a regime for the soul—again, on the observable natural grounds that human beings speak and reason. And as a Christian would look to the example of Jesus as the model of virtue, so Aristotle commends looking to the spoudaios as “the only measure for deciding whether an action is good or not,” aside from “the metaphor of the mean.” Natural right comes in persons, in human beings, and is never abstracted into natural rights or natural law. Justice “seems especially to be an aspect of friendship” (Nicomachean Ethics 1155a22-28), a thing seen in persons and their relations, “to be understood teleologically as a relationship through which human beings flourish.” Such relationships can be sustained within the framework of a good regime, but they are not understood merely as instruments for supporting that regime. (Aristotle considers “political friendships” more as alliances forged by a common interest, not the best sort of friendship.) “Friendships depend on a certain close and affectionate feeling that simply cannot be shared with the world at large,” a shared interest “in one another’s goodness.” “What friendship gives us is the opportunity to become more human, not through altruistic concern, but through our being ability to see and examine what we are, affectionately and critically, through talking with our friends, since essentially ‘a friend is another self’ (1166a31-32.)” 

Political regimes, then, may be evaluated not so much in terms of some abstract definition of justice but “in terms of the extent to which they make genuine friendships possible.” Salkever observes that such friendships will “be more likely in a liberal democracy than in Sparta or republican Rome.” Even more pertinently, such friendships will be more likely in a liberal democracy than in a modern tyranny, a ‘totalitarian’ regime that moves to sunder friendships and families, defining only allegiance to the rulers as just. Aristotelian political science in modernity will look much like the political science of Tocqueville, “articulat[ing] forms of life that exhibit the best and worst possibilities inherent in a particular context” and “examin[ing] the laws and customs of the place with an eye to determining how they do or do not moderate the pursuit of wealth intrinsic to all democracies.” Aristotle surely would not disagree with Tocqueville’s remark, that “democratic men love general ideas because they save them the trouble of studying particular cases.” Both men urge political scientists to resist that tendency of the regimes in which they live, and which they study.

Given the circumstance of political life lived within modern states, not poleis, Tocqueville warns against the danger of “individualism,” by which he means withdrawal from political life, an exclusive concern with family, close friends, and business. That is, whereas Aristotle needs to moderate the hyper-politicized Greeks of his time, Tocqueville needs to moderate the demi-citizens of modernity, without denouncing them in the manner of Rousseau. Few such persons will keen after political fame in the manner of Robespierre or Napoleon; in addressing them, political scientists need rather “to show democrats why they need to be concerned with the interests of society at large.” Political liberty is the condition to be praised, among democrats, not economic liberty (in the manner of libertarians), and not Machiavellian-Rousseauian republican ardor or, as Salkever puts it “the literary attractions of republican radicalism, such as rhetorical vividness and force.”  A middle ground, rather, linking “individual interest” to the interest of the country, now that “disinterested love of country has fled beyond recall” with the poleis that sustained it. One such link is commerce, which, commercial souls must learn, cannot be sustained without liberties guaranteed by the state, a fact that makes the territory of that state and the regime that rules it matter, personally, to every citizen, especially in view of those states eager to seize its territory and change its regime into one inhospitable to commerce. Family, religion, and the rule of law need defenders, and there is no one to defend them but citizens who understand their self-interest well, in their pursuit of living well. For Tocqueville, the central criterion for evaluating policies proposed by democrats is to ask whether they “develop habits of mind or dispositions that incline people toward rule without tyranny and obedience without slavishness.” In this way, “good citizenship can appear in guises other than the mask of the Roman patriot.” 

True, Tocqueville’s America isn’t the America Salkever lives in, “an immensely larger and more diverse polity,” no longer so isolated from foreign enemies, no longer likely to expand in territory. “Given these changes, mechanical application of Tocquevillian conclusions about institutional reform are always out of place,” as Aristotle and Tocqueville himself would see. Political philosophers live “the life of inquiry or reason,” in “opposition to dogmatic or reductive systems of explanation.” That life requires “a taste both for listening to others and for independent inquiry.” Such a way of living and especially of thinking “is in fact needed to sharpen our sense of what liberalism is for, and the ways of life this regime aims at supporting,” namely, lives “deliberately chosen rather than arbitrarily or willfully determined.”