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    Archives for July 2024

    Municipal Planning and Zoning in the United States

    July 24, 2024 by Will Morrisey

    Edward M. Bassett: Zoning: The Laws, Administration, and Court Decisions During the First Twenty Years. New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1936.

    Edward M. Bassett: The Master Plan: With a Discussion of the Theory of Community Land Planning Legislation. New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1938.

    Edward M. Bassett: Autobiography of Edward M. Bassett. New York: The Harbor Press, 1939.

     

    ‘Urban planning’ dates back at least as far as the Sumerian city of Urdu in the fourth century B.C. Among the Greeks, Hippodamus of Miletus was called “the father of city planning,” having given Pericles a design for reorganizing the Athenian port, Piraeus, and later redesigning the city of Rhodes. In Politics II.8 Aristotle criticized him not for his planning efforts but for proposing that citizens be rewarded for proposing innovations to the laws that were then adopted—this, on the grounds that, unlike arts, laws require stability in order for citizens to habituate themselves to follow them. It is easier to learn to navigate a new set of streets than it is to learn to obey a new set of laws, and while innovation may earn respect for an artist, novelty does not earn respect for laws, or for the rule of laws. In Aristotle’s estimation, in treating lawgiving as if it were an art, Hippodamus carried his enthusiasm for reform too far, too fast.

    As one might anticipate, Germany led the way toward the professionalization of municipal planning in the modern state in the 1870s. American reformers, closely followed by American Progressives, took up the cause a generation later. Nineteenth-century American cities had seen residential and commercial buildings with multiple stories, darkening the streets and interfering with the circulation of air, along with factories situated next to residences, polluting the already stagnant air. The fundamental idea of zoning was land use separation, intended to keep people at a relatively safe distance from the smoke and noise of industry; residential ‘zones’ were distanced from industrial ‘zones.’ To this was added concerns about high-rise office and apartment buildings, which blocked air and light, a matter of public health. 

    Although Los Angeles was the first major city to enact zoning laws in some of its neighborhoods, in 1904, New York City saw the first city-wide system of zoning. Wealthier residents were fleeing the city for the suburbs, diminishing the tax base. The zoning law’s co-author, attorney Edward M. Bassett, eventually called “the father of American zoning,” chaired the city’s “Heights of Buildings Commission.” His solution to the problems caused by unregulated ‘development’ was not to limit the heights of buildings but to impose setbacks, so that the towering buildings could not occupy more than a certain percentage of the property upon which they were situated, thus enabling air to circulate and sunlight to reach the streets and sidewalks. 

    To enact a law is one thing; to administer it, another. Cities established planning commissions to oversee the implementation of the new laws. To guide commission actions, the notion of a ‘master plan’ for the city quickly gained favor, and Bassett again moved to the forefront. The “burning issue,” he writes, is a matter of definition, of establishing limits, of determining “what should go in and what should stay out” of a master plan. 

    He begins with an account of the genesis of political life, the American way: “Imagine a thousand families pioneering in a new country where they must do for themselves or else perish.” Hunting, fishing, agriculture, the construction of “tents or shacks,” followed eventually by “houses, stores, and factories” are all “things individuals can do,” in collaboration with their neighbors. But at the moment they need to adapt land areas “to common purposes”—for streets, parks, public buildings, public utilities, pierheads and bulkheads— they need the efforts of (and in a republican regime, the consent of) the community. This calls for public planning and laws to enforce the plan agreed upon, “since the only way that a community can act is through its laws.” The governing institution that plans, the “planning commission,” typically consists of persons appointed by the elected representatives of the municipality’s residents. The residents are thus the ultimate source of the laws governing the commission, as per the regime of republican or representative government. The purpose of the planning commission is not only to defend the public interest but “to protect private owners of land” by making “a thorough study of the needs of a community, the trends of growth, the different kinds of business and industry, the topography of coordination of the zoning ordinance with streets, parks, and other elements of the plan.” Indeed, “zoning is so intimate a regulation of private property that the greatest care should be taken to see that it does not transcend the limits of fairness” by, for example, effectively “taking” land instead of regulating it. 

    First and foremost, to plan in the relevant sense here means to locate. Bassett identifies seven “elements of planning,” things to be located, all of which occupy “land areas,” locations. Bassett distinguishes the elements, the kinds of things to be located, from the appearance of those things—from their architecture, their upkeep—and from their structural integrity—their engineering, the building codes governing their construction, or other matters involving the police power of the community. The elements of the master plan proper are:

    1. Streets. These include bridges, tunnels, alleys, and sidewalks, but not the roads called “parkways.” The “first act of planning” is to establish the boundary lines of streets, and in this sense “planning…precedes acquisition and construction”; “locating is the act of planning.” Planners locate streets but do not concern themselves with private houses located along the streets, which are not shown on the master plan.
    2. Parks, that is, “parcel[s] of public land devoted to recreation.” This is where “parkways” come in, along with what are ordinarily called parks, since many parks have roads in them. A parkway is a park with a major road running through it. In New York City, “Central Park is also a parkway because vehicles use it the same as they use Bronx River Parkway”; they are “identical in their legal characteristics.” What distinguishes a parkway from a public street is that no stores or residences “can front on it as a matter of right.” (This evidently doesn’t include a mobile business, such as a food truck, common enough in Central Park.) “A street is a strip of public land devoted to movement over which abutting owners have an easement of light, air, and access, whereas a park is a strip or parcel of public land devoted to recreation over which they have no such easement.” Since Bassett’s day, parkways have come to feature “rest areas,” typically including a restaurant, but the restaurant owner has no legal right to purchase the property, only the right to gain permission to use the property. Some parkways may feature playgrounds and similar recreational amenities, but many do not, inasmuch as “one of the principal uses of a park is to promote quiet and peacefulness of outlook.”
    3. Sites for public buildings, “parcel[s] of land set aside by sanction of law for community use,” obvious examples including town halls, public schools, fire stations. Master plans coordinate these public sites with the other elements of the plan, again considering the site more than whatever building is to be placed on it. Municipalities are not bound to retain these properties in perpetuity but can sell and transfer the title to them, just as “a private individual” can do with his own property.
    4. Public reservations. These are vacant spaces designated for a particular purpose, such as an airport, fair ground, or forest reserve. Bassett notes that many of these spaces are acquired by legal condemnation of the land in question, although that is not always the case.
    5. Zoning districts. These are not usually publicly owned spaces but rather spaces defined and regulated with respect to the concentration (the “density”) of the structures built upon them and of the population living and working within them. The public interest here is not its ownership of the space but the health and safety of the municipality’s residents and of non-residents who may work in or near the space. The main health and safety concerns are light and air. For example, “a community will find that health and safety are promoted by separating business from residential districts,” given the dangers of fire, disease transmission, and crowding. “Better children can be reared in residential districts that are open and sunny than in those that are crowded with stores” and occupied by factories, which themselves should be separated from stores, as well, as industrial noise and smoke don’t conduce to shopping. Whereas a building code “are the same for the same kind of building throughout the municipality,” a zoning ordinance differentiates one space, one district, from another with respect to the “height, area and use of buildings, the use of land and the density of population.” “Zoning districts are land areas, the legal quality of which is impressed on the land by acts of law or the sanction of law,” which is why “zoning maps never show buildings, only land,” allowing “certain kinds of buildings and prevent[ing] others” within each district. Himself a distinguished attorney, Bassett is quick to observe that “the basic features of modern zoning” have “largely procured the approval of courts,” which have “declared that if the regulations were reasonable, were based on community health and safety and were not discriminatory” with regard to matters having nothing to do with health and safety,” they are consistent with state and federal constitutional law. To “prevent arbitrariness in carrying out the regulations upon a given plot of land a board of appeals, presumably composed of experts,” should be established by the municipality to hear appeals from aggrieved property owners and, acting as “a quasi-judicial body,” empowered to reverse a building department’s decisions “when it makes mistakes” and to grant variances in cases “where the strict letter of the law will result in practical difficulty or unnecessary hardship and where the spirit of the law can be otherwise carried out at the same time that public welfare is maintained.” “Unreasonable or discriminatory” zoning “is null and void as to the lot in question,” although “no property owner can obtain damages from a municipality because of the manner of its zoning.” 
    6. Routes for public utilities. Public utilities move things or energy around, whether these are water, sewage, methane gas, or electricity. “Movement of some kind is characteristic of every public utility”; movement requires infrastructure, and infrastructure must be located. Hence the relevance of municipal planning to public utilities. “A public utility is a natural monopoly,” the monopoly granted because it “promotes economy and in the long run…gives better service at smaller cost to the consumer.” Bassett admits that this is “disputatious ground,” especially since such a monopoly may be granted to a private franchisee, who will want to maximize profits. This is why “the impulsive granting of perpetual or indeterminate franchises, without checks and safeguards, is much to be deplored.”
    7. Pierhead and bulkhead lines. Navigable rivers and other navigable bodies of water not surrounded by private property are legally controlled by either the federal, state, or municipal government, with states and cities controlling harbor lines insofar as they do not “interfere with those controlled by the federal government.” “These harbor lines must be coordinated with” the other elements of the municipal master plan.

    Thus, “the elements of a community plan cannot be destroyed by fire or an act of God.” “Each of the elements of the plan set forth in this book relates to land areas; has been stamped on land areas by the community for community use; can be shown on a map”; “if a subject does not conform to these three requirements it does not come under the head of community land planning.” However, the structures built on the locations identified on the plan must correlate with the purposes allowed on the relevant location or zone. This speaks to the matter of land use. The boundary lines of zones must be set preliminary to building, unless there are pre-existing buildings which may need to be ‘grandfathered in’ to a given zone. “If, therefore, a planning law is to secure a firm basis, it must provide a method by which the community may determine its own boundary lines”—this, on the principle that the people rule their own town, within state and federal constitutional constraints, all in conformity with the constitutional requirement of due process of law. “That is because fixing boundaries by a community affects private rights and it is an arbitrary and usually unlawful proceeding if the private owners of surrounding land may not be heard.” 

    Given his esteem for expertise, Bassett contends that a master plan should be adopted by a planning commission, not subject to the approval of “the legislative body.” This is because the master plan itself is not a law, only a document for guidance and the planning commission itself is an advisory body, not an arm of law enforcement. He criticizes one state legislature, which declared “that if the zoning of cities, villages, and towns did not agree with the master plan of the county” in which they were located, “the suggestions in the master plan should be substituted for the deliberately adopted zoning regulations in the municipality,” a declaration that “went a long way toward substituting the county planning commission for the county legislative body.” So “to overwork its limited function will result in planning’s running wild.” And the drafting of a master plan itself should be an act of self-discipline, as the famers are often “tempted to insert requirements on all sorts of non-community subjects, which they conceive will make up a well-arranged place in which to live—trees, private houses, private golf courses, stores, factories, and even private parking places for automobiles.” “If a fertile and ingenious legislator puts everything that he knows about and likes in a plan, the latter becomes a scrapbook and is an embarrassment instead of a help.” 

    Avoiding such “diffuse” efforts, a sound master plan also should be adaptable to changing circumstances, as for example the need for reforestation and control of soil erosion and flooding. It is this need for prudential adaptation—for plasticity, as Bassett terms it—that he addresses in his accounts of the history of planning commissions and master plans in established in several municipalities around the country. This, too, points to the planning commission as “the advisor of a legislative body and the various [executive] departments,” not their ruler, or the ruler of the people.

    Bassett devotes the second half of his book to a history of municipal planning in the United States, with understandable emphasis on the New York City plan he co-authored.  He begins with the year 1921, when Secretary of Commerce Herbert Hoover appointed an Advisory Committee to prepare a standard city planning enabling act “to be used by state legislatures desiring to permit their municipalities to establish better methods of planning.” The Committee completed its work the following year and the act itself was issued as a pamphlet in 1924; by the second printing, two years later, nineteen of the forty-eight states had adopted it. The act contained all seven of Bassett’s “elements of planning,” describing the purpose of municipal planning as “accomplishing a coordinated, adjusted, and harmonious development of the municipality and its environs which will, in accordance with present and future needs, best promote health, safety, morals, order, convenience, prosperity, and general welfare, as well as efficiency and economy in the process of development; including, among other things, adequate provision for traffic, the promotion of safety from fire and other dangers, adequate provision for light and air, the promotion of the healthful and convenient distribution of population, the promotion of good civic design and arrangement, wise and efficient expenditure of public funds, and the adequate provision of public utilities and other public requirements.” 

    Cincinnati “has the distinction of having been first to appoint a planning commission with power to establish a master plan” in 1925. The law was written by local attorneys Alfred Bettman and Ladislas Segoe, implementing a plan written the Technical Advisory Corporation of New York, the first private planning consultant firm in the country [1]. It stipulated that “any proposed improvement” in the city be reviewed by the planning commission, its decisions to be overturned by the city council only if a two-thirds majority voted against it. This contrasts with the Massachusetts law, where planning boards “have no power whatsoever,” on the grounds that “if the city planning board cannot convince the public and the city officials that its ideas are the best, there must be something wrong with the ideas,” and that “no city council,” at least in Massachusetts, “would consent even to sharing the control of the city plan with another body.” Against this, Ohioans claimed “that city planning is a highly specialized and a highly technical matter…requir[ing] the concentrated effort of a selected group of exceptionally intelligent and experienced citizens, aided by the best technical advice,” who can take responsibility for work that will otherwise lead to “inevitable charges of favoritism” if lodged with elected officials. Bassett sides with Ohio: “The general impression of those who are watching the effect of the Cincinnati method is that it is proving highly successful and is a distinct improvement on the strictly advisory powers of most other planning commission.” 

    A year later, New York State became the first to use the term “master plan” in a set of laws governing the establishment of planning commissions, while stopping short of requiring those bodies to write such plans “because of the fear that if one was established by a majority vote of the planning commission or adopted by the municipality, it would become ossified and cease to be a plastic instrument for the use of the commission itself in making its reports.” Pennsylvania legislators were bolder, requiring that master plans would have “all the force of law”; municipal councils can overrule commission’s decisions, but commissions can then overrule the overruling. Bassett calls this legislation a “mistake” that “shows the wisdom of the New York legislature,” because law by its nature is difficult to amend the master plan, not (it should be noted) because it takes control of planning from elected officials and places it into the hands of administrators.

    California’s 1929 Planning Act of 1929 exhibited another error, as legislators succumbed to “the temptation to use the newly discovered ‘master plan’ for all sorts of extraordinary purposes, whether within or outside the powers of the community.” The master plans envisioned by Californians include not only Bassett’s seven elements of planning but “sites for private group buildings and plans for their architectural treatment,” even though the state’s courts “have not recognized any such powers in municipalities.” Such comprehensive scope, coupled with Pennsylvania-like powers granted to the planning commissions, will “tend to congeal the plan so that after it has been in existence five or ten years it will be an obstacle instead of an assistance.” A subsequent amendment, enacted in 1937, not only fails to “simplify the procedure but makes it far more intricate.”

    In 1929, New York City Mayor James J. “Jimmy” Walker—Tammany Hallsman and connoisseur of chorus girls—proposed an amendment to the city charter to provide for a planning commission and a master plan. This plan was indeed sufficiently “plastic”; “the excellent thing about this master plan,” which was included in the new city charter of 1936, “is that it will remain in the control of the commission and can be quickly changed by the commission,” since “no official body outside the commission needs to adopt it.” In the words of the charter, “It would be impractical to establish a planning board that would be a sort of super-government.” By then, Walker was out of office, his life and administration dogged by scandal, but the progressivist Mayor Fiorella LaGuardia, Tammany’s enemy, equally supported the idea of city planning. 

    Who, then, was Edward M. Bassett, who not only helped to establish municipal planning in the United States but earned the informal title of “the father of zoning” for his earlier work in writing the first comprehensive zoning law in the country? In his autobiography, he tells us.

    Bassett was born in Brooklyn, New York, in July 1863, that is, in the days immediately following the Battle of Gettysburg. City life toughened boys up, and so did the schools. When the boy ventured to shout his support for the Grant-Colfax ticket during the 1868 presidential election campaign, “the Irish got me down and punched me till I shouted Seymour and Blair.” He joined a gang “and had fights with stones with boys who lived further east and who would periodically attack us.”; “we would drive each other around a block,” and “I did not look on it as play but as a very serious and necessary pursuit.” In school, “whipping with a rattan or ruler was one of the main activities” of teachers. “If a boy missed a word in spelling he was whipped, with the only restriction being that mothers disapproved of raps on the knuckles, which caused little hands to swell, as distinguished from hits on the meat of the hands, which merely stung and induced whimpering.” In those days, boys “seemed to consider that whipping was part of one’s education,” and “no complain was made.” Reading consisted of Bible stories, Pilgrim’s Progress, Gulliver’s Travels, and, by high school, Shakespeare. He thrived on Latin and Greek and studied geography with a passion. Hamilton College was no less rigorous, as fights broke out between freshmen and sophomores immediately after chapel service. “No faculty member lived in the buildings or on the campus. The authority was upper-classmen. Their word was law.” He later transferred to Amherst, from which he graduated in the Class of 1884, then went on to Columbia Law School, graduating in 1886. 

    Household economy in Cleveland’s childhood exhibited habits of frugality. At his grandparents’ house, “No newspapers were thrown away, but were carefully cut up for toilet paper. I mention some of these things because nothing shows better the economy of old people of that time. They were not rich, but they never thought of such a thing a taking money from anybody outside the family. They were just as proud of their independence as Rockefeller is today…. I sometimes think of these conditions of American life when there was almost no wealth but at the same time there was no poverty and almost no dependence.”

    Those Irish lads evidently beat the Democracy into him because by the time he moved to Buffalo, where the city’s popular mayor, Grover Cleveland, had just been elected governor, he soon became secretary of the New York Cleveland Democracy. He and his brother, a civil engineer, formed a successful water works company, but at the beginning of the 1890s he moved to New York City, “want[ing] to learn whether I could succeed in practicing my profession.” He could, after a couple of years of struggle, and he gained election to the Democratic General Committee of the City of Brooklyn, then to the local Board of Education. At this time, Brooklyn had yet to be incorporated into New York City; the Tammany Hall Democrats ran New York—that is, Manhattan—and the “Brooklyn Ring” Democrats ran Brooklyn under the leadership of Boss Hugh McLaughlin, who used his position as a master mechanic in the Brooklyn Navy Yard to distribute patronage. Cleveland was a Reform Democrat, aiming (successfully, as it happened) “to defeat any regular candidate for mayor nominated by Boss McLaughlin.” Bassett himself was elected to the U. S. House of Representatives in 1902, taking the Cleveland position on low tariffs and working for a canal route through Nicaragua in opposition to President Roosevelt’s preferred route through Panama. He chose not to run again, considering his renomination doubtful and his law business more lucrative. Looking back from the vantage point of 1939, he writes that “we know now that the high tariff of those days was the beginning of economic unevenness’s that have culminated in the present bad governmental situation under Franklin Roosevelt.”

    This was when Bassett’s childhood fascination with geography began to bear dividends. Serving on many street and park opening commissions in the city, he collaborated with two other attorneys appointed by Mayor George B. McLellan, a former four-term Congressman and son of the Civil War general, in revising the City Charter to provide for the use of the power of eminent domain to establish public parks. Although he regarded eminent domain as a legitimate instrument for addressing “esthetic matters,” he consistently rejected it as an instrument of planning and zoning, which he regarded as properly part of the police powers. “No effective zoning plan could be accomplished by the exercise of eminent domain” because “if there were some diminution of the full use of property, the city would need to pay the loss to the private owner,” a cumbersome, property-by-property procedure that would entangle the city in excessive costs and endless litigation.

    By 1905, he turned to the problem of traffic congestion caused by the existence of only one way to cross the East River between Brooklyn and Manhattan—the Brooklyn Bridge, which stands today as the outstanding accomplishment of the Boss McLaughlin regime. This wasn’t simply a matter of building more bridges. In his visits to Europe, Bassett saw that London, Paris, and Berlin were “round cities,” where the city centers were located at the shortest distance from their borders, as distinguished from rectangular Manhattan, a shape that made the north-south distances farther away from the center. “My thesis was that if the west end of Long Island”—including Brooklyn—could “be brought into a five-cent fare relationship to Manhattan the city would a assume a rounded form,” capable of “growing north, east, and south without great congestion.” The area of the city would increase but transportation from one section to another would be improved, thanks to what was called “the pendulum movement” of trains, which means that trains beginning in the suburbs would travel through the business center and then on to another suburb, distributing the peak load of traffic at many stations and encouraging two-way traffic instead of one-way traffic. “Now the pendulum movement is so well established in this city that most people have forgotten the crowded stub-end terminals that existed at South Ferry, Brooklyn Bridge Terminal, Atlantic and Flatbush Avenues and other places,” and since 1907 Brooklyn has been “an integral part of the round city.”

    As an attorney working in the field of public utility corporation law, Bassett eventually became restless, “want[ing] to be connected with new laws that improved living conditions, especially the better distribution of residences, business, and industry,” which he saw as a subject “almost unexplored in this country [which] offered a vast field of progressive legislation.” To this end, he joined a newly-formed Heights of Building Commission founded by George McAneny, who chaired the Transit Committee of the City Board of Estimate. At the time, a few cities had some regulations governing skyscrapers, which occupied such large swaths of city blocks that the blocked sunlight and interfered with the circulation of air. By 1916, New York had the first comprehensive municipal zoning law in the country. “My zoning work has been the best contribution of my life,” paralleling his attempt “to systematize the entire subject of community land planning.” The two men worked “to spread zoning throughout the country” since, as Bassett explains in Zoning, “if this rather new invocation of the police power was employed in only one city courts would frown on it because of its limited use”; “judicial approval of extension of the police power depends somewhat on a widespread opinion that such extensions are needed, and also upon their actual employment by governing bodies.” “The future of zoning was at that time precarious.” Their campaign succeeded, and by the late 1930s Detroit was the only major city in the country without a comprehensive zoning ordinance.

    “Municipalities must obtain their power to zone from the state,” since “the state legislature is the repository of the police power” and courts looked for state constitutional or statutory backing in answering challenges from litigants who argued that zoning regulations were “an unlawful invasion of property rights.” In the event, “courts have recognized the lawfulness of zoning regulations about as rapidly as organized communities have found them necessary” for “the public health, safety, morals, and general welfare,” which form the natural-rights basis for the exercise of police powers. [2] In New York the state enabling legislation was in place by 1914. At the time, tall office buildings “not only covered their entire lots and had the same floor space in their top stories and their first stories, but cornices projected into the street from eight to fourteen feet,” making southern Manhattan a place of “dark canyons and narrow streets.” Hence the need for not only height limits but especially for setbacks. Subsequent buildings (the iconic one being the Empire State Building) were constructed with “pyramid” shape and their ‘footprints’ were kept back from the sidewalks. In fairly short order, not only light and air but traffic congestion was added to the list of matters properly related to public health and safety. Bassett emphasizes that “all owners hold their land subject to the police power regulations of the community, whether for health fire protection, or structural safety,” and so the exercise of that power does not violate property rights rightly understood.

    New York’s zoning law established neighborhoods based upon use, not esthetics. That is, there were districts set aside primarily for offices or factories (some with heavy industry, others with light industry), apartment houses or one-family, detached homes. That is, the standard of use followed from the principle of health and safety, which in turn legitimized the exercise of the police power. “The novel feature of zoning as distinguished from building code regulations, tenement house laws, and factory laws was that suitable regulations for different districts were established. We have become so accustomed to zoning regulations that it is difficult to understand how fixed the popular notion was that all land should be regulated in the same way throughout a municipality.” In this matter, Bassett does not suppose that use-base zoning requires exclusion of some mixed use within each district; “some industry, especially light industry, must be permitted in every business district,” as for example, clothing and shoe stores will have repair departments. Regulation should only exclude uses that are entirely incompatible with the use designated for the district—such as placing heavy industry next to residences. This remains a matter of police power, not esthetics. “It has been said that beautiful architecture is…conducive to health, or at least to comfort and well-being. If all people were alike in taste, this might be true.” Such matters as “light, air, quiet, and the effect of vegetation on the atmosphere are subjects wherein expert evidence can assist,” since such evidence is subject to scientific corroboration in a way that esthetics are not; “even architectural experts differ as to what they consider examples of good taste.” Roadside advertising may therefore be regulated by zoning, but only if it can be shown to distract drivers to the point that it causes a hazard. 

    If a zoning law goes into effect which bans a use in a given district to which a given building is dedicated, that building will continue to operate without penalty. “Zoning seeks to stabilize and protect and not to destroy,” “safeguard[ing] the future, in the expectation that time will repair the mistakes of the past.” That is, if a nonconforming building is destroyed by fire “or other act of God,” or if such a building is abandoned, any building that replaces it should not be allowed to continue the nonconforming use. Nor should any addition to a nonconforming building be permitted. While it is true that “if the police power can be invoked to prevent a new nonconforming building because of its relation to the community health, safety, morals, convenience, and general welfare, it follows that the police power can be invoked to oust existing nonconforming use,” and this might be done on a massive scale, but this is in theory, only. “The courts would rightly and sensibly find a method of preventing such a catastrophe.”

    In most instances, “the use of a building can be shown by its form.” We know a factory, a store, a house when we see one. Bassett’s use of the term “form” hints at the crucial shift in zoning law that he intended to effect. Such laws as did exist, prior to his efforts, centered on the form of buildings. Typically, a store might be located in a predominantly residential neighborhood, so long as it conformed to whatever architectural standards the municipality set down. That is, all neighborhoods were what now are called ‘mixed use’ neighborhoods. This meant that a skyscraper that conformed to the given architectural form could fill a city block, or that a factory could be placed next to a school. By refocusing zoning law on use rather than form, Bassett prevented this. This also tended to erode architectural standards, since Bassett explicitly denied a place for esthetics in zoning law. To elevate ‘use’ to the ruling determinant of zoning practice is indeed a ‘utilitarian’ move, and that is why he deploys the term “form” as an indication of “use” in the sentence quoted. Property owners lose the right to ‘build out’ on their land, to fill it with a building, but they gain the freedom to reduce costs incurred by strict esthetic standards.

    Given the character of law—specifically, the necessary incapacity of lawgivers to meet every possible circumstance that may arise—judges live up to their name; they exercise judgment, equity. Zoning laws typically include a board of appeals, “to apply the discretion of experts to exceptional instances where permits are desired not strictly conforming to the regulations”—variances, as they are called. This is why zoning and planning boards are said to exercise a ‘quasi-judicial’ function. The criterion for granting a variance, an exception to strict conformity to the zoning law, is “hardship.” In the words of Harris H. Murdock, then Chairman of the Board of Standards and Appeals of New York City, he definition of hardship rests on the principle that “an owner is entitled to a reasonable use of his land,” and “since “what may or may not be reasonable cannot be stated in any general rule,” equitable variances will be needed. This “does not mean that one owner is entitled to a special privilege by a variation that is denied others similarly situated or that will cause hardship to other owners,” nor does it mean that an overall downturn in the local or regional economic circumstances constitutes a proper hardship with respect to a zoning variance, nor that a property owner can claim a hardship because he could make a tidier profit if he were granted the variance he wants. Rather, a hardship exists when a property “cannot be put to a conforming use that will provide a reasonable return under normal conditions” (emphasis added). Further, the board must also judge that if the variance is granted, “others will not be unduly injured and that public health, safe and general welfare will be secured and substantial justice done.”

    So, for example, if a district now zoned ‘residential’ has two stores, now nonconforming, with a vacant lot between them, “it might be unreasonable to insist that the owner could building nothing but a private residence under the existing restrictions,” but “if he is granted a variance permitting a residence with a smaller front yard, or a two-family residence, or a modified business building, he can usually erect an economical structure that will not substantially injure the neighborhood.” Bassett is careful to stipulate that hardship inheres in the land to be built upon; “the needs of the surrounding lands or houses do not constitute a basis for the variance.” Boards of appeals should not grant a variance to someone who wants to build a store in a residential district because it would be convenient for the residents to have one on that lot. “Each variance must stand on its own feet,” and feet stand on land.

    If a property owner comes before the board of appeals seeking a variance, the board is entitled to attach conditions to the variance, and these conditions are not limited to “the scope of the police power.” Here is where esthetics may be brought back in. The board might require the owner to landscape the property in a certain way, or use a certain type of construction materials in exchange for granting the variance. While “zoning regulations must be based on the health, safety, and general welfare of the community,” conditions “imposed on variance permits are not regulations” and “may therefore have an esthetic quality.” Your reviewer is familiar with a municipality whose business district was upgraded substantially because the Planning Board did exactly that. The process took some twenty years to complete, but the transformation was remarkable.

    Bassett’s work on zoning and planning began during the height of the influence of the Progressive movement in American politics. The Progressives transformed American politics, beginning with its first principles, which it no longer located in natural rights but in the movement of ‘History,’ now defined as the course of events, which supposedly was ‘progressing’ towards an ever-better, brighter future. Zoning and planning were entirely consistent with Progressivism, but was Bassett himself a Progressive? Are zoning and planning inherently ‘progressive’ instruments?

    It is clear that Bassett was no admirer of the later New Deal version of Progressivism. “Since the advent of the New Deal the word ‘planning’ has been applied to almost everything,” he complains. “Planning has become confused with architecture, landscape architecture, municipal engineering and all kinds of rehabilitation work whether connected with the land or not,” but “my effort have been to separate city planning” from those matters. “It has seemed to me that the present tendency is to broaden it so that city planning becomes meaningless and vast sums of tax money are spent in collecting data that will never be useful.” The proper elements of a master plan are “streets, parks, sites for public buildings, public reservations, zoning districts, routes of public utilities and harbor lines,” but “now and then some stray subject appeals to the legislators and is thrown in along with the true elements,” strays that are now “getting very common and show that the mind of the legislature has no groove to travel in.” In “the last few years,” legislators “have been quite willing to ignore simple and stubborn facts in all fields of economics and in community planning as well.” Bassett wanted simply to prevent “congestion”—buildings that block sunlight and the circulation of air. “The progress of this country toward sunlit houses and the lessening of the human burden on the land continued until the federal government began erecting more than a billion dollars’ worth of so-called slum clearance houses four stories and over in height and in all cases increasing the human burden on the land.”

    This doesn’t mean that Bassett was not a Progressive, however. Many Progressives of the first generation refused to board the New Deal bandwagon—Senator Burton K. Wheeler, for example. But although Bassett does deploy the term ‘progress’ favorably, he justifies zoning and planning in terms of natural rights to health and safety, not in terms of the alleged march of history. He is closer to the urban reformers who predated the Progressives—an opponent of political bossism and its attendant corruption and the adaptation of natural rights-based law to the circumstances that enabled builders to construct taller buildings and enabled manufacturers to build vehicles that increased air pollution. 

     

    Note

    1. Segoe, then a recent immigrant from Hungary, went on to write The Local Planning Administration (1941), which has been described as the most influential book on the subject of the twentieth century. The Technical Advisory Corporation of New York had been founded in 1913 by Earnest P. Goodrich, an eminent civil engineer who had earlier served as the football coach for what is now Eastern Michigan University.
    2. Indeed, in 1902 Mayor McAneny had closed New York movie theaters because they tended to corrupt public morals and because celluloid film presented a fire hazard. Bassett observes that New York’s law was far from the first zoning law in the country, as many municipalities already had fire districts, but rather that New York’s was the first such law that comprehended all the major health and safety matters.

     

    Filed Under: American Politics

    Aquinas on Teachers and Teaching

    July 17, 2024 by Will Morrisey

    Thomas Aquinas: On the Teacher, Disputed Question on Truth. Question 11, Articles 1 and 2 of Questiones Disputatae de Veritate. Ralph McInerny translation. London: Penguin Books, 1998.

     

    Here, Aquinas replies to Augustine’s dialogue, On the Teacher, presenting the topic in the manner he would perfect in the Summa Theologica: raising questions, articulating answers with which he will disagree, then refuting the arguments supporting those answers—the ‘disputation’ form of Scholastic teaching. This genre retains one characteristic of Platonic dialogues, the dialectical clash of opinions, while removing the personal drama. One need not think of a main character and his interlocutors, the ways in which those persons speak to one another, how they shape their speeches mindful of the characters and political standing of those they are speaking with, and those who are listening. One need only follow the argument.

    Within the eleventh Disputatio, “On the Teacher,” Aquinas poses four questions: Can a man teach and be called a master or God alone? Can someone be called his own teacher? Can man be taught by an angel? Is teaching an act of the active or the contemplative life? Of these questions, the one on angels is the only one not addressed by Augustine in his dialogue. Why is it here?

    Aquinas lists eighteen reasons for denying that a man can teach, for believing that only God can teach. In Matthew 23, Jesus condemns the scribes and Pharisees, who teach one thing and do another, loving “the place of honor at banquets and the best seats in the synagogue, and to have people call them rabbi.” But you, the “crowds and disciples” whom I am teaching, “are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher,” the Messiah, “and you are all students.” That is, the issue is humility: “All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.” Jerome’s marginal note to his Latin translation of his passage in the Bible warns against “attribut[ing] to men divine honor” or “usurp[ing] what is God’s.” Aquinas replies to the objection by clarifying “how this prohibition should be understood.” As Jerome’s gloss goes on to say that we are not to call a man ‘master’ in the sense that he plays “the principal role in teaching.” That “belongs to God.” We must not rely on “the wisdom of men” but rather “in what we hear from a man, consulting the divine truth, which speaks in us through the impress of His likeness.” Aquinas, who is teaching would-be teachers, ignores the majority of Jesus’ listeners, the “crowds,” mentioning only the would-be teachers of Jesus’ day, the disciples. In this sense, he is less ‘democratic’ than Jesus. His main point is sound, however. Obviously, Aquinas himself is a teacher, a teacher teaching the next generation of teachers. He does not deny that human beings can teach, only that they are the truest Teacher. Teachers should keep an eye on themselves, since it is easy to ‘master’ students in knowledge.

    The second objection directly addresses one of Augustine’s arguments, distorting it. [1] Man teaches through signs because merely acting in answer to a question leaves too much room for ambiguity. In Augustine’s dialogue, if someone asks me what the sign ‘walking’ means, and I get up and walk, he may think walking is getting up, or moving from one place to another, or some other thing. In the vocabulary of Scholasticism, one does not know from observing an action whether the meaning of the action is to be denoted from the “substance” of it (e.g., the act of walking) or “some accident of it” (e.g., walking fast, making haste). Yet, signs are also inadequate “because knowledge of things is more important than knowledge of signs.” Therefore, “no one can pass on knowledge of things to another and thus he cannot teach him.” God is the only teacher because teaching itself is humanly impossible—miraculous, an act of divine intervention. To this, Augustine replies that the knowledge of signs doesn’t give us knowledge of things; as Augustine argues, I learn nothing if I ask what a word means, and you answer with a synonym. I only learn if I tell you what the word means according to its “principle.” If you ask me what a human being is and I say, ‘Man,’ that is unhelpful, but if I say, ‘an animal capable of reason,’ that gets to the principle of the thing. “The knowledge of principles, not knowledge of signs, causes in us knowledge of conclusions.”

    The closely related third objection also originates in Augustine’s dialogue. If I propose a sign to designate something, either you know the thing I’m talking about or you don’t. If I say, ‘human being,’ you will only know what I’m talking about if you already know what I’m talking about, not through the word-sign I have used. “If all a man does in teaching is to propose signs, it seems that one man cannot be taught by another man,” at all. To this, Aquinas offers not a refutation but a distinction. “The things of which we are taught by means of signs we indeed know in one respect but do not know in another.” If I try to teach you something about what man is,” you must indeed “know something of him beforehand”—that he is an animal, for example. In a syllogism, to learn a conclusion “we must previously know what the predicate and subject are.” “All learning comes from previously existing knowledge,” as Aristotle says in his Posterior Analytics. 

    But what is teaching? It is “nothing other than causing knowledge in another in some way,” as the next objection defines it, and since knowledge is in the intellect, and signs merely strike the senses, they cannot teach. Teachers attempt to teach by the use of signs, and “therefore, a man cannot be taught by a man.” This is congruent with the first objection, which is that only God can teach because only God can communicate with his creature without physical signs but spiritually. No, that isn’t what happens, Aquinas replies. We do indeed receive sensible signs through the “sense power,” initially. But by those physically sensed signs “the intellect receives intelligible intentions, which it uses for bringing about science [knowledge] in itself.” An intelligible intention is rational, free of contradictions; it is one’s reason, “moving discursively from principles to conclusions,” that learns—as argued both in Augustine’s dialogue and Plato’s Meno.

    Very well, “if science is caused in one man by another, either the knowledge was in the learner, or it was not.” If it wasn’t in him, it would need to be created out of nothing, as no human being can do. If it was in him, fully, then he has learned nothing; if it was in him potentially, “as a kind of rational seed,” such seeds are “inserted in nature by God alone.” However knowledge comes to be in the human mind, no man put it there. Aquinas concurs with the concept of the rational seed, “naturally put in us.” God creates man, man does not create himself. But this seed is only a seed, not fully “actualized.” What a human teacher can do is to bring it to actuality, nourish it and induce it to grow.

    Yet, given that science is an “accident”—a characteristic of a thing that does not alter its “substance,” as, for example, greenness does not alter a leaf’s ‘leafness’—and given that “an accident cannot pass from its subject”—a green leaf does not transfer its greenness to a brown leaf, or vice-versa—and “since teaching seems to be the transfer of the master’s knowledge to the student,” then “one man cannot be taught by another.” But, answers Aquinas, “the teacher does not transfer knowledge into the learner” as a bank might transfer money to another bank. Rather, “through teaching there comes to be in the pupil knowledge similar to that which is in the master, brought forth from potency,” the rational seed, brought “to act,” i.e., to actuality. The rational seed, the potential to know, already exists in the pupil in the form of reason. The teacher causes an attentive student to discover or learn by stimulating that innate capacity.

    The objector returns to Scripture, specifically, to Romans 10:17: “Faith comes from hearing.” Jerome’s gloss elaborates, saying that while “an outward herald proclaims” but “God teaches within.” Because “science is caused in the interior of the mind and not outside in the senses,” only God teaches, not men. In answering, Aquinas has recourse to an analogy. A physician acts externally, nature internally; together, they cause health. Similarly, a teacher who teaches truth states the truth outside the mind of the student, while “God teach[es] within,” having implanted the rational seed that actualizes itself when truth is brought to it from outside.

    Quoting Augustine in The Teacher, the eighth objection notes that just as a farmer does not make the tree he cultivates, so a man does not make knowledge occur in the student’s mind but only “disposes” the student’s mind for knowledge. Only God can truly make knowledge occur. Aquinas objects to the objection by remarking that Augustine does not “deny that a man teaches from without when he proves that God alone teaches, because God alone teaches within.” The ‘external’ teachings enunciated by human beings have real content, and they do reach inside the human intellect, although God alone has planted the rational seed that enables that content to be understood, known.

    The objector then switches to a new metaphor. To teach truth is to illuminate the mind, “since truth is the light of the mind.” But according to John 1:9, John the Baptist, “sent from God,” came in order to “testify about the light, in order that all may believe through him.” John himself “was not the light, but he came in order that he might testify about the light—the light, the true one, who enlightens every man, was coming into the world.” God Himself is the light and therefore the enlightener, not any man, even if that man’s testimony is given him by God. This is another reason why “no man can truly teach another.” But on the contrary, Aquinas insists, John the Baptist was indeed “a true teacher and a teacher of the truth and enlightener of the mind,” not in the sense that he “infus[ed] light to reason,” but as one who “aid[ed] the light of reason to the perfection of science through what he externally proposes.” That is why Paul writes in Ephesians 3:8-9, “Although I am the very least of the saints, this grace was given to me to bring to the Gentiles the news of the boundless riches of Christ and to make everyone see what is the plan of the mystery hidden for ages in God who created all things.” 

    Very well then, but if a teacher brings a potential knower “to the state of actually knowing” then the potential knower has changed. This changes science or wisdom itself, contradicting Augustine’s observation in his book, Eighty-three Questions, “where he says that when wisdom comes to man, it is the man who changes, not wisdom.” Aquinas asks his reader to consider that there are two kinds of wisdom, created and uncreated. Both kinds of wisdom “are said to be infused in man,” making him “changed for the better.” Uncreated wisdom is unchangeable. In one sense, created wisdom is also unchangeable, existing in God, eternally. Wisdom created in the human intellect is also unchangeable “with respect to the eternal things.” But, in another sense, created wisdom is changeable “according to the existence it has in its subject,” by which Aquinas means that the subject himself “is changed from having it potentially to having it actually.” Wisdom is knowledge of “the intelligible forms; these are “both likenesses of things,” unchangeable, and “forms perfecting the intellect,” agents of change which themselves change in the sense that they have become something they were not before: agents of change. 

    But if “science seems to be nothing else than the inscription of things in the soul,” the “assimilation of the knower to the known,” no human being can “inscribe in another’s soul the likenesses of things,” inasmuch as only God can “work within” a human soul.” This makes teaching is impossible. No, Aquinas replies, since “intelligible forms” are already “inscribed in the learner,” and “it is through them the knowledge acquired through teaching is constituted.” God’s work within the human intellect has already been done, at least insofar as human teaching is concerned. “For the teacher proposes signs of intelligible things from which the agent intellect receives intelligible intentions and inscribes them” in an intellect God made capable of receiving them. The intellect has no difficulty in receiving impressions of things outside of itself—physical objects—so, how much more it can receive impressions formed with intention by another human being. The intellect’s own intentionality makes it receptive to intentions from other persons.

    At this point, the objector brings in the authority of Boethius. Admittedly, as the observer paraphrases him, “through teaching the mind is summoned to know, but one who summons the intellect to know does not cause it to know, any more than he who summons another to bodily seeing causes him to see.” Plato’s Socrates does this, as does Augustine in On the Teacher. This criticism requires a more elaborate reply than any other. Aquinas begins by observing that “intellect and bodily sight are not wholly alike”; the objects we see are visible as soon as we direct our eyes toward them; we need no one outside ourselves to “incite” us in order to see, except when someone points something out to the person who isn’t looking at it. (Or, it might be added, if some other sense prompts the eyes to look, as when a sound attracts attention.) But the act of seeing itself needs no intermediaries.  This is true of ‘the mind’s eye’ with regard to self-evident truths, but self-evident truths may lead the intellect to wonder about things that are not self-evident, things that it “cannot understand save through the office of reason by explicating.” To understand those things, the intellect “needs a mover which actualizes it by way of teaching.” “The teacher stirs the intellect to knowing what he teaches, as an essential mover brings actuality from potency.” To show something to someone by bodily sight is only an accidental cause of the knowledge of the one directed to look; the looker sees without any further assistance. Self-evident truths known to the intellect operate the same way, but knowledge founded on those truths may require guidance from outside the student’s mind, in the form of an argument, a set of deductions based upon the self-evident truths. Aquinas takes the ideas of essential and accidental causes, actuality and potentiality, from Aristotle’s Physics Book 8, in which Aristotle addresses the problem of motion. Motion occurs when an object that has the potential to be moved has that potential actualized by something intrinsic to it and/or something extrinsic to it. Growth is an intrinsic principle of motion; a brick being pried out of the pavement is subject to an extrinsic principle of motion. The teacher is an extrinsic cause of knowledge, but only because the intellect he seeks to instruct has the intrinsic potential to change, to receive and incorporate what he teaches.

    The objector persists. If, as Augustine says in The Teacher, knowledge/science differs from opinion or belief in being certain, then this makes teaching impossible. Teachers attempt to teach through the senses of the learner; since “what is in the senses is always oblique to what is in the intellect,” there can be no certainty in what is conveyed through them. Teaching is impossible. Aquinas replies that scientific certainty derives not from the senses but from the principles, as “conclusions are known when they are resolved into the principles” by reason. “The light of reason” has already been “divinely inserted within” the intellect; this is how “God speaks in us.” When a human teacher speaks to us, he does indeed communicate through our senses, but it is reason that resolves what we would now call “sense data” into principles.

    If so, if “an intelligible light and species are required for science, but neither can be caused in man by another man” because only God causes them, then “a man would have to create something” in order to teach, which is manifestly impossible for a mere human. Aquinas agrees that “the man teaching externally does not infuse the intelligible light” but although it doesn’t ‘create’ species it does “cause” them to exist in the intellect of others “in some way,” having “propos[ed] to us certain signs of intelligible intentions, which our intellect receives from the signs and stores in itself.”  

    The objector reaches for a bit of sophistry in his fifteenth try. “Only God can form the mind of man”; “science is a kind of form of mind”; “therefore, God alone causes science in the soul.” Aquinas bats that away by remarking that while “only God can form the mind, this should be understood of its ultimate form,” not of the “many” other forms that the mind stores within itself. God forms only man’s “rational nature.”

    Another dubious effort is the false analogy that follows. Both ignorance and guilt are in the mind. Only God can purge the mind of guilt. Therefore, only God purges the mind of ignorance. Once again, Aquinas pounces. Guilt is in the affection, not in the intellect. Only God can “make an impression” on the affection. But ignorance, which is indeed in the intellect, can be diminished by “a created power,” as previously shown.

    Back to the certainty of true knowledge, then. Merely to hear someone speaking hardly causes certainty; if it did, “whatever is said to him by a man would hold certain for him.” Certainty occurs “by hearing the truth speak within,” and since only God can make that happen, a man cannot bring another to certainty. Aquinas is beginning to lose his patience: “As has been remarked,” he emphasizes, “the certainty of science is in God alone, who instils in us the light of reason, through which we know the principles from which the certainty of science derives; yet science is caused in us in some way be man as well, as has been said.”

    The objector tries one final time. If I could have given the correct response to a question before it was asked, I could not be said to have learned that response from anything my would-be teacher tells me. Yes, but potentiality isn’t actuality. My teacher doesn’t instill the intellectual principles that enable me to reach a conclusion, but he does lead me to the conclusion itself.

    As always, the core of Aquinas’ answer consists first of an interpretation of several authoritative texts, usually the Bible. Two citations from 2 Timothy clearly show that human beings are entitled to teach Scripture, so long as they avoid false doctrine. He also essays an extraordinarily far-fetched argument derived from an image from Augustine’s Against the Manicheans. Before sin, Augustine writes, the earth was watered by a spring, but, after sin, the earth needed “rain descending from the clouds.” Aquinas claims that the earth represents the human mind, “made fruitful by the spring of truth, but after sin needed the teaching of others, like rain descending from the clouds.” This supposedly shows that “at least after sin, a man can be taught by another man.” It might as easily be said that it shows that after sin, a man must be taught by God and/or by angels.

    Can a man teach and be called a master, or God alone? Aquinas begins his substantive response by observing that there are three dimensions to the question: 

    1. Bringing forms into existence.
    2. The acquisition of virtue.
    3. The acquisition of knowledge.

    He canvasses several opinions that he will refute. Avicenna and others claim that forms, virtues, and knowledge all come to the human mind from “an external agent,” whether it is “a giver of forms,” a “substance perfecting the souls of men,” or an “agent intelligence.” Others make the opposite claim, that forms, virtues, and knowledge are all latent within us, and that a “natural agent does nothing other than to bring them from a hidden to a manifest condition.” This includes the apparent claim of Socrates in the Meno that teaching merely leads the soul to “the remembrance or consideration of what it previously knew.”

    Avicenna’s error is to assume that first causes are the only ones, that there are no “proximate causes.” It is one thing to say that God is the first cause of an effect, quite another to say that He doesn’t act through human or angelic agents. But “the first cause out of the eminence of his goodness not only makes things to be but also to be causes.” The Creator-God has so articulated His creation so that parts of it can cause things to happen. The Muslim claim that God causes all things and all events directly ignores this. This goes for teaching, also: The claim that forms, virtues, and knowledge are latent within us, that the proximate causes or lesser agents do nothing but “make the hidden manifest by removing impediments whereby forms and the habits of virtue and the sciences were obscured,” derogates from the importance of those causes and agents.

    Aristotle’s “middle way” is more accurate. In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle emphasizes the importance of “habit,” a term whose root means “to have,” Aquinas remarks. A habit is a disposition whereby someone is inclined by his acts, to good or bad, in relation to the passions—good and bad defined as the fulfillment or non-fulfillment of human nature, which exists in every person but in large measure only ‘in potential.’ Here, Aquinas extends this understanding of habit to teaching, discovering, and learning. “Natural forms do indeed pre-exist in matter, but not actually,” not in action, as Avicenna says and Plato’s Socrates seems to say, “but only potentially, from which they are brought into act by the proximate external agent, not only the first cause.” The same goes for the virtues, which “pre-exist in us in certain natural inclinations” but must be “brought to their fitting completion” by instruction, example, discipline, and, finally, habituation.  And when it comes to knowledge, “the seeds of the sciences pre-exist in us”; they are “the first conceptions of the intellect which are known right away by the light of the agent intellect through species abstracted from sensible things, whether these be complex, like axioms, or incomplex, like the notions of being and one and the like, which the intellect apprehends straightaway.” The teacher then leads the mind of the student “from this universal knowledge to the actual knowing of particulars.” This contrasts noticeably not only with Avicenna and Plato’s Socrates, but with the later ‘epistemology’ of Locke, for whom knowledge of the particulars comes first, in the form of ‘simple ideas’ or sense perceptions; the intellect ‘constructs’ complex ideas out of the sense perceptions. Exaggerated, Locke’s claim can lead to the impasses of subjectivism, relativism, ‘postmodernism,’ and so on.

    Aquinas takes care to observe that natural potentiality can be either “complete active potency, namely, when an intrinsic principle is sufficient to bring about a perfect act” (e.g., healing) or “passive potency,” when the intrinsic principle does not so suffice (e.g., fire, which needs air). This is not always a sharp dichotomy. The body can heal itself, possessing complete active potency, but the physician’s art works with the body’s nature, his medicines hastening the natural healing; this is still an example of active potency because the physician “ministers to” the body.

    Teaching can actualize both kinds of potential. In the case of complete active potency, the teacher (or other “extrinsic agent”) supplies the “intrinsic agent” with whatever it needs to “come forth to actuality” (e.g., the physician who prescribes a medicine that helps the wound to heal). A student may acquire “knowledge of the unknown” by way of discovery, yet that discovery may be guided by the teacher who assigns a book to read. In the case of passive potency, the extrinsic agent really takes the lead (“this way is called learning“), as when the teacher lectures, or when he shows the student exactly how to make bread. The first instance is knowledge by nature, the second knowledge by art.

    “The process of coming to knowledge of the unknown by discovery is to apply the common self-evident principles to determinate matters and then to proceed to particular conclusions, and from those to others.” The teacher “show[s] signs” to the student “so that the natural reason of the pupil, through what is proposed, as through certain instruments, comes to the knowledge of the unknown.” Aquinas cites Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics: “demonstration is a syllogism that causes one to know.” This is very different from telling someone something that is not based upon self-evident principles, a process that “will not cause knowledge, but perhaps opinion or belief,” which may be true or false. Because “the light of reason by which” self-evident principles “are known is placed in us by God,” and “all human teaching is only efficacious because of the power of this light, it follows that it is God alone who teaches within and principally, just as nature principally and within heals.” Human beings teach in proximate or secondary ways—an important function, because they can lead or mislead.

    The second question Aquinas raises—Can someone be called his own teacher?—has an important implication. If no one can be self-taught, then what is taught would be comprehensive, leaving no possibility of discovery or innovation, no possibility of philosophizing. The objector presents six reasons for affirming that a human being can indeed teach himself.

    First, because “the principal cause of the science caused in us is the agent intellect,” which is “more of a teacher than the man outside” who is only “an instrumental cause.” To this, Aquinas answers that although the agent is a more principal cause than the teacher “in a certain respect,” science or knowledge “does not exist completely” in the agent intellect, as it does in the teacher. Insofar as he teaches truth, insofar as he really knows his stuff, his knowledge is perfect, superior to the knowledge of the learner. Second, the objector argues that learning entails “certainty of knowledge,” which occurs “in us through principles naturally known in the light of the agent intellect,” not via instruction from outside that intellect. Aquinas simply refers the objector to his answer to the first objection, which equally refutes the second one.

    Third, citing Matthew 23:8, the objector recalls that there is only one true teacher, God, who “teaches us insofar as he gives us the light of reason by which we judge all things.” That light, not the light brought by a human teacher, brings us knowledge. Aquinas replies that although the student may indeed be “more equipped to know” than his teacher (Aquinas himself being a notable example), the teacher’s knowledge is more perfect. And while the brilliant student may discover a science on his own, the teacher, “who explicitly knows the whole science, can lead us to science more expeditiously than anyone can be brought to it on his own because he foreknows the principles of the science in some generality.”

    The objector then cites Aristotle in the Nicomachean Ethics, who teaches that “to know something by way of discovery is more perfect than to learn from another”; does this not imply that self-teaching ranks much higher than any teaching from without? The same goes for virtue, as “those who come to the works of virtue without an external instructor or legislator are said to be a law unto themselves.” The objector cites Romans 2:14, the middle verse in the passage where the Apostle Paul says, “For it is not the hearers of the law who are righteous in God’s sight, but the doers of the law who will be justified. When Gentiles, who do not possess the law, do instinctively what the law requires these though not having the law, are a law to themselves. They show that what the law requires is written on their hearts, to which their own conscience also bears witness; and their conflicting thoughts will accuse or perhaps excuse them on the day when, according to my gospel, God, through Jesus Christ, will judge the secret thought of all.” Aquinas replies that what law is to practice, principle is to theory. To know the law is not necessarily to ‘have’ it in the fullest sense, to act according to it, to have it as a habit. Similarly, to know the fundamental principles, such as the principle of non-contradiction, to possess the capacity to reason, is not to think rationally on all matters. That is what a teacher can stir one to do. 

    Finally, since proverbially “the physician heals himself,” one can teach himself. Jesus cites this saying in Luke 4. There, described as having been “full of the Holy Spirit,” Jesus is tempted by the devil for forty days in the wilderness, challenged to prove that He is the Son of God. Jesus refuses, commanding, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” Returning to Galilee, he teaches in the synagogues, “praised by all,” but upon teaching at the synagogue in his home, Nazareth, he read from Isaiah 61, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,” anointing me “to bring good news to the poor,” to “proclaim release to the captives,” to “bring sight to the blind,” to “let the oppressed go free,” and to “proclaim the year of the Lord’ favor.” This day is the day of the Messiah, and Jesus announces that “Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” Knowing, or supposing that they know, that Jesus is merely the son of Joseph, not of God, the Nazarenes are indignant. This is when Jesus says, “Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, ‘Physician, cure yourself!'” That is, if you are who you say you are, prove it by performing miracles—exactly the same temptation the devil had essayed. If you cannot, then you are lying, mad, demon-infested. To which Jesus calmly continues, “Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown,” proceeding to enrage the congregation further in citing the story of the prophets Elijah and Elisha, miracle-workers, thereby implying that He is Elijah. The Nazarenes drive him out of town, intending not to tempt him to jump off a cliff but to throw him off one, in vain. They have proved unteachable, even by the supreme Teacher. A raging soul is unteachable, as is its opposite, the soul which takes nothing seriously, jesting Pilate. The context of the phrase the objector cites itself indicates the error, indeed the serious fault, behind the phrase.

    But Aquinas explains the matter in terms of a rational distinction rather than in terms of narrative implication. Yes, the physician heals “insofar as he has health, not actually, but in the knowledge of art.” Thus, he really can heal himself, even when his own body is unhealthy. by applying the knowledge of his art to himself. But the teacher teaches “insofar as he actually has science.” He conveys that science/knowledge to the student by his signs, in contradistinction to the physician, who does not convey his own health to his patient by his art. The physician is part of a process of active potency, while the teacher, in bringing the student to learn, is part of a process of passive potency. Put simply, “the teacher must have knowledge where the learner does not”; “therefore, no one can teach himself or be called his own teacher” insofar as he is a learner and not a discoverer.

    For “it should be said without any doubt that one can, through the light of natural reason placed within him and without any external aid, come to the knowledge of many unknown things, as is evident in all who acquired science by way of discovery.” Aristotle is right, as far as that goes, and of course the Apostle Paul and Jesus are also right; by nature, innately, one may know come to know many things and physicians can indeed heal themselves. Aquinas identifies two “agent principles” in natural things, as per Aristotle’s Metaphysics. The first is the “perfect agent,” which “has within itself everything that it causes in the effect.” The other is what might be termed a contributing or partial cause, necessary but not sufficient to effect something. “In the primary agents there is action in the fullest sense, but not in agents of the secondary sort, because a thing acts insofar as it is actual.” A secondary agent is not a “perfect agent.” Teaching “implies the perfect act of knowing in the teacher or master”; he must really know what he’s talking about. If not, he’s not really teaching. “When someone acquires knowledge by himself through an intrinsic principle, what in the agent cause of science does not possess the science to be acquired, save in part, namely with respect to the seminal causes of science, which are common principles.” That is, before I discover a truth, I do not have it and therefore am not perfectly knowledgeable with respect to it. In Aquinas’ sense, I haven’t truly taught it to myself, even though I have come to it ‘unaided’ except for the “seminal reasons of science” God implanted in me, by nature.

    In these two questions, then, Aquinas considers teaching first with regard to the teacher, second in regard to the one taught. Knowledge in a rational animal can lead that animal either to pride or to humiliation. As an Aristotelian, Aquinas rejects the extremes, seeking the middle, readiness to teach and to discover and to learn. As a Christian, he must establish the ground of humility by distinguishing what God can teach from what man can teach, what man can learn by exercising his God-given nature and what he can learn only by God’s revelation. Teaching is humanly possible because a man can lead another man from self-evident truths to particulars. To be taught is humanly possible because human beings have been endowed by God, acting through nature, with reason, the capacity to discover and to learn the particulars, especially once reason has been “stirred” by the signs the teacher transmits through the senses to the intellect. 

     

    Note

    1. On Augustine’s dialogue, see “Who Is the Teacher?” on this website under the category, “Philosophers.”

     

    Filed Under: Philosophers

    Anti-Americanism of the European Right, Then and Now

    July 11, 2024 by Will Morrisey

    Georges Duhamel: Civilization 1914-1917. E. S. Brooks translation. New York: The Century Company, 1919.

    Georges Duhamel: America the Menace: Scenes from the Life of the Future. Charles Minor Thompson translation. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1931.

    Tomislav Sunic: Homo Americanus: Child of the Postmodern Age. Self-published, 2007.

     

    For the European Right, the United States of America has loomed as a menace for a long time, held up as the embodiment of modernity—modernity seen as dehumanization, as the extension of the technological conquest of nature to human nature itself, an extension animated by misconceived notions of equality and liberty. But while Georges Duhamel criticized America for on the grounds of traditional European humanism, the heritage of Athens and Jerusalem, the New Right criticizes it in large measure for adhering to that heritage itself, especially to ‘Jerusalem.’

    Georges Duhamel served as a French army surgeon throughout the First World War. In Civilization 1914-1917— a title of bitter irony—he begins with a soldier whose face he saw only for a moment, in the light of a match on a train at night, moving toward the front in 1916. Recalling that he had been in action twelve times to this point, the man said, “I’m always in luck: I have never been wounded but once.” The flare of the match “gave me a fleeting glimpse of a charming face”; “his whole presence radiated a sane and tranquil courage.” This was the “face of France.” This is no chauvinism on Duhamel’s part. The French fought with unremitting valor in that war. Those who deride supposed French poltroonery, along with France’s losses to Germany in 1871 and 1940, forget that the Germany of those years was no longer the Germany Napoleon rolled through at the beginning of the nineteenth century. By the 1860s, the thirty-seven sovereign German states had been united by Prussia into one powerful, militarized country, outnumbering the French by much more than three-to-two by 1914. In wars fought by mass armies, sheer population counted, as indeed the French in 1814 and the Germans in 1944 both learned during their invasions of Russia. “The world knows too little,” Duhamel rightly says, of “those Frenchmen of…grandeur of soul, indomitable intelligence, and touching naivete.”

    “Will there ever be a night black enough to rob me of the image glimpsed in that flash of light?” Yet that face was disfigured in the war, where Duhamel “inhaled the fetid breath of fields thickly sown with corpses” in a “kingdom of dust” and mud, punctuated by field hospitals, where a “mass of human larvae writh[ed] on the floor,” larvae themselves covered with the larvae of the flies, feeding on the suppurating wounds of men in agony. “At times, overcome by all this suffering, I would beg for duty outside the camp, in order to let some fresh air in upon my mind and renew the tenor of my reflections,” which turned to “those people in the interior of the country” who “fill[ed] the cafe-concerts, the exhibitions, the moving pictures, the brothels—shamelessly enjoying themselves, the world and the season—and, sheltered by this trembling rampart of sacrifice, refuse to share in the universal distress.” War duty gave Duhamel “the opportunity to know men better than I had known them until then; to know them under a purer light, naked before death, stripped even of those instincts which disfigure the divine beauty of simple souls.” Even in the misery of war, “our race of workers has remained vigorous, pure, worth of the noble traditions of humanity”—men like Rebic, hideously wounded but weeping because he saw “all the trouble I am causing you,” his caregivers. Or the mortally wounded Réchousset, who looked at his “thin, ulcerated legs” and asked, “What’s the meaning of all this?” Or the doctor who told Duhamel, “The very idea of God seems to be something apart” from this “great catastrophe,” adding that the men must be told, “very simply,” that “there are some wounds that we cannot heal,” that only “when people stop making such wounds” will “the problem no longer exist.” “I owe to the war the knowledge of a new anguish—that of living beside a human being whom I knew, in spite of his strength and beauty, to be living under the threat of a terrible doom, and who had no future save that which hope and ignorance gave him.”

    And then there was Rabot, a small man, his growth stunted by poor diet as a child, suffering “fearful, interminable dressing, repeated every day for months.” A well-born French lady, accompanied by “handsome, well-dressed,” and “very attentive” officers, entered the hospital, evidently on a fine mission to elevate the morale of the patients. “Rabot,” she told him, “You know already the greatest recompense of all: Glory! The rapturous ardor of combat!” Your suffering is “divine, because it is endured for all”; your wound is “holy,” making a hero a “god,” Christlike. At this, “a religious silence reigned in the ward.” Except for Rabot. He “ceased to resemble himself. All his features drew together, violently agitated in a manner that was almost tragic. A hoarse voice issued in jerks from his skeleton-like chest, and all the world could see that Rabot was laughing.” He laughed for nearly an hour, long after the lady and her retinue had departed. “After that it was as if something had changed in Rabot’s life.” Whenever his dressing was changed and he was “on the point of weeping and felt pain, one could always make him forget it and extort a little smile from him by saying in time: ‘Rabot! They’re going to send for the lady in green.'”

    Another time, a train ran over a guard at a crossing called “La Folie.” “We picked up the debris, here and there, on all sides, fragments of bleeding flesh, entrails, and I remember finding a hand closed over a cheese. Death had surprised the man while he was eating.” Duhamel and his comrades carried the body parts from place to place, but no office in the army would accept them. He ended by taking the bloody mass back to his barracks, placing it next to his bed that night. “For a long moment,” listening to the sound of blood dropping from the stretcher to the floor, “I occupied myself with counting the drops while I reflected on many dreary things, the times we live in, for instance.” This was but one among “the uninterrupted file of human bodies” that entered the field hospital. “Sacred human flesh—holy substance that serves thought, art, love, all that is great in life—you are nothing but a vile, malodorous paste that one rakes in one’s hands in disgust, to judge whether or not it is fit for killing.”  As for those officials, reluctant to accept corpses, their type is seen in a civilian bureaucrat, M. Perrier-Langlade, who “was what is called a great organizer.” He keened to interfere in everyone else’s business, entering an office and “at once chang[ing] the position of every object and the function of every man,” his orders falling “like a rain of hail.” “An organization upon which his genius had been exercised would take several weeks to return to its normal functioning,” proving that “men of power who have ideas will never admit that simple mortals can have any.” Another such fellow “seized a fountainpen and was covering the walls with schemas,” “showing us in precise formulas how he wished us to think and act henceforth.” As he put it, “personal experience must abdicate before discipline.”

    Consequently, Duhamel writes, “I hate the twentieth century, as I hate rotten Europe and the whole world on which this wretched Europe is spread out like a great spot of axle-grease.” The machines “that used to amuse me once, when I knew nothing about anything…now fill me with horror, because they are the very soul of this war, the principle and reason of this war.” Escape to a primitive society? No use: “I had thought of going to live among the savages, among the black people, but there aren’t even any real black people now. They all ride bicycles and want to be decorated,” decorated for their service in—the war.

    There is nothing about America in Civilization 1914-1917. The Americans themselves had only begun to arrive in Europe in June 1917, to be readied for action at the front in October. But Duhamel turned his attention to France’s ally, detesting what he saw. 

    Scenes from the Life of the Future (retitled America the Menace by its enterprising American publisher) begins where Civilization left off. “Of all the tasks common to the men of my time none is more urgent than of incessantly reviewing and correcting the idea of civilization,” “that burden of servitudes that is called independence.” Before the Great War, “the ideal of a universal civilization, built up by all that which the arts, the sciences, the philosophies, and even the religions had bountifully contributed to it, knew a period of great breadth and of almost insolent vogue”; “under an apparent pessimism, all the realistic and naturalistic literature of France was a paean in praise of civilization, the redeemer.” This “universal civilization” was to be “both ethical and scientific,” an engine of “both spiritual and temporal progress.” It was “at the height of its fortune when the war attacked it.” 

    Universal civilization dissolved quickly because it harbored a contradiction at its core. It is one thing to understand civilization morally, as a means to “make people more human.” It is another thing to understand civilization as the realm of intricately designed machines, a civilization “that may be described as Baconian, since it is wholly based on the applications of the inductive method.” Baconian induction can tell you how to make machines, but it cannot tell you what to use them for. The teleology of modernism was supplied by historicism, in particular by various sorts of historicist progressivism. Historicism takes the results of empirical observation, facts recorded in history, then draws a general conclusion from those acts respecting ‘where history is going.’ Duhamel regards the war as the empirical refutation of this theory—a sort of malign but revealing Baconian experiment—while seeing that the war might be dismissed as a horrible but temporary setback, a sharp dip in the overall upward trend. The example of America is a much better indication of what ‘the end of history’ will look like.

    “No nation has thrown itself into the excesses of industrial civilization more deliberately than America.” It began as a sort of tabula rasa, “free of traditions, of monuments, of a history,” a people “with no other ties than their redoubtable selves,” a land of industriousness and of industriousness alone. “American, then, represent for us the future”; because its deck started out cleared, it hasn’t needed to clear out any Old World and Old Regime debris. This is why “in material civilization, the American people are older than we,” a people “who even now are enacting for us many scenes of our future life.” But “before twenty years have passed” (i.e., by midcentury) “we shall be able to find all the stigmata of this devouring civilization on all the members of Europe.” Just as Tocqueville saw Europe’s future in American “democracy”—that is, in the condition of civil-social equality—so Duhamel sees it in American industrialism, American ‘machinism.’

    And like Tocqueville, Duhamel voyaged to America. After boarding the ship that took him across the Atlantic, he fell into a conversation with the captain, who described a fantastic ‘potential’ scheme for diverting the Gulf Stream for some purpose he thought good: “What makes the strength and greatness of America is that there are always Americans who think seriously about everything.” Among those things Americans had thought of and enacted was a thoroughgoing inspection of Duhamel’s person and property at his port of entry, including an explanation of laws prohibiting alcoholic beverages, a health exam, and a plethora of customs rules, minutely enforced—fully two hours of “administrative fuss,” the institutionalization of M. Perrier-Langlade. The ship itself, a technological marvel, speeds the traveler comfortably to his chosen destination, but these “astonishing facilities offered by science to the traveler are thwarted by the dictator who speaks in the name of that same science,” holding that science “does not admit of doubt.” “Faith in science,” a new religion, is the faith of America. A physician justifies Prohibition by saying that while “that law is irksome to me sometimes…I am thankful to the State for protecting me, if necessary, even from myself.” 

    American culture, such as it is, partakes of the same “new barbarity.” The movie theater “had the luxury of some big, bourgeois brothel—an industrialized luxury, made by soulless machines for a crowd whose own soul seems to be disappearing.” American soullessness reveals itself in the music it tolerates in such a place, “a sort of soft dough of music, nameless and tasteless,” a pastiche of fragment from European classics—the wedding march from “Lohengrin,” a bit of Haydn’s “Military Symphony,” the first allegro of Beethoven’s “Seventh Symphony,” a few bars of Wagner’s “Tristan” and Shubert’s “Unfinished Symphony” (“Poor symphony! It had never been worse ‘unfinished’ than it was here.”). All polished off with a round of…jazz, that “triumph of barbaric folly.” “Was there no one to cry murder? For great men were being murdered. All those works which from our youth we have stammered with our hearts rather than with our lips, all those sublime songs which at the age of passionate enthusiasms were our daily bread, our study, and our glory, all those thoughts which stood for the flesh and blood of our masters, were dismembered, hacked to pieces, and mutilated. They passed by us now like shameful flotsam and jetsam on this wave of warm melted lard.” “The cinema is a pastime for slaves, an amusement for the illiterate, for poor creatures stupefied by work and anxiety,” a “spectacle that demands no effort, that does not imply any sequence of ideas, that raises no questions, that evokes no deep feeling, that lights no light in the depths of any heart, that excites no hope, if not the ridiculous one of some day becoming a ‘star’ at Los Angeles.”

    And then there was vaudeville, The Ziegfield Follies, with its bare-legged showgirls, pop vocalists, and “young comedians in flaring trousers and short jackets, who raced upon the stage, spouted four jokes and raced off again”; they “seemed like living symbols of the young American—likable, uneducated, taking what comes, without initiative or individuality.” The ‘acts’ “succeeded one another in a dizzy jostle.” “Hurry, hurry! Faster, faster!” No boredom must be permitted, but neither must anything rouse the American citizen from “his bovine slumber.”  Above all, American entertainment rejects thought. “A people stupefied by fugitive pleasures that are only skin-deep, and that are obtained without the smallest mental effort, will some day find itself incapable of doing any task that requires sustained resolution, or of advancing even a little through the energy of its thought.” Do not cite American manufacturing achievements against me, as counter-evidence. “A building rises two or three stories a week. Wagner needed twenty years to put together his Tetralogy, Littré a lifetime to build his dictionary.” Indeed, the greatest European buildings, the cathedrals, took many decades to complete.) American arts, the arts of the machine age, of the forward rush of Progress, “subject our hearts and minds to no tests,” striving to “gratify us to the limit” while “procur[ing] for us always a painful sensation as of unquenched thirst.” Although “its essence is motion,” it “leaves us dull and motionless, as if paralyzed.” Duhamel remarks to one American, you are poor because “Time is the greatest wealth, and you never have any.” 

    Still another form of American self-entertainment may be found in the football stadium, a structure “belong[ing] to that sort of architecture which is cynically frank about its utilitarian purpose.” That purpose is, once again, to rev up a “plebeian crowd, without distinction and without authority” with glee clubs, bands, songs, and shouts organized by the captain of cheerleading squad. “With a megaphone in her hand, and with her skirts flying in the wind, she screamed, flounced about, gave play to leg and haunch, and performed a suggestive and furious dance de ventre, like the dances of the prostitutes in the Mediterranean ports. From time to time she reassembled her aviary”— her cheerleading subordinates—and “encouraged it to a fresh outburst of shrill screaming.” The sound of America is not music; the sound of America is noise.

    The result is what Tocqueville called soft despotism, attained partly by political means but mostly through culture. “This slavery has established itself so stealthily and advanced with such caution that men could hardly keep from accommodating themselves to it.” Who can argue against “obviously reasonable principles of hygiene, morality esthetics, and social civilization”? When enacted, such principles provide a sense of security to each citizen and “quickly assume the character and strength of organic habits.” “In the modern state, most men good-humoredly recognize their incompetence in a multitude of things, and modestly delegate every power to specialists whose zeal is all the greater because it rarely goes unpaid.” The modern states “go beyond their rights,” but citizens do not notice that they are on the road to serfdom. They travel that road on automobiles, with “rouged and powdered young girls pilot[ing] mastodons to and from school.” Those mastodons will soon end up in the elephant graveyard of the automobile junkyard, emblems of “the great country that does not produce in order to enjoy in moderation and in reason, but that enjoys as it acquires—feverishly and without sense—so that it may be able to produce a little bit more.” On the highway, Duhamel saw in the interior of a car “a symbol of the world of the future,” a “charming woman with manicured nails and beautiful legs, who smoked a cigarette while traveling between fifty and sixty miles an hour, while her husband, seated on the cushions of the rear seat, with a set jaw scribbled figures on the back of an envelope.”

    In the middle of America is Chicago, “the tumor, the cancer, among cities,” a place of noise and “tainted fogs,” where gargantuan buildings are thrown up in months only to be torn down tomorrow, “putting into its place something else, bigger, more complex, and more expensive.” In such a city, “the artist “must fall into step,” obey, “either hurry or quit.” “All the ideas that animate” Chicago architecture “smell of fashion and of death.” Its slaughterhouses only add not only to the physical but to the spiritual stink, lending the city “the natural and intimate odor of American luxury” in sanctuaries of “carnivorous humanity, the realm of scientific death.” “You have put into practice a sort of bourgeois communism,” he tells one Chicagoan,” with the “same suppression of the individual.” Before seeing it, who could have imagined Chicago, “the ant-hill, the city that is not even ugly, but that is haggard and inhuman as a drunkard’s nightmare”? “I gazed through the window of the nocturnal city, unbridled and shaken with all the furies and with all the lust that seemed to me to be seeking everywhere, even in the rain-sodden clouds, the phantom of joy, pure human joy, forever driven from the world.” The “genius of America” does “not know the soundest ambition of all: the ambition to defy time.” In America, “everything is too big; everything discourages Apollo and Minerva.” Nature itself is tyrannized, as “the greatest river in the world,” the “legendary Mississippi,” which begins not far from Chicago, can barely be seen for the docks, oil tanks, and levees that crowd its banks. 

    In a sense, America opposes time’s ravages not by making monuments that will last but by idolizing statistics, by following the law of averages. Duhamel includes his dialogue with an American businessman, a manufacture of mattresses, “a genius in the field of trade.” They discussed insurance. Railroad crossings, they agreed, are dangerous. To reduce the danger, the railroad owners could invest in modifying the crossings but insurance against injuries and deaths is less expensive. When Duhamel ventured to suggest that numbers “do not cover every aspect of the question,” Mr. Stone (Duhamel isn’t above naming him that) dismisses such “sentimental considerations,” considerations which would falsify the arithmetic “without helping anyone.” But does this not “lower the standard of public morals?” No, Mr. Stone replies, because insurance “settles a loss that otherwise might have no chance of fair compensation.” To put it more systematically, Stone argues that railroad accidents will be more numerous than they would be if the railroad companies fixed the crossings, but those accident victims who would be injured at the improved crossing would go uncompensated. Duhamel suggests that it would be better, morally, if the number of accidents were reduced. Stone may well think that the companies would be sued by the (less numerous) victims, so they will need insurance anyway, although presumably their premiums would be lower. In his own business, he wants insurance against employee theft because he prefers not to “spy on my employees to find out whether they are honest” nor to “trust to their conception of good and evil, to scruples of their conscience.” He would rather insure each of them “for a sum corresponding to the harm he can do me.”

    Duhamel observes that Mr. Stone has drifted into moral language, despite his attempt to brush it off as mere sentiment. He then brings down a rather heavy hammer, Henri Bergson, who distinguishes “the extensive,” which can be measured, translated into numbers, and “the intensive,” which “is subject to no measure.” “To that question insurance makes an answer that I find disquieting, but that all the rest of the world is beginning to approve: according to the insurance people, the common measure between the extensive and the intensive is money.” Stone replies that this is “one of the greatest achievements” of the insurance industry: it permits disputants to resolve their conflicts peacefully, “conflicts that threaten to perpetuate themselves in anger and hatred.” That is, qualitative/”intensive” disputes, if pressed, must lead to violence, precisely because they admit of no worldly measure. To this, Duhamel can only say that modern civilization oversimplifies, “pretend[ing] to harmonize the universe” by “commercial[ing] certain moral values.” Insofar as it does this, modern civilization becomes uncivilized, reducing acts of faith, hope, and contrition to a cash nexus.” Thus, “almost all scientific discoveries”—in this case, the “law of compensation”—are “big with a certain amount of good and with a notable quantity of evil.”

    A more sinister example of the cash nexus in America was slavery. As did Tocqueville, Duhamel reserves a place for the dilemma of race in America. The slavery his predecessor saw is gone, but racial segregation remains. When another of his dialogic partners calls this problem insoluble, Duhamel meets his interlocutor with irony. “Until this moment I have never had any assured belief in immanent justice,” in the conviction “that every fault is punished in the end.” But now I see that “the unnumbered crimes of the slave-trade and of slavery that were the foundation of American prosperity cannot be expiated, and that those crimes have pierced the side of American happiness with an incurable wound—do you not find that, from the moral point of view, the idea is consolatory, and, all things considered, beautiful?”

    Duhamel does not expect that this incurable wound will kill America, and in a way that is the problem. America prospered with slavery but it continues to prosper, to an even greater degree, without it. This makes it a menace. In Alabama, Duhamel asks a bull breeder why one of the bulls is “so bad-tempered.” He wasn’t always that way, the breeder recalls, but after he fought another bull and killed it, “he has been crazy with pride”; now knowing “what conquering is,” the bull “wants to conquer everything he sees.” For his part, Duhamel “thought sadly of the great peoples who glory suddenly intoxicates”—his own France, under Napoleon, cannot be far from his mind—peoples “who, alas, have no rings in their noses” with which they can be restrained, like the bad-tempered bull. America was not so much intoxicated by its victory in the Great War but at “the moment when the home market became too small for the United States,” and it took its commercial and manufacturing way of life worldwide.

    Tocqueville saw the future of Europe, of the world, in the democracy he saw in America. Duhamel undertakes the same attempt. “By means of this America I am questioning the future; I am trying to determine that path that, willy-nilly, we must follow.” He invokes Maurice Maeterlinck’s comparison of modern life to the nests of ants and termites—the “same effacement of the individual, the same progressive reduction and unification of social types, the same organization of the group into special castes, the same submission of everyone to those obscure exigencies which Maeterlinck names the genius of the hive or of the ant-hill.” Human beings differ from insects, however, in their inventiveness. They will find new ways to subject themselves to inhuman tyranny. And so, “if steel machinery refuses to make profitable progress, nothing remains except to turn to man and modify the human machine” by means of “scientific human breeding and selection,” to “create a body of people, sexless, devoid of passion, exclusively devoted to the instruction, the feeding, and the defense of the city?” Eugenics had already been proposed and assembly lines implemented in Duhamel’s lifetime.

    Those who have emigrated to America are dupes, “miserable multitudes” drawn to the light of Liberty’s torch like insects to the flame. “What has their new country given them in exchange for their sacrifices? It has given them new needs and new desires. The whole philosophy of this industrial dictatorship leads to this unrighteous scheme: to impose appetites and needs on man.” But “the supreme luxury is silence, fresh air, real music, intellectual liberty, and the habit of joyous living,” “delicate riches” for which no one in America cares. Americans only want “to keep selling, even on credit, above all, on credit!” pushing back “the limits of the market, unceasingly to put off till the morrow the threatening saturation point.” Immigration homogenizes, lending itself to the same thoughts, the same desires to produce and consume; with commercial and personal credit, faith in money has replaced faith in God. “Spread everywhere with infinite variations, the American system now has the whole world for its field,” seemingly “compatible with every political system,” turning even the Soviet Union “into a colony” of American materialism. And it is inescapable, since “there are no revolutions among the insects.”

    The only hope is in collapse, unpredictable collapse: if “someday without anyone’s knowing why, without anyone’s foreseeing it, without anyone’s succeeding in explaining it after the event, the incredible machine foes off the track, collapses, and falls in cinders. For in the case of man, you never know.” 

    Duhamel’s wrote his jeremiad in the name of the old European civilization, against modernity and its attempt to conquer nature with the technologies generated by Baconian science. The Croatian New-Right political scientist, Tomislav Sunic detests that civilization as well, hearkening to a certain conception of pre-Biblical, pre-Socratic Europe. But unlike Duhamel, he sees in America and “Americanism” the nadir of the West, biblical and philosophic. “The former European conservative palaver needs to be reexamined.”

    But New-Right neopaganism is not his initial stance, although he does devote a few sentences, early on, to conjecturing that “Americanism…could have become a true motivating force of creativity for a large number of people of European extraction” in the United States had it “renounced Biblical moralism and adopted instead a neo-Darwinian, evolutionary, and racialist approach in its domestic and foreign policy” (as indeed Indiana Senator Albert J. Beveridge proposed at the beginning of the twentieth century). “Racialism and eugenics had numerous supporters in America and both fields were well combined with early American liberalism,” that is, progressivism.” For the most part, however, in his early chapters he limits himself to deploring America as the product of Enlightenment—that is to say, modern—notions, especially equality and progress. 

    Egalitarianism and progressivism made Homo americanus and Homo sovieticus “twin brothers.” The difference was that the American elites were smarter than the Soviet elites, preferring an easygoing soft despotism, the ideology of “fun,” to the “physical terror” wielded by the Leninists, which provoked resistance. “Communism kills the body, in contrast to Americanism which kills the soul,” but most people would rather let their souls die than have their bodies die. Sunic assigns the cause of the twinship of American and Soviet man to “the same principles of egalitarianism, however much their methods varied in name, time and place.”

    The problem is obvious: the equality described as a self-evident truth in the Declaration of Independence is founded on natural right, the Soviet principle of equality on historical right. The American Founders hold that all men are created equal, but only with regard to their rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and not on the ’empirical’ grounds of equal intelligence or moral character. Few if any of the American Founders themselves supposed themselves the moral equals of George Washington, to take one example. The founders of the Soviet Union held not that all men are created equal (as atheists, they denied that men were created, in the first place), but that ‘history,’ conceived as the conflict between socioeconomic classes, proceeds ‘dialectically’ toward an inevitable outcome in egalitarian communalism. Further, the effort to hurry ‘history’ along to that consummation was utterly unrestricted by any regard for life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, or, of course, property, which was held to be the shibboleth of the hated ‘bourgeoisie’ and its ‘capitalism.’ It is simply not true that “discourse about the end of history has been a standard theme in America over the last two hundred years.” The Americans argued not from ‘history’ but from natural rights, holding democratic and commercial republicanism to be the best regime for securing natural rights.

    Despite his animus against the Declaration of Independence and his esteem for the racialist Southern writer, George Fitzhugh, Sunic more or less sees this, although he prefers not to admit it openly. He argues, rather, that once the flood gates of egalitarianism open—however modest this may appear at the beginning—the logic of equality will gather momentum and will end up eventually in some protean form of proto-communist temptation.” That is, Sunic avails himself of the same logic of historicism that he deplores, although in this case it is a logic of inevitable decline, not of progress. He equally partakes of the relativism of historicism, dismissing Thomas Jefferson as merely “a man of his epoch” whose “intellectual legacy can only be understood within the spirit of his time, ” who “certainly did not consider native Indians or Africans to be his equals”—a claim that ignores the actual understanding of equality Jefferson propounded. But to the historicist, it doesn’t really matter what Jefferson thought. “What Jefferson and his likes had in mind is of little importance; what is important is what his successors and non-European American interpreters had in mind two centuries later,” namely, “justification for copying paleo-communistic practices,” such as thought-policing on the basis of ‘political correctness.’ Historicism commits him to the perilous strategy of political prediction. There are, he claims, “looming inter-racial riots in America, which will likely break up America,” he claims, without explaining why such riots, were they to occur, would ruin the country any more than the ones that actually happened in the last century did. 

    Sunic blames the epidemic of political correctness on the post-World War II effort to sustain the regime change in western Germany in the aftermath of Nazism. “Although Fascism, as an organized political system, no longer poses a threat to Western democracies, any criticism—however mild it may be—of egalitarianism and multiculturalism can earn the author or politician the stigma of ‘fascism,’ or even worse, of ‘anti-Semitism.'” Thus, “principles of vilification of an intellectual opponent or a political adversary have become the rule in postmodernity.” One must ask, when has vilification of intellectual opponents and political adversaries not been the rule? Ancient Athens, whether pre- or post-Socratic? Rome? China, ancient or modern? Have intellectual opponents and political adversaries often been subject not merely to vilification but death, more or less throughout human history? 

    At the end of World War II, “the liberal and communist tenets of free speech and freedom of expression did not apply at all to the defeated side which had earlier been branded as ‘the enemy of humanity.'” But when were freedom of speech and of expression tenets of communism? And was fascism not in principle an enemy of humanity, being based, in its Nazi version and in its later Italian version, upon a doctrine of biologically-based racial superiority, a superiority so pronounced that it claimed to entitle its proponents to enslave and kill members of the inferior races? 

    “The entire West, including America itself, has become a victim of collective guilt which, strangely enough, is induced more by intellectual self-denial and by Christian-inspired atonement, and less by state repression,” since the despotism remains ‘soft,’ needing not “to resort to violent means” for its enforcement but by “a cultural smearing campaign.” One might reply to this, that does not need to subscribe to that soft despotism, which has indeed prevailed in many sectors of intellectual and political life in the West, to blame it on influences other than regime change in postwar Germany or on Christianity. It is indeed to a substantial extent true that “post-communist and post-Marxist intellectuals” “relentlessly avocat the ideology of multiculturalism, egalitarianism, and globalism.” It is silly to blame this on “Judeo-Centric modern historiography.” But that is what Sunic proceeds to do in the second half of the book.

    The argument runs as follows. The real founding date of America was 1619, not 1776 or 1789, when the Constitution was ratified. “Biblical vocabulary has played a much stronger role in American public affairs than the much-lauded American constitutionalism or the praised rule of law” because “despite the fact that America’s founding fathers were men of the Enlightenment, opposed to religious fanaticism of any sort, the Calvinist heritage continued to have the upper hand in formulating the American political character and American society at large.” Sunic offers no proof of this, and no proof of his charge that America’s “obsession with moralistic preaching borders on mass delirium,” unbeknownst to “most Americans.” As for religious freedom, “what is the point of talking about tolerance in a system where Biblical conformism” in the form of Bible-established moral convictions, even among ‘secularists,’ “is considered a norm by all”? Worse still, “of all Christian denominations, Calvinism was the closest to the Jewish religion and…the United States owes its very existence to Jews,” some of whom bankrolled the American Revolution. “From its inception, America was an ideal country for Jews.” More, “Jewish influence in America is not only the product of Jews; it is the logical result of Gentiles’ acceptance of the Jewish founding myths that have seeped over centuries into Europe and American in their diverse Christian modalities,” with “postmodern Americanism” being “just the latest secular version of the Judean mindset.”

    This was understood by “the best anti-Semitic brains” of the 1930s, who were harnessed by “the government in National Socialist Germany” to “document every nook and cranny of Judaism in the Soviet Union and America.” But alas, Sunic sighs, “at the beginning of the 21st century, these books are either banned or derided as unscientific and anti-Semitic prose.” It is not clear why anti-Semitic brains would not produce anti-Semitic prose, or why those opposed to anti-Semitism are wrong to describe their prose as anti-Semitic. But to be fair to Sunic, what he wants to say is that almost all anti-Semitism is ill-founded because it is Christian, or Christian-derived, and “Was Jesus not a Jew?”  His point is to formulate a way “to counter strong Jewish influence in Americanism without lapsing into anti-Semitism” of the sort that Christianity-ladened anti-Semites uphold. Sunic is, strictly speaking, anti-Judaic and therefore anti-Christian. [1] “The West, and particularly America will cease to be Israelite once it leaves this neurosis” of “yearning to become Israelite” and “returns to its local myths,” the myths that predated the arrival of Judaism and Christianity in Europe, when the anti-Semite of Europe and America ceases “lug[ging] behind himself a Levantine deity that is not of European cultural origin.” 

    Sunic does not expect a revival of ancient paganism, preferring a “modern version of it, “a certain sensibility and a ‘way of life.'” The effort to construct this sensibility will include recurrence to “ancient myths, fairy tales, and forms of folklore that bear the peculiar mark of pre-Christian themes,” but much more “forging another civilization, or rather, a modernized version of scientific and cultural Hellenism,” with the polytheism of the ancients translated into a moral code that “stres[ses] courage, personal honor, and spiritual and physical self-surpassing”—that is, a warrior ethic that acknowledges hierarchy against egalitarianism, including the hierarchy of “biological Darwinism. “In pagan cosmogony, man alone is considered a forger of his own destiny (faber suae fortunae), exempt from historical determinism, from any ‘divine grace,’ or economic and material constraints.” At the same time, Sunic claims that the polytheism of pre-Christian religions “offers homage to all ‘gods’ and, above all…respects the plurality of all customs, political and social systems, and all conceptions of the world—of which these gods are sublime expressions”—well, except for the God of the Bible. “Democracy and independence—all of this existed among the early predecessors of Americans in ancient Europe, albeit in its own unique social and religious settings.” Avoiding such severe Biblical dichotomies as good and evil, the pagans were so much more tolerant than Western civilization became, under the Bible’s baleful influence. 

    This is, of course, rubbish. Human sacrifice, including child sacrifice, was practiced among ancient Europeans (including the Greeks) as well as by ancient Americans. And indeed it was practiced by the best (and worst) anti-Semitic brains in Germany and Russia during the 1930s. Judaism prohibits it. Nor did the ancients regard themselves as masters of fate; fate may favor the bold, favor the ‘makers,’ but no one in pre-Socratic Greece or in the ancient world generally denied its ultimate authority. As for toleration, religious or otherwise, the Greeks killed Socrates and the Romans killed Christians. “Who can dispute that Athens was the homeland of European America before Jerusalem became its painful edifice?” Who can dispute that pre-Biblical Athens was every bit as warlike and intolerant as post-Biblical Athens? 

    Sunic attempts to leverage these claims into a critique of U. S. foreign policy. He dissents from Europeans who claim that American military interventions in the post-World War II decades have “had as a sole objective economic imperialism.” (He does, however, praise the German geopolitician Karl Haushofer, who “had some influence on the views held by National Socialist Germany”; actually, he tutored Hitler and Rudolf Hess during their imprisonment in the early 1920s. Haushofer claimed that “American economic imperialism [was] irreconcilable with the notion of Germany’s self-sufficient large spaces (Grossraum), i.e. an international regime best suited for co-existence with different states and cultures”— a capacious and tolerant place, indeed, had it not entailed genocide and enslavement of ‘inferior races,’ at least in its Nazi version.) The intention has rather been “the desire to spread American democracy around the world,” an ambition that military challengers to America “ran the risk of being placed outside the category of humanity or labeled as a terrorist.” He fails to produce an example of American policy makers who have placed military “challengers” to America as outside the category of humanity. As for the terrorists, well, they are terrorists. “Why not point out that Bible-inspired American ideology can be as intolerant as Islamism”? I can only answer: probably because it isn’t.

    Sunic doesn’t limit his complaints to the postwar era, however. Pre-war Germany “was on the way of becoming a major Euro-Asian steam-roller ready to challenge America’s access to energy sources in the rimland countries of the Middle East and the Pacific Basin.” If so, why were Americans not at war with the biggest empire in the world at that time, Great Britain? As Sunic would have it, America was really to blame for Hitler’s declaration of war, since the United States had engaged in “illegal supplying of war material to the Soviet Union and Great Britain” before that declaration; had fought German submarines in the Atlantic; and, horror of horrors, had permitt[ed] “incessant anti-German media hectoring by American Jews.” He quotes with approval the assessment of “German scholar Giselher Wirsing, who had close ties with propaganda officials in the Third Reich,” who wrote, “In degenerated Puritanism lies, side by side with Judaism, America’s inborn danger.”  But never mind, regimes and policies aside, even if “there were some replica of America, with the same geographical size, the same military capability, and sharing the same democratic values—it is very likely that present day American would sooner or later find itself on a collision course” with it. Why does Sunic think so? Because, for all his interest in culture, Sunic prefers not to notice the importance of political regimes and the obvious fact, understood since Montesquieu, that commercial republics don’t make war against each other. 

    Sunic concedes that it might, realistically speaking, be “preferable to have American-staged security to some vague notions replete with fear and violence.” Unfortunately, ‘Judaic’ America instead sets for itself “absolute foes that merit total annihilation,” as seen, he alleges, in the American Civil War, the “firebombing of defenseless European cities during the Second World War,” and the overall “destruction of Germany.” The argument founders on the observation that the secessionist states were scarcely annihilated, the defenseless European cities were the sites of the German military industries, and Germany wasn’t destroyed. In fact, West Germany, as distinguished from Soviet-controlled East Germany, became the economic powerhouse of Europe within a generation, thanks in part to American aid and protection from the Soviet empire. “Nobody knows the exact number of Germans killed by American forces during and after World War II,” although one must observe that is likely to be considerably fewer than 11 million—the generally accepted number of innocents murdered by the Nazis, quite apart from the deaths inflicted in the wars they started. Predictably, Sunic calls that number exaggerated. Sure, maybe it was only seven or eight million.

    As for ‘postmodernism,’ Sunic follows the French scholar Christian Ruby in distinguishing it from “neo-modernity.” The latter is “more convivial and more egalitarian in its sources, having its philosophical root in the philosophy of Kant and universal reason,” all of which Sunic despises. Postmodernity “has its inspiration in nihilist and pro-fascist philosophers, Nietzsche and Heidegger.” (Nietzsche, who died two decades before Mussolini invented fascism, utterly despised German nationalism, but let that pass.) Sunic has a good old time ridiculing Leftists for appropriating postmodernism for egalitarian causes (“they abhor every aspect of fascism yet, on the other, their theories are inconceivable without the extrapolation of Nietzsche’s and Heidegger’s prose”). Postmodernity’s only good aspect is that “it is self-destructive.” In his characteristically desultory fashion, he soon turns to lauding George Fitzhugh, the pro-slavery author of Cannibals All! “Black slavery was to Fitzhugh a matter of fact; a social bond necessary for black Americans, who due to their incapacity to equally participate in free trade and cut throat competition, are far better off in farm bondage in the South supervised by a paternalistic white farmer, than working for a Northern white crook who pontificates about human rights and strips them of human dignity. In what sense are 21st century blacks in America better off than their predecessors?” (They aren’t enslaved, for starters, and exhibit no inclination to return to either slavery or post-slavery Southern segregation.) Blacks, according to Sunic, along with “other races and individuals,” lack “the stamina and the genes to compete in the free market.” “Only a true aristocratic society, where leaders are role models, can have lasting legitimacy.” 

    “In the near future, Americanism, similar to the former system of communism, will only function as an elementary form of mass survivalism in which interracial wars will be the norm.” Or so Sunic hopes.

     

    Note

    1. That anti-Semitism has its origins not fundamentally in racism but in anti-Judaism is the argument of Dennis Praeger and Joseph Telushkin: Why the Jews? The Reason for Antisemitism (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1984. For a review, see “Anti-Jewish Malice” on this website under “Bible Notes.”

     

     

     

     

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