Stanley Corngold: The Fate of the Self: German Writers and French Theory. New York: Columbia University Press, 1986.

Originally published in Interpretation: A Journal of Political Philosophy, Volume 15, Numbers 2 & 3, May and September, 1987.

 

German writers seldom efface themselves. Contemporary French literary critics assert ‘the death of the self.’ North American literary critics assert the apotheosis of the French critics.

How long can this go on? Pessimists say, ‘Indefinitely,’ but Stanley Corngold is no pessimist. A professor of comparative literature at Princeton, a former student of Paul de Man, and a native of Brooklyn, he comes well positioned and equipped to arraign ‘deconstructionism’ before the bar of common sense. His departure from or overcoming of Brooklyn did not include any foolish attempt to jettison every ounce of Brooklyn baggage. But he knows that Brooklynite common sense will not by itself convince academics, who remain genteel even while assaulting Western civilization and the bourgeoisie—that is to say, themselves. So he writes his critique in ‘Eighties-academic prose. (“My purpose is to institute the modern self as the copresence [‘structure’] of various narratives [‘effects’] of the self which earlier writers have produced.”) He also gives every sign of actually having read most of what the ‘deconstructionists’ and their academic publicists have written—an ascesis more to be admired than emulated.

Each reader will find his favorite example of this happy conjunction of style and substance, but your reviewer recommends footnote 35, page 244. There Corngold quotes an as-they-say dense passage by Professor Victor Lange on Heidegger (“Historical concretizations of life,” “methodological access,” “suprapersonal presence,” “hermeneutical phenomenology”); with that convincing poker face you prefect only in the old neighborhood, he comments, “It is hard to say this any better.” Truly, Corngold attacks ‘deconstructionism with its own heavy instruments. It is inconceivable that even his most insensible targets will not flinch.

The poet’s self is Corngold’s topic—”a paradoxical being that must ‘disown’ itself in order to exist.” “Disown” is Hölderlin’s word; he likens poetic self-assertion to the “feeling of the sacred” in ancient tragedies, a feeling that can no longer find immediate recognition, but to which modern readers can carry over their own “spirit” (Geist) and experience. This carrying-over works both ways; the poet’s self carries over into “foreign analogous material,” into what T. S. Eliot calls its “objective correlative,” and the reader’s self carries over, away from itself, to perceive the poet’s intention. Hölderlin is the first of seven German writers Corngold presents, all of whom insist that this carrying-over, though problematic, does occur. The ‘deconstructionists’ claim that the self loses its way (‘shattering’ and ‘diffraction’ are the usual metaphors) among outside ‘structures.’ Attacking the notion of the Cartesian subject, res cogitans, the ‘deconstructionists’ deny the existence of self-knowledge, reject the self as a “coercive authority” and as the basis of autonomous individuality. The self “as the agent of its own development” and the source of poetic making, amounts to little more than a myth.

Corngold agrees that “the self as particular, the self as self is precisely what cannot be represented in the concept”; the self “cannot at once stand inside itself and give a full description of itself.” The attempt to do so would yield an infinite regress (not knowing when you’ve reached the self’s foundation) or an infinite ‘progress’ (selves followed by super-selves). “Can a self be itself and know that the act by which it is known ‘disowns’ it?” Corngold affirms that it can, thanks to “history,” by which he means narrative. Narrative is an “effect” issuing from but not identical to the self, opposing but not obliterating other selves (including parts of the originative self that the dominant part of that self finds objectionable); the synthesis of these effects approximates “a third term, a project totality” that objectively confirms the existence of both self and other-than-self. “The integrity of the self is established by a style open to the history [here, “history” also means experience] it suffers and perceives—and makes in the stories it tells, with others’ collaboration.” Corngold would defend Rousseau by means of a literary Hegelianism. Rousseau “figures in the carpet of almost everyone of these essays…. He is my eighth ‘German writer.'” Corngold’s German-language writers are Hölderlin, Dilthey, Nietzsche, Mann, Kafka, Freud, and Heidegger, many of whom find themselves subpoenaed by ‘deconstructionists’ as witnesses to the self’s alleged decease.

Hölderlin teaches that the self’s consciousness of its own mortality, of the most radical otherness, impels it to Bildung, development. This “divided self” does not merely contradict itself, as ‘deconstructionists’ assume. Bildung “turns toward historical and sacred objects and finally toward Nature as that generality enabling, sustaining, and enveloping… particular contacts and negations.” Nature makes the self possible. It also makes self-knowledge possible by affording the self a perspective outside the self. Hölderlin’s “Nature” has nothing to do with stable, Platonic forms; it is as mutable as the self—hence its affinity with the self. At the same time, both self and “Nature” do sustain themselves. Poetic, artful language “assures the permanence [perhaps too strong a word] of relations arresting an eternal ‘slippage’ between signifier and signified.” Language mediates between self and other, thus imitating all-encompassing “Nature.” Corngold does not attempt to prove Hölderlin’s scheme to be rationally sustainable or coherent; a proof of this would require justifying the emphasis on the mutability of which death serves as the most striking example. But he does argue plausibly that Hölderlin makes more sense than the ‘deconstructionists’ do. Corngold shows that Lacan, Laplanche, and Foucault unwittingly imply the existence of the self even in the formulations they use to deny its existence.

In Dilthey, nature, even nature conceived as mutable, gives way to social and political history. “What must a poetics be in order to sustain the view that the subjectivity of a poet may be authentic and representative of social forces?” Dilthey contends that historical activity includes the study of history, that study makes history, is a praxis. The self ‘objectifies’ itself by political activity, art, and scholarship. “Literature is an institution because it institutes relations of force between acts of creation, reception, and understanding whose thrust is to enter the public order.” But the notion of “force” implies much more than mere history-as-narrative. Predictably, Dilthey brings nature in under the cover of history, saying that statesmen, poets, and philosophers share a “powerful life force of soul,” “energy of experiences of the heart and of the world,” the capacity to generalize those experiences, and “the power of inspiring conviction.” The notion of “historical psychology”—in Dilthey a form of vitalism likely derived from Nietzsche’s writings—implies not only history but technē. Neither Dilthey nor Corngold entirely appreciates this, but the former does write, and the latter repeats, that literature’s “highest function” is “to represent the dignity of the person in the midst of its determination” by ‘history.’

In the argument between Rousseau and Hegel, Nietzsche incites to war. He rejects the understanding of art as a means of Bildung. If art is Dionysian, the poet’s self becomes more unstable, a field susceptible to possession. For Nietzsche, questioning distinguishes the self from merely determined phenomena. “The self wants itself as a question,”; it “exists as the question of its being and to this extent is self-determined,” as no outside force causes it to question itself. Corngold finds Nietzsche’s conception of the self to be dubious, because Nietzsche appears nearly to identify the self with the body, whose many drives are merely asserted to have a rank. Disorder cannot be said to determine itself. But Corngold adds that Nietzsche’s will to power itself consists of contradictory forces; if the self produces language, an “enterprise of the will to power,” then language, logos, and therefore logic, are not oriented toward discovery but toward overcoming. The self’s self-questioning means not self-doubt but self-overcoming, questioning. “The question of the self must live as an openness, an unansweredness toward being, yet it must bend the world into virtual answers in order to preserve itself as a question.” Nietzsche’s will to power, one might observe, synthesizes part of Rousseauan nature with part of Hegelian history. Corngold dismisses the ‘deconstructionist’ contention that Nietzsche’s texts are “pan-ironic,” noting that “irony can take place only through punctual abrogations of irony.”

Of the two twentieth-century literary men Corngold discusses, Mann does not interest him whereas Kafka does. The latter’s novels contain “breaks” in perspective—as when Joseph K. is described in the third person, a violation of the novel’s otherwise non-“authorial” point-of-view. Such “breaks” appear to exemplify what ‘deconstructionists’ call the “undecidability” of a text, symptomatic of “the death of the Author.” One might of course suggest that these “breaks” instead reveal the incompetence of the author, but Corngold has a better suggestion. Even as an author, Kafka has a horror of construction, which is one more instance of the mastery or control satirized in The Trial. Kafka objects to perfection of technique, on principle. Therefore, Kafka’s narrator “is as much subject to inauthenticity and blindness as any character”; “like the loopholes in bureaucratic procedures which, as Adorno writes, are the institutional equivalent of mercy, random breaks in narrative consistency grant the hero a sort of merciful liberation from the schematism of ‘character,’ from the privations of an irremediably personal perspective.” Of course, this can only go so far. Kafka is the one who lets the “random” breaks stand. In being allowed to stand, they are no longer random. Corngold does not quite say it, but Kafka cannot avoid presenting us with a coherent self even in his attempts to show mercy to his suffering characters. He cannot really relinquish control, only imitate such relinquishment. He approaches relinquishment of control in fiction.

Corngold attacks the ‘deconstructionist’ misreading of Freud, describing the interpretive method involved as “the disfigured expression of a will to power bent on masking its own contradiction.” Freud’s texts are not literary. The psychoanalyst attempts to “insert” the reality of biological life into fiction invented by a patient or a writer. To Kafka, such a “cure” would itself cause injury; like Rousseau, who deplores self-interest, “Kafka’s self is defined not by particular interests but by its narrative attentiveness to the products of dream play,” by “indifference to the practical concerns of an aimed empirical consciousness.” ‘Deconstructionists’ call Freud’s texts literary because they do not know what literature is, or perhaps are hostile to it. Although they claim to ‘deconstruct’ in order to liberate readers from authors’ allegedly coercive grip, they in fact coerce texts into saying nothing, the better to fit them into the ‘deconstructionist’ construct.

Heidegger “joins a tradition subverting the western philosophy of language which normally founds meaning on, and subordinates rhetoric to, grammar and logic.” The “most primordial” character of Heidegger’s notion of Dasein is a resolute return to “one’s ownmost Self.” Whereas Nietzsche begins with self and sees his general principle, the will to power, in it, Heidegger begins with his general principle, Dasein, which “make[s] a resolute return to the Self.” Wherever the emphasis falls, this anti-traditional tradition attributes a cognitive significance to human “moods,” beyond mere “sensation-bound feeling.” From Rousseau to Heidegger, “mood stands for a disclosive power whose reach cognitive understanding cannot attain.” The disclosive power of moods evidently has waned. Corngold’s Germans increasingly perceive that moods are “fragile” and “strange” when one sees them in others, even if they appear strong and ‘authentic’ in oneself; one self/subject cannot often coincide with another if the means of coincidence is mood. Corngold sees that historicism arises from this increased subjectivism, although he does not elaborate on this fact as much as he might—having availed himself of a sort of historicism.

Corngold would halt this waning of Rousseau’s project before it slides into ‘deconstructionism,’ which he rightly considers an absurdity. “If a text were only a self-deconstructing motion, a play of ineffable differences, a representation of nothingness, it could not weigh heavily enough upon the reader to produce a mood.” For all the formidable doctrine historicists have produced, the basis of their enterprise remains embarrassingly natural—even if so inchoate a naturalness as that seen in human moods. Corngold may concede too much to historicism and also to Rousseau, who at times has been credited with inventing an early form of historicism. When historicism, following subjectivism, eschews dialectic based on the principle of non-contradiction and asserts a “mood”-based dialectic of synthesizing opposites, an effort that eventually ranks rhetoric over logic, it finds such projects as ‘deconstructionism’ hard to resist.

A scholar might examine this matter by examining Rousseau, Hegel, and Nietzsche with an eye toward the classical reason they attacked and the ‘deconstructionism’ they somehow fostered. Corngold’s “postscript” and “prospect” bring to mind a less elephantine approach. Identifying his own book as a confession of sorts, a confession of the distance traveled between Brooklyn and ‘Germany,’ Corngold indicates a readiness to disown or overcome ‘Germany,’ too. One way of doing this would be to measure the language of Brooklyn against the language of ‘Germany,’ and vice-versa, in order to determine what common sense lacks that ‘Germany’ offers, and what ‘Germany’ offers that common sense can bring down to earth, or even falsify. (Socrates, for example, begins with the language of the marketplace, transcending it only when it deserves to be transcended). Despite the egalitarianism of many aspects of post-Rousseauan thought, this thought betrays a contempt for common sense that yields convolution in theory and extremism in practice. One way to get beyond ‘Germany’ is to return to ‘Brooklyn.’

Ann Hartle: The Modern Self in Rousseau’s Confessions: A Reply to St. Augustine. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1986.

Earlier version published in the New York City Tribune, November 12, 1986.

 

Contemporary readers view Rousseau through spectacles manufactured after his time, Romanticism and psychoanalysis being the most popular. But although the Confessions, as the first truly modern autobiography, inspired Romantics and set in motion the intellectual trends culminating in psychoanalysis, Rousseau presents himself in different terms. Ann Hartle removes our anachronistic lenses to show us Rousseau from a perspective nearer his own—one free of Chateaubriand and Freud, closer to Plutarch, Socrates, and Augustine.

Rousseau admired Plutarch’s heroes, but he saw they were thoroughly public men. Rousseau sees that this raises the philosophic question of ‘Being’—specifically, of ‘human being.’ As Hartle writes, the Romans “are what those other than themselves say they are.” Augustine replaces this aristocratic regard for public opinion with a regard for the perfect ‘opinion’ of God; he “is what he is for God.” Rousseau invokes a new standard. He “claims to see himself as he is, and what he is within, invisible to others.” Rousseau’s “self” claims independence from judgments of all others. Since Rousseau, ‘we moderns’ adhere to “the notion of an inner self, an inner core, other than and separable from everything which is not itself”; if external influences separate “the individual from his ‘true self,'” we call this “alienation.”

Rousseau “claims to see himself as he is, and what he is within, invisible to others.” With no false modesty, and in marked contrast to Augustinian humility, he writes his famous first sentence: “I am commencing an enterprise, hitherto without example, and which will never find an imitator. I desire to set before my fellows a man in all the truth of nature, and that man is myself.” Ecce Homo, indeed!  The self-presentation of this replacement-for-Jesus commences what Hartle calls Rousseau’s “‘return’ to the state of nature,” “a turning within to the isolated self-sufficiency of the essentially private self”—not so much in thought as in feeling. Such radical privacy and self-sufficiency present a danger to society, its members understandably suspicious of those indifferent or hostile to its strictures. But Rousseau nonetheless publishes his autobiography, albeit posthumously; it gives society a perspective otherwise unavailable to it—the only one eluding the convention-ridden “subjectivity” of social men. In both invoking his own feeling of radical self-sufficiency and inviting feelings of sympathy or compassion from his fellows as the new ‘Jesus’ of nature instead of grace, Rousseau sees that he both threatens and potentially benefits society by replacing Christian social bonds with the natural or sentimental bonds of a politics of compassion. Hence his remark much later on, in Book X, “I had come to see that everything was radically connected with politics, and that, however one proceeded, no people would be other than the nature its government gave it.” What Montesquieu called “the spirit of the laws” will be reanimated in a radical new direction, away from not only the Holy Spirit but from the spirit of commerce Montesquieu, following Locke, intended as the social-political replacement of that Spirit.

Hartle denies that the Confessions is an autobiography in today’s conventional sense: an outpouring of true personal minutiae. She emphasizes Rousseau’s artfulness. Rousseau “confesses” the truth, but he defines truth in an expansive way. He does not limit “truth” to whatever actually happened. He also includes what could have happened. He writes poetry, fiction, not history. Fiction is “true” if it is “useful” to others but not to himself. He dates what he calls his “uninterrupted self-consciousness” from the time of his “earliest reading” (emphasis added); and he was reading novels, not the Bible. After this education sentimentale, he moved to the writings of philosophers: “After I spent some years in thinking exactly as others thought, without, so to speak, reflecting, and almost without reasoning, I found myself in possession of a fund of learning sufficient to enable me to think without the assistance of another,” an intellectual self-sufficiency that formed in him not an obedient and monarchic but a “republican spirit,” a spirit of “liberty.” It would seem that the ‘return to nature’ itself proceeds not so much through nature directly but through books, through the experience of literary arts.

Rousseau’s own artfulness discloses itself in his witty arrangements of parallels and contrasts between his own life, poetically conceived, and Augustine’s. These begin, obviously, with selecting the same title for his book. Hartle observes that both men recall stealing fruit in childhood (but for Rousseau there is no sense of original sin). Both experience conversions (but Augustine reads the Bible, experiences joy, and attributes this to the action of God, whereas Rousseau reads an intellectual journal, experiences misery, and attributes it all to “fortunate accident”). Augustine divides his book into thirteen sections, ending with a commentary on the Creation story in the Book of Genesis; Rousseau divides his book into twelve sections, omitting an such commentary. The genesis Rousseau does describe is that of his own book. Augustine describes his Confessions as a work of mysterious Providence; Rousseau describes his as a work of art issuing from his own nature. Rousseau represents human nature as good; while admitting “there is no human heart, however pure it may be, which does not conceal some odious vice,” that vice was not there at birth. Augustine represents human nature as bad, “fallen.” Rousseau’s “revelation of man” owes nothing to divinity. It is a natural “revelation,” the work of a philosopher, not a saint. Godlike, he writes his own book or ‘Bible,’ revealing himself.

As a philosopher, Rousseau finds Socrates’ life the most relevant parallel to his own. Both men regard philosophy as the process of “learning how to die”; both speak “from the perspective of a dead man,” a perspective undistorted by passions; both tacitly deny the literal survival of the individual soul after death, while appearing to affirm such survival. Unlike Socrates, however, Rousseau writes. In this, he combines Socrates with the artful Plato. Unlike Socrates, Rousseau confronts death by studying books and staying by himself; he is a modern individualist. Unlike Socrates, the threat to Rousseau’s life is natural, a disease, not man-made, political. Both conceive the philosopher as enjoying a sort of “eternal leisure” of contemplation, “arduous and peaceful.” Both receive instruction in wisdom from a woman: Socrates from Diotima, Rousseau from a prostitute who tells him to give up ladies and study mathematics. Augustine listens to God speaking providentially; Socrates listens to his daemon, the voice that saves him from danger; Rousseau listens to himself, a “divine” perspective (worthy of bringing before God on Judgment Day, he tells us), but one “not above him, outside him, but precisely within him.” Augustine seeks God. Rousseau heeds the command heeded by philosophers, “Know thyself.” He seeks nature, in himself.

Augustine refers the mysteries of the human soul to God’s act of creation, and faithfully awaits further revelations at the end of time. Rousseau replaces divine creation with the human “creative imagination,” which constructs an “ideal world” wherein the self—not a soul in Augustine’s sense—feels at home because this world is made by the self, for the self. The intrusion of reality into this self-made world causes misery: hence Rousseau’s withdrawal from “the world of men,” a measure of the radically asocial character of Rousseauian human nature. “The knowledge of death and its terrors is distinctive of man as different from the other animals.” The final reality, death, does not disturb Rousseau, as death merely annihilates individual human nature and thus ends the painful discrepancy between the imagined and the real.

Rousseau’s self owes this unity to imagination. But “poetic” truth is one thing, madness something else. How does this self know it is not mad? Hartle advances a provocative interpretation of Rousseau’s answer. Almost every reader in this century has supposed that Rousseau’s account of the “Great Plot” against him, recounted in the final section of the Confessions, betrays a descent into paranoia. But Hartle suggests that Rousseau thereby parodies Augustine’s account of the works of Providence. To interpret one’s life as “the working out of God’s design for him”—as Augustine does—is to Rousseau real madness. As Augustine faithfully imitates the Christ, Rousseau, blasphemously opposes him. Rousseau is an ironic Christ, or anti-Christ, self-created, his “life or “confessions” being “his own construct.” Madness believes. But Rousseau does not believe. Knowing that one does not believe resembles, but is not identical to, the Socratic claim to know what one does not know.

Rousseau’s creative imaginings issue from a self that lucidly sees that it produces creative imaginings. In imagining consciously, it stays linked to reality, to nature. The “state of nature,” that famous condition described in Rousseau’s political writings, need not be sought in distant events; a philosopher need only scrutinize himself. In the philosopher’s self, nature asserts Itself. This contrasts with what goes on in the social “selves” of other men, determined largely by conventions, the opinions of others. Human nature is this “inner self,” underlying its own history and obscured by conventions. “For Rousseau the nature of man is a private self-defining impulse, a feeling of self, beyond law, above time and without limit.” Rousseau regards himself as the first human being who has discovered this. He writes his Confessions to insure that this unprecedented insight will not be lost.  Plato designs his writings in order to protect the Socratic enterprise and its practitioners from their enemies. Although Rousseau’s writings had brought misery up to the time of the Confessions, perhaps the sympathy inspired by Rousseau-the-confessor will protect his enterprise and win disciples. Or so Rousseau thought—and subsequent events have not entirely disappointed his hopes.

Ann Hartle has written a book no less succinct and graceful for being scholarly. Previous commentators have believed Rousseau’s autobiographical works (the Dialogues, the Confessions, The Reveries of a Solitary Walker) to be “romantic,” sub-philosophic. Hatle sees that they complement rather than contradict such political-philosophic works as the Discourses, The Social Contract, and the Emile. In so doing, she shows how a philosopher of Kant’s stature could learn from Rousseau, and why religious men of the eighteenth century—of any century—could and should find in him a formidable enemy.

John F. Wilson: The Politics of Moderation: An Interpretation of Plato’s Republic. Lanham: University Press of America, 1984.

Originally published in Interpretation: A Journal of Political Philosophy. Volume 14, Number 1, January 1986. Republished with permission.

 

In Wilson’s opinion, commentators have overemphasized the Republic‘s central books. In order “to restore the wholeness of the Republic,” Wilson emphasizes Books VIII, IX, and X. Such emphasis, he argues, reflects the nature of dialectic, which “presents, argues, and aims at accommodating opposites or contenders.” Common sense suggests that we look for this culminating accommodation at the end of a dialogue; Wilson goes so far as to say that Books I-VII constitute a sort of introduction to the Republic‘s later books. Accommodation suggests compromise and compromise suggests moderation. “The fundamental problem of the work is the relationship between justice and moderation”; Wilson describes this as “the serious problem of a serious man.” Wilson writes as a serious man.

With gentlemanly care, Wilson challenges “the very interesting Strauss-Bloom interpretation,” the one found in the central chapter of Leo Strauss’s The City and Man and in Allan Bloom’s edition of the Republic. This interpretation rests on for assumptions,” all of them “questionable.” These are: that Plato is a philosopher, “or has primarily the interests of philosophy at heart”; that ‘body’ is separate from ‘soul’; that such permanent human types as rhetoricians and tyrants exist in actuality, but the just city is ideal, only; and that truth is (nonetheless) more real than honor, which is more real than physical pleasure. In considering Wilson’s interpretation, one should contrast it with that of Strauss and Bloom. Wilson makes this easy to do because, like Strauss and Bloom, he respects the order of the dialogue. He devotes one chapter to each Book, then adds an eleventh, concluding, chapter.

Wilson briefly discusses the first three Books. Whereas Strauss and Bloom extensively discuss the setting of the dialogue, Wilson moves quickly to the arguments. On the theme of poetry and the gods, he describes the Greek convictions “that there are gods, that men have souls, and that there is an afterlife” as “unquestioned premises” of Socrates. “Thus, his reform of the poets’ teaching will be one of details, albeit large details, rather than fundamentals”—an assertion Strauss and Bloom do not make. Wilson agrees with Strauss that Thrasymachus’ anger at Socrates is faked, but he does not mention, much less explain, Thrasymachus’ blush when Socrates catches him in a contradiction. Wilson observes that Thrasymachus’ definition of justice (“the advantage of the stronger”) undercuts its own conventionalism by its appeal to nature, to the strength of the artisan who does his job well. Unlike Strauss and Bloom, Wilson does not regard Socrates’ exploitation of this contradiction as logically problematic, saying only that Socrates’ argument contradicts “our experience.”

In describing the entrance of Glaucon and Adeimantus into the dialogue, Wilson at first melds the brothers’ voices into one, a disagreement with Strauss and Bloom that he retracts quickly enough. He contends that the simple “city of necessity,” so appealing to Adeimantus and so repellant to the erotic Glaucon, is abandoned by Socrates “with a mental sigh”—a sigh inaudible to Bloom and, probably, to Strauss. In discussing the complex city demanded by Glaucon, Wilson emphasizes the existence there not only of luxury but of leisure. Leisure brings freedom from necessity; choice in turn opens the mind to reason. “Now, Socrates and the brothers become something more than observers and chroniclers of the passing historical scene: they become legislators.” In becoming legislators, they discuss the lawgivers of Greece, the poets: “Only when the question of justice arises does the form of speaking become crucial.” Socrates in fact says, “A young thing can’t judge what is hidden sense and what is not; but what he takes into his opinions at that age has a tendency to become hard to eradicate and unchangeable” (378e). Not only justice but wisdom—more precisely, one’s future love of wisdom—depends in some way on the form of speaking. Be that as it may, Wilson tacitly acknowledges that Strauss and Bloom are at least partly right in arguing that Socrates separates body from soul and then pointedly neglects the body: “in the just city, everything cares for the soul.” Wilson contends that “the great genius of musical education is not its truth, but its power to conceal the truth, especially the truth about itself”; this education culminates in the “noble lie.” But Socrates asserts that rhythm and harmony, while not themselves rational, can incline one to reasonable speech. Unless this assertion proves ironical, music education must have a more complex and greater “genius” than Wilson suggests.

Wilson agrees with Strauss and Bloom that Socrates’ procedure for searching for justice—arbitrarily positing four virtues and ‘assuming’ that one can find justice by a process of elimination—is highly suspect. He agrees that Socrates gives all these virtues a distinctly political cast. He sees the problematic character of Socrates’ analogy between the individual soul and the city, a problem Socrates himself points out. Wilson correctly observes that Socrates’ statement of the principle of non-contradiction (at 436c) comes during this discussion of the soul’s nature, specifically, during an attempt to distinguish its parts. Wilson calls this principle a “law,” likens the dialogue at this point to a trial, and claims that “political philosophy, especially when it is closest to philosophy, must respect the law.” This edifying interpretation does not quite reflect the passage, which concerns justice more than it concerns law, principle rather than convention. To say that “the same thing won’t be willing at the same time to do or suffer opposites with respect to the same part and in relation to the same thing” is to allude to the definition of justice as each doing his/its own proper task. Moreover, the formulation gives the basis for making distinctions, for classification. Language itself—another meaning of the word logos—depends upon the truth of this principle.

Strauss and Bloom emphasize the danger of the spirited part of the soul, the part that will serve appetites instead of reason if improperly trained. Wilson emphasizes the tension between moderation, which holds the parts of both soul and city together, and justice, which differentiates, “makes each thing what it is.” Untempered by moderation, political justice requires the radical changes set down in Book V, changes sufficiently spectacular to cause Glaucon to forget he earlier agreed that souls’ moderation, not the community of bodily pleasures and pains, binds the city. But a city/body analogy would be even more suspect than the analogy of city and soul, as “there is no such thing as common sensation.” Wilson claims that this new, just city’s immoderate politics “are the politics of the most unholy war,” a war “understood as a quest for justice.” The textual support for this assertion is weak; Wilson ignores the relative humaneness of the just city’s defensive warmaking. This suggests that justice and moderation are not at such severe tension as Wilson claims. Wilson does not discuss the much more interesting questions concerning the tension between justice and philosophy, questions raised by Strauss and Bloom. None of these commentators adequately discusses the relation of Book VI’s four-part division of the soul’s activities (imagination, believing, thinking, understanding) to the tripartite division of the soul (reason, spirit, and appetites Wilson suggests that the image of the philosopher’s ascent from the cave contains, implicitly, a defense of moderation. Eyes narrow in the sun’s bright light; ergo, the soul “is most shy and distrustful of pure truth, making itself quite closed and admitting only very small amounts of it at any one time.” This charming variation of Socrates’ image prepares the way for Wilson’s claim that Socrates would send the young guardian-philosopher back to the cave in order to gain knowledge of “our own ignorance”—a clever application of a famous Socratic phrase. Thus, in Wilson’s readings, the first seven books of the Republic constitute an introduction because they show the dangers of immoderation, including immoderate quests for justice and truth, in preparation for a political science of moderation presented in the final three books.

The “true cause of the decline” of the Beautiful City ruled by philosophers is not the failure of eugenics but “the fact that the rulers—theoretical and not practical men—are allowed to vary the basic education in music and gymnastic.” The “essence” of philosophy “is that it remains partially ignorant”; therefore, the regime of philosophers is “always subject to change and decline.” The tyrant also “has lost his practical wisdom,” but to the eros of the appetites, not to the eros of reason. The eros of reason would behold the Good, after sacrificing many goods; tyrannic eros achieves the opposite sort of unity, “the mindlessness of non-differentiation,” after sacrificing the many goods.

Wilson’s Socrates prefers “the just and moderate person, a complex whole integrated by practical wisdom,” not theoretical wisdom. By the end of the Republic, his Socrates has made justice and moderation “no longer very distinct.” (This suggests that Adeimantus, not Glaucon, is more likely the future philosopher, although Wilson may also mean—as he suggested at the outset—that Plato isn’t a philosopher at all, or at least not a philosopher in the Strauss-Bloom sense.) Book X contains a discussion of imitation (poetic imitation in particular) because both “virtue and vice are somehow associated with imitation, and perhaps even caused by it”; “each thing in a chain of reality of being imitates—or is a more evident manifestation of—the thing directly above it which is more real.” This contrasts with Strauss’s and Bloom’s interpretation, distinguishing even the best imitation of the truth. Here Wilson differs most sharply from his predecessors. Rightly describing the noble lie as particular and political, the image of the cave as general and human, and the myth of Er as cosmic, he believes the latter not only most authoritative but most true. Philosophy is all too human. Tyranny is inhuman. True humanity inheres neither in logos nor in eros but in choice. Choice is “the soul of the soul.” “Necessity and fate… are put in their place by the science of the soul,” a practical, not a theoretical, knowledge. Remarking that in the later Books Socrates shifts from a tripartite to a bipartite division of the soul, Wilson contends that spiritedness has merged with practical wisdom, “a blending” that enables spiritedness to become “the heart of moderation.” The “politics of moderation” results in “the open community”—a phrase Wilson does not intend as an oxymoron. The open community’s bases are wealth, privacy, tolerance, good moral upbringing, “subdued but evident strength,” and “an accurate sense of one’s own interests.” These, “coupled with the spark of philosophy,” “make the search for the good possible” as long as moderation prevails. At the end of the Republic, Wilson’s Plato emerges as an ancestor of Karl Popper.