François Jean de Beauvoir, Marquis de Chastellux: Agriculture and Population the Truest Proofs of the Welfare of the People: Or, an Essay on Public Happiness: Investigation on the State of Human Nature Through the Several Periods of History, from the Earliest Date to the Present Times. Originally published in 1774. Anonymous translation. London: J. Caddel, 1792. Reprinted by Ulan Press, Orlando, 2023. Volume I.

 

Unlike most of the Enlightenment philosophes, and much more like the American Founders, many of whom he met during his years in the United States during the Revolution [1], the Marquis de Chastellux brought substantial practical experience to bear on his writings, avoiding much, if not all, of the scientistic utopianism seen in his colleagues. A friend of Thomas Jefferson, with whom he professed more or less complete agreement in ideas, his book may throw light on that elusive phrase Jefferson put into the Declaration of Independence, “the pursuit of happiness.” At very least, Chastellux’s project advances the thought that the happiness being pursued is not only individual happiness but the happiness of civil societies and of human beings generally; regimes and the wars they fight do not escape his attention. “I must presume to fix the attention of mankind upon new objects,” he writes, as these have “become the most essential to our happiness” (Introduction, i); the purpose of his book is to advance “the welfare of humanity” (I. Sec. 1. iii. 64). “The object of a good government should be to give permanence to public happiness” (I. Sec.1. vi.192).

“Shall men always be the enemies of men?” (Introduction, ii). Despite having “the best organization” of their natural faculties, men have yet to enjoy “the advantages which the vilest of the brutes possess,” namely “the advantages of living peaceably with each other” (Introduction, ii). He sets out to investigate “human nature” and how to adapt it to “political institutions” (which might be “susceptible of amendment, if not of perfection” (Introduction, ii). He will investigate human nature “not by theory,” in the manner of state-of-nature philosophers, but by “experience, applying it to the knowledge of our errors, ascending to their sources, and laboring to divert their course” (Introduction, ii). This approach is necessary since the physical nature of man—the human “sense of feeling, and the perfection of speech”—has caused his social and political organization to become “too complex to be invariable, and too subtle to be regular” (Introduction, viii). Man is omnivorous; because his diet varies from place to place and his ways of procuring food differ accordingly, his “manners and customs” also differ “in conformity to his means of subsistence” (Introduction, ix). Further, humans have no particular mating season, a fact that at once strengthens the bond of women to men and renders them sexually promiscuous. For all these reasons, it is “difficult to define what human nature has fixed, relative to the state of society” (Introduction, xi). To ask if man in the state of nature is warlike or peaceful is therefore a “frivolous and useless” question, no firm ground for “establish[ing] a moral system” (Introduction, xii). Chastellux follows Montaigne, not the “sublime ravings” of Hobbes or Locke, in thinking that “the state of society has effaced even the slightest traces of what is called the state of nature,” that civilized men, whether “corrupted or amended” by civilization, “are entirely new beings” (Introduction, xii). 

Under civilized conditions, the modes of human subsistence interfere with love. Men who work must spend time away from the home; “they take a wife, without taking a companion” (Introduction, xiv). For her part, the wife, absorbed in household management, no longer nurses her infants, instead sending them, when they are older, to confinement “in those prisons, called colleges, schools, and convents” (Introduction, xv). It would, Chastellux maintains, be absurd to expect that children raised this way would “treat their parents with an obedience and veneration equal to any they might have felt arising from the remembrance” of parental protection and care (Introduction, xv). Whatever the state of nature may have been, it no longer prevails. With Montaigne, then, Chastellux eschews all claims to hold up one moral or political standard for all persons; with Montesquieu, he denies that all nations can rightly adopt the same form of government. Moreover, “even in the same nation, similar laws, policies, and customs cannot be adapted to the genius of every town and every class of citizens, yet all have a general pretension to the greatest advantages, which can be secured to them” (Introduction, xviii-xix). This combination of variety and self-interest must result in factionalism and war—war, which “creates a ferocity of manners” and “perverts our useful passions by ennobling our vices,” “substituting force in the place of justice” (Introduction, xix). Therefore, an indispensable element of public happiness must be peace, “the first blessing which a people should implore” (Introduction, xix). “The first step, therefore, towards accomplishing the happiness of mankind, should be to lengthen the duration of peace, and lessen the frequency of war” (Introduction, xix).

War has five causes: the desire to move to a better climate and a more fruitful land—a “more commodious habitation” being another element of public happiness; competition for the possession of resources that can be hunted, fished, or mined; “the ignorance and barbarity of some yet untutored people, who, destitute of every idea of moderation and equity, are apt to be easily exasperated, and make, for slight offenses, the cruelest reprisals”; “a stupid credulity” coupled with “the domain of a delusive hierarchy,” amounting to “a government at once tyrannical and intolerant”; and (“the most powerful motive”) “defects in particular systems of government,” which “give birth to civil wars” (Introduction, xx-xxi). That is, the causes of war can be economic, moral, religious, or political. While the Chinese empire has been in existence for some three thousand years, and its regime seems to be “the most perfect and happy of all those of which we have any knowledge,” animated by “wisdom and stability,” Chastellux modestly declines to consider it, pleading ignorance and, quite possibly, doubting the more buoyant reports of its excellence (Introduction, xxiii). In this, he silently rejects the enthusiasm of the Physiocrats, whom he otherwise admires, in their praise of China, and particularly of Confucianism. He will confine himself to the ancient nations he does know about, beginning with the earliest regimes, those established in Egypt, Assyria, Babylonia, Medea, and Lydia. That is, he turns not to theoretical considerations of a state of nature but to historical investigation and moral-political criticism.

“A melancholy idea must arise from the reflection that the first epoch with which history presents us, owes its existence to war” (I. Sec.1. i.27). The earliest conquerors didn’t even want to keep the lands they conquered, being satisfied with building monuments to themselves and moving on. But this doesn’t mean that human beings wage war by nature. The example of Egypt proves that “whatsoever the nature of man may be, good laws, and excellent administrations can suppress the propensities to war” (I, Sec.1. i.29). More, Egypt gives reason for optimism: “Had all the earth been peopled with nations governed like the inhabitants of Egypt, the problem of the possibility of a perpetual peace might have been demonstrated by facts, or perhaps, never proposed: no contradiction, however, can be brought against the supposition that the world may one day prove sufficiently enlightened, universally to bear a mode of government, to which a smaller portion of mankind had formerly submitted” (I. Sec. 1. i.29-30). But even so, it is not clear how Egyptian laws supported peace, as “we know but little of the real constitution and government of this nation” (I. Sec.1. i.30). We do know that its monarch was strictly ruled by laws—his meals and his mating ordained by them, their enforcement overseen by a person about whom we have “little information” (I. Sec.1. i.30). And although Egyptian priests wielded substantial powers, we don’t know what these were. Like China, then, better-known Egypt still is insufficiently known. Chastellux can only say that the Egyptian monarchs were ruled by law and peaceful, while the Assyrians, Babylonians, Medes and Lydians were ruled by despots, “cruelly heroic” rulers in “military” regimes (I. Sec.1. i.33, 37). 

Although the regime is the most important element in determining whether a society is peaceful or warlike, it is not the only element; nor should the aggrandizement of the government be confused with “the good of individuals” living under it, “as if the public prosperity, and the general felicity, were two inseparable matters” (I. Sec. 1. ii.42). Pyramids and palaces do not make for public happiness, and often indicate the presence of misery, of slave labor and heavy taxes. To measure public happiness, one does better to ask, first, how much time in a day or a year can a man work, “without either incommoding himself, or becoming unhappy” (I. Sec.1. ii.44). The answer will depend upon such variables as climate, the constitution, physical strength of the citizens, their education, and other circumstances. Then one must ask, conversely, how much time it takes a man to work in order to preserve himself and procure his “ease” or “welfare” (I. Sec. 1. ii.45). Finally, does the “duty which the sovereign exacts from him” stay within or beyond the time “which each man can spare from his absolutely necessary avocations” (I. Sec.1. ii.45)? How many days in a year does the subject work for himself, how many for his sovereign? If too many, he “must either desert or perish” (I. Sec.1, ii.46). Chastellux is no anarcho-capitalist; he recognizes that the state has legitimate purposes and therefore legitimate expenses that must be borne by its citizens or subjects. “The first object of all governments should be to render the people happy,” which cannot be sustained if they victims of invasion and crime (I. Sec.1. ii.50). A bloated government will lend itself to excesses and abuses, but “a soft and enervated people” that refuses to “furnish the state with such a portion of labor as may be necessary to maintain the public security…will expose themselves, by so negligent a provision, an easy prey to the first power that may think proper to attack them” (I Sec.1. ii.50). Again, different geographic, including climatic, conditions will require different policies. As to Egypt, its peaceableness suggests that it maintained a militia sufficient to deter its enemies, although Chastellux regards its priesthood with suspicion. “It was the luxury of ignorance, of all other luxuries the most detrimental, because equally incapable of exciting industry and [of] producing one agreeable enjoyment” (I. Sec.1. ii.55). They would have better off investing in activities that procured “the commodities of life,” as “war and superstition have always been the greatest obstacles to the happiness of nation” (I. Sec.1. ii.55).

A prosperous people will increase in population and eventually send out colonies. Colonies should be governed humanely. Ruling less civilized nations, they provide those they rule with incentives for commerce, exchanging their natural resources for the “conveniences of life” manufactured by their rulers (I. Sec.1. ii.58). Since “the enjoyment of one convenience would lead to the acquisition of another” and “new desires would follow close upon the last,” they too will become civilized (I. Sec.1. ii.58). “Such would have been the progress of our [French] commerce with America, if, instead of destroying the unfortunate inhabitants of that extensive country, we had been satisfied with civilizing their manners” (I. Sec.1. ii.58). Republics will more likely found their colonies on this policy because while monarchs and despots readily exact labor from those they rule for the glory of themselves, “republics neither erect pyramids, nor plume themselves on having planted trees on eminencies that touch the clouds,” inclining rather to undertaking “those useful, but expensive works, the accomplishment of which, must be the joint result of power, and unanimity” (I. Sec.1. ii.59). But republican regimes have not prevailed. “Through every period, ignorance, despotism, war, and superstition, have, by turns, plundered mankind of the advantages with which nature had presented them” (I. Sec. 1, ii. 61).

Following this “digression” (I. Sec.1. ii.60), Chastellux turns to the consideration of ancient Greece and Rome, for which we do have sufficient information to make firm judgments. Athens and Sparta have been lauded as the glorious defenders of liberty against the invading Persians, but Chastellux demurs. In fact, the Athenian democracy was “vain, frivolous, ambitious, jealous, interested, incapable of marking out a proper conduct for themselves,” a people “grudging their chiefs that fortune which they shared with them” (I. Sec.1. iii.66). They misruled themselves with “idle eloquence,” “giv[ing] the sound of words a preference to reason” (I. Sec.1. iii.66). They were unjust to their allies and cruel to their enemies. The Spartans were not better, although their vices were different. They failed to cultivate their land, preferring severity of discipline to prosperity; “the ties of families, of marriage, of parentage, of love, and of friendship are entirely unknown to them,” since everyone belonged to “the country” (I. Sec.1. iii.66). Sparta was a barracks, or perhaps “one vast monastery”—modeling its regime on one or both of Chastellux’s bêtes noires, militaries and priesthoods (I. Sec. 1, iii.67). The ethos of the Spartans conduced to humility and submissiveness at home, arrogance, ambition, and tyranny abroad—rather like “bold, intriguing monks, who, after having overthrown provinces, and even whole states, perceived themselves compelled to retire again within their cloisters” (I. Sec.1. iii.73).  Such a people can scarcely thought happy. Rather, “it seems a kind of high treason against humanity, to mention such atrocious facts, without invoking posterity to turn from them in horror” (I. Sec.1. iii.75).

But were the Greeks not a highly cultivated people, outside of Sparta? Yes, but “humanity was a virtue to which these people, in general, were strangers”—so much so that this alone “prove[s] the superiority of our modern philosophy, over that which accommodates itself to such abominations” as the torture and slaughter of enemies, including putting prisoners of war to death.  (I. Sec.1. iii.76). Worse, this raises a problem with Enlightenment itself, for “if, as the human understanding became enlightened, the depravity of the heart increased, what hope have we from the present and the future ages? What relation then does the progress of the mind bear to the augmentation of public happiness?” (I. Sec.1. iii.77-78). 

Chastellux finds succor in the stages of “human understanding,” which does not occur all at once. The visual arts come first, then poetry and music; “a taste for discussion follows at some distance,” but is initially “attended by a subtlety of reason, a spirit of controversy that he calls “Logomachia” (I. Sec.1. iii.78). Logomachia fosters doubt, but doubt then bends intelligent minds to experiment, experience, which “thus forms, by little, and little, the true, and (if one may so all it) the last philosophy”—the philosophy that undertakes modern, experimental science (I. Sec.1, iii.78). In Greece, pre-Socratic philosophers “absolutely neglected morality,” indulging in “the empty systems of cosmogony and theogony” that did nothing to prevent cruelty to enemies and failed to discover “the benefits of nature” and its uses. Greeks instead “placed their whole happiness in glory, and their whole glory in war” (I. Sec.1. iii.81). Subsequently, the political philosophers, Socrates and his followers, did no better. In bringing philosophy down from the heavens, in undertaking political philosophy, Socrates “set out upon an idle journey” (I. Sec.1. iii.79n.) Had he kept philosophy in the heavens but turned cosmological knowledge to practical purposes, he would have “acquired a knowledge of some physical truths, more useful to men, than all the morality of Plato” (I. Sec.1. III.79n.). Political philosophy’s errors “derived their source from an ignorance of physics”; had philosophy continued on as natural philosophy it would have overcome its pre-Socratic inutility, as “in the long run, a good physical system must introduce a good philosophical system” (I. Sec.1. iii.79n.) In this, Chastellux concurs with Bacon and Hobbes, who intend to use physical laws to relieve man’s natural state. Human reason, he writes, has two “instruments” at its disposal: contemplation and experiment—that is, systematized experience (I. Sec.1. v.140). Yet mankind has failed to use these instruments properly, contemplating the physical world (founding “the laws of nature” “on ingenious, but extravagant conjectures,” as seen in the pre-Socratics), while founding “the laws of society” on “particular facts” discovered by experience (I. Sec.1. v.140). On the contrary, modern science subjects the physical world, rightly, to experimentation. But except for Montaigne, Montesquieu, and (now) Chastellux, it has not understood that the small ‘sample’ we have of political societies in the relatively short history of mankind, along with their many “varieties” and “anomalies,” continue to “elude the light of experience” (I. Sec.1, v.142).

What is needed, then, is “a new system of science,” founded upon “the examination of nature, and of her fixed, immutable, and necessary laws” (I. Sec.1. v.143). The study of political societies would begin there, with geography, climate, and their economic consequences. “Andrologia, or the knowledge of man in general, would serve as the basis to medicine, natural history, and morality; and these would give birth to politics, which would prove the result of all the others. It is then that an absolute Physiocratia would arise, a government founded on the powers of nature and the energy of her action” (I. Sec.1. v.143). By so integrating the solid results of physical science with the more limited knowledge of which “andrologia” consists, men could overcome that limitation to an extent hitherto unattainable, using that knowledge to rule themselves as physiocrats—giving themselves regimes of monarchy or republicanism as determined by their research into the particular circumstances of each nation.

The deficiency of the Greek “science of politics”—actually, its un-science—may best be seen in the Greeks’ failure to sustain a confederacy of the Greek states, in the “spirit of tyranny and usurpation” in both the Athenian democracy and the Spartan oligarch, all bespeaking “a greater share of spirit than reason” (I. Sec.1. iii.83). “The severity of the discipline at Sparta” contrasted with “the ease enjoyed [by the soldiers] in camp; the kings’ “insignificance” in peacetime contrasted with their “unlimited consequence” in wartime: both invitations to initiate war. Admittedly, the Spartans lived for centuries under the laws of Lycurgus, but the Iroquois and several other Amerindian nations have maintained their laws for long periods. Duration doesn’t bespeak good laws. As for the Athenians, their regime could scarcely be said to have had laws at all. “In the last resource, everything was referred to a populace,” whom demagogues “could assemble, and harangue without for and without precaution” (I. Sec.1, iii.87).

The modern republics—Switzerland, Holland—are unquestionably superior to their ancient counterparts. “How must we applaud their permanence, and, particularly, the heroism which founded them!” (I. Sec.1. iii.88)—as seen in the story of Wilhelm Tell. (2) Modern republicanism “nourishes and protects the most natural sentiments,” namely “the love of our properties, the desire of living with our wives, of educating our children, of cultivating our fields, and of worshipping our God with such a mode of homage, as may be the most pleasing, and the most suitable” (I. Sec.1. iii.88). The small size of the Greek city-states guaranteed their instability. Although Rousseau claims that “no true liberty” can exist in a large modern republic, a republic based on representative government instead of direct popular rule, he is mistaken (I. Sec.1. iv.97). “There will be no substantial, and lasting liberty, and, in particular, no happiness, but amongst individuals, were everything is transacted by a representative body” (I. Sec.1. iv.97). This is because in a “small republic” or democracy, there is no division of political labor; each man becomes “a shallow politician, an incapable judge, and an undisciplined soldier” within a puny country which leaves him “either a prey to faction or exposed to the rage of war” (I. Sec.1. iv.97). A modern republic, big enough to defend itself, less vulnerable to the bad effects of faction (as argued, famously, by Publius in Federalist 10), citizens can farm their own land while “the judge watches over the political welfare of the state and the warrior repels its invasion” (I. Sec.1. iv.98). “In such a society, peace wears a hundred additional charms and war throws off a hundred of its horrors” (I. Sec.1. iv.98). Far from a threat to liberty, standing armies protect it, freeing most men from the severities of military service. “The people may be happy without being enervated,” since they work in peaceful pursuits, “and softened, because a proper discipline is kept up in armies, where the principles of honor and courage may maintain themselves” (I. Sec.1. iv.100). 

Not only are modern republics generally superior to ancient Greek republics, generally, but modern commercial republics are superior to ancient commercial republics. The most powerful ancient commercial republic was Carthage, inhabited by “an active people, equally engaged in the practice and promotion of industry,” who “conducted themselves on principles superior to the principles of the Greeks” (I. Sec.1. iv.101). This notwithstanding, and “whatever commendations Aristotle may have lashed upon the laws of the Carthaginians,” their “avarice was so insatiable, [their] whole system of politics was so jealous, and so cruel,” their “religion was so superstitious and atrocious”—commanding, as it did human sacrifices wherein mothers threw their children into bonfires—that “the imagination starts back with horror” at their way of life (I. Sec.1. iv.101). In modern Switzerland and Holland, by contrast, the people are industrious and their modes of worship simple. They own no slaves and do not enslave themselves to religion and its priests. [3]

So much for the Greeks. But in the eyes of the Europeans of Chastellux’s time, the grandeur of the Romans seemed far more impressive than the glory of the Greeks. “Surely, no study has a stronger claim to the attention of the philosopher, than that study which endeavors to investigate the principles, which could raise a simple city to such a height; or, to speak more properly, to that excess of glory and prosperity” (I. Sec.1. v.110). [4] Chastellux reminds his readers, however, that he wants them not to gape at greatness but to assess the level of public happiness in political societies. “If the Romans, far from triumphing by the ascendancy of their virtue, were indebted for their prevalence solely to crimes, and entirely established themselves upon the ruins of the world, who shall hinder us from loading them censures”? (I. Sec.1. v. 112). In this, Chastellux acknowledges, he follows Plutarch, “the first writer who maintained that the founders of this queen of the world were only robbers and outlaws,” and, among the moderns, Giambattista Vico. [5] 

Chastellux claims that all ancient governments originated in cities because there was “no need of laws and conventions, except when great numbers were assembled in a small space”; we owe the origin of government not to war but to agriculture, which made such concentrations of human beings possible (I. Sec.1. v.123). This is why legislators should take care to attend to the needs of agriculture before anything else, along with property, “the leading principle of agriculture” (I. Sec.1. 126) (as Rousseau had also declared, but balefully). Nature “ought to have established the first right of property,” which would in turn yield plentiful produce in great variety, commerce, and riches; commerce requires public markets, preferably situated along riverbanks or seashores for ease of transportation (I. Sec.1. v.126-127). Thus would cities arise, their citizens “attached, by interest and habit, to the soil,” making “their own preservation the basis of their politics (I. Sec.1. v.127). Under these circumstances, “perhaps the word glory would not have been known in any language; but the contrary to this has been the case” (I. Sec.1. v.127).

This was unquestionably the case with Rome. But even it founded its greatness not on war, simply, but on its then unique practice of bringing conquered peoples into the city as citizens, instead of enslaving them. Whatever Machiavelli may have thought, the early Romans were far from adept at the art of war; indeed, “during almost five ages, Rome did not much outstrip her neighbors in the acquisition of advantages,” as “her infantry were never distinguished by their superiority,” they had no great knowledge of strategy or of tactics, and their only real military merit was a well-ordered and courageous cavalry (I. Sec.1. v.149n). What enabled them to conquer their neighbors in Italy was their neighbors’ barbarism; what enabled to conquer their neighbors along the shoreline was their neighbors’ over-refinement, their effeminate and enervated affluence as commercial societies. Once Rome had conquered Italy “what was wanting to make her the mistress of the whole world, but to conceive it possible that she might be mistress?” (I. Sec.1. v.154). Sicily was divided into several small city states, governed by “petty tyrants”; Illyria was populated by mere pirates; Macedonia was “engaged in all the Grecian quarrels” (I. Sec.1. 154). That left Carthage, which “seemed more jealously employed in extending than in fortifying her possessions” (I. Sec.1. v.155). The Romans were better situated geographically, in the middle of Italy with easy command of two seas, its armies within reach of the whole peninsula. Even so, Hannibal nearly won the Second Punic War, and only his Carthaginian imprudence, seen in his foolish traversal of the Alps, which weakened his own troops, and Carthage’s foolish factionalism, which undermined him at home. In Chastellux’s judgment, Rome should scarcely be much credited for its victory, which enabled it to continue its imperial expansion into Greece, also factionalized and ruled by imprudent kings. It was not, then, the virtue of Rome’s regime that caused its greatness but the weakness of its enemies, including the folly of many of their rulers.

That regime did not conduce to the happiness of the Romans. Rome was a military and aristocratic, not a commercial, republic. Since (following Montesquieu) not so much the laws or institutions but the “spirit and character” of a people are most to be considered (I. Sec.1. vi.183), the spirit and character of citizens in a military republic are unlikely to issue in happiness. For “is not the ferocity of individuals a constant symptom of habitual sufferings?” (I. Sec.1. vi.178).

The Romans’ happiness and misery varied from epoch to epoch, of which there were four: from the founding by the legendary Romulus to the expulsion of the kings (aristocracy followed by tyranny); from the expulsion of the kings to the conquest of Italy (aristocracy); from the First Punic War to the destruction of Carthage (aristocracy); from the destruction of Carthage to the subversion of the republic (aristocracy followed by monarchy). In none of these epochs were the Romans happy; Rome always exhibited “more grandeur than happiness,” their “strongest passion” being “the love of glory” (I. Sec.1. vi.193). This amounted in fact to “the barbarous joy” of the ruling aristocrats in the Senate and “the fear and misery of everyone else” (I. Sec.1. vi.198). Once the people did taste riches, thanks to the largesse made possible by Rome’s conquest, they couldn’t deal with them sensibly but only with a covetous “fury” to which they “sacrificed all their principles and manners” (I. Sec.1. vi.203). The Romans extended their warlikeness to the acquisition of wealth, resulting in a uniquely ferocious form of decadence.

As might be imagined, the effect of the Roman republican regime on foreign states scarcely conduced to the happiness of the conquered. In this, the Roman republic resembled the despotism of Alexander the Great, “that ambitious youth, “already corrupted by good fortune,” under whom “mankind groaned under the laws” of its “senseless master” (I. Sec.1. vii.214). Rome’s republican imperialism, “the most fatal of all tyrannies,” afflicted its conquests; these conquests gave the conquered republics relief from their factionalism, but this “preserved only the vain appearance of liberty” (I. Sec.1. vii.215-216). Their manners and morals, even their language, soon becomes infected by slavishness, as “they bend, they cringe, they promise everything” (I. Sec.1. vii.218). The “implacable republic” of Rome, dominating and plundering their neighbors, “treated all nations, not as conquered enemies, but as revolted subjects” to be reduced to slavery under heavy tribute—a “shocking principle” more or less identical to that animating the rulers of China, ancient and modern (I. Sec.1. vii.227). The machine of Roman grandeur was lubricated by the blood of “millions of men, who were slaughtered in Spain, in Africa, and in Asia,” an accurate indication of “the influence of the Roman people over the happiness of mankind” (I. Sec.1. vii.232-233). 

An economy of plunder corrupted the Roman people themselves. Instead of making their own statues and paintings, they seized them from the Greeks. But “it is the enjoyment of our own workmanship, and not the enjoyment of the workmanship which we may have taken from another, that proves so pleasing” (I. Sec.1. vii.225). Industrious and prudent cultivation of one’s own land and one’s own mind under just laws and policies alone conduce to happiness. “The welfare of a small part of mankind cannot long remain in opposition to the welfare of the whole” (I. Sec.1. vii.225).

In its last years, the Roman republic was “torn by civil discords” (I. Sec.1. viii.234). Although imperialism had dampened republican factionalism for a long time, the very extent of the republican empire enabled its generals to attach their soldiers to themselves more than to the distant regime, with its center in the capital. The cure for factionalism became a new source of it. Civil wars became the new wars of conquest, conquest now aimed at the city of Rome itself. Generalship conduces not to republicanism but to monarchy or to despotism. And although in modernity we know how large the world is, and therefore how implausible the instantiation of a universal monarchy is, in Roman times this seemed feasible, given the smaller dimensions of the known world. Augustus, the eventual beneficiary of the generals’ wars against each other, proved a reasonably peaceful ruler, but his distributions of bread to the people, who thereby became “the first slaves of Augustus,” ensured that no republican regime would return to Rome (I. Sec.1. viii.244). He thus preserved only a “resemblance of a republic” (I. sec.1. viii.253). “Add to these, some Greek rhetoricians, foreign adventurers, a multitude of slaves, and a great number of gladiators, wrestlers, comedians, and prostitutes, and then some idea may be formed of the situation of Rome under her emperors” (I. Sec.1. viii.245). With Rome’s “debased, indolent, and frivolous people,” with its conquered kingdoms “converted into oppressed and languishing provinces and, at a greater distance barbarous nations, equally ignorant of commerce and of agriculture, and existing only in a state of war,” “where is the philosopher who can, at any time, be led to envy those whom fate had destined to live during this era?” (I. Sec.1. viii.250). 

While it is true that patriotism and generosity were “virtues common to the ancients,” “true philanthropy, a regard for public welfare and general order are sentiments to which the past ages were absolutely strangers” (I. Sec.1. viii.256). Chastellux draws the lesson that “politic princes are as much superior to martial princes as the art of governing is more difficult than the art of commanding” (I. Sec.1. viii.259). A lost war ruins a nation; military deadlock “harasses and drains a nation”; victory in war brings on the afflictions seen in Rome (I. Sec.1. viii.261). “Military despotism,” the result of those afflictions, “is the worst government of all, not only for princes,” prey to their guards and military officers, “but for the people,” corrupted and tyrannized (I. Sec.1. viii.262).

In the second section of his first volume, Chastellux turns from the evils of war to the evils of religion, or more specifically, to the evils of religions in practice. The years immediately before the Roman Empire separated into four sections saw the world reduced to “one vast field of battle, where the bodies of forces, not employed in flight, are engaged in continual evolutions, and, incessantly, change their ground” (I. Sec.1. i.277). But then “a revolution, a thousand more astonishing” than a revolution in “the political system of the world,” “prepared itself to overthrow the empire of opinion,” “from the power which commands to the persuasion which governs” (I. Sec.2.ii.278). “A tumultuous war arose in the mind,” a “revolution in the system of religion,” which roiled the soul of hermits as much as soldiers,” as paganism collapsed and “a new people and a new mode of worship prevailed” (I. Sec.2. ii.279-280). 

Chastellux prudently confines himself to “an examination of the influence of the Christian religion over the happiness of making in its exclusive relation to this life” (I. Sec.2. 280). He observes that the term ‘paganism’ encompasses a vast number of religions with little in common beyond polytheism. These religions were man-made, made by poets; ‘poet’ means ‘maker.’ Paganism endured because it was political, a civil theology. The pagan religions were made by aristocrats and they buttressed aristocratic rule; there was “an intimate union, which subsisted for a long time, between aristocracy and religion” (I. Sec.2. ii.298). Men who aspired to despotism—Caligula, Nero, Commodus—despised religion and forged alliances with the people to cut down the aristocrats. There was, “therefore, as much inclination, as policy, that the emperors suffered all religious opinions to fall into disgrace” (I. Sec.2.298). Even the relatively good emperors tolerated philosophers, “too virtuous to be exposed to fear and repentance, the usual food of superstition, and too enlightened to cherish a medley of absurdities” (I. Sec.2, ii.298). Meanwhile, the invading barbarians, “who had never read Homer, nor heard of Mercury, or Apollo,” “found themselves exactly in the same situation with those savages of America, whom the most ignorant of our missionaries converted, by thousands” (I. Sec.2. ii.299). “The Roman government becoming, at first, aristocratical, then democratical, and at length monarchial” finally changed its religion with its regime, with “the Barbarians [giving] the finishing stroke to the destruction of the last remains of the ancient opinions” (I. Sec.2. ii.300). 

In keeping with his avoidance of theological concerns, Chastellux restricts his inquiry only to “the human or natural means” of “the progress of Christianity” (I. Sec.2. iii.301). Invocaions of Providence are not for him. Christianity’s “spirit of charity and alms-giving…contributed not a little to facilitate its progress,” especially among the many who were poor, as did its “ideas of equality and brotherhood” (I. Sec.2. ii.309n.). Indeed a man of the Enlightenment, he describes the apostles and disciples as “not only simple and unpolished men” but in some instances criminal; their “gospels are filled with errors in language, etc.” (I. Sec.2. iii.310-311n.). Asserting that Christians did not clearly separate themselves from Jews until the destruction of the Great Temple in Jerusalem, he claims that “Christianity must then have drawn a double advantage from this event, for while it gave a mortal wound to the Jews, by destroying their political and religious empire, it prepared at the same time new arms, wherewith to encounter Polytheism, by sending out into all the provinces of the empire, a great number of men whose religion was founded on Deism and whose opinions approached much nearer to the doctrine of the Christians than to the fables of Paganism” (I. Sec.2. iii.316-317). In Jerusalem itself, Christian clergy found in the Temple’s destruction “an advantageous opportunity of increasing their own consequence”—the true seed of the Roman Catholic hierarchy (I. Sec.2. iii.316n.). 

Philosophers, too, were attracted to Christianity. “Equality amongst mankind, charity, beneficence, and the distributing of alms, were at once recommended and practiced in these pious assemblies: where could humanity, where could true philosophy have seen a more respectable object?” (I. Sec.2 iii.321). But the infiltration of philosophy into Christianity led to disputation, since Platonism, not pre-Socratic nature-philosophy, was the dominant school at the time. Chastellux rightly observes that “all the works of the first fathers of the church”—Justin Martyr, Augustine, Origen—breathe “the spirit of Platonism” (I. Sec.2. iii.325n.). Origen especially “perverted the Platonic philosophy” with Christianity (and, it might be added, vice-versa) with his immanentism, seen (for example) in his belief that angels “enjoyed within themselves a portion of the Divinity” (I. Sec.2. iii.326n.). Christian Platonists “abandoned the simplicities of the Gospel for the subtleties of the schools” (I. Sec.2. iii.328). As a result, “the sincerity of plain dealing was soon sunk amidst the implacable violence which infected the theological disputes,” leading some theologians to fabricate books to support their opinions, such as “the oracles of the Sibyls” and the works of Hermes Trismegistus (I. Sec.2. 327). The disputes were aggravated because the Church had, “as yet, no visible chief whose authority was acknowledged or confirmed” (I. Sec.2. iii.330n.). The authority of the Roman pontiff awaited the conversion of the emperors to support it, beginning with Constantine. Meanwhile, many of the rulers persecuted Christians, which only added “luster over the reputation of the Christians,” inasmuch as “under a despotic government every act of severity is, at once, deemed unjust” (I. Sec.2. iii.334). Christian writings at this time “recommended that toleration which Jesus Christ had taught them, and which, from the peculiarity of their lot, it was their interest to preach of,” for now (I. Sec.2. iii.334). [6]

The “dreadful chaos” that prevailed with the breakup of the Roman Empire found the people less desirous of liberty than of peace—prepared to accept even a regime of despotism. This moral atmosphere brought on the rise of Constantine, one of the four Tetrarchs. The emperor of Rome, Maxentius, a “cruel and superstitious” man who consulted pagan oracles and whose “hands were imbrued with human blood,” had established an “empire of magic,” in which “every place was filled with the accounts of evocations, of sacrifices, and of predictions” (I. Sec.2 iv.339). Chastellux leaves it open whether Constantine chose Christianity as a means of fighting Maxentian sorcery with “other arms,” or whether “his acquaintance with the disposition of a people, irritated by persecutions, and inclined towards christianity, inspired him with the idea of pacing his support upon a new religion,” that is what he did (I. Sec.2. iv.339). Before his victory over Maxentius at the Battle of the Milvian Bridge in 312, Constantine is said to have seen a vision of the Cross, a claim of which Chastellux judges, “nothing could be more obscure,” “often called in question, and considered as a pious fraud,” which (he hastens to add) “is the worst of all falsities, because by poisoning even the very source of truth it exposes the most sacred authorities to all those doubts which profane writers are so ready to cast upon them” (I. Sec.2. iv.339, 341). 

This would have begun “the fine age of the church, if the disputes, the cabals, the schisms, and the cruel and extravagant errors, with which [Constantine] was agitated, had not tarnished the luster of these prosperous days” (I. Sec.2. iv.341). But even “these disorders did not prevent Christianity from acquiring fresh vigor,” as every sect united in working for “the extinction of Paganism,” now willingly referring their internecine disputes to Constantine, “soon considered as an oracle in all matters relating to doctrine” (I. Sec.2. iv.344). Whereas “Christianity oppressed” had “preached in favor of toleration,” Christianity “when rendered the ruling religion, became intolerant in her turn,” as Christians and the Emperor, himself “scarcely a Catechumen,” allied in persecuting the pagans. (I. Sec.2. iv.345). To those of his readers who might yet esteem Constantine as a good Christian, Chastellux writes that “to draw aside the mask, beneath which feeble humanity has frequently remained hidden is constantly a painful employment, but howsoever odious it may be in society, in all historical researches it is at once noble and useful” (I. Sec.2. iv.347). “The task of daring to penetrate into his soul was reserved for this enlightened age” (I. Sec.2. iv.348). For indeed Constantine was a “ferocious and irregular prince,” for whom “the ties of friendship were, in his estimation, no surer safeguards than the ties of blood” (I. Sec.2. iv.353). Chastellux cites the example of the Neo-Platonist philosopher Zopater, whom he befriended and admitted to court. When jealous courtiers spread rumors of sorcery and magic about him, and a ship bringing grain from Egypt was “detained by contrary winds,” raising fears of famine, Constantine did not hesitate to sacrifice “this innocent philosopher” to assuage the growing rage against Constantine himself (I. Sec.2. iv.354). Zopater’s enlightened and philosophic successors should rather reflect that a warlord like Constantine rests his rule, finally, on force, and that his triumphs (like those of early Rome) bespeak neither providential favor nor exceptional virtue. “A player at chess may take another less strong than himself, and yet be very weak” (I. Sec.2. iv.355). “The citizen, who by dint of firmness and intrepidity, attains to the power of adding some advantage to public liberty, is more respectable than the prince, who, at the head of fifty satellites, makes a people of slaves exchange one master for another master” (I. Sec.2. iv.356).

Nor did Constantine found a just regime. As legislator, he amalgamated “that vicious mixture of civil power and the ecclesiastical power which has scattered so much disorder, for fifteen centuries, throughout the Christian world” (I. Sec.2. iv.357). Such a regime “must have had a terrible influence over morality, since on one side the Christians have commended, even to the skies, an emperor, who was guilty of the most atrocious crimes, whilst on the other side, the Romans, who applauded Nero, when he made his entry into their capital, after having put his mother to death, could not bear the sight of Constantine, by whose order his own wife and son were executed” (I. Sec.2.362). This illustrates how “an attachment to empty rites and ceremonies perpetually prevails over that law which nature has engraved on every human heart, but unfortunately, in characters too superficial, and too easy to be obliterated” (I. Sec.2. iv.362).

Was Constantine’s piety genuine? Chastellux has his doubts. Citing “an old remark, that gamesters begin by being dupes and end by being knaves,” he observes that “in matters of opinion the case is reversed,” that “we begin by being knaves and end by being dupes” (I. Sec.2. iv.366). This, he suspects, was the case with Constantine, who was “quickly duped by [his] own artifice” (I. Sec.2. iv.366). “We mention this to the honor of christianity,” of course, “the moral system of which could never have united itself to those atrocious crimes which Constantine committed” (I. Sec.2. iv.367). (In line with the more moderate Enlighteners, Chastellux praises Christianity as a moral system, leaving its strictly religious claims aside.) At any rate, “Constantine, having lived in the perpetration of guilt, and died a heretic, is unworthy of our encomiums, either as a Man, a Prince, or a Christian” (I. Sec.2. iv.371). 

Returning to his main theme, Chastellux devotes the final chapter of his first volume to the question of what influence Christianity exerted over the happiness of the people between Constantine’s rule and the ruin of the Western Roman Empire. He rejects the contention of Machiavelli, Montesquieu, and Gibbon that Christianity caused Rome’s downfall, as the early Church had never concerned itself with “the glory and prosperity of states,” instead inculcating “humility, poverty, penitence, and prayer” with no thought of turning Christianity into a civil religion (I. Sec.2, v.373). This of course is exactly why those political philosophers had blamed Christianity for hastening Rome’s fall, but Chastellux, who wants to discourage war and encourage peaceful commercial republicanism (without the cruel religiosity of the Carthaginians), studiously ignores that point, instead directing his readers to consider whether Christianity as a civil religion, as an “established” religion, has made mankind “more virtuous and more happy” or whether it has made sovereigns “less covetous, and less sanguinary”; “whether the people have been more submissive and more quiet, whether crimes have been less numerous and punishments less cruel, whether the progress of war has been conducted with more humanity, and whether treaties have been mor scrupulously observed” (I. Sec. 2. v.376). He answers with a firm ‘No.’

It isn’t Christianity itself that ruins morality—Christian morality is sound—but the use of Christianity as a civil religion that corrupts “everything” (I. Sec.2. v.380). Worse, part of the problem has been that “this very religion became a new source of evils, for, as the purest aliments are apt to grow corrupted, in bodies attacked by diseases, so the most sacred tenets of the faith are frequently converted into the instruments of the most shocking disasters” (I. Sec.2. v.381). Once politically established, Christian churches turned tiger: “Of all the enemies of human nature, the most modern and the most cruel enemy is intolerant persecution,” which “unsheathed the sword wheresoever the voice of zeal had propagated the word,” inflicting “the most horrid punishments” over turns of phrase (I. Sec.2, v.381, 384). Once again, ancient political philosophy is partly to blame, as “this barbarous and intolerant spirit, these scandalous and atrocious disputes are indebted, for no inconsiderable part of their origin, to the peculiar characteristic of the Greeks, to that unhappy passion, which this nation had introduced, for Empty dialectics and frivolous sophisms.” (I. ec.2. v.384). Theology began “to supply the place of morality,” very much at the expense of morality, and mankind “perceived themselves, on a sudden, exposed to a new species of tyranny which, penetrating within the most secret recesses of the human heart, scatters through the faculties of the soul, the same disorders and afflictions, which civil despotism spreads through all our exterior relations” (I. Sec.2. v.385-386). The mind is corrupted along with the heart, as such historians as Xenophon, Livy, Polybius, and Tacitus, “respectable citizens whose bosoms glowed with the virtues of every era and every country,” give way to “a set of party-writers, who relate facts with no view but to support particular opinions” (I. Sec.2. v.386-387). And war became “more sanguinary than every,” since “religion, far from diminishing the horrors of it had only given a keener edge to the inveterate exertions of hatred” (I. Sec.2. v.409).

During these centuries, “mankind had no idea of the very interesting science of finances and commerce,” but instead saw the refusal of one nation to accept the currency of others in payment for its goods, with barter the only means of exchange (I. Sec.2. v.413). “It was not, at that time, known that…without liberty, neither commerce nor riches can exist” (I. Sec.2. v.414). This notwithstanding, even within these feudal states, “the great cities always maintained a kind of liberty,” given their concentration of “a great number of men, strictly united,” cannot easily be dominated by outsiders (I. Sec.2. v.416). Although he does not mention it here, the cities became the hubs of finance and commerce that the feudal lords knew nothing about.

Chastellux’s critique of the ‘ancients,’ the Christians, and the modern state-of-nature philosophers stands on his turn to historical research. This turn leans in the direction of historicism, of Hegel, without quite getting there, although his invocation of “the stages of the human spirit” surely prepares some of the ground for historicism. His new science, “Andrologia,” nonetheless remains rooted in physical nature and its “laws.” With the Physiocrats, he emphasizes the centrality of agriculture to the wealth of nations and the importance of commerce, the circulation of goods and of money, to the instantiation of human happiness while extending Physiocracy to politics, very much with the assistance of Montesquieu. The Enlighteners enter into the lists with the Christians, those erstwhile masters of “the war of the mind,” in Chastellux’s case not dismissing Christianity tout court but retaining much of its moral content, contra Machiavelli and Hobbes.

 

Notes

1. For a discussion of Chastellux’s American travel journal, see “Chastellux in America” on this website under “American Regime.” 
2. See “The Manly, Moderate Republicanism of Wilhelm Tell” on this website under “Nations.”
3. Chastellux admits “that our age is not yet, totally, exempt from the reproaches which we have thrown upon antiquity” with regard to slavery (I. Sec.1 iv.105). This notwithstanding, among modern Christians slavery has been abolished, “except it be in the colonies”; the slaves come from “an extremely savage, and brutal nation” whose rulers sell their own people to European traders; “though reason and philosophy proclaim the necessity of treating the slave, like a European, it is notwithstanding true that the great disparity between these unhappy wretches, and ourselves, is but little calculated to excite in us, the fine feelings of humanity, and serves to nourish those cruel prejudices, which occasion them to remain in a state of oppression”; and finally “no tenderness, no benefits could erase from the minds of these individuals, their base, ungrateful, and cruel characteristics,” whereas if the slaves had been Europeans they would, by now, have won “the rights of citizens” (I. Sec.1. iv.105-106). There are fewer slaves in proportion to the total population of Christians than there were slaves in proportion to the total population of Greeks—one in a hundred rather than three to one. 
4. While this is true, in Chastellux’s estimation the philosophers who have treated Rome—Machiavelli and Montesquieu—while “infusing into their observations all the fire of their genius and all the sagacity of their understanding,” have nonetheless gotten things wrong. Machiavelli did not adequately consider the weakness of Rome’s rivals; Montesquieu, whose The Greatness of the Romans and Their Decline “resemble[s] marginal notes, written on the same work [Livy’s History] of which Machiavel was the commentator,” merely reproduces the same error (I. Sec.1. v.152n.)
5. See “Vico’s Periods of History” on this website under “Philosophers.”
6. In this, Chastellux artfully insinuates the Enlightenment principle of religious toleration into Jesus’ teaching. The Apostle Paul indeed preached “Christ crucified” to both Jews and Greeks, Jesus dined with publicans and sinners, and both loved sinners, but love is not toleration, and neither the Jewish-Christian man nor the Christian Man-God tolerated either sin or heresy.

Raymond Tallis: In Defence of Realism. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1988.

 

For two generations and counting, literary studies in the universities of the West have been ruled by professors who have embraced ‘postmodernist’ doctrines intended to ‘subvert’ commonsense understanding of reality in the name of social and political egalitarianism. That there is no non-arbitrary limit to such subversion, that social and political egalitarianism can as easily be ‘deconstructed’ as social and political hierarchy, does not occur to many of these adepts of ‘Literary Theory’ although, among the more clear-eyed, it does not matter, since they have seen that Nietzsche’s will to power might best be satisfied by making a grand show of ‘social justice,’ even as its advocates enjoy the quasi-aristocratic privileges of tenure-based prosperity. And like the titled aristocrats of old, the new aristoi respond to their impudent critics either with serene shows of indifference, ignoring them altogether, or with a contemptuous back of the hand. 

A professor of geriatric medicine, thankfully independent of the bad opinions of the academics he (how do you say?) critiques, Raymond Tallis wisely selects a surveyable portion of this barren landscape: the ‘theorists’ rejection of realist fiction. Against their literary lordships, he ventures to claim that, “understood as an attempt to do justice to, to express or to preserve, a piece of reality, realism is not the dead hand of the past but the challenge of the present and the future,” despite “the inextricable mixture of half-truths and whole falsehoods” on which the case against them has been argued or, perhaps more accurately, asserted. Although he acknowledges the malign social and political intentions of the literary academics—many of them leftover New Leftists who never smartened up—he is primarily concerned that these “current trends in literary criticism represent a real threat to the development of fiction”: “The republic of letters cannot be a more healthy place for being wrapped in a fog of bad philosophy and worse linguistics and such a fog can only slow the appreciation of true worth.”

Lit-crit professors begin at turns by denying that “we” no longer have a “common sense of reality” but are restricted by “all kinds of relativistic structures of consciousness.” But they further claim that they, somehow, see these structures for what they are, namely, excrescences of “contemporary capitalist reality,” whose “essence is unreality.” Modern reality is “more horrible than any that has gone before,” “more vast and complex,” “pre-digested” by imagery put up by commercial advertisers and political propagandists, dominated not by nature but by the human artifacts designed to conquer nature. “Can any thinking artist trust his own perceptions?” Evidently, thinking critics can (and is not Das Kapital subtitled, “A Critique of Political Economy”?). Mere novelists had better get in line. 

Tallis demurs. “Revolting cruelty is not a twentieth-century invention; nor is the application of technical advances to bestial ends.” The American Civil War saw more American deaths than the wars of the twentieth century caused later Americans to suffer, and as for Tallis’s fellow Europeans, the Thirty Years War and the Napoleonic Wars devastated the old continent as thoroughly as any war in the twentieth century.  “It is, therefore, no more a sign of moral or intellectual insensitivity to try to write a realistic novel in the 1980s than it was in 1922 or 1857.” The real change has been the change of expectations in the West: the more “recent horrors” “seem less excusable because we like to believe that the world is—or should be—more civilized than it was.” Should technological progress not be accompanied by moral and political progress? If, manifestly, it is not, don’t blame realism, Tallis writes; blame the unrealism of progressivism. This some ‘postmodernists’ have proceeded to do, but without abandoning their progressivist sentiments. Nature, according to postmodernist sensibilities, is a benign and generous Mother. Tallis, who treats the chronically decaying elderly, rather doubts this. And, in a supremely ‘insensitive’ moment, he suggests that persons who claim that X is unreal must believe that something else is. That being the case, the attack on realism loses its cogency, unless the ‘theorists’ can show why they are the superior realists. Which they deny anyone can do, even as they act as if they’re doing it. 

Anti-realists often deny that the real world has an order or, more modestly, that the order seen in realist fiction “is alien to reality itself.” But how alien? Obviously, a story about a real event, and even more, a story about a made-up event that really could have happened, is not identical to the reality outside the ‘text.’ That doesn’t mean “that there is an especially pernicious distortion at work in the construction of realistic narratives.” Memories of events are not the events but that doesn’t mean “that all memory is false,” that “re-lived experience is a falsification of lived experience.” “Experience cannot of itself be true or false since truth values can be assigned to experience only when it is reflected upon and articulated into propositional form and made the basis of an assertion—as when, that is, it is recalled at a later date.” To say, ‘There is a dog in this room’ is not the experience of perceiving the dog in the room but it is a true (or false) statement, nonetheless. You can select a fact (choose to point out that there’s a dog in the room) but that doesn’t mean you made it up. Anti-realists confuse “the role of the subject as one who articulates reality into facts on the one hand and the truth-conditions of factual statements on the other; between what motivates the formulation of reality into statements and the reality that determines whether or not they are true…. Failure to observe this distinction will lead to a kind of idealism that holds that reality itself is created out of values—in short, to magic thinking.”

There is still another confusion, the assumption “that discourse can be genuinely ‘about’ something only if it is structured like it.” Just because language doesn’t have the same structure as (for example) nature doesn’t mean that language is a system closed off from nature. The reverse is also true: “an identity of form guarantees nothing,” inasmuch as Object A “does not count as a description of Object B just because it looks like it.” Thus, “isomorphism is…neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition either for expression or for truthful reference.” Just the opposite: “Only when there is a distance between what is said and the reality that is spoken of can a narrative, or any description, be ‘about’ anything.” Physical reality is, which means that “is not itself true or false.” Only a statement about reality can be true, in line with but not identical to the reality it describes or makes note of. “Truth and falsehood emerge as fully explicit categories only in relation to statements that formulate reality in order to present it as facts.” Yes, “telling transforms reality,” but “if telling were not different from living, it would be redundant.” 

“When these muddles are cleared up, little of the case against realistic facts remains.” And when that case evaporates, “the radical arguments against realistic fiction that we have examined here” do, too. 

What if the anti-realist were to concede these ‘epistemological’ points, but instead claim that realistic novels have been superseded by a more accurate medium, cinema? Are images not more accurate depictions of reality than words, precisely because they are depictions, pictures, especially moving pictures that track real-world activity? Indeed, no one could deny that a camera better “replicate[s] the visible surfaces of parts of the world” than a writer can do. But does reality “consist essentially of visible surfaces”? If not, then not. “At best, the camera renders sensibilia, not experiences or perceptions.” They cannot “depict the sense of visible things, in which experience and knowledge are dovetailed.” This is why people talk and write about movies when they try to understand them. Once again, “physical reality is in itself neither true nor false; neither are its representation.” One sees this whenever one notices “the usually dismal and sometimes downright embarrassing results of attempts to film great realistic novels,” when meaning gets squeezed out and only the spectacle remains.

More radically, and returning to epistemology, anti-realists may claim that “we get reality wrong not only when we report and remember it but even as we experience it.” In the neo-Marxist thought of Louis Althusser, for example, we are told that capitalist social structures and beliefs so distort reality, that the world as we now experience it is already so thoroughly artificial, that the realistic novel merely reports these distorted socially constructed experiences. “What counts as real” to the novelist is only “what is acknowledged by the group to which the individual belongs at a given moment or the group consciousness that is operating through him”—an “ideology” that has been “intersubjectively constructed.” The ideology claims to justify the rule of the ruling class in that society. The claim resembles the image of the Cave in Plato’s Republic, with the shadows of idols on its walls, except that in Marxism the idols’ movements are ultimately driven not by the rulers, and what contrasts with the artifacts, the idols, is not nature. It is instead the ‘dialectic of history’ that determines the conduct of the rulers. Historicism replaces naturalism. For Marxists, “what counts as ‘reality,’ then, is a privileged version of what is out there and is at least in part an outcome— of a struggle [the ‘dialectic’] between rival experiences of the world, related to competing needs and conflicting interests.” The ruling class uses its ideology to “naturalize social phenomena,” to make them seem real, “to confer upon them the objectivity of [the] material world, to make that which has been constructed by human beings seem to confront them as naturally given. “This is an illusion, sometimes deliberately conjured, sometimes shared by the rulers themselves.” (There can be little doubt that American slaveholders of the nineteenth century often believed the result of ‘race science’ or, to be unkind to, albeit honest with Althusser, that Marxists who have boosted themselves into positions of rule have often believed the claims of ‘scientific socialism.) According to him, “all ideology expresses a class position” while simultaneously concealing the reality of that position from its dupes. “Ideology,” Althusser claims, “is so potent and inescapable because it is invisible; because it does not consist of a set of ideas that can be debated, tested, opposed but is implicit in practices.” Realistic novels seem realistic only “because they do not question what is customarily taken for granted,” taking the side of the ruling-class ideology that prevails in their time and place. Proponents of ‘Literary Theory’ “imagine themselves as the somehow awakened”—Tallis writes decades before the term ‘woke’ replaced clunky, academic-sounding ‘consciousness’—persons “able to speak to readers who are still lost in the collective ideological dream.” Exactly how they achieve this heightened state of mind is often somewhat obscure, and the discrediting of Marxian ‘science’ might seem to have foreclosed that pathway to epistemological privilege. But so they have done, they insist.

Althusser does so by distinguishing himself, and his fellow neo-Marxists, from everyone else. All “subjects,” including neo-Marxist subjects, are “socially and historically constructed,” as “the self is merely a set of social relations” existing in space, in time, in thought and in action. The self (and here Althusser departs from the Marxism of Marx) is constituted by language. The problem, Tallis observes, is that subjects seem to “pre-exist the system, however much they are bound up or shaped by it.” Althusser denies this, dismissing it as “a symptom of the false consciousness that is the work of ideology.” The supposedly “unitary, pre-social ‘metaphysical’ subject is in fact a social construct.” “In fact,” Althusser proclaims, “the State and its Apparatuses only have meaning from the point of view of the class struggle, as an apparatus of the class struggle ensuring class oppression and guaranteeing the conditions, of exploitation and its reproduction,” since “man is an ideological animal by nature.” But “in fact”? “By nature”? How does Althusser know what facts and nature are, if his ‘self’ is socially constructed? How does he know that his socially constructed ‘self’ sees deeper into the nature of things, perceives facts more clearly, than the benighted many? How does he know that his self is socially constructed, if it is socially constructed? To do so, he needs to exempt himself from his own strictures. 

Nor does realist fiction necessarily endorse the existence of an unchanging self, unaffected by ‘History.’ Tallis remarks that on the contrary, “realistic fiction has done more than any other literary form to undermine the quasi-religious conception of the self as pre-formed, unfolding from within, kissed awake by crucial experiences”; realist authors “have been in the forefront of those who have discredited the essentialist conception of the self.” What Stendhal did with his persons caught up in the Battle of Waterloo, what Tolstoy did “to de-center history in perhaps the greatest nineteenth-century realist novel,” bear little resemblance to the caricatures of realism held up by the anti-realists. A realist novelist “does not have to subscribe to the beliefs implicit in liberal humanism,” beliefs from which Stendhal, and especially Tolstoy, are really quite remote. Are such men really incapable of ‘thinking critically’ about the world, or are they in fact guilty of failing to think Marxically? 

If, as Marxists and many other thinkers ancient and modern contend, there is no such Person as God to provide a comprehensive perspective against which merely human perspectives must be measured, then the otherwise “inexplicable coincidence or dovetailing of literally millions of different viewpoints” in the establishment of, well, science among other things, requires one “to postulate that there are ‘social forces’ ordering the developing consciousness so that it may participate in, understand and operate within, the intelligible order that has been agreed upon by the collective.” Yet this does not mean that “the forces combing consciousness to self-intelligibility and socializing its world picture can be expressed entirely in narrow political terms or summarized so easily as Althusser seems to imagine.” His “critique” makes “ideology inescapable and his own critique impossible,” an instance of the paradox of the Cretan Liar. This is particularly “awkward” for “those who would condemn realism on political grounds,” grounds that the contemnor must somehow know, if he is to sustain his claim to rule those who do not know. And if “all discourse, inasmuch as it is intelligible, is steeped in ideology,” what then? How can Althusserians distinguish the regimes they endorse—the ‘peoples’ republics’—from the ‘bourgeois democracies” and, if they manage to do so, how can they claim one is superior to the other? 

Moreover, “even if the ideas of the radical critics of realism were actually true, they would still not justify the welcome that is given to most of the existing brands of anti-realism.” By demolishing the criteria by which a literary work may be judged good or bad, they make literary work, including literary criticism itself, pointless. One is left with whimsicality authored by “whimlings.” “There is a highly advertised abdication of authorial control”—the celebrated ‘death of the author’—the claim that “chance or the unconscious dictates the work.” If so, who knows and why care? Tallis is so bold as to suggest that a main purpose of the whimling is to call attention to himself, like “a brilliant child dancing in the spotlight of an admiring gaze.” In the face of the alleged absurdity of bourgeois existence, play is the only serious thing left to do, especially if it can be presented as subversive of bourgeois existence.

Much of this was anticipated by the French surrealists—André Breton, Louis Aragon being the most prominent—who flourished in the aftermath of the First World War. The original surrealists “combined art with ‘direct action,’ writing with scandal in an anarchistic attempt to “undermine and possibly abolish bourgeois reality.”  “There was a dream of transforming the world,” of a vast liberation of desires in the wake of destroying “logic and everything based on it” or in any way partaking of it, such as religion, morality, and the family. It wasn’t long before they were outdone by “madmen greater than themselves and a collective madness greater than anything than they could aspire to,” the fascist and Communist tyrants who “set about destroying religion, morality and family, with a degree of success greater than [the surrealists] had ever imagined.” Aragon distinguished himself by seeing this and going right along with it, embracing Stalinism. “The last prominent French literary figure to wake up out of the Stalinist dream,” he may be said to have anticipated the aging New Leftists and their students who now celebrate the genocidal intentions of mullahs. “The history of surrealism is not that of an undifferentiated, nameless Id but of certain large posturing Egos.”

What happens when you ‘destroy’—i.e., abandon—logic is that you end up saying nothing, rather as I do when I tell you I have in my possession a square circle. You don’t know what I mean, and neither do I. And so: the anti-realist text must be “free of all the usual trappings of realism” but at the same time somehow “reflect the unreal nature of contemporary reality”; it should “criticize, not collude in, the prevailing ideology” yet “reflect the dehumanized face of contemporary reality” all while resolutely opposing ‘humanism’; it should be “self-reflexive to the point of infinite regression,” since an aversion to infinite regression only worries a logical mind, and it should be “non-referential,” never ‘about’ anything, “‘writable’ but not ‘readable.'” Somehow, this farrago of incommensurables will change the world for the better, although no one can say (or everyone equally can say) what ‘better’ would be. Ultimately, “a text that ceased to be a communication emanating from a writer and received by a reader would simply cease to be a text.” Which, in many of these cases, wouldn’t be such a bad thing, were it literally the case.

Meanwhile, what one ‘literary theorist’ has called “the golden age of criticism” chugs along, thanks to the institutional inertia of the universities; “it would be only a small exaggeration to say that the syllabus, rather than the open market of the book trade, was the economic space of postmodernism.” That the New Left continues to control academic institutions has given the movement a lifespan far exceeding its intellectual deserts, as the ideologues run the show. That show addresses literature only peripherally; “critics still take sides—but the objects of their most explicit advocacy tend to be critical theories rather than works of literature,” very much at the expense of “literary or aesthetic judgment.” Nor is the show especially difficult to put on; given the prevalent egalitarianism, lit-crits need not work too hard, once they’ve mastered the jargon. One “does not prefer ‘good’ works over ‘bad,’ the canon of ‘literature’ over the rest: literature is merely ‘what gets taught’ and is therefore defined not in terms of its intrinsic properties but on the basis of the purely extrinsic accident that it serves someone’s (ideological) purpose to have it valued and therefore taught.” As usual, in practice this means that the egalitarians have ensconced themselves in a hierarchy, with ‘stars’ pulling down substantial sums of money in exchange for their none-too-burdensome labors. Non-referentiality seems not to interfere with successful careerism in the rotten bourgeois society. This leads to some amusing paradoxes, as when the plays of the avant-garde Marxist Bertolt Brecht become what even one admirer calls “classics of the bourgeois theater.” (“Their revolutionary impact,” Tallis remarks, “may be judged by the almost total absence of the proletariat from their audiences in the free world and the Arts Council funding necessary to mount them.”) And so, “behind ‘theory’ is a dream of unmasking literature and society at large and in this way contributing to the revolution that will lead to a better future. Exactly how this is going to come about is a little unclear.” It is likely to remain so. This more or less must be so, since “if language, for example, were essentially non-referential, then all fiction—not merely realistic fiction—would be impossible; and so too would all literary criticism.” 

“All of this is so obvious, the reader may wonder why critics have managed to maneuver themselves into such absurd positions.” It helps not have had any serious “experience of continuous, logical or critical thought,” to have avoided the task of “advocating ideas that are put to the test of logic or of experience.” Institutional insulation provided by the universities enables the literature professors to concentrate their attention on the politics of academia itself, where rhetorical gestures and petition-signing suffice when it comes to consideration of politics beyond the university walls. The fact that “experimental art and progressive politics” do not necessarily “go together” in the lives of artists outside academic confines may be safely ignored.

Against all this, Tallis asserts that “realistic fiction remains the great unfinished aesthetic adventure.” As the work of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn demonstrates, a realist need not attempt to write like Tolstoy (or Flaubert or Dickens). The Red Wheel experiments with a variety of literary techniques: “the task of letting reality into fiction will always demand a questioning attitude to the language and assumptions of one’s own life and of the world one knows and will require the author to be as experimental as any of the more obtrusively experimental anti-realists.” Solzhenitsyn’s account of the Russian and Communist revolutions invites “a response to an invitation to draw part of what we now; or to use what we know to imagine into what we don’t.” Since “man is the only form of matter that is astonished at its own existence and capable of conceptualizing its own mutability in the terrifying idea of death,” realistic fiction “is, potentially, the highest achievement of man,” and can serve as a rebuke to tyrannies political and intellectual, alike. As for anti-realism, it would be a mistake to try to get rid of it, were that possible. “The anti-realist critique, keeping realism on its toes by continually questioning the received version of the nature of reality and mocking the fictional conventions by which reality is captured for the printed page, is an essential goad, an irritant driving the realistic novelist towards a more self-critical and conscious confrontation with reality, a greater willingness continually to compare what he writes with the world he is experiencing outside of his moments of writing. It forces realism to notice itself.” But for that to happen, “realism, however, remains central.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nathan Orlando: Raymond Aron and His Dialogues in an Age of Ideologies. New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2023.

This review was originally published in Perspectives on Political Science, Volume 52, Number 4, October 2023.

 

A fully ‘credentialed’ graduate of the École Normale Supérieure, a longtime professor of sociology at the Sorbonne, Raymond Aron (1905-1983) nonetheless wrote about politics for scholarly and general reader in exactly the same way: free of jargon, full of common sense. He wrote that way because he thought of politics that way—politically. Aristotle defines politics as the relation of reciprocal ruling and being ruled. Whether addressing his fellow scholars or those who read his newspaper articles, he always spoke as one citizen to another.

In thinking this way, Aron avoided the technicist temptation, with its futile attempt to reduce political science to a set of mathematical equations and graphs, and the even more futile and demonstratively dangerous temptation to reduce political theory to ideology. As Nathan Orlando puts it in this impressive, book, “political scientists of both mindsets dream of a formula such that political action could become simply a matter of inputting the relevant variables into the transhistorical, immaculate equation”—whether expressed in numbers or in formulaic words—and “thereby obviating the need for fallible human judgment.” Political thought needs political theory, which can provide a framework for making political choices, so long as the theorist denies himself the hubristic pleasure of supposing that his ideas solve political problems. With Aristotle, Aron knew that “it is not always ignorance but sometimes the very nature of the subject matter that determines the nature of a theory”; since politics isn’t chemistry or physics, subject to strictly controlled experimentation upon substances that don’t ‘talk back,’ no political theory can ‘print out’ and answer to such questions as war or peace, republic or principality. Insofar as one can discern a theory in Aron’s political thought, it is in large measure “a theory about the limits of theory.” he offers “not a set of ready-made solutions to all the problems of political life but a path to find solutions to a given dilemma.”

Accordingly, in considering the political conditions of mid-twentieth century Europe, Aron engaged not in monologues but dialogues, in some cases engaging political thinkers and statesmen who were reluctant to dialogue with him. He became accustomed to such dialogues early on, having rejected the neo-Kantian philosophy of his university professors in the 1920s, the more sinister philosophic determinism (‘Left’ and ‘Right) he encountered in Germany in the early 1930s, and the economically sound but insufficiently political political economy of Hayek in the 1940s. Although an admirer of the great republican monologist, Charles de Gaulle, he remained independent of Gaullism; in his dialogue with the General, he received few direct responses to his criticisms but knew that his silent interlocutor regarded him as un homme sérieux, the only contemporary political writer worth reading. In his Socratic role, “buzzing like a gadfly,” Aron targeted “comprehensive doctrines, secular religions, demagogues, and all simple, indiscriminate theories that promise miraculous solutions to the problems of human life,” preferring the sobriety of Tocqueville to the systematic rationalism of the ‘high moderns’ and the no less dogmatic irrationalism of the ‘postmoderns.’ 

Many of what would become called the postmodernist themes were sounded by Jean-Paul Sartre, Aron’s classmate at the École. After graduation from university and completion of his military service, Aron accepted academic appointments in Germany, first in Cologne and then in Berlin. Sartre, who had failed his examinations, remained in France but continued his study of philosophy. Both began as idealist, neo-Kantian ‘men of the Left.’ Aron studied Marx, Weber, Husserl, and Heidegger at the same time Hitler undertook his meteoric ascent to supreme power. On the theoretical as well as the practical level, German erased Aron’s naivete. Upon his return to France, it was Aron who brought Husserl to the attention of Sartre; “if Sartre is the father of modem existentialism, Aron played the matchmaker.” That the “human eye cannot see itself,” requiring “a perspective outside of itself by which to see itself,” is the “essential insight of existentialism.” Aron and Sartre discovered themselves in this initial dialogue with one another. But they discovered radically different persons. Aron took from the Germans both a sense of the importance of dialogue to the uncovering of reality and a powerful understanding what happens in politics when politicians abandon dialogue for dictatorship, in both the political and the literal sense of the word. The result of that abandonment is tyranny. Modern tyranny seizes upon the claim that history, conceived as the course of events, is going somewhere, its course determined by historical laws, themselves conceived as ‘dialectical.’ But this dialectic involves not only the clash of opinions, as seen in Socrates’ dialogues, but the clash of actions; according to historicists, the course of events consists of thoughts and actions that unfold in a predictable and inevitable sequence, giving absolute authority to those who understand the laws of history over those who must consent to follow the commands of this vanguard. Aron saw that the two most powerful parties in Germany, the Nazis and the Communists, made the same kind of claim to rule, one basing the historical dialectic on ‘class consciousness,’ the other on ‘race consciousness.’ The weakest German party was animated by the same sort of neo-Kantian idealism Aron had seen in France; its regime, the Weimar Republic, could not stand up to the parties of tyranny.

Aron recoiled from all three parties, all three ideologies. For him, the attempt to replace an impotent idealism with a fusion of idealism and realism was no grand philosophic ‘synthesis’ but merely a chimera. Instead, while remaining mindful of such an ideal or “universal” principle as justice, one must consider political actions primarily in the light of practical rather than theoretical reasoning. Moralism in politics “demands perfection”; it commands us to follow the absolute truth and let the world fall. Practical politics “accepts compromise as inevitable in political life,” given the reciprocity of ruling and being ruled as the core of political life. “The moral critic sleeps well. But he is useless to anyone but himself.” The practical critic and the practical politician reach out to others in dialogue and friendship, seeking reasonable if not abstractly rational settlements of concrete political problems. Aron wrote in that spirit, seeking to engage and persuade, not to announce and demand, much less command. At the same time, the partisan conflicts he witnessed in Germany alerted him to the crucial importance of regime politics, politics consisting of disputes over a nation’s purposes and its way of life, a politics the mild parliamentarians of interwar Europe had hoped they had removed from the landscape.

With Husserl and Marx now in hand, Sartre, by contrast, spent the 1930s and 1940s engaged in a “quixotic attempt to wed existentialism to Marxism.” He never really studied either politics or economics and, while abandoning neo-Kantianism he retained the tone of a strict, even fervent, moralist. Dismissing Kant’s ideals or transcendent principles as illusory, he became even “less tolerant of moral shortcomings rather than more.” He began with Nietzschean assumption that god is dead—not only the God of the Bible but the ‘god’ of transcendentalist philosophy, the categorical imperative. If God is dead, everything is permissible. There is no duty, whether Christian or Kantian. Nor is there any human nature that can serve as a moral standard. But this radical freedom implies radical responsibility. “In living, we each craft our own essence”; existentialist “authenticity” is “to embrace this freedom.” “For Sartre, all the world is a series of evocative paintings that means something particular to each observer, with no impression closer to the truth than any other.” On the one hand, this requires constant self-assertion, constant self-invention, a sort of permanent revolution (to borrow a phrase from Trotsky, later enacted by Mao); on the other hand, since we only understand ourselves by seeing ourselves in the eyes of others, this also requires the recognition of those others while denying that others’ existence is any more stable than one’s own. In Sartre’s view, political struggle was entirely ad hominem, a matter of conflicts among persons, and a succession of Manichean” or uncompromising conflicts at that, since any compromise must be inauthentic, a poor-spirited concession to someone who has espoused some view other than one’s own. This accounts for Sartre’s detestation of “the bourgeois West,” with its commercial-republican inclination to split differences, to come to reasonable accommodations among citizens. Sartre thus wavers from endorsing anti anti-Western political actor, very much including sanguinary tyrants, to the anarchism of the French students during their rebellion of May 1968. 

Thus, “for the first time in the history of philosophy, Sartre takes as a model for dialectic not the dialogue but individual or even solitary consciousness,” whereby each “self” thinks and defines its own existence. “The role of the interlocutor is to conform rather than to contribute.” As a result, Sartre’s writings became more and more impenetrable, whereas Aron’s writings remained clear and eminently readable throughout his career. Goodwill between the two men “became a casualty of ideology.” The friendship ended when Aron (briefly) dared to collaborate with the Gaullists, who defended republicanism against both fascism and communism.

Although Sartre called Marxism “the unsurpassable philosophy of our time,” his attempt to, well, surpass it by wedding existentialism to it ran into an irresolvable contradiction. “The existentialist prizes the radical, inalienable freedom of the self, realized in dialectic.” “But dialectical materialism,” the core of Marxism, “holds that the subject—bourgeois and proletarian alike—is determined by the relations of productive forces out of his control.” There can be no ‘responsibility’ in the Sartrian sense; consistent with his determinism, Marx refrains from blaming the capitalist for thinking and acting as he does. In his Critique of Dialectical Reason, Sartre vainly attempts to square the circle, transferring the dialectic from socioeconomic classes to individuals. So relocated, the struggle becomes the individual’s fight to rest the pull of what Sartre calls “the practico-inert,” the “everyday comfort and complacency” which chains us “within the banality of bourgeois routine and its trappings.” Human freedom id dialectical, the practico-inert anti-dialectical. According to Sartre, human life has always been a struggle against the scarcity of resources. Yet, even as human beings move from scarcity to some degree of prosperity, unfreedom persists. The individual by himself cannot effectively resist this dead weight of the practico-inert, but when he freely joins a “fused group” of fellow reels, “as the French did during the storming of the Bastille in 1789 and the Revolution that followed,” then “each member [voluntarily] thinks and acts as any other,” and freedom triumphs. This is the link between Sartrian individual freedom and Sartrian socialism. The initial, unifying surge of revolutionary fervor can, moreover, be sustained: “The totality of the group is guaranteed, in the final account, by terror”—the guillotine being the weapon of choice in the 1790s. But that, too, is freedom since the individual has freely pledged, Sartre writes, to “instill terror within” himself by telling his fellow revolutionaries, “You must kill me if I secede.” Although he seems not to recognize it, Sartre has radicalized the ‘bourgeois’ social contract of Thomas Hobbes, whereby the sovereign monarch wields death, the king of terrors, over his subjects.

The Kremlin was not amused. Sartre had no more studied Marx’s Capital than Smith’s Wealth of Nations, and it was on the economic determinism of Marx that the Politburo hung its collective (and collectivist) hat. Sartre consoled himself by railing against the “deliberate moral heinousness” of the West, preferring to judge the West by its defects, its supposed “moral perversity,” while judging the Communist regimes “on their lofty aspirations which their shortcomings ought not,” in his view, “overshadow.” After all, Communist crimes aim at building socialism. But even this could not reconcile real, existing Communism to existentialism, as Sartre himself began to see. Even terrorizing purges couldn’t last forever. Just as the revolutionary fervor of the Bolsheviks ossified into the rule of a new ruling class of Party bureaucrats, so Sartre’s oath-bound “fused group” will, Aron predicted “ossify over time as struggle gives way to routine,” causing the group to fall back into “the very practico-inert against which the struggle began.” For Sartre, then, the permanent revolution really must be permanent, endlessly renewed. ‘History’ will have no end; it is a cycle. But if so, why “did any of these choices or those making them actually matter?” Were the choices really free, at all? Was the free self-immolation of the individual into the group not meaningless?

Aron was not more impressed by Sartre’s intellectual legerdemain than the Communists. He considered “the major fact of our age” to be “neither socialism, nor capitalism, nor the intervention of the state, nor free enterprise,” but “the monstrous development of technology and industry,” seen in all political regimes and economic systems. The commercial-republican West and the socialist-tyrannical East both pursued “the same ends: the maximization of consumer, commercial, and military goods and services.” In this struggle, by the 1970s the victory of the West was obvious, as Aron argued in his ironically titled 1977 book, In Defense of Decadent Europe. Marx’s pseudo-scientific claims of the inevitable collapse of ‘capitalism’ having been falsified, Sartre was trying to marry a corpse. And both versions of Marxism led to rule by terror, by mass-murder, although Sartre’s version skipped the revolutionary stage and went right to the farce—May ’68. The problem was not only a matter of unutterably bad practical judgment; it involved, preeminently, a theoretical error. “The freedom of the individual requires that future history remain both unknown and unknowable, at least in full.” Neither personal freedom nor political liberty can be fully tethered to determinism. At the same time, those who seek such freedom and such liberty need to take heed of the realities in front of them rather than the dream they imagine to be ahead of them.” “To defer blame for political acts until the arrival of the kingdom to come is to abdicate political judgment in favor of faith and to sacrifice present political goods”—to say nothing of living human beings—to “hypothetical ones.” “Liberal democracy has not completely removed tragedy from the human condition, but things are not nearly bad enough to justify gambling away every juridical and logical barrier to unlimited despotism in the hope of making things marginally better.” Secular religion of the totalitarian stripe teaches that you must break an egg in order to make an omelet, but the omelet is spoiled by the violence of the breaking. Non-secular religions usually incline to take care that means fit ends, praising the prudence of serpents along with the innocence of doves and leaving the severer punishments to the superior judgment of God. 

With Friedrich Hayek, Aron found himself in dialogue with a fellow liberal, if not a fellow liberal democrat, a firm ally not only in the struggle against Marxism but against the statist dirigisme of John Maynard Keyes. Keynes and his school defined freedom as the overcoming of necessity—obviously drawing from Bacon’s “conquest of nature for the relief of man’s estate”—a conquest centering on the accumulation of power in the form of wealth. That is, power defined ‘econonomistically’ betokens true human freedom. Hayek re-centers the meaning of freedom on its classical foundation: scope for reasoned action, “independence of the arbitrary will of another.” Aron shares this orientation, writing and speaking in order to lead his fellow citizens “down the path of political wisdom” by bringing them to think with him, not to obey rhetorical appeals to ‘the right side of History.’ The two men “shared a common understanding of human agency in history”; in the course of events, thoughtful actions can make a difference. We are not awash in ‘process.’

At the same time, reasoning must not overreach its powers, becoming rationalism. Hayek distinguishes the Scottish from the French Enlightenment. The latter “posits the unlimited potential of human reason to overcome all obstacles and accidents, to incorporate all into its order,” as indeed the Keynesians inclined to do. The Scottish Enlightenment, seen preeminently in the writings of Adam Smith, understands reason not as systematic but as the more limited pursuit of prosperity based on conditions readily seen, not supposedly foreseen—this, further limited by the precepts of conscience, as described in Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments. A shared “humbling recognition of the limits of human reason led Hayek and Aron to the same conclusion about the nature of governments, both socialist and pluralistic: they are not and cannot be omnipotent in governing human affairs.” This rationally discernible understanding of reason’s limits and the humility it encourages contrasts with the hubris of ideology.

Paradoxically, it was the success of liberal economics and politics that was undermining liberalism in the years following the Second World War. Aron noticed two closely related maladies: first (in an insight borrowed from Tocqueville), “the better things get, the more frustrated individuals become with the imperfections that remain, that conditions are not better still”; second (in an insight borrowed from Joseph Schumpeter, but seen as far back as the Bible), the virtues that build prosperity—thrift, public spiritedness—decline as prosperity increases. In the postwar years, to point out the dangers of ‘the affluent society’ was to go against the grain of prevailing sentiment in the democracies Aron saw “a certain kinship” with Hayek, “this man who chooses to defy the demos for the sake of the demos.”

Hayek understands freedom’s opposite, coercion, as a narrowing of the individual’s choices back by the threat of harm. “For Hayek, coercion is the great evil to be avoided not simply as an intrinsic or independent iniquity but because it disrupts the ability for man to make use of his rationality,” the characteristic that makes him a human being. On the contrary, “the possibilities for the individual should remained as unrestricted and open to the unforeseen as possible.” To achieve this, Hayek proposes the rule of law, which differs from coercion because it is promulgated not hidden, and it is impersonal. Law provides the individual with information about the conditions under which the individual can act, giving him foreknowledge of what will or will not happen if he does what he plans to do. Law gives him “the predictability upon which to base future conduct.” Therefore, a democratic regime may compromise the rule of law, since democracy is a procedure, a mode of governing, and as such animated by the arbitrary will of the majority, which is unpredictable.

Aron takes Hayek’s point, but demurs. “Non-coercion appears to Aron to be an insufficient standard by which to measure freedom.” It does not take into account the moral and political complexities of affluent, industrial societies, which constrain citizens in ways that mere equality under the law cannot address. In modern states, political liberty, participation in the framing of the laws that govern us, has become indispensable to the maintenance of individual freedom. Moreover, modern political economies can constrain the freedom of action of industrial workers; Marx was right about that, if about little else. Marx wrongly dismisses “formal freedoms”—political liberty—in favor of “real” freedoms—protection against unemployment and other ills of the business cycle and of factory-worker “wage slavery.” “Formal freedoms” will not suffice “when the ability to exercise them is lacking.” Both kinds of freedom must be respected; “the two types of freedom exist in dialogue” among citizens who stand ready to fit one with the other. For Aron, the United States of his time, the American way of life, had achieved a decent reconciliation, to the degree possible, of these “various desires for freedom.”

Behind laws, one always finds a regime, and a regime consists not only of a way of life but of persons, rulers, the institutions by which they rule, and the purposes they pursue by ruling. A government of laws is strictly impossible, only a government in accordance with laws. Only persons can govern, and they are governing other persons. In applying laws, even ‘strict constructionist’ judges need to exercise equity, prudential judgment of particular individuals whose circumstances differ from case to case; individuals need equal protection under the laws, not sameness of application of the laws. “Even were it possible to expunge the human element of political life, politics without men becomes an automated system, a machine focused upon efficiency that more than likely sublimates all other priorities to economic progress”—understandably enough in Hayek, “an economist by training” who “attempt[s] to fit his political philosophy into his economic categories.” But as Aron insists, “Politics is never reducible to economics,” whether Marxist or liberal. “The soldier who throws himself onto a grenade, the voter who agrees to higher taxes, the jury that convicts a gang member who promises vengeance, these do not pass muster for economic rationality.” Surprisingly, Hayek’s denigration of politics, his attempt to replace it with the rule of law, parallels the anti-political character of the administrative state he detests, replacing the government of persons with the administration of things. On the contrary, Aron argues, “Politics as usual constitutes the primary recourse against the administrative state.”

“Aron makes the radical suggestion that deriving law from the dialogue of men is not only not a tragedy of the human condition but the only way to approach some issues,” the only way to acknowledge that politics addresses the persistence of human imperfection. “The search for the transcendent, perfect code will leave us wanting.” And Tocqueville is right (in this, neither man is more French): Political liberty opens the individual human soul to a joie de vivre unattainable under the anti-political regimes of modern tyranny or the impersonal “rule of law.” This can “only be doubted by minds captive to fanaticism or prejudice.” In Aron’s words, “democracy is morally superior to despotism not because, say, its economic system is better”—though it is—or “because it is more creative and generally productive”—but “because it comes up with better human beings” under the conditions of modern statism. Within the framework of the modern state, government of and by the people, ruling one another reciprocally, politically, is now the best way to achieve government for the people.

In Charles de Gaulle, Aron addressed no theorist devoid of any sense of practical politics. As Aron saw it, de Gaulle’s mistakes owed to his inadequate political theory, which skewed his excellent political judgment. De Gaulle, the ardent French nationalist, at times took his nationalism too far.”

Aron cautioned his readers not to mistake Gaullist nationalism as either a form of biological pseudo-science (as seen in Hitler) or as a species of misguided metaphysics (as propounded by Hegel). For de Gaulle, a nationality does consist of the “spirit” of a people, but not in the unfolding of some supposed ‘Absolute Spirit.’ Nationality results instead from ruling institutions, moeurs or ways of life, and the historical experience of a people, along with its purpose or purposes—in the case of France, famously, la grandeur. That is, nationality closely resembles what Aristotle calls a regime, with “spirit” meaning what Aristotle means by ethos. This question of the French regime had wracked French politics for a century and a half, with partisans of Legitimist monarchism (absolutists and constitutionalists), Bonapartist despotism, republicanism (military or commercial), socialism (democratic or communist), and oligarchy (‘authoritarian’ or fascist), vying for rule. Implicated in the ‘Who rules?’ question was the ‘way of life’ questions, since “France was the last country in Western Europe to cease eulogizing the yeoman farmer, to accept the city as a benign rather than devouring monster and, in short, the last to modernize.” More precisely, however, France was the last to modernize its civil society but among the first to modernize its state, which it did under the Bourbons in the seventeenth century. Added to these dilemmas of regime and the relation between modern state and civil society was France’s geopolitical circumstance. Locate squarely on the Great European Plain stretching from “the Atlantic to the Urals,” as de Gaulle put it, more than once, a militarily powerful Franc might succumb to the lure of imperialism, while a weak France might succumb to the imperial ambitions of others. The Russians were far away, with imperial ambitions that did not read so far west, but once Bismarck and the Hohenzollerns had unified the many German states, France was outnumbered and outgunned by its next-door neighbor.

Call it patriotism, nationality, or nationalism, de Gaulle saw the way forward for the French in the proud, spirited invocation of Frenchness, backed institutionally by a strong executive elected by the people, not the weak parliamentarism that had failed Franc and Germany. Hence the Fifth Republic, for which he acted as the founder. “Nationalism, he hoped could provide [the] cohesion necessary for France, battered by waves of military and social upheaval in the first half of the twentieth century”—and indeed for a hundred twenty years before that—to “regain control of her destiny”—her self-government—in “the second half.”

Aron saw, understood, and concurred in most of this. Throughout the 1930s, both men had warned against French failure to take German ambitions seriously. During their exile in London, Aron worked on La France Libre, the Gaullist newspaper, which had built up more subscribers than any other monthly publication in Britain by the end of the war. De Gaulle wasn’t entirely happy with Aron’s journalistic touch, which he regarded as too analytical, insufficiently ardent for the times. But the break came in 1943, when Aron published an article titled. “L’Ombre de Bonaparte,” in which he suggested that “the growing personality cult” surrounding the Free French leader might result in the ruin of French republicanism, after the war. He was especially troubled by de Gaulle’s claim to symbolize or embody France itself; he had already overridden the rule of law by dismissing the Vichy regime the parliamentarians had surrendered to, in the wake of the Nazi conquest. Having asserted his own claim to rule, having become “the arbiter of what was and what was not ‘eternal France,'” de Gaulle, at least in the minds of some member of his entourage in exile, began to resemble Louis Napoleon—or even Louis XIV, with his worrisome claim, “L’État, c’est moi.” “Human nature being what it is, it would have been difficult not to conflate the nation with its guardian, guarantor, promulgator, and chief of government himself.”

Aron’s suspicions heightened after the Nazis took over southern France beginning in November 1942, where the Vichy regime had ruled (under Nazi supervision) for the previous two years. The London Gaullists worried that the Vichyites might take their regime to Algeria and set up their gown government in exile in competition with Free France. As Orlando summarizes the matter, “during this pivotal reconfiguration of forces, General de Gaulle chose self-interest over national interest,” fearing that the doddering Marshal Pétain, figurehead leader of the Vichyites, might “find his backbone and do the right thing.” “Where the roads between self-interest and national interest diverged, the General failed to make the necessary distinction and chose himself over France.”

But did he? De Gaulle viewed the insinuation with indignation, and rightly so. De Gaulle was no monarchist, Bonapartist or otherwise, and the Vichyites were no republicans. What is more, and worse, the charge of Bonapartism was precisely the accusation leveled against de Gaulle by President Roosevelt and his State Department throughout the war. De Gaulle suspected the Americans of wanting France to return to a weak, parliamentary form of republicanism that Washington could readily influence. (One might add that Roosevelt himself hardly favored a legislature-centered regime in his own country.) In de Gaulle’s eyes, Aron’s article added another bucket of water to the American grist mill. The problem was that in 1943, Aron knew de Gaulle too little to know that. His concern was understandable; it might have been allayed precisely by an Aron-style dialogue between the two men—this one in person, not in print—but that never happened.

When de Gaulle voluntarily left the government in the year after the end of the war, Aron was reassured of the General’s republican bona fides. His fears renewed in 1958, however, when the crisis of French rule in Algeria threatened the Fourth Republic. De Gaulle lost no time in swooping in, shouldering aside the hapless parliamentarians threatened by a military coup orchestrated by Algeria-based military officers. Admittedly, as Aron wrote, de Gaulle “has the soul of a paternal monarch or of a prince-president, not of a tyrant.” Still, in a role analogous to that of the dictator-savior-legislators of the Roman republic, de Gaulle founded a republic Aron judged to grant too much power to the president, over-correcting the parliamentary republicanism that had failed the country every time it had been put to a serious geopolitical test. As he frequently did, Aron preferred the American system of mutually checking, balanced powers, however much that had been compromised by the likes of Roosevelt. Aron thus continued to uphold dialogue, not executive monologue, as the sine qua non of the republican regime and indeed of genuine politics.

To emphasize the need for a strong executive in the new republic, de Gaulle attempted to stake out an independent stance, the vindication of French sovereignty or self-government and the assertion of French grandeur in his foreign policy. This involved moves designed to inspire national sentiments not only in France but throughout the world, undermining (as he hoped) the rival Cold War hegemons, the United States and the Soviet Union. That is, de Gaulle, who understood very well that France could no longer be grand in the manner of Louis XIV or Napoleon I, could still act greatly by bringing every nation to take on the moral and political responsibility of self-government, against imperialism. At the same time, he hoped to build Europe into a federation, not an empire of sovereign nations, “l’Europe des patries.” Ultimately, this would include Russia itself; at one point, he startled Premier Alexei Kosygin with the abrupt invitation, “Come, let us build Europe together.” (The firm Communist Party ideologue demurred.) De Gaulle took this to be an achievable project, if only in the long run, because he saw that nations outlive their rulers and ruling institutions of the moment. Sooner or later, he believed, the nations will prevail. France would reach for a new type of greatness, the greatness that comes from leading the nations to a new order of geopolitics beyond both Realpolitik and imperialism.

While that last claim is empirically true, if French nationality consists of a regime in the profound Aristotelian sense of the word, not simply in politicians and institutions that evanesce, would regime conflicts not persist among self-governing nations? De Gaulle knew that they would, which is why he saw to it that (to take the most striking example) France built a nuclear arsenal that could be aimed in all directions. Aron considered these long-range strategies and tactics a threat to France in the present. To destabilize the Atlantic Alliance in the name of French self-government and greatness might well make de Gaulle’s farsighted policy impossible, causing it to stumble long before it could be realized.

In response to these criticisms particularly a 1961 article quite prematurely titled, “Adieu to Gaullism,” de Gaulle took the trouble to write to Aron in 1963. “At bottom,” he said, “everything: ‘Europe,’ the ‘Atlantic Community,’ ‘NATO,’ ‘armaments,’ and so on, comes down to a single question, should France be France?” Yes, Aron, replied, but all of those things that confine France now also indispensably protect her, here and now. Given not only the power of the Soviet Union and the nature of its regime, France needs her mighty ally, however its dominance may chafe. And the fact that de Gaulle had entwined grandeur with himself—to be sure, as an element of a republican founding—only gave Aron further pause. “Aron, given l=to less lofty visions and more moderate expectations, recognized that France could be France without greatness. and that, both prudentially and practically, she must be.” That is, Aron associated French greatness with great power, which it obviously no longer had, nuclear arms notwithstanding. De Gaulle, however, never supposed that France would fully recover the power wielded in previous centuries; for him, greatness could now be achieved by policy, enunciated more in words than in action, policy foreign and domestic, both in the service of spirited self-government, in France and in all countries.

Given the largely rhetorical character of de Gaulle’s enterprise, at least in his foreign policy, Aron objected to the rhetoric itself. “By his maverick pronouncements, he gave the Soviet bloc every reason to overestimate its support in the West.” De Gaulle also encouraged the growing movement of left-wing ‘Third Worldism,’ which set France on a course bizarrely in tune with the contemporary fulminations of the neo-Marxist Frantz Fanon. “And perhaps most of all,” de Gaulle’s rhetoric, Aron wrote, “did not shake the Soviet bloc, but he did trouble the Western bloc, which was by nature more stable,” being ruled by democratically elected politicians, not Kremlin oligarchs. True, de Gaulle’s actions in the intermittent Cold War crises spoke louder, at those moments, than his words—President Johnson never forgot de Gaulle’s backing during the Cuban missile showdown, when he was Kennedy’s vice president—de Gaulle’s rhetorical “oversimplications, so oft repeated an so vociferously expressed, endangered the Western allies unnecessarily and courted unacceptable risks”; “by attempting to carve out a role in global politics separate from but equal to that of the two Super Powers, de Gaulle’s politics of grandeur screened France from reality, to the peril of all,” not because de Gaulle didn’t know the score but by riding on an implausible pretense, by becoming an implausible mythmaker. As Orlando writes, “De Gaulle had a fine, prudential line to walk between timorous acceptance of the given”—the sort of poor-spiritedness he had excoriated as far back as the 1930s—and “pernicious audacity toward his romantic vision.” In Aron’s judgment, de Gaulle stepped over that line too often. In Orlando’s judgment, “Aron’s firm grip on the actual counterbalanced de Gaulle’s vivid imagination,” opposing his prose to the General’s poetry. True, de Gaulle never soared off into the clouds with ideologues like Sartre, or even into the poetry-at-the-service-of-the-prosaic seen in Hayek. But he went a little too far in that direction. “The prosaic and the fantastic must go hand in hand in the realm of politics, neither fully capturing the human adventure.”

Orlando takes de Gaulle’s break with Israel over its initiation of the Six-Day War in 1967 as the most illustrative instance of the Gaullist “civil religion” of nationalism “put to the test.” The incident posed an “underlying question: can one be both a Jew and a Frenchman?”

In the aftermath of Israel’s spectacular victory against Arab armies massed on its borders, de Gaulle, hitherto a firm supporter of the Jewish state held a press conference in which he complained that its government had ignored his warning that whichever side truck first would be regarded by franc as the aggressor. “France’s voice was unheeded,” he intoned, adding that since Israel’s founding the presence of such an “elite people, self-assured and dominating” in the Middle East might well cause more trouble in an already unstable region. He called for the Great Powers, very much including France, to impose a peace settlement including internationally recognized borders, but only after the United States removed its troops from Vietnam—a seemingly irrelevant condition that perplexed more than a few observers.

Orlando provides a careful analysis of de Gaulle’s rationale and of Aron’s critique. In the 1950s, de Gaulle had decried Israel’s founding as “a historical necessity,” going so far as to say that the main problem with it was that the country was too small to be readily defended, that it needed ready access to the Red Sea, and that it should enjoy some degree of control over Jerusalem. These were the results of the 1967 war: Why did de Gaulle reverse himself? Orlando sees that in the 1950s France and Israel were closely aligned, France having supported Israel during the 1956 Suez Canal War, unlike the United States or the Soviet Union, then competing for Egyptian favor. That is, Israel then “constituted one point in the constellation of the Gaullist vision for potential foreign policy.” Not so, by 1967. This time, the Americans were backing Israel and alliance with the Arab states had become more attractive to France, which had relinquished its imperial holding in every Muslim country it had occupied. Aron saw that de Gaulle was simply pursuing France’s “new national interest,” part of his “broader campaign of appealing to nationalism, worldwide. It was another demonstration of French independence from the Americans, a demonstration with no material cost either to France or to Israel, since the Israeli victory was a fait accompli. This also explains de Gaulle’s demand for American withdrawal from Vietnam; he promoted national self-determination for the Vietnamese, even at the risk of a communist regime there, while again charting an independent course from Washington.

Aron understood all this but dissented. Given the worldwide rivalry of the Great Powers, there could be no coherent and lasting settlement of Arab-Israeli borders brokered by them. Since France wasn’t really a Great Power, far from being a go-between at some future peace conference, it would be ignored, if not excluded altogether. Further, if the assertion of national interest amounts to an imperative for any government, was Israel not acting in its own national interest by launching a preemptive strike against the far more numerous Arab armies? And was this not doubly true, given the fact that any Israeli loss would have meant the erasure of Israel, whereas Arab defeats in the past, present, and future left the Arab countries intact? Finally, did the Israelis not plainly see that it “could not rely on any other state” to defend it in a timely way? As a Jew, Aron well knew that Jews in Europe had often been tolerated in their host countries, but often persecuted. Why would Gentile nations leap to their defense now that they had a state of their own?

The history of European anti-Semitism also brought Aron to object to de Gaulle’s remark about the elite and dominating people, although not in any facile way. Aron understood that in de Gaulle’s mid “elite, self-assured, and dominating” was a compliment, albeit a double-edged one in this context. Just as he had dismissed charges that de Gaulle was a fascist, so he dismissed charges that he personally was anti-Semitic, while deploring the comfort such a remark would give to those who were—very much including certain elements among the French and substantial portions of the Arab populations. As Aron remarked, the word dominateur has a negative connotation, and had been deployed against Jews by elements of the French Right in the 1930s. De Gaulle had no animus against Jews, but he did resent “the outpouring of support among French Jews for Israel’s actions.” Whose side were they on: France, as embodied by de Gaulle, or a foreign state, even if that state consisted of their fellow Jews, many of whom had left Europe in the wake of the Holocaust.

In this “we see the ultimate expression of de Gaulle’s nationalism,” an all-or-nothing concept that precluded any sympathy for any people that defied French policy. In Aron’s understanding of Gaullist nationalism, “the unswerving love of France and France alone can and should fill the horizon of one’s imagination and identity.” Himself a thoroughly ‘secularized’ Jew, who declared “I am French…before I am Jewish,” and indeed an anti-Zionist in the 1930s and ’40s, Aron viewed de Gaulle’s assumption with profound unease. “In suggesting that the Jewishness of the Jew inherently sets him at odds with the state, that Jewishness creates the necessary and sufficient condition for disloyalty and, by implication, therefore ought to be severed from his being as a French citizen, the General transgressed the limits of what a nation can and should ask of its citizens.” Important as patriotism is, it surely must not constitute the fullest expression of a human being’s soul.

Therefore, “a liberal state must accept that each person can have both a nation-state and a religion simultaneously.” It is one thing to demand loyalty, to stand ready to punish treason. Dissent from national policy usually does not qualify as treason, as it surely did not in this case; nor does sympathy for a foreign nation. De Gaulle also should have been more careful at directing such a criticism at Jews, a little more than a decade after Jewish survivors had been released from German concentration camps, which gave a rather more harsh example of “domineering.” “Taken to the extreme, nationalism can obscure all else—especially prudence—from consideration, just as communism had done for Sartre.” (De Gaulle is said to have remarked, “Sartre, too, is France,” but for the down-to-earth Aron, that was precisely the problem.) So, yes, “de Gaulle suggests an important dictum with which Aron concurs; dual political identities ought to be forbidden because they deny a fundamental premise of political life.” De Gaulle rightly reprimanded “Israelis of the diaspora,” but he wrongly reprimanded Jews who were French citizens. Israel, a secular and democratic state, is not the same as the Jewish people as a religious or, more broadly, ‘cultural’ identity.

“What then is nationalism, ideally?” Aron acknowledged what de Gaulle accomplished while evoking his version of it: a new and better constitution for France; divestment of the last important and highly troublesome imperial territories; construction of a nuclear deterrent force; modernization of the economy; restoration of some of France’s lost international prestige; facing down no fewer than four threats of civil war. The major powers, the United States and the Soviet Union, held themselves together at least in part with shared (in the case of the Soviet, imposed) ideas; France had no such resource, as many of its factions cashed over rival ideas. De Gaulle “rallie[d] his people to a flag—with himself as its bearer—rather than a creed”; “because a state in the world lives more precariously than a transcendent idea, de Gaulle’s (lack of) margin for error forces him to walk a narrower line,” and so did his kind of nationalism. “By uniting a sharply factionalized nation behind his very person, General de Gaulle risk[ed] disaster with each and every decision. But neither could he avoid indecision.” Indecision was what had brought down several of France’s parliamentary republics. In Aron’s last analysis, “de Gaulle did more with less than any Frenchman could have dared hope.”

Raymond Aron’s political science was intentionally embedded in concrete political circumstances, as those circumstances arose. It resisted easily summarized grand generalizations. But, as Orlando writes, “The West did not need a Marx to outline a new philosophy of history. The West did not need to demand of its thinkers a philosophical uniformity. In order to stymie the Soviet Union, the West needed only to be.” That is, it needed the power not of refutation of example, and example that endured. This had been so, from George Washington to Charles de Gaulle when it comes to statesmen (would you rather be ruled by Napoleon or Lenin?), and even more so in the prosperity of its civil societies and, indeed, their joie de vivre. (Even de Gaulle, no boulevardier, faulted the Soviet Union for its lugubrious atmosphere.)

Aron rightly insisted that the dialogic character of Western civil societies made the West stronger than the Soviet Union, which, as he wrote, “paralyze[d] knowledge even while claiming to ‘totalize’ it.” The West’s “confidence in the governed” triumphed over the Communists” “refusal of dialogue” even as its adepts droned on about ‘the dialectic.’ He continued: “A philosopher is first of all responsible to philosophy”; “he would cease to deserve the name of philosopher only on the day that he came to share the fanaticism or skepticism of ideologues, the day he subscribed to inquisition by theologian-judges.” It is the philosopher’s “civic duty, his duty to society,” to pursue dialogue, first of all with himself, then with others. That is why philosophy must and can be political philosophy, ruling and being ruled by the better arguments, as tested in dialogue. the Socratic gadfly practices such political philosophy.

Political philosophy is also ‘politic’ philosophy. as Orlando finely describes him, “Aron stood for political prudence. As a result, he regularly stood alone. But he was never content to remain so” He “endeavored to dissuade his friends from their excesses,” and if he did not convince his friends he may well have dissuaded many of his fellow citizens from going along with those excesses. “He showed the broader citizenry how to do politics in an age of ideologies, how to return to the public realm,” how to recover citizen liberty from those who claimed to rule on the basis of one or another species of historical determinism. He rested his hope not in “the process of history but…in the rational capacity of man and in a regime that allows him to exercise it.” In so doing he “impar[ed] to posterity a paradigm that shows us how we might confront our own dilemmas and interlocutors in our own time.”

With his first book Nathan Orlando brings himself forward as a political thinker in the line of Aron. Long may he continue in it.