John W. Danford: Wittgenstein and Political Philosophy: A Reexamination of the Foundations of Social Science. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978.
For more than a century, doubts have arisen about modern science, despite its extraordinary achievements of discovery and invention. The conquest of nature has not uniformly relieved man’s estate, as Francis Bacon promised. Empowering man, it has not emended man himself, that mixed bag of a creature. And even if undertaken with good intentions, any such emendation might worsen him. Somehow, modern science is ‘missing something.’ And it isn’t simply a matter of the results of the enterprise. Its philosophic foundations give some philosophers pause, as seen in Edmond Husserl’s starkly titled The Crisis of the European Sciences. While, as Danford writes, “the reality which science presents is said to be the only reality,” is it? Social science in particular is open to question. Eschewing ‘value judgments,’ it “loses its connection with the prescientific world,” and to lose that connection “is precisely to lose its meaning for us.” Husserl remarks that modern science’s empiricism leads not to truth—now deemed a ‘metaphysical prejudice’—but to approximation or even mere acceptability. Such a culture-bound science stands “but a short step from…radical nihilism,” the claim that scientific theories “are actually creations of the human will.” Husserl wants to give an account of the whole, of that which transcends the empeiria. Danford rejects transcendental phenomenology as “a mysterious project,” seeking instead to look at the philosophic origins of modern science, especially modern political science, to see if they withstand scrutiny.
“The monopolistic attitude toward knowledge which characterizes modern scientific method…emerged in the great intellectual revolution of the 17th century,” when Thomas Hobbes “proclaimed himself the founder of political science qua science.” Hobbes claims that “what is required to make knowledge scientific is nothing more than attention to method.” Previous political philosophers had emphasized the centrality of practical wisdom, prudence, to political life. The best elaboration of ‘ancient’ political science may be found in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and his Politics. Hobbes, Bacon’s most brilliant disciple, argued that analysis followed by systematic construction held much more real promise than unmethodical deliberation, however intelligent and upright its practitioners might be (but seldom were). Here is where Wittgenstein comes in. “Hobbes’s rejection of Aristotle is the very portion of Hobbes’s thought about which Wittgenstein’s philosophy raises questions,” specifically on the topic of language, which Hobbes and his own disciple, John Locke, address extensively. “According to Wittgenstein’s account, we must conclude that Hobbes and Locke were mistaken in their understanding of language,” and if so, they were also mistaken about “the proper method for political science.”
What, then “distinguishes modern science from early rationalism,” the rationalism of philosophers prior to Hobbes and his mentor, Francis Bacon? Hobbes writes that previous philosophers had “strangled” science “with snares of words.” Such philosophers as Plato, Aristotle, and Aquinas came only to uncertain conclusions; because uncertain, their philosophic doctrines led to subversive, disputatious, uncivil discourse, theoretically and practically unsatisfactory. Despite their vaunted reasonableness, philosophers have divided into factions, never achieving the wisdom they claim to love and seek, what Hobbes calls “the perfect knowledge of the truth in all matters whatsoever.” In this quest, geometers have done much better, having produced indisputable knowledge. Geometric knowledge is anything but high-flown, metaphysical, its theorems being based on ‘low’ or self-evident axioms that no one can disagree with, and its aim being not some beauteous vision but utility—the construction of buildings, roads, dams. Hobbes would make political science similarly low, self-evident, useful, based on sense perception and memory, by which means they can discover facts. The “experience of fact” is low but solid, indeed; we share it with the “brutes.”
By contrast, prudence is merely “conjecture from experience,” uncertain. There are two kinds of knowledge: “knowledge original” or sense-knowledge and “knowledge of the truth of propositions,” which is science proper. Both are experiential, but science consists of “the experience men have of the proper use of names.” Truth is a true proposition, the human way of knowing. The truth of propositions, propositions rightly conceived in the brain of the proposer, distinguishes human knowledge from brutish knowledge. Science requires language; it is more than the purely phenomenal knowledge of brutes. Humanly understood evidence “always involves language.” A parrot speaks but forms no conception of what it is speaking; it might repeat a proposition, but it doesn’t know what it’s talking about. When it does know, it expresses itself not in language but in shrieks.
But if words are “arbitrary marks or signs, which ‘stand for’ our thoughts,” then one could use the wrong word to express a thought. Further, how can we know if “the thought which we use a word to signify is the same as someone else’s”? Truth cannot be “merely private or subjective” if science is to be a real thing, but how “to guarantee that words have meanings which are objective”? “Hobbes never, to our knowledge, satisfactorily resolves this problem.” Locke and Wittgenstein number among those who make the attempt.
Having reached this aporia, Danford turns to Hobbes’s critique of classical political philosophy. As noted, the “ancients'” offer only prudential knowledge, which in modern scientific terms isn’t really knowledge at all, being grounded on opinions, which are always dubious. Hobbes wants political truths based on a priori, necessary premisses, analogous to his social contract, the foundation upon which his political architecture rests. Philosophers thus need to agree upon these foundational definitions before they build their ‘republics’ or regimes. Philosophy aims at knowledge of causes. Modern scientific knowledge requires analysis, breaking down the thing you are examining into its “elements” (a term borrowed from Euclid). Elements consist not only of physical parts, right down to atoms, but such features as shape, motion, and visibility. That is, real science is founded upon an analogy to the only sure science hitherto conceived, geometry. We “understand the ‘wholes’ of geometry (squares, triangles, pentagons), because we see how they are constructed from, or can be reduced to, simple ‘parts.'” Admittedly, all science, including geometry, “rests on a foundation which is assumed or unprovable.” In Euclid, these are definitions, postulates, and axioms. Definitions, for example, “are not proven: what we mean by ‘square’ is explained by a definition, but that squares exist and what the properties of squares are, are what geometry demonstrates”; “the definitions require only to be understood,” whereas “the propositions must be demonstrated or proven.” Similarly, the postulates are “the assumptions necessary to the practice of geometry but in themselves unprovable” (e.g., all right angles are equal) and axioms or “the rules of logic.” “Within its own subject matter, geometry is absolutely certain because we construct, in full view and from principles accepted by all (who practice geometry), the propositions concerning the nature of triangles, circles, rectangles, and so on,” principles not arbitrary but based on empirical observation from which the propositions are ‘abstracted.’ Abstraction means to get the universal and necessary “out of the particular and unnecessary” or “accidental.”
That works when we ‘do geometry.’ But can politics be treated that way—analyzed, broken down into simple elements? Hobbes answers with a characteristically resounding ‘yes’: individuals are the elements of political life, and they are composed of two basic impulses: appetite and aversion, motion toward and motion away. Political science rests on these elements, and definitions of them are the “first principles” of demonstration in political science, “the keystone of Hobbes’s epistemological archway.” That is, definition comes between analysis or “resolution” and constructive deduction, synthesis or “composition.” “The resolutive-compositive method itself is closely connected with an understanding of language according to which unambiguous definitions are in principle possible and which permit us to give a clear account of the nature of anything.” Under this method, words ‘stand for’ unambiguous concepts. Geometry issues in physics, physics in psychology, psychology in political science. [1] “Forthright and unidealistic observation of the political world, according to Hobbes, quickly teaches one that the central fact of politics is competition and the struggle of each individual to further his own interests.” Hobbes claims no originality in making that claim but he goes further, analyzing bodies politic into “individual, atomic men, each motivated by his own passions”; political motives are reducible “to a few simple passions.” Viewed scientifically, without passion, these impassioned individuals may be sorted into the law-abiding and the law-breaking; law itself is only the “command of him or them that have coercive power.” The purpose of the political body is peaceful enjoyment of desired objects, avoidance of feared objects; desired objects are acquired by one means, power,” but in order to acquire desired objects and enjoy them, one needs to set self-preservation as the first goal of all individuals and bodies politic. Otherwise, bodies politics will dissolve into the “terrible state of nature,” that war of all against all, in which no law prevents the violent collision of the atomic men. A well-ordered body politic will channel the “permanent struggle for power” into “the peaceful struggle for power in the form of wealth,” which assuages man’s primal aversion, his fear of violent death.
Hobbes does not intend his account of the state of nature and the social contract that (precariously) puts an end to it as a ‘history lesson.’ “He is attempting to ‘reform’ language by showing what political terms can legitimately mean, what they necessarily mean”—showing that the word ‘justice’ rightly, necessarily means law-abidingness, not some grand ‘republic’ of the soul or of the polis. Not only previous philosophy but especially religion “prevented the rational development of language,” which Hobbes now undertakes to free from such “phantasms of the mind.” Hobbes’s quest for certitude may respond as much to Paul the Apostle’s derision of philosophers as “always seeking, never finding.” He more than implies that Christians, like the ancient philosophers, are at most certain about mere mental phantasms.
But if the geometrical/analytic method sets down definitions that are impossible to prove, definitions nonetheless necessary “in order, quite simply, to do science, how are we to understand the relation of science to the world?” The reason that Socrates’ regime (for example) is unlikely, perhaps impossible, to be realized in practice is that it ‘abstracts from’ concrete reality, even as the philosopher claims that his regime in speech is, in some sense, more true than concrete reality. Hobbes counters: the theoretical political science he practices against the political science of ‘the ancients’ “can be practical only because it orders, simplifies, abstracts, and so makes the world manageable.” In this, it resembles “the new natural science, which was based on a new understanding of that relationship between theoretical purity and practical utility.” Indeed, political philosophy actually can be more scientific than natural science because political institutions are constructed in accordance with the blueprint of the social contract. Bacon understands scientific experiments to torture nature in order to force her to reveal her secrets, but torture doesn’t always yield true confession; “we know only what we construct,” and in politics we construct things out of language: laws, states, monarchs—all of them man-made phenomena. Language itself is an invention. “It is the invention of language which permits man access to knowledge properly speaking,” to the framing of propositions. “By carefully observing human nature and history, and reducing it to the essential elements which must always have been present, we can reconstruct the situation in which the first terms of political discourse were needed and thus invented.” On that solid foundation, we can then erect a body politic (an “artificial man,” as Hobbes calls it) which really does secure our desire for self-preservation and the peaceful enjoyment of our desires that sustained self-preservation and the lawful competition for wealth make possible.
Another problem then appears. If “the meanings of the political terms are the result of human construction,” if the world consists of many peoples with different languages, are such political terms as ‘justice’ not “merely conventional, with different meanings at different times” and places? And if that is so, Hobbesian political science itself “may be of only limited validity,” “historical” not natural. “Hobbes rejects the historicist conclusion, because he believes that meanings necessarily emerge in the same way everywhere because of man’s permanent nature.” Eventually, Rousseau would challenge that belief, and the apparently stable bedrock of modern natural right would erode. What, then, can modern natural rights philosophers say about language that will defend their foundational definitions, their use of language?
“Hobbes’s understanding of the possibility of a political science, including the resolutive-compositive method and the understanding of propositions, is connected with a particular attitude toward common speech. Behind that, in turn, lies a certain understanding of the nature of language,” to which Danford now turns. Hobbes claims to be “the first to see clearly the relation between language or words on the one hand and knowledge or science on the other.” Language, he asserts (in his characteristically anti-Biblical fashion) is a human invention, a too, a code invented to send messages. Words are first of all marks for remembrance, invented by an individual; they then become signs, signifying the same thing to more than one person, signs of human conceptions of things, not directly of the things themselves, arbitrary on both their individual and social manifestations. The conceptual character of language, the deployment of such universal terms as ‘Man,’ makes it likely that words may be equivocal. Hobbes isn’t clear on where we get our conceptions, but he does want to understand them, to clarify them, to make our agreements as to their meaning (crucially, when making an indispensable social contract) certain, reliable, understood by everyone. He never quite gets there.
Enter John Locke, with his conception of “simple ideas” or sense-impressions, which precede language in human understanding. The simple ideas are “the bedrock of our mental processes.” What makes them reliable is that the human mind is “entirely passive” in receiving them; they are the unanalyzable elements of experience, which consists of them and our reflections upon them. How can we communicate our experiences to others in order to frame a civil society? Words abstract from, represent, experience; “language is impossible without abstraction,” but since “the general ideas are the same for everyone,” communicating them from one person to another is possible. (One remarks, in passing, the homology between words that represent things and persons who ‘represent’ others in the body politic.) This abstraction distinguishes man from brutes, “permit[ting] men to think and speak.” “Only the fact that the mind is passive in receiving simple ideas guarantees that men share the same ideas simply.” Such complex ideas as “social” and “contract” are composed of simple ideas. Complex ideas can occur naturally in the mind, from outside the mind, via observation of things in the world—Locke calls these “substances”—or from within the mind itself, which can put simple ideas together “by its own power”—Locke calls these “mixed modes.” Against Aristotle, then, framing a definition, making someone else understand by a word what the word stands for, is analytic, an act of breaking down complex ideas into their simple elements, using simple language for simple ideas.
Consequently, “our knowledge of the physical or natural world will necessarily be less perfect than our knowledge of the human world simply because the real essence of that natural world is inaccessible to us,” our knowledge of it approximate. Nature is best understood in terms of simple ideas, not in terms of arbitrary “mixed modes,” which admit of the combination of simple ideas of different kinds, human conventions. Human conventions, being self-generated, are quite understandable but less necessarily true to our own nature, arbitrary. Locke includes such ideas as incest, parricide, and justice as examples of such ideas, a classification which calls into question Biblical certainties, it must be remarked. “How is it, then, that Locke is also the most famous and influential theorist of natural law?”
Lockean natural law as it pertains to human beings consists of moral certainties. Because moral terms are entirely human (not divine, given from outside the human mind) and therefore understandable, we are “capable of a true moral science, of complete and perfect knowledge of moral matters and moral principles,” a systematic demonstrative science of morality and politics “more certain than natural philosophy.” But which of these laws, these mixed-mode complex ideas, can be shown to be free of arbitrariness? “It is reasonable to suspect that Locke could not have failed to grasp the relativist implications of this view of language. Nevertheless he, like Hobbes, rejected them,” going ahead with deriving “principles of natural right from the facts of the state of nature.” He would “discover in human nature a standard which tells us what the minimum content of moral and political terms should be,” joining Hobbes “in the claim that the starting point for this enterprise cannot be what men say in common speech.” Rather, the philosopher must “look directly at the nature of human beings uncomplicated by their beliefs and opinions about why they do what they do,” before they construct their mixed-mode complex ideas for their convenience. Convenience, utility, not the conventional words, is the window that permits him to look at human nature, unimpeded because “what is useful is connected with what one needs.” Find out what men really need by analyzing their words and you can construct a sound morality for them based upon “an empirical study of human psychology.” Obviously, “although Locke departs from Hobbes in the content of his political philosophy, his method—the approach of imagining the construction of society from the elements themselves, and ignoring what men say—is identical with Hobbes’s resolutive-compositive method” and “deriv[ing] all moral and political principles from one primary natural law,” a law discovered by the use of that method.
As does Hobbes, Locke attributes the failure of previous philosophers to find this method and to achieve these results not to ‘original sin’ but to an original misconception. “Men did not understand themselves or their true needs” because “their vision was obscured above all by their pride,” particularly in their belief that God initially provided for them, continues to provide for them, watch over them. In reality, men are needy; Locke’s state of nature is not Hobbes’s state of war, but it is a state of scarcity, neediness. All very well, but for one noticeable thing: the evidently conjectural character of any ‘state of nature’—Hobbes’s, Locke’s, Rousseau’s—lands modern philosophers back into the philosophic factionalism Hobbes deplores. It seems that both ‘ancient’ and ‘modern’ philosophy incur relativism, the first because there was an ‘outer’ standard of morality, the nature of which philosophers did not agree upon, the second because there was an ‘inner’ standard of morality, the nature of which philosophers did not agree upon. Yet, “if Hobbes and Locke were unsuccessful in their hope, they nevertheless took the decisive step of establishing the split between the natural world and the world of human constructs on an epistemological footing,” a footing “inextricably linked with a certain understanding of the way language works.”
Danford describes and advantage the ‘ancients’ enjoy over the moderns. Their aporia are more promising of at least some tentative resolutions because “they understood there to be more kinds of knowledge than Hobbes accepts.” If knowledge comes in different kinds, it may not be certain, nor may it aspire to certainty, but it covers more ground, comprehends more, in both senses of the term. In thinking about justice, for example, they begin “not by denying common speech or what men say, but by considering various ordinary opinions about it, opinions reflecting a variety of situations in which justice is relevant.” Here is no “geometric certainty,” but here is no unrealistic expectation of geometric certainty masquerading as tough-minded realism. The problem with the ‘ancients,’ however, is that they provide no “systematic account of language” to go along with Aristotle’s comprehensive account of the kinds of knowledge. Hence Danford’s interest in Wittgenstein, who does give such an account without succumbing to the linguistic and epistemological simplism of Hobbes and Locke.
Initially, Wittgenstein held the Hobbes-Locke position, that words stand for things, representing objects. But he eventually concluded that the evocation of images is only one thing that language does. A word may also signify, point to a use. To say ‘No!’ is not to conjure up a mental picture of an object; words are not only “symbols in a communications code.” For example, if I call out “Slab!” I may mean ‘Bring me a slab!’ or ‘I want a slab!’ “Words function in numerous ways, often combining with activity in what Wittgenstein calls “language games.” Speaking, using language, is a human activity; his term, ‘game,’ does not imply ‘fun and games,’ although it includes fun and games. Language is often, even usually, undertaken with serious intent. Contra Hobbes and Locke, the multiple uses of language are not in themselves confusing; it is rather the reduction of language to “the method of science” that confuses us. “Wittgenstein tries to show why the reductionist method of natural science is not appropriate to the understanding of language: reducing language to a small number of ‘simples,’ or to one model, inevitably causes us to misunderstand it.”
“Learning words means learning how to use them.” Learning a language, however, “means learning how to play many different language games, in which words are used in different ways,” for the purpose or purposes of those games. “Understanding a word, we may say, is like understanding a lever in the cab of a locomotive: fully understanding it requires in a sense an understanding of the whole mechanism, that is, of what the mechanism is for.” Understanding the whole “entails understanding what that human activity is, what it for, why it is played.” Human action is teleological, as Aristotle maintains. Unlike other teleological motions, such as plant growth, it involves speech, reason; at the same time, human speech differs from Hobbes’s parrot but also differs from Hobbes’s man, who has no good way to think of purposes outside of his own passions, his subjective desires and aversions. “It makes no sense to speak absolutely of the simple parts of something” because a word has no meaning outside “the language games it is used in,” games that are purposive. And so, for some purposes, in analyzing a chair I might consider it as composes of “pieces of wood and screw,” while for another purpose I might analyze it in terms of “the atoms which make up the materials themselves.” In each case, what you think of as the ‘real’ table “depends on what you are going to do” and the purpose you pursue in doing it.
In a political community, the meaning of the word ‘justice’ requires knowledge of the purposes of the political community. “In considering the vast range of political phenomena, from taxes to trials, our judgment proceeds not from the fact that they share or lack some simple element of ‘just-ness,’ but rather from their relationship to the goals we understand our political community to aim at.” Goals: “the whole,” political or other, “may be heterogeneous and not reducible” to its parts.
If there’s “no ‘core’ meaning common to all its forms,” how, then, to define language itself? That there is no clear-cut definition of the kind Hobbes and Locke seek may be seen in the notion of ‘games.’ “The activities we call games”—poker, chess, baseball, sometimes politics—are “related to each other not in any single way” to which they can be reduced and defined “but as members of a family, each of whom resembles others in some ways, but not in all.” Wittgenstein offers the metaphor of a thread, “the overlapping of many fibers.” Is such a blurred concept really a concept? Yes, in the same way as an indistinct photography a picture of a person. For some purposes (the obscuring of blemishes, for example), one might prefer the indistinct photo. Exactness, certainty isn’t always a solution; sometimes, it’s a problem. When considering what a game is, “we cannot really say what a concept means,” but then that doesn’t mean I don’t know it. I can know how a clarinet sounds without being able to say how it sounds. “Our knowledge is in many cases an inarticulable knowledge,” or only a partially articulable one. Ask not only ‘what’ the word means but how you learned its meaning because “an understanding of how human beings learn to participate in this activity will shed light on the activity itself.” Parents don’t teach their children the rules of grammar first; “as children, we learn by hearing words used by those around us, and used in the language games or contexts in which the words are customary.” The word by itself doesn’t tell you the substance of what it is. “The grammar of a word might be said to include all the various expressions win which we can use of the word, and the situations in which these are suitable”—not “simply a verbal matter,” but one that “encompasses situations, contexts, and activities in the world.” That is, in addition to an Aristotle-like teleology, language also registers an Aristotle-like attention to circumstances, an attention on full display in the Nicomachean Ethics.
Why is this ‘grammatology’ not merely arbitrary, conventional, vulnerable to the same criticism leveled at the ‘moderns’? Wittgenstein does in fact say that our concepts “are natural, at least to some degree.” That is because language games and grammar “are grounded in or based on characteristic ways we human beings have of living and acting together, characteristics of human beings simply.” They are “natural conventions,” since by nature we may not settle upon any one language, grammar, or set of language games but that by nature we do settle on some language, grammar, or set of language games. Conventional, yes; arbitrary, no. Language registers natural human feelings—happiness, anger, pain, all of which “are indeed built into our grammar. More, these things are “based on natural characteristics of human life on this planet, on our forms of life.” Human life has a nature, heterogeneous but not reducible to its parts. As Wittgenstein puts it, there is no “agreement in opinions”—like regimes, languages differ—but “in forms of life.” “The grammatical conventions, the language, are grounded in form of life which human being share, which are somehow natural to them.” Ways of life are patterns of action, not patterns of images. “The crucial notion here is that these activities are not reducible to something simpler; the terms that we use in a language game are not necessarily constructed out of simpler elements.” The sharp, modern distinction between human nature, reduced to, say, fear of violent death, and mind-entangling conventions (beauty, truth) gives way in Wittgenstein to ways of life that must be understood on their “own terms.” Wittgenstein would “inquire into the relations among our forms of life without necessarily seeking to reduce complicated ones to more simple or basic ones.” How, then, might we rank these forms of life—very roughly, these regimes? Within a given regime, such ranking would take place with a view to the purpose of the regime. Within a language game, such ranking would take place with a view to the purpose of the game. But is it possible to rank one regime in relation to another, one game in relation to another? Or does Wittgenstein give us only a more sophisticated form of relativism, leading once again to nihilism?
Danford suggests that “conceived in the above terms,” the modernity of Hobbes, Locke, and even of Wittgenstein, “the project of understanding justice is indeed hopeless.” “Once certainty is made the criterion of science, it is difficult to see how there can be a science of a practical matter such as politics.” Aristotle and Plato argue against certainty as the criterion of science, or at least of all science, and thus leave space for a workable science of politics. “Once certainty is made the criterion of science, it is difficult to see how there can be a science of a practical matter such as politics,” a difficulty Hobbes “circumvents” by “replacing the distinction between theoretical and practical sciences with the distinction between theoretical sciences and applied sciences” in an attempt to treat political purposes—for example, securing peace—as “no different from the application of geometry to solve a surveyor’s problem of measurement.” Science serves practice; the purpose of knowledge is power; political science seeks peace, seeks to conquer the state of nature, which is a state of war.” But “in order to be useful, a science must be indisputable”; in needs the authoritative certainty commanded by religion, and in order to vindicate that certainty it must bring the peace Christianity merely promises. It hasn’t, and that raises uncertainty about the utility of Hobbesian political science.
But it may be that the ‘ancients’ have a better way, if not a way that satisfies the human longing for certitude. Danford begins with “the place of classical social science” in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. In Aristotelian science, theoretical reason concerns matters of truth and falsity, while practical reasoning concerns matters of good and bad action. Aristotle elaborates five kinds of knowledge. Science, epistemē, concerns things that are necessarily so; it is teachable, either by induction (reasoning from particulars to universals) or, more strictly speaking, by deduction, syllogism. Because a syllogism cannot question its own ‘first principles,” a truth or truths that must be held as self-evident for the sake of making logical deductions, one also needs nous, intelligence, which discovers the first principles, the archai, of science. Sophia or theoretical wisdom understands both first principles and the results of science, beginnings and ‘ends’ or purposes. Art, technē, concerns the means to those ends; it is productive but neither discover first principles nor make logical deductions from them nor judge the worth of what it produces. Practical wisdom, phronēsis, which concerns action, involves deliberating about obtaining the good and the advantageous; it knows particulars, not principles. Being more vulnerable to the extremes of pleasure and pain than the other forms of knowledge, it should be associated with moderation, sophrosynē. A person of practical wisdom and moderation will practice these virtues, perhaps along with others, without necessarily knowing why they are virtues, an inquiry that requires theoretical wisdom. Practical wisdom points to political science and is most likely to be found among men and women of experience, not the young. Whereas science is teachable, political science is not; “it is not a science in the strict sense.” It differs from theoretical wisdom, too, in that theoretical wisdom concerns itself with the nature, including human nature, as such. Political science, which comprehends practical wisdom but is not restricted to it; it “not only explains what things are good for human beings, but also seeks to explain why, thus bridging the gap between an autonomous virtue which can be practiced by the man of prudence without knowing why, and the realm of philosophy which requires an account of everything that is.”
What, then, is the source of virtue? There are two types of virtue. The “lower sort” is “natural virtue,” a “kind of unthinking disposition to be virtuous, which is found even in children, but which is liable to be harmful if it is not combined with ‘intelligence’ (nous).” “Virtue in the full sense,” on the other hand, “has intelligence”; it knows the first principles and the ends of action. “The good which results from the ‘blind natural virtue is a matter of accident; virtue in the full sense requires the sight of intelligence, part of the rational faculty.” “It is a product of right reason (orthos logos); it is the true knowledge of what is good for human beings.” Political science, then, is architectonic. It directs human action, including the quest for scientific knowledge, toward good purposes, since “theoretical knowledge about virtue is a reliable goal in itself.” By contrast, Hobbes doubts that the higher virtues are really virtues at all, that they tend toward irresolvable disputes, war, and that it is the “lower sort” of virtue alone can deliver peace. While Aristotle finds human reason to be “at home in the world,” Hobbes finds it “in an alien world of matter and motion,” that it therefore it “can know for certain only what it constructs.” Aristotle considers dialectic, the rational examination of contradictory opinions, as the way to discover first principles, whereas Hobbes considers “resolution,” analysis, to be that way. Aristotle maintains that “wholes are not understandable strictly by understanding parts.” Further, “on Aristotle’s account, ‘opinions generally held’ (common speech) are necessarily the starting point for any inquiry,” Hobbes “insists that one who begins from ‘vulgar discourse’ or common speech will never reach the truth.” For Aristotle, definitions are the goals, the results of dialectical examination of common speech; for Hobbes, definitions are to be found in the axioms of the proof. Aristotelian dialectic “seeks a perspicuous understanding rather than a reductive understanding because it is not based on the idea that knowledge can only be secured by reconstructing the combinations of ideas which are added together to make a concept.” Accordingly, political science, knowledge of politics, will seldom if ever achieve the certainty Hobbes would have its practitioners strive for. Live with it. “We must…consider the possibility that the surface of things is the reality with which a truly political science must deal,” that “our access to the phenomena of the human world must necessarily be through an understanding of them which is contained in the way we think and speak about them.” It is true that Aristotle offers no “critique of language” and that Wittgenstein wrote nothing on political science. All the more reason, Danford suggests, to see whether Wittgenstein’s un-Hobbesian language-based ‘epistemology’ can supplement Aristotelian political science.
Before attempting to do that, Danford considers “the method of classical political science,” the means of inquiry into the nature of human things, especially the nature of virtue or excellence (aretē), exemplified by Plato’s Socrates in the Meno, “an encounter between a great teacher and an unteachable man.” [2] The name “Meno” derives from the Greek word for memory; if you know everything you need to know already, what need do you have for learning? When asked what virtue is, he replies with a mere list of virtues. Socrates sets up a contrast by pretending to have a poor memory, wondering how Meno’s listed virtues fit together and how they might fit into “a larger whole, which in the largest sense is our whole experience, our world.” For this, he posits his famous theory of the Ideas or Forms. “Nothing seems further from the spirit of Wittgenstein than the Platonic doctrine of the Forms, at least on the conventional understanding of Plato.” Apparently, he contends, as his Socrates does here, “that to understand something like human excellence is to isolate and contemplate the essence underlying all particular manifestations,” although, as Danford remarks, in the dialogues he wrote Plato “never has his Socrates offer a clear definition of human excellence.” It may be “that Plato was himself aware of the issue Hobbes charged the classics with ignoring, the issue of method.”
Under the pressure of the ‘Socratic method,’ dialectic, Socrates forces Meno “to see the inadequacy of his original approach”; he “takes refuge in a certain idea of scientific method,” geometry, even as Hobbes would do, albeit far more impressively. Socrates “appears to prefer an approach which sticks as closely as possible to ordinary nontechnical meanings,” which are heterogeneous, contradictory and susceptible to dialectical treatment, which is consistent with the idea that “the whole is heterogeneous,” not reducible to Hobbesian elements and therefore not understandable by the analytic method. Dialectic proceeds not by breaking things down but by discovering coherence, connections among the heterogeneous parts, discovering what makes them a whole, despite and often because of their heterogeneity. Dialectical argument, desirous of truth (“erotic”) and friendly, contrasts with something that looks very much like it: eristic argument, spirited and antagonistic, a bit like Hobbes’s state of nature but in speech only. These two ways of arguing from opinions find favor among two different characters, persons of two different “moral outlooks.” Meno sees no distinction between the noble, the spirited-antagonistic, and the good. Plato’s dialogue illustrates that character and philosophic inquiry are related: “what one thinks excellence or virtue is depends to a great extent on what one’s conception of knowledge is” and what one’s conception of knowledge is, along with how one attempts to inquire after it, depends to great extent on what one’s character is. “We are compelled to wonder whether Meno’s preoccupation with wealth, honor, and power as the goals does not somehow go along with what he will directly reveal to be his deeper conception of knowledge, which is that it does not exist,” with “a radical skepticism.” Similarly, Hobbes (following Machiavelli) “argues that since men cannot agree on any goals except avoiding the evil of violent death, all men seek power (in the form of wealth, or honor, because power allows them to pursue any good”; “skepticism about the goals most men claim to believe in…seems to be the natural accompaniment to both an unrestrained selfishness and a cynicism about our ability ever to know anything beyond the ‘truths’ which are ‘operational’ (what is true is what works).”
Socrates’ character leads him in a different direction. Originally, Meno had objected, eristically, to Socrates’ definition of human excellence because it used undefined terms. He demanded a scientific-geometric definition. The problem is that “there is no starting place for such an inquiry which will not be open to the objection of undefined terms.” Socrates thus prefers not to begin with a clear definition but “to proceed somewhat tentatively, ascending by means of connections from ignorance to a more comprehensive understanding.” His theory of latent knowledge, of anamnesis, which he claims to prove by his comic dialogue with the slave boy, who is supposed to have known geometry all along, ends in pointing to an irrational number, a number that is alogoi or unsayable. That is, the apparent certainty of geometric thought can lead to a certain uncertainty. This conversation is “an analog of the problem of defining excellence; in that case too, perhaps, no clear ‘answer ‘ is to be found, but something like an answer can be pointed to.”
Anamnesis or “recollection,” a “method of philosophizing about the human things,” requires questioning, repeated questioning, “many times” and in “many ways” about “the thing under investigation.” Danford remembers Wittgenstein’s claim that philosophic problems “are solved, not by giving new information, but by arranging what we have always known.” Like the irrational number, virtue or excellence is something we may not be able to define but nonetheless “feel we ‘somehow’ know.” “Wittgenstein suggests that knowledge is, in a way, contained in our language.” Plato’s Socrates begins with opinions, contradictory definitions of words, subjects them to dialectic and thereby eliminating the false opinions, the ones that cannot withstand logical scrutiny. “In some sense knowledge emerges in the process of inquiry and is revealed only to the active participant in the dialogue.” Meno is unteachable because he doesn’t really want to participate; he wants to be told, definitively, what virtue is. He is intellectually lazy. He doesn’t want to put things together, “to discover the whole by discovering how things fit together or by finding the place of each thing in the whole.” “The grammar of our language is the Wittgensteinian parallel to Socrates’ understanding of the relationship among the human phenomena.”
Virtue cannot be taught in any straightforward way. If it could be, Pericles could have taught it to his sons, as he did horseback riding. There are no teachers of virtue, and even the sophists, whom Meno admires, disagree among themselves about its teachability. How, then, is virtue related to knowledge? Scientific definitions in this realm “are open to a decisive objection,” namely, that “they distort the phenomena we seek to know about.” “Socrates’ method, to the extent to which it may be called scientific, is more like the sort of argument ‘by hypothesis.'” “We are not wholly ignorant” of the nature of virtue; “the dialogue has partly uncovered the outlines of human excellence, its eidos, or shape.” It may be seen in the ordinary man, the average citizen, while also in “the excellence of the leader, or best human being.” This latter form of excellence, at its apex, finds its embodiment in the philosopher, who “somehow combines wisdom and justice on an entirely new basis” than that of the citizen’s decent opinions, “a basis connected with the erotic, but noncompetitive,” non-eristic, “social character of the philosophic life rather than with the noble ambition of the life a statesman,” who embodies citizen virtue so long as virtue remains on the level of citizenship, within the polis. These “two poles of aretē are not simply different; they cannot be separated.” Rather, “each informs the other, and together they constitute the thing we call excellence; that grammar of this concept points in two partially contradictory directions is a result not of our failure to analyze it far enough, but of the nature of human language and human life simply.” Wittgenstein wants to understand “the grammar of a thing,” and this resembles “what Plato means by giving an account of a thing,” to “reveal the place of something in the whole, or to see ‘what kind of a thing anything is.'” Hobbes is right that this knowledge is uncertain. But when it comes to political things, it may be the best we can do.
Danford begins the conclusion to his book by asking himself, quite reasonably, whether these similarities between Plato, Aristotle, and Wittgenstein really amount to much. He begins with Plato and Aristotle, who, quite famously, do not agree with one another on a lot of things. For starters, Aristotle has more respect for “the natural appearance of phenomena” than Plato is, looking for “the fullest possible articulation of [each phenomenon] as we ordinarily understand it, “more inclined to leave complexity where complexity appears, and less inclined to pursue apparent contradictions.” This may be example of Aristotle’s prudence, his ‘politic’ philosophy: “He allows the simply good man to stand on his own ground without reasons.” The two classical philosophers nonetheless agree that certainty is “unnecessary, not to say impossible, in political science inquiry.” Like Hobbes, they eschew eristics but unlike Hobbes they distinguish it from genuine philosophic dialectic, which can lead not to war but to concurrence, albeit tentative. The tentativeness, the zetetic character, of classical philosophy reflects its erotic character. Hobbes finds the only justification of philosophy in its utility, which requires certainty, whereas the classics “understand that men may pursue the inquiry for its own sake,” erotically not thumotically. A philosopher might employ eristics in defense of philosophy—knowing, as Socrates knows, that he may thereby sacrifice his life for the sake of philosophy’s life. But he prefers friendly dialectic.
Danford has described the affinities between Plato and Wittgenstein, so he now turns to their disagreements. When it comes to language, “Wittgenstein is more tolerant of ordinary usage than Plato,” who exhibits “a certain impatience with the common opinions about meanings which he,” or rather his Socrates, “elicits from interlocutors at the beginning of a dialogue.” Both philosophers seek to draw out “contradictory implications” in ordinary speech, but Plato inclines more to remedy these defects, or perhaps to clarify our way of speaking, whereas Wittgenstein thinks that “language is ‘in order as it is.'” Once contradictions are uncovered, Wittgenstein has little more to do. He is not “just interested in language, or in words” because language “comprises also the circumstances of their use, the world in which the words appear, as it were.” This suggests that Wittgenstein might be quite interested in political philosophy insofar as it identifies regimes as substantial parts of those circumstances, as seen in Aristotle and, among moderns, Montesquieu and Tocqueville. Plato’s Socrates, however, wants to look not only at regimes but to look for the best regime, the regime according to nature, beyond conventions. For Plato, “politics and political orders [regimes] demand the attention of philosophy if philosophy is to survive,” even if philosophy cannot really be useful, as Hobbes wants it to be. “The philosophy of classical thinkers was public-spirited out of necessity.” For Wittgenstein, living in modern England, and for many American philosophy professors, the danger to philosophy seemed to have “disappeared”; “the private side of philosophy has emerged as the most important.” A moderate Hobbesianism, the Hobbesianism of John Locke, established its regime tolerably well. The regime conflicts that began elsewhere but at the same time—Lenin’s regime, Hitler’s regime—and the modern project of the conquest of nature itself have put this confidence into question. Today, ‘Lockean liberalism’ continues to attract formidable enemies, foreign and domestic.
For Wittgenstein, “there may not exist any natural horizon to which we can ascend by means of philosophy.” It’s caves, all the way down. At best, “philosophic inquiry can be concerned only with coming to understand better one’s own linguistic cave; and thus political philosophy, which is the name for the enterprise of comparison, is no longer a possibility.” Danford doesn’t go that far, calling rather for political scientists to “moderate our habitual skepticism about knowledge not secured by scientific method.” What Wittgenstein provides is warrant “to question what has to many of us seemed unquestionable, namely, that the only knowledge one should be willing to stand behind is scientific knowledge in the strict sense” and to avoid the reduction of political motives to safety, income, deference, the will to power, or some other apparently but not really all-explanatory theme. Sweeping generalizations won’t do. “While we do not have sufficient grounds to reject the side taken” in the controversy between the ancients and the moderns, Wittgenstein does give us “cause to reconsider the entire controversy.”
Notes
- The resemblance of the political science of Harold Lasswell, once of the most influential members of the American Political Science Association in the twentieth century, to the political science of Hobbes, has been carefully observed and described by Robert H. Horwitz: “Scientific Propaganda: Harold D. Lasswell.” In Herbert J. Storing, ed.: Essays on the Scientific Study of Politics. (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1962.
- See “Teaching Virtue” on this website, under the category, “Philosophers.”
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