Man is a political animal. Intuitively, this is right. Of course, it needs to be explained a bit further and Aristotle is not helpful on that score.
Prof. Steven Smith convincingly interprets Aristotle to mean that men are not necessarily naturally - that is, biologically - political. Rather, we are in fact political because we can only actualize ourselves in a political environment. Speech is the key. We can develop relationships between one another only because of speech, the ability to share a common language and therefore understanding. And, for some unexplained reason, we want to develop those relationships that we have the capacity for, and therefore we act in public. This is similar to Arendt's notion that we cannot be human without action in the public space of appearances.
But why do we seek out these relationships simply because we have the capacity to? And why are these necessarily positive relationships that we seek out? Why can't we evilly exploit our ability to communicate with others in order to use them for our means rather than working for mutual or common goals? There seems to be a built-in assumption that we naturally do anything that we have the capacity to do, or that these relationships are in fact better or more useful than other options and therefore, more plausibly, everyone will pursue them. That said, this is overwhelmingly true in practice.
As Smith suggests, why doesn't this belie Aristotle's other notion of inequality? If language and reason are natural to the human species, and not to particular members of it, and these are the foundations of politics, why do we not all have an equal role to play in politics? Perhaps Aristotle would say that the capacity to reason is not what makes us all equally proficient at politics, but only what sets the stage for all people to be governed by politics. If Aristotle's argument is, as I remember it, that rulers are fit for ruling and the ruled are happy to be ruled because they cannot govern themselves, then it does in fact make sense for all people to pursue political relationships, regardless of what the outcome will be for themselves.
Essentially, it is a fact that man is a political animal - simply because we are all involved in politics right now. But the explanation for why we do such and how we go about it is far more complicated.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A philosopher in crisis
Dear experienced reader of political theory and philosophy,
I am writing to seek your advice in an intellectual crisis. I write not because you are likely to be interested in my personal crisis, but because I have a feeling that the general question may interest you. I admit that these questions are dauntingly numerous and open-ended. I don't hope for any treatise as long as this email, maybe not even responses to each question, but only the comment(s) that initially come to mind and any discussions of this topic that you can point me toward.
I tend to think that my intellectual sympathies lie with political philosophers and (a bit more loosely) theorists rather than strict political scientists or policy analysts. The reason: I favor the more rigorous argumentation of the analytic philosophers. But after working this summer for a legal scholar who is a former journalist and by no means a philosopher - though with more theoretical coherence than most - I've heard the other side of the story, lawyers arguing before the Supreme Court who have no patience with philosophers who are unwilling to accept political realities and are altogether shunned by the legal practicing community. I've thus stumbled upon the questions below that I suppose are very common. Yet despite how common I imagine these to be, I am ever-stymied in my attempts to find professional discussions of these questions. I begin to fear that, occasional rosy-colored public statements aside, political philosophers write more for their colleagues and their own gratification than to produce any lasting change. I say this not as a critic, but as a concerned fan - for I, too, gain a great deal of insight and pleasure, if you will, from theoretical and philosophical debates. But I am still confused about the following questions:
1. Who is the audience of political philosophers? Most political and legal philosophers freely acknowledge that their work is ignored by practitioners of law. Sometimes they argue about the necessity of informing the public. But I doubt both that they have any enthusiasm for that proposal (I see very few journal authors churning out public pamphlets) nor that their ideas lend themselves easily to public digest. Yet I also do not see them often directing their arguments to policy-makers or the politically influential.
2. What do political theorists and philosophers hope to accomplish with their work? I know they seldom hope to solve the great questions they pose like Why is justice important?.
3. Given the profound importance of legal theory questions, why should we trust this class of thinkers to resolve them for us? Especially given that most arguments begin with certain theoretical premises - whether Rawlsian, consequentialist, etc - but authors of course refuse to pigeon-hole themselves into a school of thought so that members can easily grasp their arguments and non-members can easily reject them, this makes it very difficult to disaggregate the total work out there for the non-member of the philosophical community. Even deciding what one believes requires going article-by-article, deciding, if it meets our test for soundness of logic and argumentation, whether it appeals to our intuitions about what is right. If I plan to write as a legal theorist, how can I take myself seriously while realizing that most people will merely dismiss my argument based on its first premises? If in a pluralistic system we can never hope to base our entire theory of law on one (my) philosophy, why should we adopt it in this aspect? Cleary the reason I favor this approach is because it is the outgrowth of my fundamental principles. But there is a certain disingenuousness in arguing in persuasive dialogue that this is the best outcome for others who do not share my principles, based on outcomes alone.
4. Similarly, as a mere student and a fresh student of political philosophy, can I hope to add anything to the discussion early? The field seems to me to be one for the wise and experienced, mostly for older philosophers who have authority through credence. Certainly one say that . But if I do not come across as a prodigy - the contrary being almost 100% guaranteed - do you think that I can do anything that will be accepted? A mediocre chemistry professor can at least hash out the details of some new formula. But it's not clear to me that the same is true in philosophy because there is no "scientific method" to which you can appeal. It seems you must prove the soundness of your method before addressing the details, or no one will trust you. And therefore all the young people simply seem to be applying the philosophy of an established philosopher to a new question. But if I don't want to merely embrace some such philosopher blindly, must I just consign myself to a career writing about the specific texts of other thinkers, quoting others only?
Can a political theorist do respectable work in political philosophy, and likewise? The very fact that the debate between the disciplines is so stained with contempt, on both sides, suggests that the constructive nature in which they could engage is lost.
Sincere thanks,
Erin Miller
I am writing to seek your advice in an intellectual crisis. I write not because you are likely to be interested in my personal crisis, but because I have a feeling that the general question may interest you. I admit that these questions are dauntingly numerous and open-ended. I don't hope for any treatise as long as this email, maybe not even responses to each question, but only the comment(s) that initially come to mind and any discussions of this topic that you can point me toward.
I tend to think that my intellectual sympathies lie with political philosophers and (a bit more loosely) theorists rather than strict political scientists or policy analysts. The reason: I favor the more rigorous argumentation of the analytic philosophers. But after working this summer for a legal scholar who is a former journalist and by no means a philosopher - though with more theoretical coherence than most - I've heard the other side of the story, lawyers arguing before the Supreme Court who have no patience with philosophers who are unwilling to accept political realities and are altogether shunned by the legal practicing community. I've thus stumbled upon the questions below that I suppose are very common. Yet despite how common I imagine these to be, I am ever-stymied in my attempts to find professional discussions of these questions. I begin to fear that, occasional rosy-colored public statements aside, political philosophers write more for their colleagues and their own gratification than to produce any lasting change. I say this not as a critic, but as a concerned fan - for I, too, gain a great deal of insight and pleasure, if you will, from theoretical and philosophical debates. But I am still confused about the following questions:
1. Who is the audience of political philosophers? Most political and legal philosophers freely acknowledge that their work is ignored by practitioners of law. Sometimes they argue about the necessity of informing the public. But I doubt both that they have any enthusiasm for that proposal (I see very few journal authors churning out public pamphlets) nor that their ideas lend themselves easily to public digest. Yet I also do not see them often directing their arguments to policy-makers or the politically influential.
2. What do political theorists and philosophers hope to accomplish with their work? I know they seldom hope to solve the great questions they pose like Why is justice important?.
3. Given the profound importance of legal theory questions, why should we trust this class of thinkers to resolve them for us? Especially given that most arguments begin with certain theoretical premises - whether Rawlsian, consequentialist, etc - but authors of course refuse to pigeon-hole themselves into a school of thought so that members can easily grasp their arguments and non-members can easily reject them, this makes it very difficult to disaggregate the total work out there for the non-member of the philosophical community. Even deciding what one believes requires going article-by-article, deciding, if it meets our test for soundness of logic and argumentation, whether it appeals to our intuitions about what is right. If I plan to write as a legal theorist, how can I take myself seriously while realizing that most people will merely dismiss my argument based on its first premises? If in a pluralistic system we can never hope to base our entire theory of law on one (my) philosophy, why should we adopt it in this aspect? Cleary the reason I favor this approach is because it is the outgrowth of my fundamental principles. But there is a certain disingenuousness in arguing in persuasive dialogue that this is the best outcome for others who do not share my principles, based on outcomes alone.
4. Similarly, as a mere student and a fresh student of political philosophy, can I hope to add anything to the discussion early? The field seems to me to be one for the wise and experienced, mostly for older philosophers who have authority through credence. Certainly one say that . But if I do not come across as a prodigy - the contrary being almost 100% guaranteed - do you think that I can do anything that will be accepted? A mediocre chemistry professor can at least hash out the details of some new formula. But it's not clear to me that the same is true in philosophy because there is no "scientific method" to which you can appeal. It seems you must prove the soundness of your method before addressing the details, or no one will trust you. And therefore all the young people simply seem to be applying the philosophy of an established philosopher to a new question. But if I don't want to merely embrace some such philosopher blindly, must I just consign myself to a career writing about the specific texts of other thinkers, quoting others only?
Can a political theorist do respectable work in political philosophy, and likewise? The very fact that the debate between the disciplines is so stained with contempt, on both sides, suggests that the constructive nature in which they could engage is lost.
Sincere thanks,
Erin Miller
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Moral progress: escaping mere intuition
Slavery seems objectively wrong. Why? Because it is disproportional: it harms people a lot for benefits that are not of similar magnitude. The reason we can say that it is categorically wrong, in any society, is because we cannot imagine a benefit that could offset the evil of wholly eliminating human freedom.
At first, this appears to require a consequentialist perspective: we must be willing to harm ourselves a bit and perhaps tradition a lot for the sake of the greater good. Say we throw self interest and tradition into the mix: we weight self interest more heavily and give the loss of tradition a negative utility because we think these create many unforeseen goods themselves. Then it still seems like the good of tradition can't possibly outweigh the harms of slavery. As to self interest, it seems that we can see the possibility of a substitution for achieving the same utility (in history, economic prosperity).
Part of what living in a society means is that there are certain conditions that we must avoid in pursuing our self interest. That means that we conceive of other, non-anti-social means of achieving those same goals. (at which point the separate question What is antisocial? becomes absolutely necessary to answer).) Let's grant that we prohibit only goals that are inherently anti-social - i.e., they have as their end the suffering of others, such as other-regarding preferences. But then what if society then prohibits means that are incidentally anti-social but that are the sole means of achieving someone's perfectly acceptable goal (see religious practices)?
But we cannot conceive of any way in which slavery is such a means. After all, the slave owners in the South were able to resurrect their economy after the Civil War with paid labor alone. Nor can we conceive of a way in which banning gay rights is such a means (unless someone really buys the argument that the social/moral fabric of the society will be tattered by this), because providing gay rights hasn't undermined Christians' ability to live their "good life" at all.
It appears that, by even a loose, all-pleasing consequentialism (or cost-benefit analysis, if you will), we cannot justify slavery. Thus the abolition of slavery is indeed moral progress.
Of course, every case cannot be a simple one like slavery. For this reason, I offer the following examples that are slightly more complicated: affirmative action, abortion (some might argue), surveillance of public areas, and euthanasia. This is because we do not see clear alternatives for achieving individual goals in these cases, and there are competing interests on both sides that seem far less imbalanced than in the slavery example (though I'm not arguing that I don't have an opinion on which interests in each case are more important).
At first, this appears to require a consequentialist perspective: we must be willing to harm ourselves a bit and perhaps tradition a lot for the sake of the greater good. Say we throw self interest and tradition into the mix: we weight self interest more heavily and give the loss of tradition a negative utility because we think these create many unforeseen goods themselves. Then it still seems like the good of tradition can't possibly outweigh the harms of slavery. As to self interest, it seems that we can see the possibility of a substitution for achieving the same utility (in history, economic prosperity).
Part of what living in a society means is that there are certain conditions that we must avoid in pursuing our self interest. That means that we conceive of other, non-anti-social means of achieving those same goals. (at which point the separate question What is antisocial? becomes absolutely necessary to answer).) Let's grant that we prohibit only goals that are inherently anti-social - i.e., they have as their end the suffering of others, such as other-regarding preferences. But then what if society then prohibits means that are incidentally anti-social but that are the sole means of achieving someone's perfectly acceptable goal (see religious practices)?
But we cannot conceive of any way in which slavery is such a means. After all, the slave owners in the South were able to resurrect their economy after the Civil War with paid labor alone. Nor can we conceive of a way in which banning gay rights is such a means (unless someone really buys the argument that the social/moral fabric of the society will be tattered by this), because providing gay rights hasn't undermined Christians' ability to live their "good life" at all.
It appears that, by even a loose, all-pleasing consequentialism (or cost-benefit analysis, if you will), we cannot justify slavery. Thus the abolition of slavery is indeed moral progress.
Of course, every case cannot be a simple one like slavery. For this reason, I offer the following examples that are slightly more complicated: affirmative action, abortion (some might argue), surveillance of public areas, and euthanasia. This is because we do not see clear alternatives for achieving individual goals in these cases, and there are competing interests on both sides that seem far less imbalanced than in the slavery example (though I'm not arguing that I don't have an opinion on which interests in each case are more important).
Liberation from Social Kantianism
I've at last been liberated from the deontological ethical system from which, I think, suffering is widespread. Put simply, the most common version of this ethical system (from my observation) says that we should not do anything in public that creates a "stir" - except in very exceptional circumstances (so it's not quite absolutist).
My particular ailment was an ethics that wedded some rules of that ethics to a prohibition against doing acts in public or in private that would be contrary to my image of a wise, self-aware, modest, other-regarding scholar with a healthy sense of the contingency of his own beliefs. In other words, I had a virtue-ethics-like What Would My Scholar Do? test. I think this is a remnant of my unusual childhood idolization of intellectuals - before I had any understanding of them and their thought processes. Thus even my answers to my What Would My Scholar Do? test were probably wrong.
I was constantly plagued by the thought that I "should" or "shouldn't" do something, without any particular reason why this was the case except the command of experience or the graven image of my scholar. Upon a consequentialist education, one can easily rationalize both these systems: First, we don't want to create a "stir" because this would be an especially bad outcome (hurting many people). Second, I don't want to contradict the principles of scholarly life because this life is, after all, my aspiration (my end). And no single action can be more important than that ultimate end.
But the simple fact is that consequentialism is just more complicated than that.
Now I am free to think of my end freely, without a crowd of convenient means that are simply ruled out. For example, I can try to win a debate round without ruling out a million small ways of arguing - such as attacking an argument in a rhetorical manner, as well as an analytical manner, when I know that will be more persuasive. For example, I can inject my comments into a seminar discussion without worrying that I will distract or muddy the discussion. I just need to engage in order to learn - and hopefully, in the long term, do a little less muddying when I say my piece. I knew this a long time ago, but I saw some virtue in remaining principled, with high standards. Indeed, I distinctly remember Matt Wansley commenting to me my sophomore year: "I always admire that you're a principled person. Some of your principles are bit weird and irrational, but I like that you stick to them." I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now.
So I'm free to reject my irrational principles. I can, according to Shelly Kagan's description of rationality, reject the principles that are externally imposed on me (or imposed on me through faulty reasoning). This doesn't mean I can use any means, because very often there is a consequentialist reason for why a certain means just won't do. But I must be able to articulate that reason before I act on my mere impressions about virtue and creating a stir.
In short, I am liberated.
My particular ailment was an ethics that wedded some rules of that ethics to a prohibition against doing acts in public or in private that would be contrary to my image of a wise, self-aware, modest, other-regarding scholar with a healthy sense of the contingency of his own beliefs. In other words, I had a virtue-ethics-like What Would My Scholar Do? test. I think this is a remnant of my unusual childhood idolization of intellectuals - before I had any understanding of them and their thought processes. Thus even my answers to my What Would My Scholar Do? test were probably wrong.
I was constantly plagued by the thought that I "should" or "shouldn't" do something, without any particular reason why this was the case except the command of experience or the graven image of my scholar. Upon a consequentialist education, one can easily rationalize both these systems: First, we don't want to create a "stir" because this would be an especially bad outcome (hurting many people). Second, I don't want to contradict the principles of scholarly life because this life is, after all, my aspiration (my end). And no single action can be more important than that ultimate end.
But the simple fact is that consequentialism is just more complicated than that.
Now I am free to think of my end freely, without a crowd of convenient means that are simply ruled out. For example, I can try to win a debate round without ruling out a million small ways of arguing - such as attacking an argument in a rhetorical manner, as well as an analytical manner, when I know that will be more persuasive. For example, I can inject my comments into a seminar discussion without worrying that I will distract or muddy the discussion. I just need to engage in order to learn - and hopefully, in the long term, do a little less muddying when I say my piece. I knew this a long time ago, but I saw some virtue in remaining principled, with high standards. Indeed, I distinctly remember Matt Wansley commenting to me my sophomore year: "I always admire that you're a principled person. Some of your principles are bit weird and irrational, but I like that you stick to them." I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now.
So I'm free to reject my irrational principles. I can, according to Shelly Kagan's description of rationality, reject the principles that are externally imposed on me (or imposed on me through faulty reasoning). This doesn't mean I can use any means, because very often there is a consequentialist reason for why a certain means just won't do. But I must be able to articulate that reason before I act on my mere impressions about virtue and creating a stir.
In short, I am liberated.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
How Callous, Yeats
Complaining of those who yearn for luxury when you yourself already revel quietly in them. As though such desires properly preclude a man from more developed sentiments. Frankly, they may at times distract him from the fullest use of his finer sentiment. But the mere presence of these passions is no justification for dismissing the whole.
It will take a really good poem from Yeats to reconcile me again to the man who scorned the low-born poet John Keats with these words: “I see a schoolboy when I think of him, / With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window,” a boy “poor, ailing and ignorant, / Shut out from all the luxury of the world, / The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper.”
It will take a really good poem from Yeats to reconcile me again to the man who scorned the low-born poet John Keats with these words: “I see a schoolboy when I think of him, / With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window,” a boy “poor, ailing and ignorant, / Shut out from all the luxury of the world, / The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper.”
Sunday, August 3, 2008
The Merchant of Venice
Much as its title suggested economics, which I find tedious, "The Merchant of Venice" surprised me with its themes of law and justice, which I find enthralling. The mind of Shakespeare seems to have roved human affairs with inhuman breadth.
The layers of the justice discussion in TMV are many. On the superficial level, the main character Shylock embodies both vindictiveness and the letter of the law. He resists those who manipulate the law in order to receive lighter sentences for their wrongs. But the play comes to its reflective height during the courtroom scene, when the learned scholar brings mercy into the debate. The question then becomes: To what extent is mercy part of the law? And, to the extent that it is, can it annul other parts of the law, such as contracts?
I think most would agree that there are certain terms by which, inherently, a man cannot bind himself. In modern law, the term for this is "unconscionability": loans above a certain percent of interest are automatically null and void, regardless of the consent of the debtor. The assumption is that the debtor is not fully rational when he agrees, either because he has been economically (or otherwise) coerced or because he has not accurately weighed the costs to himself. Aristotle offers the classic example that a man cannot bind himself into slavery (though his rationality is autonomy). But modern unconscionability doctrine goes a step further: even if there is no irrationality or coercion in a particular case, the mere existence of such exploitive contracts is repugnant to a society as a whole.
Here is where the contract for a "pound of flesh" enters the scene. The contract was made on the irrational assumption that breach of contract was impossible, and therefore the punishment was irrelevant. But once the contract was made and then breached, Shylock contends that any failure to execute the contract-specificed punishment undermines law. But it seems evident before the court that the execution of such a grisly punishment by the law would be so horrific as to undermine the law more. Thus the interesting question is about what the law is - whether it is expected and legitimate rules of behavior, or whether it is the concrete rules enacted through legitimate processes.
Masterfully, the legal scholar calls upon Shylock to grant mercy, hoping that all he desires is deference. If she gives him ultimate power over Antonio's fate, he retains this power even by granting mercy; indeed, Antonio will then owe him a debt. But Shylock is not so simple-minded as the scholar believes: he wants "justice," not power. Yet the very attempt to compensate Shylock with this bit of power suggests some rightness of his claim. As in ethics, even if the rule can be violated, its violation demands compensation for the resulting victims.
But the fact pattern's complexity deepens further. When Shylock refuses to grant mercy, the scholar turns the tables 180 degrees: she accuses Shylock of attempted murder of Antonio (awkwardly, for trying to spill "Christian" blood) and grants Antonio control over his fate. By doing so, the scholar guarantees that an act of mercy rather than retribution will result. But this again seems to validate the claim of Shylock by skirting his punishment for it.
All told, The Merchant of Venice is captivating for how it deals with contracts, vows, and other such legal phenomena. Later vows about a ring are sacrificed when the circumstances press - and the lady of justice again grants a reprieve. The lesson here seems to be analogous to the classical ethical argument that promises carry implicit conditions (such as unconscionability or force majeure).
The play is also hard-core feminist, which helps... The legal scholar who saves the day is actually a woman, Portia, in disguise.
The layers of the justice discussion in TMV are many. On the superficial level, the main character Shylock embodies both vindictiveness and the letter of the law. He resists those who manipulate the law in order to receive lighter sentences for their wrongs. But the play comes to its reflective height during the courtroom scene, when the learned scholar brings mercy into the debate. The question then becomes: To what extent is mercy part of the law? And, to the extent that it is, can it annul other parts of the law, such as contracts?
I think most would agree that there are certain terms by which, inherently, a man cannot bind himself. In modern law, the term for this is "unconscionability": loans above a certain percent of interest are automatically null and void, regardless of the consent of the debtor. The assumption is that the debtor is not fully rational when he agrees, either because he has been economically (or otherwise) coerced or because he has not accurately weighed the costs to himself. Aristotle offers the classic example that a man cannot bind himself into slavery (though his rationality is autonomy). But modern unconscionability doctrine goes a step further: even if there is no irrationality or coercion in a particular case, the mere existence of such exploitive contracts is repugnant to a society as a whole.
Here is where the contract for a "pound of flesh" enters the scene. The contract was made on the irrational assumption that breach of contract was impossible, and therefore the punishment was irrelevant. But once the contract was made and then breached, Shylock contends that any failure to execute the contract-specificed punishment undermines law. But it seems evident before the court that the execution of such a grisly punishment by the law would be so horrific as to undermine the law more. Thus the interesting question is about what the law is - whether it is expected and legitimate rules of behavior, or whether it is the concrete rules enacted through legitimate processes.
Masterfully, the legal scholar calls upon Shylock to grant mercy, hoping that all he desires is deference. If she gives him ultimate power over Antonio's fate, he retains this power even by granting mercy; indeed, Antonio will then owe him a debt. But Shylock is not so simple-minded as the scholar believes: he wants "justice," not power. Yet the very attempt to compensate Shylock with this bit of power suggests some rightness of his claim. As in ethics, even if the rule can be violated, its violation demands compensation for the resulting victims.
But the fact pattern's complexity deepens further. When Shylock refuses to grant mercy, the scholar turns the tables 180 degrees: she accuses Shylock of attempted murder of Antonio (awkwardly, for trying to spill "Christian" blood) and grants Antonio control over his fate. By doing so, the scholar guarantees that an act of mercy rather than retribution will result. But this again seems to validate the claim of Shylock by skirting his punishment for it.
All told, The Merchant of Venice is captivating for how it deals with contracts, vows, and other such legal phenomena. Later vows about a ring are sacrificed when the circumstances press - and the lady of justice again grants a reprieve. The lesson here seems to be analogous to the classical ethical argument that promises carry implicit conditions (such as unconscionability or force majeure).
The play is also hard-core feminist, which helps... The legal scholar who saves the day is actually a woman, Portia, in disguise.
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