John K. Roth and Robert C. Whittemore, eds.: Ideology and the American Experience: Essays on Theory and Practice in the United States. Washington: Washington Institute for Values in Public Policy, 1988.

Originally published in the New York City Tribune, April 27, 1988.

 

Easy to compile but hard to design, anthologies and collections usually don’t work. This one is no exception. Exhibiting several of the ‘collection’ genre’s characteristic weaknesses, it amounts to a sort of ‘how-not-to’ manual for any future editor. The editors commit two basic errors, out of which others flow.

Lack of focus is the first one. The topic “ideology and American experience” invites platitudinous meandering on whatever may interest the contributors at the moment of writing. The blah-blah-blah syndrome affects several of the writers here, notably Morton A. Kaplan and co-editor John K. Roth, whose articles unfortunately come last in the volume, causing it to stop instead of concluding. Kaplan runs on about a few issues-of-the-day, to no avail. Roth more spectacularly calls for a “public philosophy” consisting of pieces from Whitman, Santayana, Niebuhr, and Dewey—an artifact that supposedly would animate the “cooperative independence of pluralistic selves.” Don’t be alarmed; it didn’t make sense to me, either.

The key term, “ideology,” receives no consistent treatment. Several contributors invoke the shade of the eighteenth-century French intellectual, Destutt de Tracy, who coined the word and meant it literally: “ideology” meant the science of ideas, in just the same way as biology is the science of life. An empiricist, Destutt de Tracy believed ideas could be studied with near-mathematical rigor, and he did not much think about the epistemological problem: How one can study ideas without generating ideas-about-ideas in infinite regress. This weakness led to subjectivism (most immediately Romanticism) on one extreme, historicism (particularly Marxism) on the other.

Other contributors use the definition current today, ideology as a structure of ideas which may or may not correspond to some reality. This inconsistency makes comparison of one essay to another, one argument to another, almost impossible. The collection becomes a concatenation of monologues, not a dialogue. It’s up to the editors to define terms and make contributors either stick to those definitions or directly challenge them. These editors didn’t do that.

Their second error derives from departing too readily from editing and descending into writing. Unless firmly convinced that they have an indispensable contribution to make, editors of collections of essays should restrain themselves when tempted to throw their own articles into the hopper. Professor Roth’s effort has been noted. Professor Whittemore leads off the volume with a Quixotic attempt to revive interest in the deservedly forgotten writings of Frank Lester Ward, author of “the most important philosophical synthesis yet produced by an American”—faint praise indeed, but alas not intentionally so. Ward’s ‘evolutionary’ democratic socialism, aiming at a regime he called “sociocracy”) amounts to little more than a variant of the materialist progressivism fashionable during the 1870s, when Ward was active. Bizarrely, Whittemore calls Marxism “an outworn and simplistic materialism allied to a naïve epistemological realism.” True enough, but where does that leave the likes of Ward?

The best article here is Douglas R. Rasmussen’s “Ideology, Objectivity, and Political Theory.” “Belief in an objective moral order does not pervade today’s intellectual scene,” Professor Rasmussen politely notes, “and any attempt to treat the claims of the Declaration of Independence as normative truths would almost certainly regarded by many as naïve.” Modern philosophy cannot provide a firm basis for these truths, but Aristotle does, because he does not assume that the way human beings know determines what they know (subjectivism) or that knowledge is mere sense-perception (materialism). Jefferson’s “self-evident truths” need Aristotelian epistemology for their discovery.

There is also a good discussion of Adam Smith by Douglas J. Den Uyl, challenging the popular caricature of Smith as an apostle of greed. Den Uyl does criticize Smith for adopting David Hume’s dualism, the radical distinction between what is (a matter of science) and what ought to be (a matter of sentiment). Den Uyl does not consider that Smith’s exceptionally strong emphasis on economic liberty from political authority may depend upon this dualism.

Another worthwhile contribution comes from Tibor R. Machan, one of the few undoctrinaire libertarians, who offers some commonsense remarks about responsibility as the concomitant of liberty. Gordon C. Bjork argues convincingly that ideas determine economic systems, not vice-versa—and he is an economist, of all things.

These patches of intelligence don’t add up to a rich harvest. Although the papers resulted from a two-year series of conferences sponsored by the publisher, the book betrays insufficient sustained effort by the editors to make the authors speak to one another. The articles themselves are of too-uneven quality. A good collection of essays on ideology in American might be produced. This isn’t it.

James Turner Johnson: The Quest for Peace: Three Moral Traditions in Western Cultural History.  Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987.

Originally published in the New York City Tribune, October 14, 1988.

 

A tradition cannot validate itself. When confronted with another, contradictory tradition, it can either retreat into cultural solipsism or appeal to something beyond itself: revelation, nature—some authoritative source of principles. Historicists deny that any trans-traditional framework exists, except for ‘History’ itself, which simply moves onward and cannot in principle offer guidance. Some historicists—Hegel and Marx most prominently—posit an ‘end of History’ wherein all contradictions must cease. The evidence they offer for this promise seldom convinces any but the most wishful thinkers.

Many historians today are also historicists. James Turner Johnson does not consistently think through his historicist assumptions, but he surely does have them. They mar an otherwise informative, well-ordered account of Christian and modern Western civilization’s not entirely successful “quest for peace.”

Johnson identifies three “traditions” of peace-seeking: that animated by ‘just war’ doctrines; that of sectarian pacifism; and that of political peacemaking. He proceeds, however, not by isolating and discussing them thematically, but by describing their historical unfolding.

Challenging pacifist historians, he denies that the early (pre-Constantinian) Christian Church adhered to absolute non-resistance. Jesus and His disciples rejected violence because they expected the Second Coming within the first Christian generation; they felt no need to elaborate a political modus vivendi that included warfare. As the Church gradually adapted to the historical long run, Christians generated several views concerning warfare. Pacifism was only one of them.

Johnson’s claim rests on two unsteady pillars. First, he questions the pacifism of the major early Church fathers: Clement of Alexandria, Tertullian, Origen. He does not always summarize their arguments accurately—failing to quote (for example) Tertullian’s explicitly condemnation of military service based upon Jesus’ rebuke of Peter’s swordplay at Gethsemane. Second, he defines the Church not by the authoritative teachings of the fathers, but by the actual practices of all the baptized, many of whom did serve in the Roman legions. Thus may some historian two millennia from now argue that the Roman Catholic Church endorses artificial contraception, because so many Catholics use it. It may be that Johnson, in both these instances, displays something of the historicist tendency to deny the cognitive status of ideas, preferring to look at ‘concrete’ historical practice.

Johnston stands more firmly when discussing the just war tradition, on which he is an authority. He observes that Ambrose and Augustine formulated the first just-war theories, marrying Christianity to Ciceronian political philosophy. Christian love in the political realm aims at justice; warriors moved by the desire for a just peace partake in Christian love. This brilliant and perhaps somewhat unstable synthesis appalls pacifists, who often describe it as the Church’s fall from Christianity, back to a new form of paganism.

For centuries, such post-Augustinian pacifists tended to withdraw from this world many of them surviving not in cities but in the apolitical countryside. Those sects such as the Waldensians, who did try to live non-violently among their fellow-men, were soon driven away by just-war Christians scandalized by pacifism.

Johnson identifies the first stirrings of political or secular peacemaking in the writings of Dante and Marsilius of Padua. Both undercut “the temporal supremacy of the Church and its clergy,” arguing that the disorder “resulting from [the clergy’s] unwarranted pretensions impedes justice and the other supreme value in medieval political thought, peace.” Stressing the importance of good institutions as a substitute for rulers’ goodness, they anticipated such modern writers and Rousseau and Kant.

Johnson sees that sectarian pacifists in the last two centuries adapt many of the plans of secular peacemakers. Gandhian “nonviolent defense” represents one attempt to reconcile radical idealism with realism. Thus have sectarians become more worldly, more politically ambitious, without necessarily becoming very realistic. Gandhi especially (it might be added) inflamed the political ambitions of Christian pacifists by making it seem that the spiritual warfare of Christianity might be transferred to the realm of social action in some decisively effective way. The results have been mixed.

Purely secular peacemaking offers scarcely more realism than does sectarian pacifism. The champions of internationalism almost invariably require a prior commitment to peace among the nations—who, Johnson notes, if they were committed to peace, would already be internationalist. Johnson’s criticism here is too narrowly voluntaristic. It would be more just to say that secular peacemakers seek moments favorable to peaceful sentiments in order to establish or strengthen institutions that re-channel warlike sentiments when, inevitably, those sentiments reappear. This can work; General Douglas MacArthur transformed Japan into a commercial republic whose worst wars now are only trade wars. Whether such peaceful republics can ever come into existence worldwide, and maintain themselves, remains an open question.

Johnson hopes his historical work can help others committed to the quest for peace. It can, but only if peacemakers combine Johnsonian realism with an in-Johnsonian rejection of historical relativism.

First published in THE GAMBIER JOURNAL, Volume 4, No. 5, May 1985.

 

It moves sour critics to cries of ‘film classic!’ It makes otherwise mature adults dream, with respect, of the old Hollywood. Four and a half decades after its first showing, it still attracts millions of viewers, none of whom is heard to emit event the politest complaint.

Has no one noticed the elaborate silliness of Gone With the Wind?

The silliness goes beyond the main characters—although, to be sure, they partake of it. It goes beyond Melanie’s idiotic benevolence, somehow confused with Christianity. It goes beyond Ashley’s despairing gentility—despite which, we are expected to believe, he commanded soldiers during four years of war. It goes beyond Rhett Butler’s heart-of-gold cynicism, with which he would seduce his beloved the better to redeem her. It even goes beyond the silliness of Scarlett O’Hara, whose name might be considered a pun on the Biblical Scarlet Whore of Babylon, were we to credit Miss Mitchell with acerb wit she displays nowhere else.

While still in a relatively generous mood, let us credit Miss Mitchell and/or the scriptwriters with giving the title a dual meaning. “Wind” means the war, of course, particularly General Sherman’s incendiary expedition therein. It must mean rhetoric, too; if nothing else, the film exposes the silliness of Confederate orotundities. Judging from the antics at “Tara,” the old South had “gone with the wind” years before the rebels brought their case to Fort Sumter. Regrettably, the film wants us to admire not only admirable courage in a “lost cause” but the sham elegance of a “civilization”—so Miss Mitchell calls it—apparently compounded of little more than chattel slavery and the novels of Sir Walter Scott. Worse, this anti-rhetorical film has an rhetorical afflatus of its own.

For Hollywood substituted visual for verbal inflation, offering rather too much of something for everyone. We get, at first, grand photography of trivial persons—the O’Hara’s and the Wilkes’s—minor Dickens characters with Southern accents. We then see these persons impelled into a brutal context, also grandly photographed—which may distract us from their continued triviality. Spectacular improbabilities ensue. Finally, we see them during Reconstruction, repelling trashy whites and uppity blacks with the short sword of Scarlett’s petty Machiavellianism. (“If I have to lie, cheat, steal, or kill, I’ll never go hungry again!” she explains to God, Who has seen far more engaging purposes served by similarly dubious means). The photography remains grand.

We are, I suspect, intended to learn something from this epic melodrama. The film’s makers conceive of illusion as a verbal phenomenon. Each character loves someone who doesn’t return that love, or who cannot return it openly, because words obscure passions, not only for the hearer but for the speaker. Even the self-styled realists, Rhett and Scarlett, manage to confuse each other in the end, with nothing but words.

Done well, this might illuminate something. But Hollywood merely replaced deceptive words with deceptive images. The film is a big truck, a vehicle for carrying ‘scenes’; the ‘scenes’ are receptacles for ‘drama,’ that is, an effort to arouse sentiments. The film-makers load their truck with more and more drama, more and more scenes, and keep the tank filled with theatrical gas. Disasters multiply with each reel, and the last thirty minutes veritably teem with deaths, delusions, and broken hearts.

I once watched the film with a woman of sense who endured it all until the Butler daughter died in a riding accident. “Everything happens to these people,” the lady murmured. One might say the same of Job and his family, but that plot had God, not Miss Mitchell, for its author, which tends to enhance its significance. With Miss Mitchell and the film-makers taking turns at the wheel, the rip only ends when their overloaded rig breaks down—prefigured by the horse that drops dead under Scarlett’s lash and symbolized perfectly by Scarlett herself, microcosm within the macrocosm, collapsed on the stairs, sobbing for the lost Rhett but truly in love only with her real estate. Love of land, of a thing that seems real and lasting, replaces love of unstable humans; love for something photographable overrides love of man, that verbal animal who cannot be captured whole in a picture. It is a Hollywood morality play, that is to say a contradiction in terms insofar as one can say that such a thing has terms.

When Scarlett gets up to declaim, “Tomorrow is another day,” one may take it as a threat to film a sequel. And indeed, as the European philosophical tradition may consist of a series of footnotes to Plato, the Hollywood cinematic tradition may consist of a series of sequels to Gone With the Wind. André Malraux called the techniques of mass ‘culture’ “the arts of satiation”; a photograph, a representation of the surface of things, more nearly satiates us than words do because it shows the appetites what they want instead of trying to tell them about it. Words have a tendency to evoke reason (the Greek word for ‘word,’ logos, also means reason), or faith (“the Word”). Hollywood will not have them. At best, it can only celebrate the earth, beautiful but dumb.