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Tuesday, June 29, 2010, 7:44 PM

I’ve had the opportunity recently to do some extra-careful thinking about Lincoln, the founding, and the Union. I’m pretty sure I’ve decided that many nettlesome and momentous theoretical issues came to a head in one relatively small practical question. What degree of peril did the secession of the Deep South expose to the existence of the Union that was embodied in the United States which remained? (Followup question: what degree of risk should have been tolerated in appraising that degree of peril? So, even if the existential peril was serious but unlikely, it might still be worth fighting against.)

It seems plausible that the peril grew by a very significant amount once the Upper South left the Union. But the Upper South, of course, only left the Union because the alternative was to invade the Deep South and/or become a bloody, Kansas-like battleground. So isn’t it possible to agree across the board with Lincoln’s most ardent defenders (practical and theoretical), yet decide that the civil war needn’t have happened — if it was unreasonable or unjustifiable to interpret the departure of only the Deep South as an existential threat to the Union? I’m still pondering this important question.


Saturday, April 10, 2010, 12:34 PM

A brief item of self-promotion: PoMoCon readers who happen to understand Dutch may be interested in a new volume, Conservatieve Vooruitgang recently published by Prometheus. It’s a greatest-hits tour of 20th century conservative thought, with an emphasis on libertarian, pluralist, and otherwise heterodox writers. The entry on Robert Nisbet was written by me. But there are also more important chapters by more important people, including Roger Scruton on Eliot and Theodore Dalrymple on Oakeshott.

In addition to its academic interest, the book is a contribution to the revival of intellectual conservatism in the Netherlands, where it’s been partly eclipsed by the antics of populists like Geert Wilders. It’s to be hoped that the editors, Michiel Visser and Thierry Baudet, continue to articulate conservative ideas without venom or rage, which is the only way they’re likely to succeed in the Netherlands, and elsewhere.


Saturday, March 20, 2010, 9:17 AM

And now, my conclusion about where Obamacare falls into the law-versus-politics schema I mentioned, below, in the context of marriage and divorce. There was one real highlight and moment of clarity for me in Obama’s now-infamous Baier interview: the sequence where the President insisted that, because making the bill law was the right thing to do, he — and, presumably, the rest of us — could, in perfectly good conscience, dispense with the chore of considering whether whichever legislative process wound up making the bill law was wrong in any way. There was simply no remorse and no discomfort on this point. Because making law what the President wanted to make law was the right thing to do.

Now, it is clear that the moral force of mere health care reform is inadequate to power this sort of fixation. The system is broken, to be sure; but at least some honest commentators on both sides know and agree that this bill breaks the system further, by way of entrenching and extending its worst features, with one exception: a significant number of Americans without health insurance will get coverage. Nobody believes we would, or should, be unhappier if more Americans were able to pay their medical expenses. To pretend that this is the issue is to perpetrate a fraud. The practical issue is whether the experiences of our uninsured, once summed, constitute a moral problem so grave that all Americans face, and America itself faces, a non-negotiable moral obligation to insure them now, with this bill. Only if that is true will it be true that passing this bill is the right thing to do.

But we didn’t get from the President the kind of fervent moral passion on this point that a regular person, or even a pundit, might be forgiven for associating with one of the habitual or characteristic emotional states of Americans past and present. In some areas of governance — say, foreign policy — I actually believe this no-drama dispassion has served the President, and the rest of us, extraordinarily well, especially under the circumstances. And I suppose I’m relieved to an extent that Obama is not playing John Brown on health care reform.

But I’m distressed, to a more immediate and perhaps larger extent, by the way that the only possible moral justification for viewing the law of health care as utterly more significant than the politics of health care amounts to an intellectual footnote for the President. It seems to me that the President is actually operating on a much higher, grander, and, yes, troublesome level of moral abstraction. The central moral commitment or conviction that seems to be shining through Obama’s remarks on the supremacy of legal outcomes over political process is that legislating itself is a moral act — one which legislatures like ours seem incapable of performing properly. Precisely because our Congress is a complex representative system driven by actual political practice, it is too deformed and crippled to achieve legislative excellence. When we, or the President, places a demand upon our Congress to do so, things get — in the President’s word — “ugly.” By contrast, we are led to believe, fiat is beautiful.

I’m not going to bother with the radioactive trope of un-Americanism here. Long before Obama, fiat was hardwired at searing times into our national consciousness. Anyone who likes to trace our American political philosophy back to classical roots has got to admit that Plato leaves us uncertain at best about when legislative fiat is worse than the alternative. And there must be little doubt that the abstract ideal of legislation, in the western tradition, is the work of a single Lawgiver.

Charges of un-Americanism are beside the point, which is that a legal philosophy that views the power of the Lawgiver as a beautiful ideal and the authority of political practice as an ugly clutch of impediments to this ideal is a troublesome one. It is troublesome, perhaps most of all, because the beautiful ideal of the powerful Lawgiver is ill-suited to being realized in a country like ours — no matter whether that’s true because of ‘something in our collective DNA’ or because of ‘a concatenation of contingent circumstances’ or because of ‘our path-determined political history’ or anything else. In the United States of America, and real or imaginary countries like it, Obama’s moral philosophy of law can manifest only through an unwieldy, unaccountable, unmanageable, and often incompetent bureaucratic administrative apparatus — one which makes the unwieldy, unaccountable, unmanageable, and often incompetent legislative apparatus of our actual legislatures look, by comparison, like a model of administrative excellence.

In America, paradoxically, our messy political process of legislation, warts and all, loses to the Great Lawgiver in the legislative-excellence competition — while trouncing the agents upon which the Lawgiver must depend in the competition for excellence in governance.

The problem, of course, is that in this competition it is possible for nobody to win the gold medal. It is possible, in fact, for nobody to win at all. One side will simply lose more, and lose harder, than the other. That is the condition we seem to be plunging deeper and deeper into today. It is, in part, what David Brooks is getting at in talking about ‘the broken society’. What is most troublesome about Obama’s legal vision is that it strongly suggests the President does not understand this. “Something is better than nothing” — unless you think this is true because insuring uninsured Americans is so important as to be worth doing even through a bill as wretched, misbegotten, and irresponsible as this, it is not true. I’m concerned that President Obama thinks not only that it is true as a rule that something is better than nothing, but that it is a fundamental principle of legal philosophy, one that converges with morality itself, because bending the arc of history even a little bit toward the Lawgiver’s beautiful ideal is oftentimes the most, and the most heroic thing, we can do. This is incrementalism in the service of all too immodest ends, and in the case of this health care bill, it is a recipe from top to bottom for more governance, worse governance, and lots of it.


Sunday, March 14, 2010, 12:50 PM

Courtesy of Alan Jacobs, I see some academics are starting to grapple with the issue. But how successfully? Danah Boyd tackles Google Buzz:

“Nothing that the Buzz team did was technologically wrong,” Ms. Boyd said. “Yet the service resulted in complete disaster.”

Google got into trouble, she said, by linking something that people associate with being inherently private — their e-mail accounts — with something that is very public — status updates on a social network. The result was “a series of social disruptions,” Ms. Boyd said.

The blunder, she said, reflected a broader muddying of the line between what is private and public online. The idea that information exists in a binary world — public or private — no longer applies, she said.

“Google assumed people wanted different parts of their contacts converging and collapsing,” she said. “But just because people put different parts of their lives online doesn’t mean they want them in one place.”

More troubling, she said, is what Google’s flub may portend for the future.

“I can’t help noticing that more and more technology companies are exposing people’s information publicly and then backpedaling a few weeks out,” she said.

Ms. Boyd pointed to the recent changes in Facebook’s privacy policy that made more of its members’ information public by default. “Just because something is publicly accessible doesn’t mean people want it to be publicized,” she said.

The results could be harmful and damaging if they were to expose people’s information in ways they were not expecting, she said, and these issues are only likely to get more convoluted in the future.

“Neither privacy nor publicity is dead, but technology will continue to make a mess of both,” she said.

Let’s be clear about the reason we are experiencing this convolution the way that we are: leading tech companies have a colossal financial interest in making people convolute public and private. Any interest in persuading people that it’s a good idea to deconstruct the public/private divide in their personal lives — or, really, to let them be deconstructed — is ancillary at best to that larger financial interest, and at worst antagonistic.

Excuses like those Boyd’s ominous remark seems to portend — “nothing we did was technologically wrong” — are easy enough of targets to aim at and hit. And I’m not one to pretend that a few big corporations are singlehandedly responsible for taking our precious public/private distinction and shattering it at the feet of a golden idol. The fact is, we democratic individuals have come to recognize that cultivating, maintaining, managing, and policing liberalism’s essential public/private distinction is a lot more and harder work than we might be willing to allocate our precious resources (time, energy) toward. What it requires in particular — at the porous frontier between what’s personal and what’s not — is, I think, a rather robust, regular, and adult form of citizen politics.

Unfortunately, we have a longing to escape from that sort of politics, even at the cost of a robust, regular, and paternalist form of state-administered law. The journey there, as I see it, is characterized by the awkward-turtle sort of line-drawing generated by decisions like Planned Parenthood v. Casey and Lawrence v. Texas – where concepts of publicity and privacy become increasingly meaningless under the pressure of putting the stamp of authoritative law upon a much different divide — between what I’ve called official and unofficial life.

The divide between official and unofficial puts some private and some public things in one basket, and others in another. Regardless of what a particular American citizen thinks about homosexuality, abortion, or exes lingering in electronic address books, this is a significant shift in our social and political order, and it ought to attract more attention, as such, than it has. The implications of a shift toward official/unofficial life, and away from public/private life, are profound. And they throw into stark relief, I think, some of the ways in which a more progressive life may quickly become less and less liberal.

I would point out that the essentially erotic interest Americans seem to have in abandoning the public/private distinction is a lot different from the essentially monetary interest some American corporations have in getting as many of us to do that as possible. Neither our changing mores nor our developing technology are making a mess of public and private so much as moving to replace them with new categories that leave the public/private distinction looking quaint, arbitrary, and incoherent. The trouble is that the Googles and Facebooks of the world are pushing in this direction without a clear enough understanding of how the ‘progressive’ aspect of our mores represents a contingent vanguard and not a historically destined popular movement.

Yet at the same time, our innovative geeks seem genuinely blindsided by the severity of the residual relationship problems that they have caused to come back and haunt Americans uncomfortably and improvisationally negotiating the space between disrupted public and private realms. This emotional tone-deafness seems to me all too typical of geekdom, a world in which the self-evident inherent goodness of new features blinds us to the disruptions they inflict on the human realities they depend on. As the least socially awkward among us have always already known, the ultimate stomping ground for those seeking the experience of new features is society itself, with its potential of endless relational couplings and decouplings. Historically, those of us looking to max out those kinds of experiences have been the bugs, not the features, of liberal society. Tech companies geeking out on the profitable possibilities of ever-more-social transactions, official and unofficial, fail to realize that they are working to crash liberal society. And because of this, backlash against their efforts to do so are met with an awkwardness and confusion almost as poignant as those of their customers who have suddenly been plunged back into relationships they thought had been safely quarantined, online no less than off, in the past.

UPDATE: For a sane debate among tech-education enthusiasts that might go at least one step outside the rut, see here (h/t PEG).

UPDATE 2: And for some further thoughts at a hopefully not too vertigo-inducing level of abstraction, see here.


Sunday, February 14, 2010, 11:32 AM

I want to sidestep the brief, silly article running in Esquire about the increasing number of “kaleidoscopically shifting arrangements” we honor with the name family, but I also want to use it to frame what I think ought to emerge as a new vein to be mined in the sometimes barren-feeling realm of political theory. As predictable and pat as the Esquire piece may be, there’s little doubt that the new consensus on family — “straight people blew up marriage a long time ago” — has powerful adherents quite a bit further up in the clouds than the average Esquire reader, or writer.

Political theory today is a friendly and welcoming place for scholars interested in blowing up — er, deconstructing — not only marriage but the authority of the family itself. Certain conservatives, meanwhile, have recently become able to carve out a space for the defense of the authority of the family on traditionalistic grounds, especially by way of natural law.

As instructive as it is to trace the logic of Sade, Emerson, Freud, and others into the post-Foucauldian territory we frequent today, and as worthy a task as it is to reemphasize the natural character of the traditional family, both these sides of the family debate seem to me to miss something essential: a special aspect or character of the family that is non-natural. Typically, those who defend the family on natural-law grounds are happy to further demonstrate the compatibility of the nature-based approach with a supernatural one, wherein the authority of the traditional family results from the imposition of sacred order upon the natural substrate or raw material of biological necessity on the one hand and possibility on the other. But the question of whether that imposition is soft or hard is an important one; at least some commentators, particularly on the left, will not tire of pointing out the potentialities, in Christianity, particularly, for a sacred order that imposes commanding truths against certain aspects of the traditional family. The pagan, republican, quintessentially Roman family — as Tocqueville took a moment to hint — runs fundamentally contrary to the typical sort of family lived and theorized by natural-law Christians.

There are a variety of ways in which this is so, but, at the same time, it’s clear that certain aspects of pagan familial virtue are not exactly incompatible with the Biblical sacred order that can check or overcome their excesses and pathologies — just as the Biblical order imposes powerful interdicts, not to be confused with taboos, against the kind of violent desires that, to the morbid fascination of the ancient Greeks, deconstructed and destroyed the identities of family-bound individuals. Above all, for individuals in families Biblical order interdicts two kinds of pride, which combine and culminate in aristocratic nobility: pride in the unity of bloodline and virtu. Nonetheless, Biblical order has been unable to destroy both pagan familial order and the residual pride in family identity and family accomplishment that persist, especially among ‘real Americans’, to this day. It is not too much to suggest that Biblical order, in practice, has been unwilling to destroy these things.

What is true in this respect about religion is, perhaps paradoxically, largely untrue about philosophy. Philosophers, as Nietzsche made powerfully clear, are some of the most anti-family people around. The practice of philosophy itself, Nietzsche posited, is virtually inimical to the practices required of family life, to say nothing of family creation or leadership. But it is strange and striking how little else Nietzsche has to say out loud about family, because the classical or pagan pursuit of what it means for a family to be great is perhaps the most significant and enduring example of noble values that a philosopher of noble values could hope to find. If Christianity is skittish at best about familial nobility and not just dignity, as a pridefully creative project of life-defining meaning, is it not remarkable that the most venomous and blatant of the anti-Christian philosophers is so circumspect and muted on the matter? Is there not an uncanny alliance between reason and revelation against familial nobility (and what nobility is not familial)? Is it not the case that religion and philosophy both urge individuals in families to fundamentally orient their souls away from their family as a foundational source of meaning?

Add to this the rise of psychotherapy, charismatic transgressivism, and the romantic notion that the experience of full individuality, not the knowledge of individual being, is the source of selfhood, and it’s no surprise that the authority of the family as a noble institution has been, if not ‘blown up’, significantly undermined. Yet, puzzlingly, the authority of the noble family stubbornly persists, in a way that cannot, I think, be chalked up to mere biology. More than a natural degree of loyalty, discipline, sacrifice, tenacity, and vision, I think, is required of anyone seeking to cultivate an authoritative family that presumes to offer its members a nobility beyond the simple dignity of a sentient animal, even a human animal. This ‘aristocratic’ ideal would seem to have been compromised or made ‘imperfect’ as it has been democratized. But perhaps its democratization, in conjunction with the persistence of Biblical faith among many of those who retain the ideal, actually points the way toward its further ennoblement. The lingering question is how this intriguing state of affairs should provoke us to view anew the past, present, and future of political thought. Assuming we are indeed stuck with virtue in a certain way, so too may we well also be stuck with a certain type of ‘noble values’…


Saturday, December 19, 2009, 11:12 AM

Peter’s review of Avatar is a must-read:

Avatar isn’t much a movie: Instead, Cameron’s cooked up a derivative, overlong pastiche of anti-corporate clichés and quasi-mystical eco-nonsense. It’s not that the film’s politics make it bad, it’s that even if you agree, the nearly three-hour onslaught of simplistic moralizing leaves no room for interesting twists or ambiguity in the story or characters: corporations are bad, scientists are good, natives are pure, harmony with nature is the ultimate ideal — the only suspense comes from wondering what movie Cameron will rip off next.

Last week, Jeffrey Wells called Avatar “the most flamboyant, costliest, grandest left-liberal super-movie anyone’s ever seen,” and that’s true as far as it goes — but he forgot a word. It’s also one of the stupidest major movies in recently memory, blithely peddling a message that its entire production process actually undermines. That Avatar‘s melodramatic attacks on corporate interests and its defense of simple, natural living come packaged as one of the most expensive, and probably the most technically advanced, corporate films in history would seem to indicate that only quality bigger than the movie’s stupidity is its head-in-the-clouds hypocrisy.

Yet the tension here is only to be expected, once you stipulate the philosophical premises. Though liberals criticize and mock conservatives for their unwillingness to embrace scientism and emotivism both, they act as if giving in to that embrace is without deep and abiding problems. Ironically, the characteristic liberal view of marriage between spouses is a fairly disenchanted one; but when it comes to the marriage of big brains and big hearts, liberals, like Cameron, succumb to the sappiest romanticism. It’s a romanticism in which even incommensurable differences, fundamental incompatibilities, and thoroughgoing contradictions are transcended — if not conquered — in a flourish of bad poetry.

Liberals like Amartya Sen have long been on record asserting bravely that multiple identities, however radically different, are noncontradictory. (In a world in which we believe we are all composed of a smithereens of protean, Pelagian subselves, this had better be true — at least if you like your noncontradiction served nonviolently.) The triumph of left postmodernity — its identity, if you will — was to render unanswerable the question of what our identities are. Natural? Nurtural? Supernatural? There is only interpretation; and the politics of interpretation, the only kind of politics available in bad postmodernity, are the politics of destroying liberalism’s venerable public/private distinction in favor of a new one between official and unofficial interpretations. So no one can say for sure whether anyone else’s plural identities are given by themselves or by other or things. In the place of certainty — of a truth about the matter — there can only be official interpretations of what various identities are.

Where official interpretation does not hold sway, unofficial interpretation takes on the character of poetry. But whatever resources poetic interpreters discover and use take on the character of nature. The natural is simply whatever is on the receiving end of interpretation — this is bad postmodernity’s ‘effective truth’. If interpretation that’s unofficial is poetry, interpretation that’s official is — ah, but here’s where it gets interesting.

There are two competing kinds of official interpretation: political and scientific, or will-based and knowledge-based. Right now we can see the struggle for interpretive officialdom playing out in Copenhagen. Is the environment a question of knowledge, which allows us to act decisively and uncritically in whatever manner the scientists tell us is appropriate? Or is the environment actually a symptom of a deeper question of will, which requires us to recognize climate change as a consequence of deep-seated, systemic, and exploitative imbalances of power? (Another way of putting this is that the environment is not a question of science but of justice; Marx, the obvious touchstone here, is very conflicted about where justice ends and where power begins, because he lacks an adequate theory of authority.)

Liberals hate the idea that science is destined to be nothing more than a slave to the will. And lest we think that poetic interpretation is an exercise of the will, we should be clear that in liberal theory such creativity — no matter how unique, personal, or ‘individualistic’ — only makes sense as an exercise of whim. The distinction between will and whim, fine-grained though it may be under certain circumstances (think liberalism’s great nightmare, ‘oriental despotism’), is essential to the liberal embrace of artistic democracy. In Avatar, the official political interpretation of the Edenic moon Pandora is unobtainium repository, unobtanium being “a great whatsit” of a natural resource “that is an emblem of humanity’s greed and folly.” But Pandora itself, in its flourishing ecological balance, does not come with natural meaning built in. Paradoxically — and if Cameron is a Lockean, he is a most paradoxical Lockean — Pandora, which is to say nature, has no inherent meaning. It is simply a resource; the valuation which is to be mixed into it through the labor of interpretation must come from outside it.

Science is caught, then, between the possibility of slavery to will (in the person of stereotypically gruff kill-it-or-pillage-it space Marines types) and the hope of serving some other prime mover in its own mastery of nature. For make no mistake: nature is there to be interpreted. The great liberal hope, dramatized potently by Cameron, is that science will freely enslave itself to whim without will, which is love. Love — transcendent love, species-hopping love, galaxy-crossing love, love between beings who fully inhabit their own bodies and beings who pilot their semi-inhabited avatars from a ship somewhere not very nearby in orbit. Love is the magic word, the only key that can rescue science from will and so achieve the inescapable, otherwise impossible task of interpreting the inescapable, otherwise meaningless natural world. No hypocrisy needed.

But oh what a strain on the credulity of the audience. And, if the producer of such poetry himself is knowledgeable enough — as was Rousseau — oh what a strain on him. Of course, adding an adequate theory of authority into the mix — that is, a theology — audiences and authors alike wind up in a rather different situation. But that is a story for another day, and you will have to go see Avatar yourself in order to fully contemplate what kind of God lurks at the Rousseauvian heart of the inventor of the Terminator.


Thursday, December 17, 2009, 9:00 AM

Ross is right to come down on Ezra for reckless and irresponsible hyperventilating on health care. But let me dot the i here.

Ezra Klein kicked up a hornet’s nest of controversy by accusing Lieberman of being “willing to cause the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people in order to settle an old electoral score.” That “hundreds of thousands” refers to the number of Americans who die every decade because they don’t have health insurance — or rather, it refers to one study’s estimate of that number. Other studies, cited by Michael Cannon and John Goodman, suggest that the number is considerably closer to zero — or else that the link between health insurance and mortality might be too murky too penetrate. But of course there are still other studies that tend to confirm Ezra’s numbers …

Anyway, without trying to adjudicate these competing claims, I’ll just say that I would be very surprised if extending health insurance coverage didn’t have some positive effect on life expectancy for the newly-insured. And what’s more, I think liberals are absolutely right to be laying their emphasis on this point: It’s the best argument (and, indeed, increasingly the only argument) in favor of the current legislation. But I think Ezra’s missing the point when he acts puzzled that anyone who accepts his statistics would object to the way he went after Lieberman.

[...]

In this regard, the claim that “health care reform will save lives” is very, very different from the statement that “opponents of health care legislation are willing to let hundreds of thousands of Americans die.” The two may be factually similar, but only the latter waves the bloody shirt. And the bloody shirt is the enemy of both reasonable debate and good lawmaking. It’s a conversation-killer, and a policy destroyer.

Ross is too kind in allowing Ezra’s original language — Lieberman will cause people to die — to translate freely with the more accurate language of letting people die. This isn’t simply a matter of grammar or style. Ezra did not attack Lieberman for supporting a bill which would merely get out of the way while some significant number of Americans happened to die. He attacked him for seeming “willing to cause the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people in order to settle an old electoral score.” Anyone who doesn’t support the right bill, you see, is killing Americans. And since this is obvious, you see, anyone who doesn’t support the right bill wants to kill those Americans, and wants them to die.

This is more than moral grandstanding or shirt-waving. It’s an intentional distortion of an ethical precept at the very foundation of our philosophy of law. It’s a lie mobilized to discredit one’s political opponents, not just politically but morally. In truth, of course, to kill a bill that would prevent people from dying is not to kill those people — just as refraining from saving a person in mortal peril is not causing them to die. Any law student who didn’t sleep through torts can tell you this distinction is essential. Though it rankles morally, the fundamental legal and philosophical distinction between letting somebody die and causing their death avoids the systemic injustice involved in forcing individuals to be Good Samaritans. Two key points emerge. We must be free not to act morally in order to act morally. And the sort of discernment that enables individuals to decide whether or not to act in a specific moral instance cannot be properly cultivated without that freedom. I suppose there’s a third point: we ought to continue to live in a world in which individuals can and do cultivate that kind of moral discernment.

All this can’t be bulldozed away in the name of any piece of legislation, or in the name of preventing any kind of present or future suffering. That’s not to suggest that Republicans or conservatives or whomever should pretend that Democratic health care reform wouldn’t actually lessen or eliminate the suffering of some number of Americans or save some statistically significant number of lives. The problem is that knowing this doesn’t settle the issue of whether it’s the right reform. Where Ross sees a conversation-stopper in the claim that opposing the current bill means being willing to let people die, I see the start of a crucial conversation. After all, as Ross notes, “Every side of every debate [...] can plausibly accuse its opponents of being ‘objectively pro-death.’” Nobody really requires that every policy and every law be structured above all to maximize the prevention of suffering and death, because, ultimately, the minimization of suffering and death is not the purpose of politics or even the definition of justice.

None of which is to say, to be sure, that we have no moral interest in mitigating suffering or decreasing our number of untimely deaths. We have a profound and inescapable moral interest, of course; one which conflicts in likewise inescapable fashion with our interest in political liberty and prudent governance. Ultimately, the stewardship of those goods has a moral character of its own. To speak and act as if there is no moral tension at the heart of the politics of health care is to give in to the temptation to deny that we ourselves, as citizens and human beings, have to suffer that tension.


Tuesday, November 3, 2009, 9:08 AM

I woke up to discover that more or less everything I wanted to say last night about Ron Rosenbaum’s misbegotten hit job on Hannah Arendt and her conception of the banality of evil has been said this morning at length by Steven Menashi at the American Scene. (Extra fun: in touching on Carlin Romano’s recent hit job on Heidegger, Menashi makes the point which I noted had gone entirely unmade in the long, hysterical combox criticism aimed at Romano: even Strauss, Heidegger’s great foe, insisted we couldn’t wave him away. This is relevant even for those who think Strauss and Heidegger were merely the Spy vs. Spy of Nietzscheans.)

So, since Steve has done most of the talking for me, I’ll let — who else? — Rieff do the rest:

…when the human lowers itself in the vertical of authority, there is always the shock of the revelation that that lowering can scarcely be called animal. Such lowerings as went under the category of sin or transgression were beneath baseness. They were nothing. Hannah Arendt calls this nothing the ‘banality of evil.’ And she is correct, so long as one understands the nothing of banality, its meaninglessness. It is the kind of transgression which the transgressor cannot recognize as a transgression. So the human, as transgressor, once the very idea of transgression is repressed, has fallen through the bottom of sacred order (Crisis of the Officer Class, 161-62).


Monday, November 2, 2009, 10:09 AM

Over at Secular Right, David Hume has words for our PAL:

Though the author of Atheist Delusions is an Eastern Orthodox theologian and philosopher, Lawler reports that his criticism of the New Atheists starts from a Nietzschian perspective. All I have to say is that homey don’t play that game. Friedrich Nietzsche was the product of a line of Lutherans pastors, so it should not surprise that his atheism engages so directly, and inverts so forcefully, the thrust of Christianity. As philosophy goes much of what Nietzsche had to say was captivating, but then I also find science fiction captivating, as well as some portions of the Bible.

The atheism of Nietzsche plays on the terms of Christianity, and that is why Christians often admire his work. It is entirely intelligible to them insofar as it operates in the same universe of morals, albeit characterized by inversions. So naturally Christians castigate atheists who are not Nietzschians, such a stance creates much greater difficulty in fashioning rhetorical thrusts. Too many presuppositions simply are not aligned. Where Lawler and many others declare that Christianity is a necessary precondition of humane values, I simply assert that humane values, or more accurately the values we hold today, used Christianity, as well as other religions and philosophies, as cultural vessels. Morality and ethics existed prior to religion, and the emergence of “Higher Religions” which fused a moral sense with supernatural intuitions was a process which occurred in the light of history [DH's bold]. It was no miracle, and may even have been inevitable once humans reached a particular level of organization.

Of course this sort of argument leaves many loose ends hanging. So be it. Those who believe that they have the Ultimate answer do not, and yet we continue to muddle on.

In comments, he states further that

i’m just really tired of christians telling me what i should believe [ditto] if i’m not going to be a christian.

The passage in which Hume thinks Lawler told him what he should believe seems to be this:

Nietzsche was right that secular Christianity or Christianity without Christ is unsustainable, and that the sentimental preferences of the new atheists are no more than that.

Now, I am all for religious/secular understanding, but I think Lawler’s key word, “unsustainable,” was really not intended at all to apply to individuals. At the level of the individual — that is, of at least some individuals — secular morality of the sort associated with Christianity minus Christ (and God, etc.) is often quite sustainable. Clearly even Nietzsche conceded that the sentimental bluestockings of the world — to use Nietzsche’s language — could carry on in fine post-Christian ethical style for a good long while: either until a world-historical poop-out at the exhausted and enervated end of history, or until some ruddier race or tribe came along and wiped Mr. and Ms. Well-Adjusted Secular Bourgeois into the dustbin of history that Machiavelli associated with the once-flourishing but now forgotten Etruscans.

The broader issue is that smart political theologists have always conceded the same point: there is always a more or less small number of individuals who are able to live pretty well on Earth without recourse to religion. Usually this has been on account of philosophy; but the idea developed that the philosopher could not secure the good life for the many without taking away their liberty. So a project emerged aimed at extending a reasonably good life to the many without imposing either religious or philosophical authority upon them. As far as this political project is concerned, the stakes are high indeed; the number of secularists who are content to secure a good life for themselves while consigning the rest of their fellow man to ignorance and false consciousness seems fixed at a lower level than the number of secularists who can secure a good life for themselves. In brief, ethically humanist secularists have to find it impossible to live well as self-realized parasites on a social order with religious foundations. The internal logic of their morality requires a mission, however incremental, to bring the good (secular) life to the masses.

Secularists of a more Nietzschean persuasion, of course, might find exactly this realization the very condition of possibility for living well. (Cesare Borgia as Pope — is he understood?) Hume’s assertion that our ‘religious phase’ may have been the “inevitable” precondition or ‘vessel’ of secular morality (it isn’t clear whether he means naturally or historically inevitable) can’t get the ethical humanist secularist around the more haunting question of whether the secular political project of mass ethical secularism is viable, much less sustainable — especially if that social order is not to be grounded in philosophy, and especially if the politics in question must, as apparently it must, be one grounded in rights to freedoms.


Thursday, October 29, 2009, 11:06 AM

The collapse of sacred order in Europe during the World Wars left many of Europe’s surviving Jewish intellectuals to stake their theory and practice on the future of the United States and Israel. Communism, of course, opened its arms to secular Jews from the outset, but fascism tormented the Jews with the ultimate in gentile oppression: not even renouncing the Jewish faith could save them. So even Jewish intellectuals who flirted, or more, with communist ideology could recognize that secularism alone could not necessarily preserve social order. (Not incidentally, this is to assume that the Nazi regime was so radically transgressive, right down to its foundations, that it did not count as a social order. It had to be thought of as an anti-order.) It’s from this perspective that we can see why Jewish thinkers as a group wound up in an ambiguous position when it comes to understanding the relation between sacred order and social order. Where a Leon Kass came to admit that the supremely moral and bourgeois generation of his parents, in its merely secular grounding, was too weak to withstand the destabilizing questions posed by the counterculture and the destructive answers of the anticulture, an Irving Kristol, by contrast, sought to pile up the evidence and draw out the logic that would show even secular Jews (or gentiles) why their bourgeois morality could and should be defended against the radicalism and nihilism of the ’60s and ’70s.

Looming behind both Kass and Kristol are three titanic figures — Leo Strauss, Philip Rieff, and Alexis de Tocqueville. Strauss, a man whom Rieff would call an “ex-Jew,” remarked upon Tocqueville about as sparingly as did Rieff himself. But Jewish intellectuals driven to admit that the fate of America, not Europe, had to concern them most — and both Rieff and Strauss did this — had to make two momentous decisions about democracy in America. First, either Tocqueville’s insights and prophecies were still accurate in late 20th-century America, or they were not; second, if they were accurate, what was to be done to preserve the American order?

Straussians in basic agreement with Kristol answer yes to the first question. Though no great critics of Plato, pro-Tocquevillian Straussians must concede that Tocqueville’s vision of democratic despotism significantly qualifies or steps beyond Plato’s judgment that democracy must degenerate into tyranny because democratic souls are unable to save themselves from succumbing to the tyranny of desire. In short, Plato teaches that social order is ultimately untenable in democracies because too many democratic individuals slip too far into a love of transgression that comes to rule their souls. For Tocqueville, quite differently, only in aristocratic ages do individuals really allow debauchery and decadence to rule their lives. Democratic individuals are too busy, too equal, too distracted, too conflicted, and not wealthy enough by far to become de Sades. Not great transgression but great quietude will destroy democratic social order; rather than a fury of bad behavior, the democratic individual will slip into a fugue of comfort, surrounding himself in bourgeois self-satisfaction with handpicked friends and family. In Tocqueville’s dystopia, history will die whispering, not banging. Soft despotism will appear to perfect democratic social order; but it will sap the springs of true human greatness in such a way that democratic social order will fade or euthanize itself, to be replaced by something like the “oriental despotism” of China or Egypt, an anti-order of servitude, ignorance, forgetfulness, and anonymity. Our recognizably human character will be smudged away.

Rieff takes a different view. He is clear that Tocqueville — who showed clearly enough that America will forever be without the “officer class” required to authoritatively maintain sacred and social order — is wrong about the way we live today. Rather than enclosing ourselves in solipsistic and quietly gratifying boutique relationships, we create complex strategic distances between ourselves and our supposed intimates. Where Tocqueville’s American readily reposes in committed relationships, Rieff’s American hops from relationship to relationship, alternating between ‘therapies’ of commitment and decommitment that reveal all commitments to be at bottom merely temporarily useful performances. Where Tocqueville’s American is ever more gentle in his mores, Rieff’s American revels in the primacy of possibility unleashed by charismatic transgression. Instead of quietude, Rieff prophesies a new barbarism, truly barbaric because we will lose the ability even to recognize ourselves as barbarians. But Rieff goes on to note that even democratic barbarism pulls us downward into an equality of boredom. Where Nietzsche can’t quite accept the possibility that the aristocratic barbarism of the “blond beast” has been historically foreclosed, Rieff suggests that democratization spells the end of barbarism as a force for creative destruction. Barbaric democrats will bore themselves, and one another, to death. Perhaps Tocqueville’s and Rieff’s dystopias converge after all: but you’d only know it reading from Rieff to Tocqueville, and not the other way around. And Rieff pulls no punches in prophesizing the bloody lengths to which barbaric democrats will go in a final, fatal effort not to be bored.

In sum, Rieff teaches that the greatest danger to American social order is the democratization of transgression. Tocqueville teaches that the greatest danger is the triumph of quietude. We can’t fully understand neoconservatism unless it’s situated within the tension between Rieff’s and Tocqueville’s American dystopias. Rieff and the neocons both railed against America’s cultural decline in the late 20th century. But because the neocons are more Tocquevillian than Rieff, they feared cultural collapse because they thought it would lead to the kind of quietude that reconciles democratic individuals to despotism. And to the extent that neocons are students of Strauss, they recognize that despotism is the worst of regimes because despots seek to destroy the possibility of philosophy. (A global despotism, as Strauss warned in his exchange with Kojeve, would aspire to eliminate philosophy forever from the whole face of the Earth.) Suddenly the difference between Jewish philosophers who make the preservation of the Jewish faith central — like Rieff — and Jewish philosophers who don’t — like Strauss — becomes essential. Rieff sees the preservation of social order as a task which requires, but is fundamentally beyond the competence of, politics. So does Strauss — but Rieff turns to Moses while Strauss turns to Plato. America, of course, puts Rieff and Strauss in a compromised position: neither Hobbesian nor Platonic rule are viable in a natural-born democracy. In consequence, Rieff’s sociology of the sacred shifts away from politics in a way that Strauss’s philosophy does not. Rieff is unafraid to politicize the culture war — there being, in his judgment, no other way to resist the colonization of the law by the anticulture. But Straussians who turn to Tocqueville to try to understand the best way to preserve philosophy in democratic times conclude that the American people must be focused on productivity in economic life and political participation in significant long-term projects. Otherwise, they will slip into quietude, despotism will come to rule, and all will be lost.

Or so I would like to preface the remarks which touched off these thoughts — Dan McCarthy’s recent appraisal of Irving Kristol and his legacy:

Irving Kristol was an intelligent, reasonably decent man whose hysteria about the counterculture led him to champion policies that have crippled the dollar and given the country no-win wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. [...] Neoconservatism has become a set of attitudes that might be summed up as, “somewhere, shaggy kids might be having sex or smoking dope—so let’s cut interest rates and invade Iraq!”

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