Jenny Teichman: Pacifism and Just War: A Study in Applied Philosophy. London: Basil Blackwell, Ltd., 1987.

Originally published in the New York City Tribune, November 25, 1987.

 

Contemporary British philosophers often believe ethics and politics sub-philosophic. Although philosophy began as an attempt to give a rational account of the whole of nature, these philosophers finally can only throw up their hands at human choices, private or public. Choices, they claim, are ‘subjective,’ a matter of irrational feelings or historically-given conventions. Ultimately, logic is irrelevant to choice. As A. J. Ayer claims in his well-known book Language, Truth, and Logic, we may use reason to clarify secondary issues, so we don’t choose contradictory means to an end. But we cannot reasonably choose the end itself. ‘The Good’ remains beyond (some would say beneath) rational thought. Philosophers can offer no serious help when we ask ‘should’ questions.

Unfortunately for this view, some people, not all of them philosophically incompetent, in fact persist in trying to think rationally about what is good for them. And if one asks, ‘What’s good for me?’ it’s hard to avoid the question, ‘Who am I?’ From there, the questions ‘What is a human being?’ and ‘What is good for human beings as such?’ are not far behind.

Jenny Teichman is a British philosophy professor trained in the familiar techniques of analytical logic. Unlike her immediate predecessors, she takes ‘should’ questions seriously. Pacifism and the Just War represents an heir of Ayers’ intelligent effort to come to terms philosophically with the good—and with moral and political life, which aims at the good. She does so without availing herself of the absolutist language of rights—as distinguished from right. She pointedly remarks, “If one tries to reduce all moral questions to matters of rights one ends up in various impasses that were not there when one began.”

Teichman begins by defining pacifism not merely as opposition to violence (a pacifist might spank his children) but as “anti-war-ism,” “a principled objection to the violence of war.” She fails to define ‘war,’ thereby injuring her argument. To define war, she would need to discuss war’s purpose, instead of merely asserting that it is “victory.” She would need to think politically, to move beyond “applied” philosophy to political philosophy. She would need to think about what pacifism—literally, ‘peace-ism’—is for, not only what it is against. As things stand, “anti-war-ism” is merely the negation of a shadow, and this becomes obvious when she writes, “War without death is logically impossible.” Not so: although war without death has been well-nigh impossible so far, logically it’s easy to conceive of a war in which enemy troops, rulers, populations are incapacitated, political objections gained without any deaths at all.

Teichman attempts to ground her study in practical reality. She does this by presenting brief, competent histories of pacifist doctrine (“it comes to us from Christianity”) and of conscription. But she doesn’t fully integrate her historical knowledge with her philosophic thought; again, only a political understanding would enable her to do that.

For example, she rightly says that some advocates of the ‘just war’ theory confuse war with civil punishment. Sovereign states consist in part of a civil authority that sets laws and punishments, but in war, she observes, no overarching authority exists.

This is right as far as it goes, but it omits two points that Augustine, author of the Christian version of the just war doctrine, would insist upon. First, wars are ordered by civil authorities. Just wars are governed by such authorities, and this distinguishes them from piracy and terrorism. Political life consists neither of world government nor of anarchy. Second, Augustine considers God the overarching ruler, albeit not now here on earth, or at least not simply so. Given the close association of politics and religion throughout most of human history, a philosopher who overlooks the one may well overlook the other.

Not only Augustine but his decidedly non-Christian predecessor Cicero would take strong exception to Teichman’s contention that “the questions as to who or what is an authority logically capable of initiating and waging a just war rest ultimately on facts about inherited customs and institutions… and on facts about Realpolitik (such as the actions of Palmerston, of Robespierre, and of Lenin); for it is these things that determine the identities of rulers and the boundaries of political units.” A true civil authority, just-war theorists agree, consists not only of conventions and power, but of right. Political justice does not reduce to a set of facts originating in accident and human conventions.

This mistake accounts for Teichman’s otherwise surprising agreement with Thomas Hobbes, a somewhat less gentle soul, in arguing that one may rightfully resist any attack on one’s life, “whatever the rights and wrongs of the original quarrel.” If so, then Stalin has the right to resist an assassination attempt. But why does he?

War, “is, of course, evil intrinsically and essentially” because it is “a test of might and is therefore inherently incapable of settling questions of right.” True: But war is capable of defending natural right or justice, as secured (if imperfectly) in existing practices, even if it cannot tell us what justice is. Teichman sees this, more or less, when she disagrees with pacifists, reminding them that although war is evil it is not therefore the worst evil. She sees this with less clarity when she restricts just war to defense against genocide or some equally “dreadful catastrophe.” Prudent statesmen might well reply that small offenses can lead to large ones, and a small war (say, over control of the Rhineland in 1936) might be preferably to a large one (say, the Second World War). that we are left with necessarily imprecise judgments, often made by incompetent men, may be a melancholy fact. It is also an inescapable one, at least so far.

Teichman wishes to escape it. “We might well say that the point is not to justify war but to abolish it.” The political question remains: On what terms? Philosophically, it also remains to be seen whether and to what extent analytical logic (as distinguished from other kinds of reasoned thought) suffices to illuminate politics. Given Professor Teichman’s intellectual integrity and distaste for cant, she may have some exceptionally interesting things to say on that subject. She will need to think more about politics, and political philosophy, before saying them.

Pierre Clastres: Society Against the State: Essays in Political Anthropology. Robert Hurley and Abe Stein translation. New York: Zone Books, 1987. [Published in France in 1974].

Review originally published in the New York City Tribune, July 4, 1988.

 

Generally a tedious lot, anthropologists slog through rain forests trying to understand obscure tribes, returning to academia where they preach ‘cultural relativism’ and accuse one another of ‘ethnocentricity.’ As none but a few of their colleagues can actually observe the phenomena they purport to describe, humbug goes undetected for years—viz. the notorious case of Margaret Mead and her swinging Samoans, hostages to mod-lib ideology.

These efforts might make some sense if anthropologists worked to uncover human nature. Most prefer the intellectually safer but morally more dangerous course of denying that human nature exists at all, thus dismissing their only conceivably raison d’être. Why read anthropology at all?

Because, despite the self-imposed blinders, at time anthropologists do glimpse human nature, as in the research of Pierre Clastres, late Director of Studies at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes in Paris. Clastres undertook the study of South American tribes, not out of some aimless ‘interest’ but to learn something about the relation of human society to politics. He denies that politics, conceived as the exercise of ‘power,’ exists “in man as a natural being.”  Nonetheless, as a political anthropologist, Clastres sought answers to such perennial questions as, ‘Who rules?’ and ‘What is the end of political life?’ Human beings are political, just not in the way ‘we moderns’ define politics. This insight took him well beyond the conventional relativism of his trade.

Modern political philosophers—beginning with Machiavelli, subtly, and continuing through Marx and Nietzsche, baldly—define politics as coercion, conquest, command, and obedience. Aside from the Incans, whose political regime somewhat resembled the modern authoritarian state, the South American tribes have yet no such experience in their daily lives. In war, yes—necessarily. In peace, no: “If there is something completely alien to an Indian, it is the idea of giving an order or having to obey.” For an Indian, “the political is determined as a domain beyond coercion and violence, beyond hierarchical subordination.” “It is not evident to me,” Clastres writes, “that coercion and subordination constitute the essence of political power in all times and all places.”

Each tribe has a chief, to be sure. He acts not as a commander; instead, he moderates disputes, distributes his own (not others’) goods, and orates. He remains entirely dependent upon the group, his public speech ritualistic, not dictatorial. He reaffirms traditional ways, issuing no commands. Political power stays within the society itself, whose members prevent tyranny by simply ignoring any chief so presumptuous as to command them. “Most Indian societies in America are distinguished by their sense of democracy and taste for equality.” They allow a chief to command only in times of war. Clastres pauses to tell the comic-poignant story of Geronimo, the North American chief who wasted much of his life vainly urging the Apache to wage war against Mexico. As a wiser chief told a Spanish explorer (in unknowing contradiction of Machiavelli), “I prefer to be loved and not feared.”

Indians care “to constantly keep power apart from the institutions of power, command apart from the chief.” Clastres admires this solution to the problem of rulership. He does not overlook its severity. “Primitive society… is a society from which nothing escapes, which lets nothing get outside itself, for all the exits are blocked.” The means of blockage are cruel. Tribes initiate young men not by schooling but by torture. Society literally “imprints its mark on the bodies of the young people,” symbolically “inscribing the text of the law on the surfacing of their bodies.” This ferocious egalitarianism teaches, “You are worth no more than anyone else; you worth no less than anyone else.” Coercion, then, does not disappear from these societies; they ‘front-load’ it, reserve it for childhood or youth, counting on the lessons learned then to carry over for a lifetime. If this “prohibition of inequality that each person will remember” prevents tyranny, it also prevents philosophy. It is a “pedagogy” without dialogue; the initiate silently consents. The Thirty Tyrants could not concur, but neither could Socrates. The public rule of coercive state force and the private rule of wisdom are equally impossible.

Clastres’ observations confound Marxist pseudo-explanations of ‘History,’ particularly those regarding ‘surplus value.’ Primitive societies were not and are not subsistence economies, awaiting much-needed evolution into more advanced types. They are sedentary, not nomadic, thanks to the richness of the landscapes they inhabit. Indeed, the first Europeans in Brazil fretted at the Indians’ conspicuous leisure: “Obviously, these people were deliberately ignorant of the fact that one must earn his daily bread by the sweat of his brow. It would do, and it didn’t last: the Indians were soon put to work, and they died of it.” Pace, Marx: Work is the opiate of the masses. Or, as Clastres writes, “the economic derives from the political.”

Feminists will find no more comfort in Clastres’ research than Marxists. Men and women perform separate functions, the men hunting and gathering, the women consuming and tending the household. Men are the humans of the bow, women the humans of the basket—one sex the masters of the forest, the other mistresses of the encampment. Taboos match practice: “A hunter could not bear the shame of carrying a basket, whereas his wife would be afraid to touch his bow.” Women sing of pain, anguish; they give birth and mourn the dead. Men sing of their own glory, each one to himself alone, pouring their (highly elevated) sense of themselves into “the hymn of their freedom,” the one activity in which their individuality is not strictly limited by the social laws etched into their skin. ‘Song of Myself,’ indeed!

Clastres would explain the transition from statelessness to state rule not by some natural or even historical evolution but by the pressures of population density. Tribes in the tropical forests of America range from between forty and several hundred persons. With more people, a society survives only with recourse to the unifying power of a state. Here Clastres succumbs to his own inadequate conception of human nature, which cannot distinguish between animal and human biology. Because he only conceives of speech in terms of command, or solitary song, or prophetic oratory, but never as a means of rational deliberation, Clastres cannot identify the distinctively human characteristics. He cannot see how government develops out of the tribe, naturally—that is, by human nature’s exercise. For this insight one must still read that earlier and greater political anthropologist, Aristotle.

A sort of latter-day Rousseau, Clastre does not entirely overcome modern thought any more than Rousseau did. He does correct that thought in telling ways, as Rousseau did. Like Rousseau’s, his work stands as a thorough refutation of the utopian dream which combines this-worldly community with humanitarian tenderness.

Asher Horowitz: Rousseau: Nature and History. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1987.

Originally published in the New York City Tribune, June 24, 1987.

 

Serious study of Jean-Jacques Rousseau reveals much of what goes on beneath the surface of politics in the West. Listen to the speeches, read the op-ed pieces, watch the televised argument-circuses, then identify the common themes and assumptions. You will find almost every one of those assumptions in Rousseau—not as assumptions, however, but as questions, criticisms, and counsels. Asher Horowitz writes, “Rousseau’s problems are still our problems, perhaps more so than ever.” The “question of civilization” itself, particularly the increasing dichotomy between rationalism and passion-worship, “still looms as a potentially explosive issue on the political agenda.”

This is so, because the complex question of the relationship between nature and history, a question Rousseau understood better than almost anyone in the past two centuries, remains nothing if not controversial. Do “the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God” legitimately govern men and nations? Or do we write our own laws, consciously and unconsciously constructing our ‘values’ as we go along? Radical publicists, ‘Left’ and ‘Right,’ exalt ‘History’ over God and nature, with results that range from the lamentable to the preposterous.

A serious and perceptive student of Rousseau, Horowitz can therefore help us see the roots of modern politics. Although he foolishly admires the late Herbert Marcuse, a neo-Marxist charlatan who played to, and into, the illusions of the ‘Sixties New Left, Horowitz wisely avails himself of nothing Marcusean in his scholarship: no fake-Freudian social psychology, no Marxist attempt at locating the philosopher within his ‘historical moment,’ and no polemical jive.

Unlike most ideologues, Horowitz reads Rousseau. He tries to find out what Rousseau himself wants to teach careful readers. In this Horowitz follows Marcuse less than Leo Strauss, another German-Jewish refugee scholar with whom Marcuse may be said to have had nothing else in common. Horowitz employs some Straussian means for Marcusean ends, thereby bringing a certain tension to his book: the tension between nature and historicism.

Horowitz praises Strauss for seeing the beginnings of historicism in Rousseau while deploring Strauss’s objections to historicism. Whereas the greatest classical philosophers regarded nature as fundamentally stable, providing standards by which changes may be judged, Rousseau contends that nature, including human nature, lacks stability and hierarchy. Nature has little nature to it; almost infinitely malleable, it can and should be shaped by human artifice. This shaping, this deliberate and undeliberate change, constitutes history. Humanity ‘creates’ itself.

Horowitz stresses the social character of the labor by which humanity develops itself into humanity. Even the human ego results from this social construction. This doctrine contradicts the individualism of Thomas Hobbes and John Locke—Rousseau is the prototypical anti-‘bourgeois’—while subtly attacking Christianity, as well. “The dictate of conscience is natural only in so far as man is an animal made (by himself) to become social. When Rousseau… exalts conscience as a ‘divine instinct’ and seems to link it to a transcendent nature, he is disguising in terms of providential-teleological thinking a challenge to transcendent moral systems.” Christian an other religious moralities are “ideological illusion[s] bound up with the legitimation of social domination”—a staple trope in Leftist polemics to this day.

Unlike many atheists, Rousseau understands that traditional religion, if abandoned, must be replaced with something that serves some of the same purposes, particularly moral elevation and political cohesiveness. He also understands that rationalism or ‘Enlightenment’ will not serve this purpose. Nor does he assert the existence of all-determining laws of historical development, as Hegel and Marx do, and commend to us a place in the vanguard of historical progress. Called a dreamer, Rousseau has more realism in him than subsequent self-touted ‘realists.’

Rousseau’s (relative) realism catches Horowitz in a net. Having emphasized Rousseau’s social, even socialistic, side, Horowitz balks at some of the tougher themes in the Social Contract—Rousseau’s insistence on the need for a civil religion and for a “Legislator” who alone can design sound institutions. He turns to Rousseau’s great book on education, the Emile. But rather like Marcuse now, he underestimates the authoritarian component of Rousseauan education, with its supremely manipulative “tutor” (the parallel to the “Legislator”) who pulls the strings of Emile’s developing soul, in ways unsuspected by his pupil. Horowitz believes Emile to be a product of natural development, now forgetting Rousseau’s teaching on the malleability of nature.

This is why Horowitz concentrates his attention on the Discourses, the Nouvelle Heloïse, the Social Contract, and the Emile, but omits serious consideration of the Confessions and the Reveries. He claims that in Rousseau reason avoids the “repression and domination” of Enlightenment rationalism, but fails to consider, perhaps because he prefers not to consider, the extent to which Rousseau regards philosophic independence as a conquest, indeed not of nature but of fortune, and of opinion or sociality—the clear lesson of the ‘autobiographical’ writings. Unlike contemporary ideologues, Rousseau insists on the permanent possibility of philosophy, conceived as the transcendence of social and political customs. He would resist being dragooned into the Marcusean army as much as he resisted the calls to Christian soldiery and ‘Enlightenment’ vanguardism.

In approaching Rousseau’s philosophy through Rousseau’s writings, Horowitz the core of his teaching. In failing to consider all those major writings and trying to make Rousseau into a neo-Marxist avant-la-lettre, he partially undermines his own good work.