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    The French “New Right”

    July 3, 2024 by Will Morrisey

    Alain de Benoist and Charles Champetier: Manifesto for a European Renaissance. 1999. In Tomislav Sunic: Against Democracy and Equality: The European New Right. Third edition. London: Arktos Books, 2011.

     

    “The French New Right was born in 1968,” the annus mirabilis of the French New Left, which it in some ways resembles, not the least of which being its utopianism. Unlike the New Left, however, which began as a political movement and ended up in think-tanks and universities, the New Right took the path in reverse, beginning as “a think-tank and a school of thought,” aiming at what Benoist and Champetier call “a metapolitical perspective.” By this, they mean a stance “rest[ing] solely on the premise that ideas pay a fundamental role in collective consciousness and, more generally, in human history.” Human will and action shape “History,” but “always” do so “within the framework of convictions, beliefs, and representations which provide meaning and direction.” This begins with calling their movement the French New Right, despite the call for a European renaissance; that renaissance will resist universalisms of all kinds, even any universalism limited to Europe, as seen in such notions as Jean Monnet’s “United States of Europe” or its real-world would-be precursor, the European Union.

    The Manifesto‘s first half consists of a critique of the modern West. “The major crisis” of this “age” is “the end of modernity,” modernity as constituted by individualism, massification, desacralization, rationalism in the sense of instrumental reason, the cult of efficiency, and the attempted universalization of all those features or “processes.” Modernity dates from 1700. “In most respects, it represents a secularization of ideas and perspectives borrowed from Christian metaphysics.” That is, Christianity already encouraged individuality “in the notion of individual salvation and of an intimate and privileged relation between an individual and God that surpasses any relation on earth.” Massification or egalitarianism also has a Christian origin “in the idea that redemption is equally available to all mankind, since all are endowed with an individual soul whose absolute value is shared by all humanity.” Christianity promoted desacralization in the sense that it denied the divinity of the cosmos, now relegated to the status of a mere creation of the holy God, a god entirely separate from and superior to that creation. Instrumental rationalism at the service of ‘progress’ imitates the Christian idea of Providence, “that history has an absolute beginning and a necessary end, and that it unfolds globally according to a divine plan.” And, obviously, Christianity is a universalist religion, seeking converts among Jews and Gentiles alike, worldwide. Thus, “today Christianity has unwittingly become the victim of the movement it started,,” “the religion of the way out of religion,” as “modern political life itself is founded on secularized theological concepts,” with its political-philosophic schools “agree[ing] on one issue: that there is a unique and universalizable solution for all social, moral and political problems” whereby humanity, “understood to be the sum of rational individuals,” is “called upon to realize their unity in history,” in the process overcoming unity’s “obstacle,” diversity. Modernity “attempts by every available means to uproot individuals from their individual communities, to subject them to a universal mode of association.” Although the several kinds of socialism, including fascism, communism, and social democracy, have attempted this, “the most efficient means for doing this” in practice, not in ‘theory,’ “has been the marketplace.”

    Although “the imagery of modernity is dominated by desires of freedom and equality,” “these two cardinal values have been betrayed” by “the dominance of the global marketplace,” technology, and modern statism. Proclaiming human rights, modernity provides no “means to exercise them” in the face of these ruling forces, all wielded by a small elite, ‘progressing’ by means of pseudoscientific “management of global society” towards ever-increasing soft despotism, while wrecking humanly scaled communities and sucking nature dry. Still worse, “modernity has given birth to the most empty civilization mankind has ever known: the language of advertising has become the paradigm of all social discourse; the primacy of money has imposed the omnipresence of commodities; man has been transformed into an object of exchange in a context of mean hedonism; technology has ensnared the life-world in a network of rationalism,” a world “replete with delinquency, violence and incivility, in which man is at war with himself and against all,” that is, “an unreal world of drugs, virtual reality and media-hyped sports, in which the countryside is abandoned for unlikeable suburbs and monstrous megalopolises, and where the solitary individual merges into an anonymous and hostile crowd, while traditional social, political, cultural or religious mediations become increasingly uncertain and undifferentiated.” One might object that this portrait is more than a little exaggerated, but, then, the document is, after all, a manifesto. Writing in 1999, before the rise of the hypermodern Chinese state had become noticeable to many intellectuals, the authors identify liberalism as “the main enemy,” liberalism as the doctrine of the primacy of quantity over quality, of market economics, and of individualism justified by the assertion of unalienable rights drawn from the falsely claimed asociality of human nature. Market economics especially inserts Darwinism into social thought—incoherently, since Darwinism “says absolutely nothing about the value of what is chosen” by means of social competition. “But man is not satisfied with mere survival.” Marxian socialism, capitalism’s rival, “belongs to the same universe” as an heir of Enlightenment thought (rationalism, universalism, primacy of economics, the labor theory of value, faith in progress towards and imagined “end of history,” a progress won over the dead bodies of competitors). Liberalism undermines genuinely political life, self-government, by reducing representative democracy “to a market in which supply becomes increasingly limited (concentration of programs and convergence of policies) and demand less and less motivated (abstention).” “In its economic, political and moral forms, liberalism represents the central bloc of the ideas of a modernity that is finished.” 

    Postmodern life, now upon us, has seen the return of social violence and the multiplication of intra- and supra-state conflicts, including religious warfare, all of which liberals expected to disappear. But postmodernism also sees an increasing concern for the quality of life, the revival of communities, growing opposition to the elites, the politic of group identities, and what to the authors is the welcome decline of established religions, especially of Christianity, modernity’s archē. The New Right would build on these latter trends. 

    Benoist and Champetier identify nine “foundations” of modernity. The first two amount to elements of a false anthropology. Modernity either denies the existence of human nature altogether, as seen in Rousseau but also to a more limited extent in Locke’s claim that the human mind is a tabula rasa, or makes it amount to nothing more than “abstract attributes disconnected from the real world and lived experience.” Such notions conduce to thinking of human beings as “infinitely malleable,” things to be remade into the ‘new man’ by means of “the brutal and progressive transformation” of the human social environment, living in a utopia made real by ‘totalitarian’ tyranny and its concentration camps. Liberalism is the same thing, but milder and more gradualist. These moderns are wrong. Human individuals bear the general characteristics of a natural species, along with specific hereditary dispositions which decisively influence their “attitudes and modes of behavior,” blocking the radical transformations moderns envision. Moreover, “man is not just an animal,” one species among many, but a being conscious “of his own consciousness,” capable of “abstract thought, syntactic language, the capacity for symbolism, the aptitude for objective observation and value judgment.” These capacities do “not contradict his nature” but rather extend it “by conferring on him a supplementary and unique identify” conferred upon him by is “social and historical life,” a life shaped by moral and political choices. “The New Right proposes a vision of a well-balanced individual, taking into account both inborn, personal abilities and the social environment,” rejecting “ideologies that emphasize only one of these factors,” whether biological—presumably, such a thing as Nazism—economic (liberalism, socialism) or mechanical (meaning, perhaps, utilitarianism).

    Human nature is “neither good nor bad,” but capable of being either, thanks to the openness of choice available to human being and their vulnerability both to chance disaster and to the consequences of their own bad choices. “As an open and imperiled being,” man “is always able to go beyond himself or to debase himself,” and hence needs to construct social and moral rules, along with “institutions and traditions” that “provide a foundation for his existence,” physically, and “give his life meaning and references.” That is, neither human nature nor nature as a whole nor the divine provide such meaning, inasmuch as human nature has no innate moral content and any referent beyond the understanding of the limited human intellect “is by definition unthinkable.” And indeed, although human nature is discernible, it never presents itself except within a given socio-cultural “context.” “In this sense, humanity is irreducibly plural: diversity is part of its very essence,” with various social and political groups living within those contexts, which exist “prior to the way individuals and groups see the world” as “concretely rooted people.” “Man is rooted by nature in his culture,” and cultures themselves change over time, from epoch to epoch. “Thus, the idea of an absolute, universal, and eternal law that ultimately determines moral, religious, or political choices appears unfounded,” an invitation to totalitarianism. These diverse “cultures” exhibit both cooperativeness, even altruism, and competition, including aggression. What the authors call the “great historical constructions” have established “a harmony based on the recognition of the common good, the reciprocity of rights and duties, cooperation and sharing,” all in a tragic (because impermanent, mortal) “tension between these poles of attraction and repulsion.” 

    Moving to the aspects of ‘culture’—social, political, economic—the authors deny the existence of any original ‘state of nature’ in which individuals joined to form a social contract. With Aristotle, they regard human societies as resulting from extended families. Societies are indeed consented to, but as ‘givens,’ not as inventions. “Membership in the collective does not destroy individual identity; rather, it is the basis for it,” the way in which individuals think of, feel about, themselves. In such family-derived communities, a “vertical reciprocity of rights and duties, contributions and distributions, obedience and assistance” prevails (as in the family, with its husbands and wives, parents and children), along with “a horizontal reciprocity of gifts, fraternity, friendship, and love.” Diversity thus exists not only from one society to another but within each society, a diversity “constantly threatened either by shortcomings (conformity, lack of differentiation) or excesses (secession, atomization).” In a society, “the whole exceeds the sum of its pats and possesses qualities none of its individual parts have,” a fact now “defeated by modern universalism and individualism, which have associate community with the ideas of submission to hierarchy, entanglement, or parochialism.” Modernity thereby hasn’t “liberated man form his original familial belonging or from local, tribal, corporative or religious attachment” so much as subordinating him with “harsher” and more remote “constraints,” “impersonal and more demanding,” most notably its “statist bureaucracies.” This makes of human societies collections of “individuals who experience each other as strangers,” lacking the “mutual confidence” that would enable them to live without subjection to the supposedly neutral “regulatory authority” of the administrative state, with its market exchanges, habit of submission to “the all-powerful state,” and the “abstract juridical rules” which govern both the market and that submission. “Only a return to communities and to a politics of human dimensions can remedy exclusion or dissolution of the social bond, its reification, and its juridification.”

    Genuine politics “cannot be reduced to economics, ethics, aesthetics, metaphysics, or the sacred.” The moral orientation of politics aims at “a common good…inspired by the collectivity’s values and customs,” not the “individual morality” of one or some of the polity’s members. Political communities have regimes, ways of ruling and of being ruled, but “regimes which refuse to recognize the essence of politics, which deny the plurality of goals or favor depoliticization, are by definition ‘unpolitical.'” That is, they deny Aristotle’s principle, that politics consists of ruling and of being ruled, in turn. Modernity propounds “the illusion of politics as ‘neutral,’ reducing power to managerial efficiency in ruling, and therefore reducing most residents of the polity to the status of being ruled, efficiently. This reduces the government of men to the administration of things, pretending that the public sphere has no “particular vision of the ‘good life.'” But politics is no science, a vehicle for supposedly value-free rationalism and its technologies, but “an art, calling for prudence before everything else,” acknowledging the perennial “uncertainty,” the “plurality of choices” and “decision[s] about goals” that must be arbitrated by rulers wielding ruling offices or institutions with powers understood to be means serving the ends set by the political community. Tellingly, however, the New Rightists endorse the claim of that arch-modern Thomas Hobbes, that “the first aim of all political action is civil peace,” that is, “security and harmony between all members of society” and “protection from foreign danger.” (In this, they follow the thinking of one of their intellectual heroes, Carl Schmitt.) Subordinate to civil peace, such “values” as liberty, equality, unity, diversity, and solidarity” are not self-evident but arbitrary. But New Rightists do not endorse Hobbes’s solution to the political problem, the regime of monarchy for a centralized, if economically liberal, state, the mighty Leviathan whose blood is money.

    They prefer democracy, “the only form of government that offers [the individual] participation in public discussions and decisions, as well as the ability to make something of himself and to excel through education.” The democratic regime must exist within a federal state, or a loosely organized empire of the ‘ancient’ sort, consisting of “organized communities and multiple allegiances” which can resist the tyranny of centralization. In such a democratic and variegated state, animated by “the spirit of subsidiarity,” the rulers “are above each citizen individually, but they are always subordinate to the general will expressed by the body of citizens,” the will of the nation. In this regime and state, “politics is not reduced to the level of the state” because “the public person is defined as a complex of groups, families and associations, of local, regional, national or supranational collectivities” existing in “organic continuity.”

    Similarly, the economic character of both liberalism and Marxism, and indeed the ‘economism’ they share, cannot sustain “the infrastructure of society.” Economic life rightly understood is useful, but “only that.” Under aristocratic conditions, “one was rich because one was powerful, and not the reverse, power being thus matched by a duty to share and to protect those under one’s care”—by noblesse oblige. “The market is not an ideal model whose abstraction allows universalization,” nor is socialism; on the contrary, “in all pre-modern societies, the economic was embedded and contextualized within other orders of human activity.” Market exchange must always be balanced with reciprocity and redistribution, and vice-versa, avoiding the limitless consumerism of capitalism and the iron cage of socialism. Properly understand, ‘economy’ means oikos-nomos, the law or rule of the household; political economy should reflect that understanding, particularly with respect to, and for, “the harmony and beauty of nature.” That is, the New Right propounds political democracy on an aristocratic civil-social and economic foundation, with the reciprocity of political life pervading all dimensions of the nation.

    The reason for this may be seen in the way the authors conceive of ethics (with seeming ‘modernism’) as “the construction of oneself.” But this construction turns out to be no existentialist project but rather an acknowledgement that “the fundamental categories of ethics are universal” (noble and ignoble, good and bad, admirable and despicable, just and unjust, distinctions that “can be found everywhere) are “an anthropological consequence” of human freedom. However, these categories universally develop in non-universal, specific and concrete circumstances of one’s own place and time. “The adage ‘my country, right or wrong’ does not mean that my country is always right, but that it remains my country even when it is wrong,” my home, however misguided it may be. The good citizen “always tries to strive for excellence in each of [the] virtues,” which are universal—generosity, honor, courage, cowardice, moderation, duty, rectitude, unselfishness—and “this will to excellence does not in any way exclude the existence of several modes of life” that find “their place in the city’s hierarchy”—the life of contemplation or philosophy, the life of activity or politics, the life of production or economics. The New Right prefers Aristotelian ethics to such individualist moralities as utilitarianism (Bentham) or ‘deontology’ (Kant), much less the nihilism of Nietzsche. While it is true that “all men have rights,” they “would not know how to be entitled to them as isolated beings; a right expresses a relation of equity, which implies the social,” which gives definition to the right. 

    Unlike Thomas Aquinas, the Christian Aristotelian, New Rightists utterly reject the Bible. The modern scientists’ ambition to conquer nature for the relief of man’s estate and the consequent “technological explosion of modernity,” bespeaks “the disappearance of ethical, symbolic or religious codes,” but this project finds its origins in “the Biblical imperative” to “replenish and subdue the earth,” which, according to the Manifesto, eventually issued in the Cartesian imperative to master and own nature. But mastery for what? “Technology has given humanity new means of existence, but at the same time it has led to a loss of the reason for living, since the future seems to depend not only on the indefinite extension of the rational mastering of the world” but on the extension of that mastery to human nature itself. “Man is becoming the simple extension of the tools he has created.” This must “reduce men to what they have in common,” a leveling that will bring not self-mastery, but the sniveling Last Man Nietzsche warned against. Politically and militarily, this may be seen in modern Western imperialism, “the Westernization of the planet” animated “by the desire to erase all otherness by imposing on the world a supposedly superior model invariably presented as ‘progress.'”  This has backfired, as “new civilizations are gradually acquiring modern means of power and knowledge without renouncing their historical and cultural heritage for the benefit of Western ideologies and values.” 

    The New Rightists hope that this will lead to “a multipolar world of emerging civilizations, civilizations that “will not supplant the ancient local, tribal, provincial or national roots” while nonetheless recognizing “their common humanity.” This may strike one as utopian. One cannot simply acquire modern means of power and knowledge while maintaining tradition in any fundamental sense. Modern technology rests on modern science, modern science on modern philosophy, anti-traditional to the core. “The ‘paganism’ of the New Right articulates nothing more than sympathy for [the] ancient conception of the world” that prevailed in Europe before Christianity and indeed before Socrates—before dualisms religious and philosophic. Sympathy is one thing, practice another.

    Accordingly, the authors turn to policies, identifying thirteen points of resistance to modernization and its sham egalitarianism. The first is the opposition of “clear and strong identities” to “indifferentiation and uprooting.” Globalization, they claim, has caused overreactions (“bloody irredentisms, convulsive and chauvinistic nationalism, savage tribalizations”), as the thin universality of a proffered, spurious ‘citizenship of the world’ offends, irritates, and threatens without offering the satisfactions of a real community. “Modernity has not been able to satisfy this need for identity.” Accordingly, the French New Right “affirms the primacy of differences, which are neither transitory features leading to some higher form of unity, nor incidental aspects of private life” but are rather “the very substance of social life.” Politically, this means federalism or subsidiarity within France, which will include the exercise of native ethnic, linguistic, and religious practices—no enclaves for observance of Islamic law in France, therefore. In foreign relations, “the French New Right supports peoples struggling against Western imperialism,” although their principles would seem to require support of peoples struggling against any imperialism (on the basis of “the right to difference”), including those nations which have a tradition of imperialism (China, Russia). Not all traditions support traditionalism.

    The French New Right opposes racism, “a theory which postulates that there are qualitative differences between the races, such that, on the whole, one can distinguish races as either ‘superior’ or ‘inferior; that an individual’s value is deduced entirely from the race to which he belongs; or, that race constitutes the central determining factor in human history.” That is, just as the New Left rejected Marxism-Leninism’s scientific socialism, preferring a softer-edged ‘cultural’ Marxism, the New Right rejects the ‘race science’ of the older Nazi Right (and of the early ‘Progressive’ Left). The authors correctly identify the source of ‘scientific’ racism as “scientific positivism”—the very doctrine that has also produced the technologies that menace humanness, worldwide. They also oppose, however, “a universalist” anti-racism in defense of their own “differentialist” anti-racism. “Universalist anti-racism only acknowledges in peoples their common belonging to a particular species,” tending “to consider their specific identities as transitory or of secondary importance,” thus pursuing policies aimed at overcoming, assimilating particular human identities into one mass of ‘humanity.’ Differentialist anti-racism holds to the contrary, “that the irreducible plurality of the human species constitutes a veritable treasure,” refusing “both exclusion and assimilation,” both “apartheid and the melting pot” but instead accepting “the other as Other through a dialogic perspective of mutual enrichment.” This raises the question of the criteria for “enrichment,” which can only mean the enhancement of the universally held virtues already enumerated. 

    This enrichment will occur over and via a certain distance, as the New Right opposes immigration “such as one sees today in Europe,” an “undeniably negative phenomenon” consisting of “forced uprooting” by economic necessity, as poor and overpopulated countries send their people to rich countries; there is also a corrupt attraction, as “the attraction of Western civilization and the concomitant depreciation of indigenous cultures” wax “in light of the growing consumer-oriented way of life” that impoverished peoples see from afar and want for themselves. That is, the claim of capitalism’s defenders—that everyone wants more stuff—is at least partially correct. To meet this crisis, the New Right proposes restrictive immigration policies “coupled with increased cooperation with Third World Countries where organic interdependence and traditional ways of life still survive.” The authors do not specify what forms this cooperation will take—presumably, some form of foreign aid that will induce foreigners to stay where they are. They acknowledge that existing foreign populations cannot be deported, and so they offer “a communitarian model,” consistent with subsidiarity, “which would permit them to keep the structures of their collective cultural lives” while “observ[ing] necessary general and common laws”—thereby dissociating “citizenship from nationality.” Obviously, this would not work with serious Muslims, for whom the Sharia law is comprehensive, all other laws abhorrent.

    The New Right also opposes ‘sexism,’ albeit not in the way of contemporary feminists. “The distinction of the sexes is the first and most fundamental of natural differences, for the human race only ensures its continuation through this distinction”; “humanity is not one, but rather two.” And “beyond mere biology, difference inscribes itself in gender—masculine and feminine. The authors maintain that “the modern concept of abstract individuals, detached from their sexual identity, stemming from an ‘indifferentialist’ ideology which neutralizes sexual differences, is just as prejudicial against women as traditional sexism which, for centuries, considered women as incomplete men.” (It should be noticed that there are limits to their traditionalism.) The belief that gender differences derive from “a social construct” only reproduces the masculinist-modern adherence to allegedly universal and actually abstract “values.” The New Right accordingly “upholds specifically feminine rights,” including “the right to virginity to maternity, to abortion.” (Why the right to virginity is a specifically feminine right is not clear.) They evidently prefer the specifically feminine “right” to abortion to the universal right to life. [1] Not for them the Biblical injunction to be fruitful and multiply.

    It goes almost without saying that the New Right opposes rule by the ‘New Class,’ the class of professional managers identified and described by James Burnham in the United States and Miloslav Djilas in the communist regimes. “This New Class produces and reproduces everywhere the same type of person: cold-blooded specialists, rationality detached from day-to-day realities,” guided by “abstract individualism, utilitarian beliefs, a superficial humanitarianism, indifference to history, and obvious lack of culture, isolation from the real world, the sacrifice of the real to the virtual, an inclination to corruption, nepotism and to buying votes,” all aimed at “the globalization of world-wide domination by themselves. This results in the depersonalization of rulers, lessening “their sense of responsibility” for those they rule even as it widens the scope of that rule and augments the power of it. Meanwhile, “the public feels indifferent toward or angry at a managerial elite which does not even speak the same language as they do,” preferring a technical jargon to ordinary words. The solution, again (as it was for the New Left), communitarianism. Local communities should “make decisions by and for themselves in all those matters which concern them directly, and all members would have to participate at every stage of the deliberations and of the democratic decision-making,” refusing to “cede to State power to intervene except in those matters for which [those communities] are not able or competent to make decisions.” Because that would obviously lead to a finally irreconcilable tug-of-war between localities and states, the result would likely be either the reimposition of statism or the breakup of modern states—the latter being the presumed goal of New Rightists.

    Like all Rightists, the authors look with disfavor at “Jacobinism,” by which they mean the modern nation-state. They observe that the nation-state predated the Jacobins themselves, originating in the Treaty of Westphalia, which settled “the first Thirty Years’ War,” the great European war (sparked by the Protestant rebellions against Roman Catholicism) and “marked the establishment of the nation-state,” and specifically of the principle of non-interference in the internal affairs of European states, “as the dominant mode of political organization.” The second Thirty Years’ War, consisting of the twentieth century’s world wars, “signaled, to the contrary, the start of the disintegration of the nation-state,” demonstrating that “the nation-state is now too big to manage little problems and too small to address big ones.” Human beings must therefore not only maintain their human identities in small communities, but those communities must be protected politically by associating in “large cultures and civilizations capable of organizing themselves into autonomous entities and of acquiring enough power to resist outside interference”—a civilization-based Westphalianism. Thus, European civilization “can remake itself, not by the negation, but by the recognition of historical cultures,” within and without. This new, federal Europe should ally itself with Russia, presumably in order to resist the United States on the one side, China on the other. (The rulers of Russia and China evidently have other ideas.) “The existing states must federalize themselves from within, in order to better federalize with each other.” The federal government would govern diplomacy, military affairs, “big economic issues” (assisted by a central bank managing a single currency), “fundamental legal questions,” and environmental matters. That is, the New Right aims at Gaullism without the nation-state: a European federation consisting not of modern states but of largely self-governing localities and allied with Russia (although De Gaulle’s message to Soviet premier Alexei Kosygin: “Come, let us build Europe together,” implied that Russia would separate into a European sector and an Asia sector, the former part of the envisioned European federation, the latter abandoned to Asians). 

    This leaves the regime question as the seventh, central policy consideration. The authors reiterate their support for “democracy” or popular sovereignty on the grounds that democracy is “the system best suited to take care of a society’s pluralism” by peacefully resolving conflicts. Democracy inclines to resolve conflicts peacefully because every citizen knows that today’s minority may be tomorrow’s majority. New Rightists caution that democratic equality “is not an anthropological principle (it tells us nothing about the nature of man) but rather the true principle of civic equality, “the idea of a body of citizens politically united into a people.” Their presumed objection to America’s “all men are created equal” (apart from the suggestion of a Creator-God) must be its abstract character, as distinguished from the “substantial equality” of democratic citizenship. “The essential idea of democracy is neither that of the individual nor of humanity, but rather the idea of a body of citizens politically united into a people,” governing itself “through its representatives” with “the opportunity to be politically present through its action and participation in public life.” 

    Further, political revolution or regime change is now “obsolete,” inasmuch as “political parties are almost all reformists,” not revolutionaries, and “most governments are more or less impotent,” anyway, scarcely worth the effort it would take to seize control of them. “In a world of networks,” of globalization, “revolt may be possible, but not revolution.” And so, as with the New Left, the New Right advocates “participatory democracy” beneath the modern state, undermining the modern state—a “radically decentralized form of democracy, beginning from the bottom, thereby giving to each citizens a role in the choice and control of his destiny.” This decentralized democracy must “impose” the “widest separation possible between wealth and political power.” This sounds like a rather formidable task, and the authors therefore turn to policies governing the conditions of work, which is the basis of wealth.

    The French word for work, travail, derives from the Medieval Latin trepalium, torture. It “never occupied a central position in ancient or traditional societies, including those which never practiced slavery”; “it is modernity which, through its productivist goal of totally mobilizing all resources, has made of work a value in itself, the principal mode of socialization, an illusory for of emancipation and of the autonomy of the individual.” Work has been commodified, its measure now being money. “The possibility of receiving certain services freely and then reciprocating in some way has totally disappeared in a world where nothing has any value, but everything has a price,” a “salaried society” in which technological advances cut workers off from their frayed lifeline. The Biblical punishment of laboring by the sweat of your brow will no longer hold, however, if technology is used to release workers from the daily grind, “to gradually dissociate work from income” by establishing a fixed minimum income “for every citizen from birth until death and without asking anything in return.” One might ask, why is this not the conquest of nature for the relief of man’s estate? But evidently, this repurposing of technology is intended by the New Rightists to open people to the active political life that in antiquity was largely reserved for the aristocracy. They do not envision a society of couch potatoes, although (absent strict penalties for non-participation in civic affairs) that is the likely result.

    Following Aristotle’s distinction between economics, the management of material goods for “the satisfaction of man’s needs,” and chrematistics, production for the sake of money-making, the New Rightists reject the prevailing chrematistic model for political economy, as it gives over such economies “uncertain and even precarious” financial markets. Moreover, “economic thought is couched in mathematical formulas which claim to be scientific by excluding any factor that cannot be quantified,” thereby telling us “nothing about the actual condition of a society.” To reverse this, they would tax all international financial transactions, cancel the debt of Third World countries, and end the international system of the division of labor whereby some countries produce raw materials to be sold for refinement or use elsewhere. International environmental laws should be strengthened. If this would lead to the ruin of capitalism, that is the point. In its place, partnerships, mutual societies, and cooperatives “based on shared responsibility, voluntary membership,” and a spirit of non-profit should be encouraged.

    Lest their communitarianism seem implausible, the authors point to “the existence today of a whole web of organizations supportive of deliberative and well-functioning communities which are forming every level of social life: the family, the neighborhood, the village, the city, the professions and in leisure pursuits,” apart from the “gigantism” of globalization. “Only responsible individuals in responsible communities can establish a social justice which is not synonymous with welfare.” Families and local communities that seek to revitalize “the popular traditions that modernity has largely caused to decline,” traditions “inculat[ing] a sense of life’s cycles,” can “nourish symbolic imagination” and “create a social bond.” Such traditions will not be identical to those of the past, but those of the past themselves metamorphosed over time, constantly renewed. Such a renewed humanism, linking morality, society, politics, and a sense of beauty will resist “the aesthetic of the ugly” that pervades the modern “megalopolis,” the “urban environment” now “spoiled by the law of maximum financial return on investment and cold practicality.” And human structures would be integrated into a respect for nature animated by the principle of “immanent transcendence” that “reveals nature as a partner and not as an adversary or object,” denying the Christian and classical-humanist claim that man enjoys “unique importance” in the cosmos, a claim that opened the dystopic vista of the “economic hubris and Promethean technology” which ruined any “sense of balance and harmony” of man in nature. The same principle of human social diversity should be extended to all of nature, to a respect for “biodiversity.” 

    The New Right concludes with a call for a concomitant intellectual diversity against those “whose purpose is to excommunicate all those who diverge in any way from the currently dominant ideological dogmas,” a “new form of treachery” relying upon “the tyranny of public opinion, as fashioned by the media,” taking “the form of cleansing hysteria, enervating mawkishness or selective indignation” aimed at ‘exclud[ing] the possibility of radically changing society or even the possibility of an open discussion of the ultimate goals of collective action,” reducing “democratic debate” to nothing: “One no longer discusses, one denounces. One no longer reasons, one accuses. One no longer proves, one imposes.” “The traditional rules of civilized debate” disappear, along with civility generally. “The New Right advocates a return to critical thinking and strongly supports total freedom of expression.”

    It is then fair to say that the New Right wants the benefits of ‘closed’ or traditional political societies with the benefits of ‘open’ or modern liberal societies. It is also fair to call this utopian, as it was fair to call the New Left utopian, decades ago.

     

    Note

    1. For a discussion of abortion, see “Abortion Wrongs” on this website under “Bible Notes.”

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Filed Under: Nations

    Who Is the Teacher?

    June 26, 2024 by Will Morrisey

    Augustine: The Teacher: A Dialogue between Augustine and his son Adeodatus. In Augustine: Earlier Writings. Edited and translated by John H. S. Burleigh. Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1953.

     

    The son of Romanized Berbers, Augustine’s name derives from Augustus, denoting ‘venerable,’ a name that reflects the civil status of his family, who numbered among the honestiores or ‘honorable men,’ the aristocratic class. His own son’s name, Adeodatus, means ‘gift from God.’ If one were given to symbolism, the difference between the two names might be taken to register conversion to Christianity and the moral consequence of moving away from pride of family in the City of Man to humility before God in the City of God, the transfer of citizenship from one regime to another. Citizenship must be passed down from father to son or, for Christians, from the Father to the sons of God. But thoughtful citizenship in the City of God still requires education on earth. Augustine knew that the would-be teacher of virtue, Christian or other, faced serious problems, as shown in Plato’s Meno. The Teacher is in some ways a Christian reply to the Meno. Unlike Plato, Augustine makes himself a character in his own dialogue, along with his son; Anytus in the Meno assumed that fathers could readily teach virtue to their sons, and Augustine may think that Christians, unlike pagan aristocrats, can succeed. Jesus had recommended that sons break with their pagan families, but now that ruling families are Christians, families themselves need to be re-founded along the lines of the new Christian regime. To do so, the classical education that linked the generations also needed to be re-founded. Hence The Teacher.

    Augustine begins with a teleological question: “What do you suppose is our purpose when we use words?” We want “to let people know something, or we want to learn something”—making a statement or asking a question—Adeodatus replies. Augustine corrects him, saying that a question also lets people know something, namely, that we do not know and want to know—thereby suggesting a limit to the desire to learn, one that will vary from student to student. We are telling someone that we want to be told, we want to be taught. It might be that if Christians consider the Bible to set down what virtue is, that they need only to consult it, learn God’s words, in order to know virtue. Plato would reply that learning moral principles is not the same as being virtuous, and of course Augustine, that eminent chronicler of sin, knows that.

    But, Adeodatus objects, we use words to sing, often singing alone, not telling anyone anything. Yes, Augustine replies, “there is a kind of teaching, and a most important kind, which consists in reminding people of something”—a major theme of the Meno. [1] Augustine thereby broadens the purpose of words to include reminding. Music, Plato knows, gets into the soul; it is not mere knowledge but morally influential, setting the rhythm of the soul, causing harmony or disharmony among the ‘parts’ of the soul. But “I very rarely sing to remind myself of anything, almost always simply to give myself pleasure,” his son replies, giving his father a glimpse into his soul. Yes, but “what pleases you in singing is the melody”; we sing in words set to music, which isn’t the same thing as speaking. Birds sing, but do not speak (unless they are parrots, but parrots don’t tell us anything, that way, communicating in earnest only by squawks and shrieks). “You agree, then, that there is no other reason for the use of words than either to teach or to call something to mind?”

    Very well, then, Adeodatus says, but what about prayer? When we pray, we use words but not to “teach God anything or remind him of anything.” God is the supreme Knower. Augustine agrees, remarking that we speak to God in “our inmost mind”—the Christian answer to the problem of outer appearance and inner reality seen in the Meno is that God does not need to guess or to inquire into the true nature of any human soul. “God is to be sought and prayed to in the secret place of the rational soul, which is called ‘the inner man.'” And God is very close by, indeed, because his Spirit dwells in you, as the Apostle Paul testifies in First Corinthians. For a Christian, as distinguished from Socrates, the Logos is the Jesus, Son of God, accessible to the soul thanks to the Holy Spirit, residing in “the inner man.” The mind is the temple where God dwells, where we sacrifice passions and false beliefs to God, to Reason.

    There is also public prayer, prayer by a priest in front of congregants. One might expect Augustine to say that prayer is speech, talking to God, telling Him what we want or telling him that we fear and love Him. But by using words, Augustine means audible speech, and prayer is inaudible, except when a priest prays in a religious service, “not that God may hear, but that men may hear and, being put in remembrance, may with some consent be brought into dependence on God.” The audible prayer of priests tells the hearers what the priests want them to hear, and to believe. In the Meno, remembrance really means thinking—at best, ratiocination—but for Christians it is a re-centering of the mind on the presence of the Holy Spirit within them, consenting to his guidance; for a Christian priest, speech extends to both Christians and to non-Christians, the latter to be ‘reminded’ of their consciences, that element within their souls which is receptive to the Holy Spirit. “Such speech is nothing but a calling to remembrance of the realities of which the words are but the signs, for the memory which retains the words and turns them over and over, cause the realities to come to mind.” Public prayer calls up the “memory” of the Holy Spirit and His teachings. This is the kind of memory a Christian will cultivate, a memory of words, of the Word, not so much a ‘memory’ or set of logical deductions concerning geometric figures, as in the Meno.

    But more generally, “speech is nothing but a calling to remembrance of the realities of which the words are but the signs, for the memory.” As Adeodatus will later say, we use speech “in order to teach or to call to mind.” This shifts the dialogue (itself obviously an exchange of words, by definition) back from the purpose of speech, logos, to the elements of speech, words, logoi—from teleology to analysis. The men agree that words are signs, and that signs signify, that is, they mean something. “Things which do not signify something beyond themselves cannot be signs.” To consider this more carefully, Augustine then quotes Virgil’s Aeneid, Book II, line 659: Si nihil ex tanta superis placet urbe relinqui (“If it pleases the gods that nothing be left of so great a city,” namely, Troy). The sentence has a purpose but analytically considered, do the words composing it have a purpose, a meaning? Do they refer to anything beyond themselves? If not, can a sentence, a thing composed of words, really mean something? Can we learn anything, know anything, by means of words? 

    There are eight words, thus eight signs, in the verse. “I suppose you understand the meaning of the verse.” Yes, says Adeodatus, by which he may mean the whole verse, the phrase. But Augustine wants him to analyze the verse, break it down into its elements. The first word, Si signifies not a thing but a “state of mind,” doubt, an answer Augustine accepts “in the meantime.” As for nihil, it seems to Adeodatus to signify “that which is not,” but Augustine raises an objection: if words signify something, how can any word signify nothing? Augustine suggests a tentative solution to this aporia in saying that nihil may also signify “a state of mind rather than a thing which is nothing,” joking that we should not let ‘nothing’ detain us. “At the proper time we shall understand more clearly this kind of difficulty, if God will.” In the Aeneid verse, nothing evidently means absence, the end of a war in which something, Troy, is reduced to nothing, a destruction approved by the pagan gods, the gods of the ‘City of Man’; in the Bible, God does the opposite, creating the heavens and the earth out of “nothing.” And in the beginning was not merely a set of words but the Word, the Logos. The Christian teacher needs to understand and to use the power of that Word, and of the words that compose the Bible. In the Meno, Socrates associates ‘memory’ or learning with geometry; in The Teacher, Augustine associates it with words because he is a Christian. Some of the moderns (notably Hobbes and Descartes) would attempt to undermine the Word by reconnecting reason with mathematics. Others, such as Ludwig Wittgenstein, would undermine not only the Word but all words by deeming them mere conventions.

    On to ex, a preposition, which means either ‘of’ or ‘out of.’ What the gods may want is for the Greeks to bring nothingness out of Troy, reduce it to rubble, although some Trojans might (and indeed did) survive, one of them going on to found Rome, the new “great city,” the one that would be conquered spiritually by Christians, re-founded in a manner pleasing the one God, not the gods to whom Virgil’s hero prayed, false gods—nothings that would make bring Troy to nothing. Augustine demurs: “I want you to show me, if you can, what are the things of which these [words] are the signs.” But Father, “what you ask cannot be done in conversation, where we cannot answer questions except by means of words.” Admittedly so, but can you not say a word and point to the thing it signifies, the reality it signifies? Only with “names signifying corporeal objects.” Really? What about color? It isn’t a corporeal object but “rather a quality of a corporeal object.” True, but by “corporeal objects” I mean “all the qualities of bodies which are susceptible to sense-perception,” or, more exactly, all visible objects. After all, I cannot show the corporeal object I mean to signify by a word if that object is out of sight. It is true, however, his father remarks, that one can point out invisible things, as deaf people do by the gestures of ‘sign language’ and as dancers “unfold and set forth whole stories” on stage? All right, Adeodatus concedes, but that doesn’t solve the problem of how to understand the word ex, which “neither I nor your dancing actor will ever be able to point out” the meaning of. 

    “But suppose he could,” Augustine says, persisting. Whatever that gesture was, the actor would still be using a sign, not the thing signified. He would still be “explain[ing] a sign by a sign.” In that case, what I just said, that is there “nothing”—that word again—which “can be shown without signs”? Yes, there is, because if—that word, again—I asked you what walking is, you could get up and walk, “using the thing itself to show me, not words or any other signs.” Embarrassed for the first time in the dialogue, Adeodatus admits that he overlooked this. At the same time, Augustine continues, not everything could be signified clearly without signs, since if I asked you what “hastening” means, and you walked fast, I might “conclude that walking was the same thing as hastening.” They soon agree that “there are two classes of things that can be demonstrated without signs: those which we are not engaged in doing when we are asked” and those we can immediately start doing, such as walking when asked what walking is, “and those in which the action consists in simply giving signs,” in the manner of deaf persons and dancers. Signs can be used to signify other signs, but only if “the question concerns signs merely.” To put the matter more generally, if words are only signs of signs, no one can learn, since in explaining one sign I am only substituting another sign for it. And if I point or gesture at something in an attempt to show you what the sign signifies, I need to know what the thing is that I’m pointing at, before I understand the sign. 

    To address this aporia, Augustine first directs his son’s attention to signs demonstrated by signs. Verbal signs come to us by the sense of hearing, gestural signs by sight. “A word is a meaningful articulate sound, and sound is perceived by no other sense than hearing,” but when “a word is written, a sign is given to the eyes whereby something that properly belongs to the ears is brought to mind.” Socrates precedes Plato, God precedes Moses, Jesus precedes the Apostle John. A “name” signifies “something or somebody”—Rome, Romulus, Virtue, a River—which Augustine calls “significables.” But the word “name” itself signifies not a significable but a sign, “the audible sign of audible signs.” “A name, therefore, is a word when it is pronounced articulately with a meaning.” Thus, for example, such words as “if” and “from” are words but not names; “just as every horse is an animal but every animal is not a horse, so every word is a sign but every sign is not a word.” And “all names are words, but all words are not names,” since a word is “the sign of a sign which signifies no other signs,” a sign that refers to a significable. Whereas a name is “the sign of a sign that points to other signs.” This notwithstanding, “in a general sense verbum [word] and nomen [word] have the same range of application” because “all the parts of speech have names”—nouns, verbs, conjunctions—”because pronouns can be substituted or added to them”; any part of speech can be referred to as “it,” any word or name referred to with one or another conjunction, none that “cannot be made the subject of a verb to form a complete sentence.” 

    Augustine then makes another distinction, this one directly relevant to teaching. Insofar as it is an articulate significant sound, a word “smites the ear.” But it does so for a telos, a purpose, namely, “that it may be perceived, remembered and known.” A word is “something that happens to the ear,” a name “something that happens in the mind,” in the “inner man,” as he had said near the beginning of the dialogue. The relation between word and name is no simple thing, however. “To use words to treat of words is as complicated as to rub fingers together and expect someone else to distinguish which fingers tingle with warmth and which help others to tingle.” What happens to your ear may register differently in your mind than in mine. If we say of Christ, “In Him was virtue,” we don’t mean that the word the word “virtue” is in Him but that the thing we name virtue is in Him. This raises a serious question about the authority of religious teaching. What if Paul was right—wielding God-given authority with respect to “realities,” the thing we name virtue in Christ—but not with respect to the word which he used to signify that reality, “especially when he himself confesses that he was unskilled in speech”? Adeodatus cannot think of a way out of this aporia. “You think that without authorities reason itself is hardly sufficient, but reason itself demonstrates that all the parts of speech may signify some thing”; if reason did not have the power to generalize, no word in Latin could be equivalent to any word in Greek. It may be that “some man, from greater stupidity or impudence, may not agree, but on the contrary may assert that he will give way only to those authorities who with universal consent are allowed to lay down the law in regard to words,” but reason tells us otherwise. Nature refutes thoroughgoing conventionalism because it can find contradictions, impossibilities, in some conventions. Words are understood not by redundant self-reference but by the ability of the soul to learn, by the logos within the soul, which ‘decodes’ the sign that would otherwise be only a noise rattling in one’s ear. In this, the teaching of The Teacher resembles the teaching of the Meno. Augustine departs from Plato and Plato’s Socrates in taking logos as the gift of the Logos, of God. But no less than Plato and Plato’s Socrates does he insist that we learn by logos working within us, not by thoughtlessly following what supposed authorities tell us.

    Augustine then proceeds to show this by asking what “the goal” we have striven “to reach by all these round-about paths.” Conventionally speaking, sons should simply go along with the authority of fathers, but if fathers engage sons in pointless tasks, does paternal authority really consist of, other than their own stupidity and imprudence? Conversely, many people, and not only sons in front of their fathers, become impatient with reasoning and simply want to be told. But if the teacher gives in to this, can he truly be said to have taught his student?

    Augustine’s son having demonstrated his capacity to learn, to reason, “You will pardon me, therefore, if I play with you to begin with, not for the sake of playing, but in order to exercise and sharpen our mental powers”—both of ours, not only yours—for the purpose of being able “not merely to endure the heat and light of the region where lies the blessed life, but also to love them.” In Plato’s dialogue, Meno had no such endurance, no such love. Adeodatus does: “Go on as you have begun, for I shall never think unworthy of attention anything you may think it necessary to say or to do.” That is, Adeodatus accepts his father’s authority because, just as he has proven his philosophic mettle to his father, so his father has proven the goodness of philosophy to his son, by bringing him to philosophize, to experience the good effects of philosophizing. Consideration of words, of logoi, entails philosophizing, and philosophizing orients souls away from the conventional dimension of words and towards logos. Sifting out the contradictions now seen in conventions can bring the soul to nature, to what is as it were above the conventions.

    Accordingly, Augustine turns from consideration of signs signifying other signs to signs signifying significables. Augustine quickly establishes to Adeodatus’ satisfaction that “we cannot carry on a conversation at all unless the words we hear carry the mind to the things of which they are the signs.” But there is a distinction to be made. If I use the word ‘lion,’ the word ‘lion’ has come out of my mouth, but a lion hasn’t. Adeodatus understands that “our words are signs merely of things”: “it is the sign and not the thing signified which comes out of the mouth of the speaker.” Augustine compliments him, again by invoking reason: “The very law of reason,” the principle of non-contradiction, the capacity to make distinctions, which is “stamped on our minds,” has “awakened your vigilance.” Logos is in us. Thus, one can see that the word ‘man’ is “both a noun and an animal” (in fact, a “rational and mortal animal”). “It is a noun when it is regarded as a sign, and an animal when regard is had to the thing signified by the sign.” “The rule, which naturally carries the greatest weight, is that, as soon as signs are heard, the attention is directed to the things they signify,” and that we should consider “that things signified are of greater importance than their signs,” inasmuch as “whatever exists on account of something else must necessarily be of less value than that on account of which it exists.” It is noteworthy that Augustine places his discussion of the word ‘man’ in the central paragraphs of The Teacher. It is man, not God or beasts, who can learn by reasoning.

    Adeodatus demurs. The Latin word for filth is lovelier than what it signifies: “Change one letter and caenum [filth] becomes caelum [heaven]”! Witty lad, he likes puns, but “importance” is not the same as “preferable.” If words signify things, Augustine replies, then they can increase our knowledge. “The knowledge conveyed by this word” from one person to another is “more valuable than the word itself” because, as Adeodatus says, when I use a word “I want to give a sign to the man with whom I am speaking, by means of which I may let him know what I think he ought to know”—that is, I want to teach him something.

    Nonetheless, Adeodatus insists, “this does not mean that the thing signified is better than its sign.” Yes, but “knowledge of filth is more important than the name”; the names, ‘filth’ and ‘heaven’ could be reversed but the things signified could not be; some word is necessary to indicate the thing, which is the more important thing to know. Augustine aims at eradicating any tendency in his son toward rhetorical ornamentation. He also would have had little patience for what would be called estheticism, l’art pour l’art, centuries later. 

    Hierarchy implies teleology. For example, “the advice to eat in order to live rather than to live in order to eat, is justly praised simply because it shows understanding of what is means and what is end, that is to say, of what should be subordinate to what.” If a rhetorician, “some loquacious lover of verbiage,” some glutton of words, were to say he teaches for the sake of talking, he could be corrected by saying he should talk for the sake of teaching. Generally, “the use to which words are put is superior to the words; for words exist in order to be used, and used to teach”; “knowledge is better than words.”

    But if the name, ‘filth,’ is preferable to filth itself, would not the knowledge of the name be preferable to knowledge of the thing? Adeodatus identifies “four terms here: the name, the thing, knowledge of the name, knowledge of the thing,” and just as the thing is “better” (in the sense of more important to know) than the name, so knowledge of the thing is better than knowledge of the name.” Augustine disagrees: knowledge of the word “vice” is “much inferior to knowledge of the vices.”

    Yet, squeamish Adeodatus objects, “Do you think that knowledge is preferable even when it makes us more miserable?” Yes, because without the knowledge, we will not know, and thus not be able to correct, the underlying evil. This points to a serious problem that teachers face: the resistance of students to obtaining knowledge of unpleasant things, realities they would rather not think about. But just as physicians need to tell patients what their illness is, in order to get them to take their medicine, and patients should not blame physicians for their illnesses, so student should not blame their teachers for the students’ ignorance or for the wrongly ordered souls that resist corrections.

    But there is a “greater problem,” mentioned earlier: Can “all actions which we can perform on being interrogated…be demonstrated without a sign?” The difficulty, as Adeodatus sees, is that if someone asks me, What is walking? and I get up and walk, without any explanation, he might imagine that “walking” means the distance I have walked, not the movement itself. He might suppose that “anyone who walked further or less than I had walked, had not in fact walked at all.” I need to speak or teach, to supplement the visual sign.

    Granted, but “don’t you think speaking and teaching are different things?” If all speaking is telling, and we “do not teach in order that we give signs,” merely to swap words, then they must differ. Whether you teach solely with words or with words and actions, “we give signs in order to teach,” do we not? It seems that our conversation has shown that nothing can be taught without signs; that some signs are to be preferred to the things they signify; and that the knowledge of things is better than the knowledge of their signs. If “we give signs in order that we may teach, and do not teach that we may give sings,” then “teaching and giving signs are different things.” But “do you think our results now stand beyond all doubt,” Adeodatus?  “I should dearly like to think that after all these turnings and twisting we have indeed reached certainty,” Father, but since you’ve asked the question, I am “anxious” that there might be more difficulties to come. Augustine commends his son’s fear of aporia as an indication of caution, as “a cautious mind” is “the best guard of tranquility.”

    Adeodatus’ caution turns out to be well-founded. To reach a hasty conclusion and hold fast to it will lead to trouble. Giving a fuller answer to the question of whether knowledge is preferable even when it makes us more miserable, Augustine observes that “it is the most difficult thing in the world not to be upset when opinions which we hold, and to which we have given to ready and too willful approval, are shattered by contrary arguments and are, as it were, weapons torn from our hands.” (This may well be the cause of Anytus’ anger in the Meno, an anger that contributed to the execution of Socrates; he fears defenseless, personally and politically.) We should resist the sentiment. Rather, “it is a good thing to give in calmly to arguments that are well considered and grasped, just as it is dangerous to hold as known what in fact we do not know,” falling “into such hatred or fear of reason that we think we cannot trust even the most clearly manifest truth.” That is, misology leads to radical skepticism, the refusal to learn based not on the principle of I know that I do not know but on the self-contradictory principle, I know that I cannot know. In Christian terms, misology would readily lead to hostility toward the Word of God, indeed toward God Himself. Just as Socrates died because he had offended the Athenians with his logical challenges to their opinions, so Christ died because He had offended Jews and Romans alike, as the Logos.

    It is true that some men can be taught some things by observing another’s actions, without signs. Natural objects are exhibited by God, and we can learn about them without any instruction from their Creator. Conversely, one often learns little or nothing by signs alone; a verbal description of a cat is hardly more instructive than seeing a cat. The word ‘cat’ is otherwise scarcely more than a sound to me. “We perceive the sound when it strikes our ear, while the meaning becomes clear when we look at the thing signified,” learning “the force of the word, that is the meaning which lies in the sound of the word, when we come to know the object signified by the word.” Whether we are Adam in the Garden or a child at home, typically we see something and then either assign a name to it or ask for the name that has been assigned. Teaching, then, is not simply a matter of talking, even if the aim of the talking is teaching. But the true learning goes on in the mind of the learner. In learning a thing, I do “not trust the words of another but my own eyes,” a fact that Groucho Marx plays with in his celebrated joke. A genuine teacher “bid[s] us look for things,” but does “not show them to us so that we may know them.” “He alone teaches me anything who sets before my eyes, or one of my other bodily senses, or my mind, the things which I desire to know,” inasmuch as “from words we can learn only words.” In passing, one notes that the ‘moderns’ who complained that the ‘Churchmen’ thought only in terms of words hadn’t paid attention to Augustine’s words: “Knowledge of words is completed by knowledge of things, and by the hearing of words not even words are learned,” since we do not yet know what the words mean. When we already know something, a word may remind us of it; in that sense, the teaching of the Meno, that knowledge is memory, is correct; if, however, “we do not know, we are not even reminded, but are perhaps urged to inquire.” That is, if someone uses an unfamiliar word, I know that I don’t know something, and I may ask what it means, preliminary to learning something.

    What about another kind of claim, the claims of historians and, most pointedly, of sacred historians? When it comes to names, “What about those young men of whom we have heard,” Ananias, Azarias, and Missel,” who passed through the furnace fire? “All that we read of in that story happened at that time and was written down, so that I have to confess that I must believe rather than know,” a distinction understood by the Prophet Isaiah himself, who said “Unless you believe you shall not know.” “What I know I also believe, but I do not know everything that I believe.” It is “useful” to believe “many things which I do not know, among them this story about the three youths,” which teaches readers to trust God. “I know how useful it is to believe many things of which knowledge is not possible,” including any historical information, sacred or secular, which did not occur in my lifetime, or, for that matter, information presented by reporters of the ‘news.’ Near the end of the dialogue, Augustine promises a further inquiry into “the whole problem of the usefulness of words, for their usefulness properly considered is not slight.” In this dialogue, he is concerned that “we must not attribute to them a greater importance than they ought to have.”

    It is different with “universals of which we can have knowledge,” ideas that we can discover through our own reasoning and need “not listen to anyone speaking and making sounds outside ourselves” to arrive at.  True, “our real Teacher is He who is so listened to,” but he is “said”—said—to “dwell in the inner man,” speaking to us of “the unchangeable power and eternal wisdom of God” not from outside of ourselves but providing us “wisdom [to which] every rational soul gives heed,” although “to each is given only so much as he is able to receive, according to his own good or evil will.” That is likely to be Augustine’s explanation of Isaiah’s monition, “Unless you believe you shall not know”; your soul must be ready to receive the truth, as indeed it must be ready to reason about theoretical or practical matters. Meno and Anytus will not philosophize; atheists refuse the invitation of God. “If anyone is ever deceived it is not the fault of Truth, any more than it is the fault of the common light of day that the bodily eyes are often deceived.”

    We need light to see colors, other “elements of the world and sentient bodies,” along with the senses themselves, to “perceive things of sense”—what Christian authors call “carnal things.” The mind then “uses” all of these material things “as interpreters in its search for sense-knowledge.” If I hear words relating someone else’s sense perception, I may believe what he says but I do not know it. The same goes for sense perceptions remembered by others as images in their minds. I may believe their words but I cannot know them to be true. As to “intelligible things,” what Christian authors call “spiritual things,” it is reason that enables us to pay attention to the “inner light of truth.” Put more expansively, regarding the things of sense, words suffice to teach the student that we say we perceive them, but “he learns nothing unless he himself sees what is asking about,” learning “not from words uttered but from the objects seen and his sense of sight.” These sense impressions then imprint themselves on his memory. It is in “the halls of memory [that] we bear the images of things once perceived as memorial which we can contemplate mentally and can speak of with a good conscience and without lying.” We can report them truthfully, but our listener “believes my words”—or not—rather than “learning from them.” The same goes with “the things which we behold with the mind,” with “the intelligence” in the act of noēsis and “with reason,” logos governed by the principle of non-contradiction. The “inner light of truth which illumines the inner man and is inwardly enjoyed” may be reported to another, but “if my hearer sees these things himself with his inward eye, he comes to know what I say, not as a result of my words but as a result of his own contemplation.” Strictly speaking, “it is not I who teach him,” as “he is taught not by my words but by the things themselves which inwardly God has made manifest to him.” Augustine is careful to acknowledge that such contemplation does not typically come as a result of the person’s own efforts. “It often happens that a man, when asked a question, gives a negative answer, but by further questioning can be brought to answer in the affirmative.” That is, Augustine remains a ‘Socratic,’ acknowledging the merit of dialogue and the rational dialectic it entails. Dialogue is necessary, given the “weakness” of human beings, “unable to behold the whole all at once,” but “when questioned about the parts which compose the whole,” can be “induced to bring them one by one into the light.” This of course is what Augustine has done in this dialogue with his son. In a philosophic dialogue, the words “do not make statements, but merely ask such questions as to put [the student] who is questioned in a position to learn inwardly.” (This contrasts with a police interrogation, in which questions are asked in order to force truthful answers out of the one questioned, so that the inquirer, or rather the inquisitor, may learn.) As a teacher, “I must put my question in a way suited to your ability to hear the inward teacher.” 

    To teach and to learn, then, both require a degree of humility as well as a degree of confidence. Christianity commends both humility and faith, and so can adapt itself to teaching. If a student hears what I say but does not know whether it’s true, he may believe it, suppose it, or doubt it. If knows that it is false, he “must oppose it and deny it.” If he knows it is true “he must testify to its truth.” But in none of these cases will he learn because he must, as the saying goes, see for himself. I can tell you all about Augustine’s dialogue, “The Teacher,” but you have learned nothing about it from my words unless you read the dialogue and see for yourself. It may be “useful to believe such things so long as ignorance lasts.” But unless some compelling reason prevents it, don’t let your ignorance last. You don’t even know if my words give you a good account of my own mind, since I might be ignorant or a liar. “A speech committed to memory and frequently conned,” as rhetoricians are wont to do, “may be spoken when we are thinking of something else entirely.” (Augustine then goes in for the kill: “This often happens when we are singing a hymn.”) Or the intended meaning of the speaker may be distorted in the minds of the listeners, as when, for example, the speaker has “simply called the thing he has in mind by a different name from the one we are accustomed to use.” This may be remedied by careful definition of the word, as Augustine has done in his own discussion of words, “but how often is a man to be found who is good at definition?”

    Even if the teacher’s words are understood according to the teacher’s intention, the student does not learn from those words whether “the words spoken are true.” “Who is so foolishly curious as to send his son to school to learn what the teacher thinks?” he asks, rhetorically but reasonably. “When the teachers have expounded by means of words all the disciples which they profess”—profess—to “teach, the disciples also of virtue and wisdom”—the theme of the Meno—then their pupils take thought within themselves whether what they have been told is true, looking to the inward truth, that is to say, also far as they are able. In this way they learn.” If, as educators once loved to say, educare means to lead out or to draw out, this is what the leading consists of.

    This goes for revelation and reason, both, including the revelation of truths perceived rationally within the framework of belief in revelation. Adeodatus has learned that “by means of words a man is simply put on the alert in order that he may learn,” and that “in order to know the truth of what is spoken, I must be taught by Him who dwells within and give me counsel about words spoken externally in the ear.” The philosopher loves wisdom, and by Christ’s “favor I shall love him the more ardently the more I advance in learning.”

     

    Note

    1. On the Meno see “Teaching Virtue?” on this website under the category, “Philosophers.”

    Filed Under: Philosophers

    What American Democracy Means for Europe, in the Estimation of Alexis de Tocqueville

    June 19, 2024 by Will Morrisey

    Alexis de Tocqueville: Democracy in America. Volume I, Part II, chapter 9: “Principal Causes Tending to Maintain a Democratic Republic in the United States.”   Harvey C. Mansfield, Jr. and Delba Winthrop translation. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2000.

     

    Founding a democratic republican regime is one thing. The American Founders had done that. Maintaining it is another, as Benjamin Franklin famously remarked upon emerging from the final session of the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia, and as a sober young American attorney named Abraham Lincoln considered in his “Address to the Young Men’s Lyceum” in Springfield, Illinois, some two generations later.

    Writing a couple of years before Lincoln spoke, Alexis de Tocqueville understood that his fellow European hesitated to found democratic republics because they did not see how such regimes could sustain themselves in Europe, where geopolitical, constitutional, and civil-social circumstances differed substantially from those prevailing in North America. By then, Tocqueville remarked, Americans faced no formidable enemies, needed to fight no major wars, and consequently afforded no opportunities for some native Napoleon to hunger for military glory and move against republicanism. The American capital was no Paris, no Rome; a centralized government can fall prey to mobs, with ‘the democracy’ threatening the government—whether monarchic, as Parisians had seen in 1789 and would see again in 1848, or republican, as the Romans had seen in the military coup of Julius Caesar. And North America is much bigger than Europe; on such a large continent, “nature itself works for the people,” giving them an outlet for their restless ambitions. Dissatisfied with your lot in life? If you’re an American, go West, young man; set yourself up as a farmer, there’s no future in revolution. 

    Europeans enjoyed none of these advantages. Politically, they enabled the American Founders to constitute their national government as a federation, not as a centralized state. America’s strong township institutions, established long before the founding, had taught the people “the art of being free,” habits of mind and heart consistent with self-government from the village to the nation. Americans had anchored their civil and criminal courts in the counties, close to the people, who could be confident that they would be judged by their peers. And in democratic America, everyone was your peer.

    Most important, American hearts were animated by the principles of a “democratic and republican religion”; as he had earlier maintained, the first movement toward equality of condition was Christianity itself, teaching human equality before God. At the same time, American minds were enlightened by an education that was eminently practical, with the ‘Three Rs’ enabling citizens to read their Bibles for moral guidance, to read their newspapers for political information and for expressing their own opinions, and to calculate sums in business.

    In all, “American legislators had come, not without success, to oppose the idea of rights to sentiments of envy; to the continuous movements of the political world, the immobility of religious morality; the experience of the people, to its political ignorance, and its habit of business, to the enthusiasm of its desires.” It was true that American confronted one potentially ruinous dilemma absent from Europe: race-based slavery, the theme of the final section of Tocqueville’s first volume—one distinct from the problem of the overall civil-social equality, the democracy, in America. Europeans, however, faced the reverse problem: no slavery, but no obvious solution to the questions raised by democracy.

    On that front, Europeans enjoyed none of the advantages Americans possessed. Democracy was advancing in their societies as aristocracies weakened. But democracy, social and civic equality, need not issue in republicanism, in the protection of natural and civil rights. Napoleon had demonstrated this, only a quarter-century before Tocqueville ventured to the United States. “The organization and establishment of democracy among Christians is the great political problem of our time.” Indeed, “the question I have raised,” the question of what regime democracy will have, “interests not only the United States, but the entire world; not one nation, but all men.”

    Why? Under the civil-social condition of democracy, with no aristocrats standing between the people and the centralized state, one could see not only an absolute monarchy along the lines of Louis XIV’s France, but a new form of absolutism, a new despotism “with features unknown to our fathers.” The old absolutist monarchies retained a still-formidable aristocratic class. Firstborn sons inherited the estate, ruling but also protecting the peasants who worked their land, as their ancestors had done or centuries. Second-born sons entered the clerical aristocracy, the Roman Catholic Church, exerting influence on peasants, monarchs, and their fellow aristocrats alike. Under the old regime, wealthy merchants in townships and cities also commanded their own sources of revenue and manpower, independent of monarchs and aristocrats alike. Even under the rule of the Bourbons, then, there was “a love of freedom in souls,” among honor-loving monarchs, aristocrats, and merchants, all jealous of their prerogatives and capable of defending them. They ruled peasants and urban workers who understood that they, too, could one day see the face of God.

    But in the ever-advancing European civil-social democracy of Tocqueville’s century, the Enlightenment philosophes and their intellectual heirs had undermined faith in God; “nothing above man any longer sustains man.” And democratic men find themselves in a leveled society in which all classes mix together, as “the individual disappears more and more into the crowd,” readily “lost in the mist of the common obscurity,” and therefore no longer held responsible for his actions.” (In America, not long afterwards, Edgar Allan Poe would write his satirical short story, “The Man of the Crowd.”) 

    “When each citizen, being equally powerless, equally poor, equally isolated, can only oppose his individual weakness to the organized force of the government,” a regime of despotism would take on the harshness of late Roman imperialism, “those frightful centuries of Roman tyranny, when mores were corrupt, memories effaced, habits destroyed, opinions wavering, and freedom, chased out of the laws, no longer knew where to take refuge to find an asylum; when nothing any longer stood guarantee for citizens and citizens no longer stood guarantee for themselves,” where “one would see men make sport of human nature.”

    In the event, many Europeans would come under tyrannies even worse than those Tocqueville foresaw, regimes in which making sport of human nature meant hunting it down in death camps and world wars, resulting in tens of millions dead, killed by regimes where the modern state, armed with technologies permitting surveillance of its subjects, ended civil and political liberty for those who survived the onslaught, spurring the invention of a new word, ‘totalitarianism.’

    “Is this not worth thinking about? If men had to arrive, in effect, at the point where it would be necessary to make them all free or all slaves, all equal in rights or all deprived of rights; if those who governed societies were reduced to this alternative of gradually raising the crowd up to themselves or of letting all citizens fall below the level of humanity, would this not be enough to overcome many doubts, to reassure consciences well, and to prepare each to make great sacrifice readily?” For “if one does not in time succeed in founding the peaceful empire of the greatest number among us, democratic republics instead of democratic despotisms, “we shall arrive sooner or later at the unlimited power of one alone.”

    Against atheist ideologies, Tocqueville therefore called upon Europeans to renew their respect for Christianity. Against overbearing military and political ambition, he commended a spirit of peaceful commerce, of the ‘bourgeois’ life detested by aristocrats and socialists alike. Against the “sentiments of envy” he opposed the idea of individual and civil rights. Against government centralization, he urged praised federalism and the practical experience that local self-government provides to citizens. Against the threat of foreign wars, a strong executive, a constitutional monarch empowered to defend the realm could meet the threats without extinguishing civil and political liberty. And against the alienation of his fellow aristocrats, many of them resentful of the rise of democracy, Tocqueville warned against futile dreams of reinstituting feudalism, urging them rather to guide democracy, advise the new citizens, moderating their passions by teaching them how better to govern—as Tocqueville himself did in writing Democracy in America.

     

    Filed Under: Nations

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