William E. Connolly: Politics and Ambiguity. Madison: University of Wisconsin, 1988.

Originally published in the New York City Tribune, October 19, 1988.

 

Politicians muster certitude, so the country can act. Thinkers question more convincingly than they answer. This difference makes politicians and thinkers natural enemies, so to speak.

Modern political philosophers have attempted to end this conflict, usually by some form of the ‘Enlightenment’ strategy: Make politics rational, and make rationality certain, typically through deductive and inductive thought based on sense perception—a.k.a. the ‘scientific method; then town will consort more amiably with gown. This works only insofar as politicians and other citizens actually become rational—that is, to a limited extent. Push the scheme too hard, and tyranny will follow as surely as the Terror followed the French Revolution of 1789.

Professor William E. Connolly will cause no terror, great or small. He is a ‘postmodernist,’ not an ‘Enlightenment’ man. In the 1960s, when the ‘Enlightenment’ project began to suffer from bureaucratic sclerosis, the ‘New Left’ opposed the ‘New Deal’ and ‘Great Society’ projects with a form of romantic anti-rationalist communalism. This failed. The more clever ‘New Left’ operatives then migrated into the bureaucracies themselves, especially the academic bureaucracies. Armed with the anti-‘Enlightenment’ doctrines of ‘postmodernism,’ they have attempted to turn the West away from rationalism from within the entrails of the bureaucratic beast. Connolly would weaken if not dismantle the modern bureaucratic state the ‘postmodern’ way, by giving the ambiguities of thought “institutional expression.” It’s not clear whether he can do so without either making dogma so ambiguous that the ‘postmodern’ enterprise itself becomes ineffectual, or making ambiguity dogmatic, and therefore unambiguous.

He begins with an insight of Tocqueville’s: In seeking to make life more free, modern democracy “draws a larger portion of life into the fold of thematized norms,” exerting pressure on the individual to conform, or else to give up his freedom. The tyranny of the majority, sometimes wielded by a bureaucracy that takes on a life of its own, replaces the tyranny of the usual one-man or several-man gangs. Connolly looks for ways to check the all-pervasiveness of this democracy, without doing away with democracy, and without the now-fashionable retreat into “localism” or small-scale communitarianism—”a symptom of retreat and despair on the left” today, nothing more than “the ‘beautiful soul'” (much-derided by Hegel) “in radical disguise.”

Connolly fails to discover—or, as he would say, construct—any solution as workable as the American regime itself. A carefully articulated commercial-republican constitutionalism does most of what Connolly wants to do. Unremittingly leftist, he cannot bring himself to admit this. Instead, he claims that contemporary ‘tax revolts’ are nothing more than ‘disciplinary techniques’ of the established order. He imagines that, in America, “neither major [political] party today speaks to the deep anxieties Americans feel about thermonuclear war,” although obviously both do, each in its own way. He wants to “tame the growth imperative” driving America’s economy by reducing consumption (that would do it), and to form a third party to pressure and/or replace the Democrats by “speaking to the civic disaffection generated during the period of hegemony by welfare liberalism.” The latter task has been undertaken already, with modest success—by the Republicans. As for Connolly’s other projects, they are implausible, especially as counters to increasing state power.

Connolly notes that in premodern times, and in parts of the world untouched by modernity even today, yearly festivals are staged whose purpose is temporarily to invert the established social order. Kings become lackeys, and lackeys rule for a day. Connolly likes the idea. It is a said measure of his irremediable academicism that he would attempt to achieve this end by the tamer and far less enjoyable method of institutionalizing it—allowing “slack” in our public machinery, “space” for the toleration of eccentric and dissenting voices. This differs hardly at all from standard liberal tolerance. It is rather less coherent than liberal tolerance.

That, Connolly might argue, is precisely the point. Coherence is the very death of tolerance. Freedom needs incoherence to thrive, and, for what it is worth, Connolly theoretical efforts are indeed quite incoherent. In his treatment of civic morality, he dismisses God and natural law as self-destructing notions irrelevant to the modern era. In their place he offers question-begging rhetoric about “treating individuals with the respect due them” and such tautologous admonitions as, “the life we share in common requires commonalities of action.”

Epistemology interests him more. Dissatisfied with the traditional conception of language as a reflection of reality, and almost equally displeased with subjectivism, he avails himself (as is consistent with his love of ambiguity) not with one new theory but two. First there is Charles Taylor’s “expressivism,” which secularizes the medieval concept of anagogical thought: The world conceived as a book written (and here is the modern twist) not by a Creator-God but by itself, including us. How this differs from Hegelianism, which Connolly elsewhere calls a “heroic failure,” never comes clear.

To supplement “expressivism,” Connolly commends “genealogical” theory, the Nietzschean insistence that all respectable ‘constructs’ be negated and overcome. Connolly hopes for a democratized Nietzscheanism, a Nietzscheanism ‘from below.’ “The genealogist publicizes subordinate discourses and phenomena—for example, the thoughts and actions of women and ethnic minorities—”to loosen the hold that the most basic unities of our day exercise over official discourses.” He admits that “genealogy” itself is as closed as the ‘constructs’ it attacks, in the sense that it denies in advance the possibility that the ‘constructs’ may not be constructs at all, but discoveries. He nonetheless finds “genealogy” useful in freeing thought “from the tyranny of assumptions.” More than anything else, his vision of our future society resembles a freshman philosophy class.

There is a problem with such contentless freedom. It cannot account for itself, either genealogically or teleologically. If it tied to do so, it would fall into either objectivism or subjectivism all over again. It moreover (perhaps therefore) can have no practical political effect; in politics, as they say, you can’t beat something with nothing.

The dialogue between Hegel and Nietzsche makes sense in philosophy, indeed in political philosophy. As political philosophy in defense of democracy, however, it makes no sense at all. Neither Hegel nor Nietzsche was a democrat. Egalitarianism left them cold. Neither grafts onto the tree of civil liberty. Both would see that a ‘politics of ambiguity’ could never bring itself to rule.

Mary P. Nichols: Socrates and the Political Community: An Ancient Debate. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1987.

Originally published in the New York City Tribune, November 4, 1987.

 

In politics and scholarship, feminism contradicts itself. Identifying certain virtues and vices traditionally regarded as masculine—courage and cruelty, philosophy and empty abstraction, spiritedness and immoderation—or as feminine—patience and fearfulness, intuition and emotionalism, sensitivity and irresolution—feminists cannot decide how to judge these in any consistent way. They cannot agree among themselves whether to exalt all ‘feminine’ traits and degrade all masculine ones, or to concoct some synthesis of the old virtues and commend this to men and women equally, or to deny that masculinity and femininity have any basis at all in human nature. Indeed, many deny that human nature itself exists in any morally or politically relevant way, a strategy that would resolve the contradictions rhetorically if ever it could be made plausible.

Professor Mary P. Nichols understands these quandaries. That is to say, she rises above them. In writing on the relation of politics to learning, of the city to philosophy, she brings traditionally feminine insights to bear on the work of three ancient Greek political writers and their modern commentators. And she does more than that: This study of the poet Aristophanes and the philosophers Plato and Aristotle proceeds from an femininity thought through. Whereas feminism can never intelligently understand masculinity, and thus fails to understand femininity—remaining an ideological or merely partisan and partial view of human life—Nichols’s femininity opens her mind instead of closing it, letting her see women and men with a rare, systematic clarity.

Aristophanes’ comic drama the Clouds, Plato’s dialogue the Republic, and the second book of Aristotle’s treatise the Politics all address problems raised by the conflict between Socrates and his city, Athens, and by implication the conflict between philosophy and politics. Aristophanes represents Socrates rather as Socrates’ wife Xanthippe might have regarded him, had she possessed wit. An irresponsible stargazer suspended in a giant basket, simultaneously ignoring the needs of his body yet describing the cosmos as mere matter-in-motion; coming to earth, he serves as and elderly ringleader of scraggly homosexual youths who blithely ignore the decent requirements of family, politics, and religion. Socrates pursues freedom but finally ruins himself and all who foolishly heed his counsels. “Caught in contradiction,” Nichols writes, Aristophanes’ Socrates “is laughable.” Philosophy deserves ridicule, and ridicule checks men from victimizing themselves with philosophy.

Plato’s Socrates reverses this charge. Not philosophy but politics, the city, leads men to chase dreams into the abyss. The political rage for absolute justice causes men willfully to trample nature, including the differences between men and women, to lie to others and to themselves, and eventually to commit the worst injustices and to do so blandly, in complacent disregard for the cruel ways in which they pursue justice. In conversations with such perfervidly manly types as tyrannical Thrasymachus and militant young Glaucon, Plato’s Socrates deftly shows the danger of politics to human character.

Not the least of these dangers threatens reasoned thought, the distinctively human part of human nature. Not only does Nichols see that Socrates intends his famous description of the ‘City in Speech’ ruled by philosopher-kings as a supremely ironic construct—more comical than any Aristophanean drama—but she argues that the philosopher-kings themselves do not compare to the genuine philosopher, Socrates himself. The philosopher-kings are what we today would call ideologues; their political passions shape their thought, preventing them from actual philosophizing. Their reason controls their appetites but has no desire of its own. It is self-sufficient but closed. It can dictate but it cannot learn. The walls of the city determine its horizon. It cannot love its own, as a woman loves her children or as a moderately political man loves his country, but neither can it love what transcends family and country.

This absolutizing of politics leads to self-destructive communism. By denying the natural differences between men and women, by insisting on equality defined merely as sameness, the City in Speech “ultimately denies nature.” But nature generates men and women, human life itself. The philosopher-kings absurdly order all citizens above the age of ten years out into the country; here Nichols, perhaps influenced to much by evil acts in our own century, speaks of the inevitability of “mass murder” to achieve this unliberating exodus. Yet Plato’s Socrates retains his comic balance here as elsewhere. There is no one to enforce the proposed exile, so logic immolates the Republic‘s City in Speech as thoroughly as stage-fire does the Socratic think-tank in the Clouds. 

In the Republic, logic does what ridicule does in the Clouds. It sets the limits. Thus Plato can rescue philosophy, thought guided by logic or reason, with reason itself—by the very act of philosophizing—whereas Aristophanes can only laugh, nervously, limiting philosophy by appeals to custom or ‘normality.’ Plato invites us to think about politics, and about thought, about what each can and cannot do. Justice is not so simple as politicians and ideologues believe. Plato finds it in the complex human needs both for the world as it is and for the world as it can be remade, realistically, for human life.

For Nichols’s Plato, justice finds expression not in politics but in the small circles of philosophic friends Socrates wisely rules. Socrates knows he does not know, and this knowledge of his own, and others’, ignorance dampens political fires. Nichols finds this a too-negative justice. In Aristotle’s Politics she finds not only Socratic skepticism but some prudent answers.

Against Plato, Aristotle insists that political life can incorporate some diversity, cultivate some openness. Against Aristophanes, Aristotle argues that a certain kind of philosophic thought can guide political life. Building upon the naturally-generated unit of the family, Aristotle rejects the Platonic contention that politics absolutized must yield communism, because he denies that communism is political at all. The strictly political relationship, seen in the household itself in the relationship between husband and wife, consists of ruling and being ruled, not in one-way command. On that natural basis, Aristotle’s political science aims at guiding active prudence or statesmanship, particularly lawgivers, who form “the bridge between thought and actual regimes.” “The philosopher can share in political life by advising statesmen.”

Nichols’s womanly critique of manly spiritedness does not disdain either spiritedness or men. That would be to commit the very error of spiritedness itself, by treating ‘the other’ as a target. Instead, she achieves a balance, finding her intellectual counterpart in Aristotle—just the sort of man mere feminists never appreciate, but whom intelligent women, along with their manly partners, can readily esteem.

Jenny Teichman: Pacifism and Just War: A Study in Applied Philosophy. London: Basil Blackwell, Ltd., 1987.

Originally published in the New York City Tribune, November 25, 1987.

 

Contemporary British philosophers often believe ethics and politics sub-philosophic. Although philosophy began as an attempt to give a rational account of the whole of nature, these philosophers finally can only throw up their hands at human choices, private or public. Choices, they claim, are ‘subjective,’ a matter of irrational feelings or historically-given conventions. Ultimately, logic is irrelevant to choice. As A. J. Ayer claims in his well-known book Language, Truth, and Logic, we may use reason to clarify secondary issues, so we don’t choose contradictory means to an end. But we cannot reasonably choose the end itself. ‘The Good’ remains beyond (some would say beneath) rational thought. Philosophers can offer no serious help when we ask ‘should’ questions.

Unfortunately for this view, some people, not all of them philosophically incompetent, in fact persist in trying to think rationally about what is good for them. And if one asks, ‘What’s good for me?’ it’s hard to avoid the question, ‘Who am I?’ From there, the questions ‘What is a human being?’ and ‘What is good for human beings as such?’ are not far behind.

Jenny Teichman is a British philosophy professor trained in the familiar techniques of analytical logic. Unlike her immediate predecessors, she takes ‘should’ questions seriously. Pacifism and the Just War represents an heir of Ayers’ intelligent effort to come to terms philosophically with the good—and with moral and political life, which aims at the good. She does so without availing herself of the absolutist language of rights—as distinguished from right. She pointedly remarks, “If one tries to reduce all moral questions to matters of rights one ends up in various impasses that were not there when one began.”

Teichman begins by defining pacifism not merely as opposition to violence (a pacifist might spank his children) but as “anti-war-ism,” “a principled objection to the violence of war.” She fails to define ‘war,’ thereby injuring her argument. To define war, she would need to discuss war’s purpose, instead of merely asserting that it is “victory.” She would need to think politically, to move beyond “applied” philosophy to political philosophy. She would need to think about what pacifism—literally, ‘peace-ism’—is for, not only what it is against. As things stand, “anti-war-ism” is merely the negation of a shadow, and this becomes obvious when she writes, “War without death is logically impossible.” Not so: although war without death has been well-nigh impossible so far, logically it’s easy to conceive of a war in which enemy troops, rulers, populations are incapacitated, political objections gained without any deaths at all.

Teichman attempts to ground her study in practical reality. She does this by presenting brief, competent histories of pacifist doctrine (“it comes to us from Christianity”) and of conscription. But she doesn’t fully integrate her historical knowledge with her philosophic thought; again, only a political understanding would enable her to do that.

For example, she rightly says that some advocates of the ‘just war’ theory confuse war with civil punishment. Sovereign states consist in part of a civil authority that sets laws and punishments, but in war, she observes, no overarching authority exists.

This is right as far as it goes, but it omits two points that Augustine, author of the Christian version of the just war doctrine, would insist upon. First, wars are ordered by civil authorities. Just wars are governed by such authorities, and this distinguishes them from piracy and terrorism. Political life consists neither of world government nor of anarchy. Second, Augustine considers God the overarching ruler, albeit not now here on earth, or at least not simply so. Given the close association of politics and religion throughout most of human history, a philosopher who overlooks the one may well overlook the other.

Not only Augustine but his decidedly non-Christian predecessor Cicero would take strong exception to Teichman’s contention that “the questions as to who or what is an authority logically capable of initiating and waging a just war rest ultimately on facts about inherited customs and institutions… and on facts about Realpolitik (such as the actions of Palmerston, of Robespierre, and of Lenin); for it is these things that determine the identities of rulers and the boundaries of political units.” A true civil authority, just-war theorists agree, consists not only of conventions and power, but of right. Political justice does not reduce to a set of facts originating in accident and human conventions.

This mistake accounts for Teichman’s otherwise surprising agreement with Thomas Hobbes, a somewhat less gentle soul, in arguing that one may rightfully resist any attack on one’s life, “whatever the rights and wrongs of the original quarrel.” If so, then Stalin has the right to resist an assassination attempt. But why does he?

War, “is, of course, evil intrinsically and essentially” because it is “a test of might and is therefore inherently incapable of settling questions of right.” True: But war is capable of defending natural right or justice, as secured (if imperfectly) in existing practices, even if it cannot tell us what justice is. Teichman sees this, more or less, when she disagrees with pacifists, reminding them that although war is evil it is not therefore the worst evil. She sees this with less clarity when she restricts just war to defense against genocide or some equally “dreadful catastrophe.” Prudent statesmen might well reply that small offenses can lead to large ones, and a small war (say, over control of the Rhineland in 1936) might be preferably to a large one (say, the Second World War). that we are left with necessarily imprecise judgments, often made by incompetent men, may be a melancholy fact. It is also an inescapable one, at least so far.

Teichman wishes to escape it. “We might well say that the point is not to justify war but to abolish it.” The political question remains: On what terms? Philosophically, it also remains to be seen whether and to what extent analytical logic (as distinguished from other kinds of reasoned thought) suffices to illuminate politics. Given Professor Teichman’s intellectual integrity and distaste for cant, she may have some exceptionally interesting things to say on that subject. She will need to think more about politics, and political philosophy, before saying them.