Digressions&Impressions

On the Training of Philosophers in Formal Methods

Back when I was in graduate school, all students were required to take a course in logic. People had a vague understanding that there were also various other formal methods that used in philosophy – probability theory, decision theory, game theory, statistics – but courses in those topics did not fulfill the requirement, and students only rarely took them. At the time, this approach was widely regarded as a very reasonable one. Logic seemed to be more important to the discipline than all of these other formal methods put together.

But over the past decade or so, things have clearly changed. These days, philosophers are using all sorts of different formal methods. There are still lots of philosophers using logic, but it is no longer the case that logic eclipses all other formal methods.There are now tons of philosophers using probability theory (e.g., in formal epistemology), even more drawing on work that uses statistics (in everything from philosophy of mind to moral psychology to feminist philosophy), and a whole lot of other formal methods on the rise as well (causal Bayes nets, machine learning, Monte Carlo simulation).

The result has been a growing recognition that we need to make some important change in the requirements governing philosophical education. In one way or another, we need to make sure that students get a chance to master the formal methods that they will actually need to use in their subsequent research.--Joshua Knobe "Stats Courses For Philosophers" [HT Daily Nous;  @Philosophy of Brains Blog]

Knobe's post was widely and favorably shared among my friends in social media (not a surprise because many of my professional friends are philosophers of science). As some of the commentators at Daily Nous and elsewhere have noted, quite a few departments (where formal philosophy or naturalistic projects have taken deep roots) have already advanced down some version of the path suggested by Knobe. Of course, in practice, graduate students that use formal methods in their own research  and/or that engage with highly technical literature in the sciences (or math)  may well need competencies that go far beyond the required courses in an average graduate curriculum (and may require considerable extra training outside philosophy in some sense).  [I leave aside here, the very different organization of European PhD programs (these are  increasingly pure research with no room for coursework).]

And, in principle, it is easy to get on board with Knobe's essay because he does not really explore the opportunity costs involved with a change in the curriculum. Economists love the idea of opportunity cost; philosophers less so. (Who told you that these possibilities are mutually exclusive; there is no logical/metaphysical reason for that...) But because a curriculum rations a scarce good (time/attention, etc.) it is a useful concept to deploy here. In Knobe's essay, he toys with the idea of displacing the logic requirement with a different requirement. In fact, he mentions quite a few departments that have changed the logic requirement into a formal methods requirement at both the undergraduate and graduate level. So, obviously, lots of peers are willing to go down this path.

Knobe does not mention, although it is clearly embedded in some of the examples he mentions, that in addition to fiddling around with the logic requirement, one can make room for more formal methods by abolishing (a) the language requirement or (b) the history requirement or (c) some kind of traditional distribution requirement (or some combination of these); that's clearly already happening in some of the formal philosophy departments. (I just checked the CMU program's curriculum, and  it has gone down some version of this path. It also offers PhD degrees that are only very partially in philosophy.) I suspect that until China overtakes the USA politically and economically, the language requirement will be under pressure in philosophy departments (unless there are local reasons -- accreditation or divisional requirements, etc. -- to stick with it) Obviously, in very strong history or Continental-friendly departments language may be more secure.

I want to offer two further observations:

First, one consequence of removing logic from shared curriculum is to facilitate increasing specialization within and divergence among analytical philosophers. A notable side-effect of expecting increasing technical facility in whole parts of the discipline is  that you cannot get an average graduate student to understand the issues in a field with one, maybe two graduate seminars. That is, previously professional philosophy was both capable of recruiting lots of smart people and simultaneously keeping barriers to enter any given philosophical conversation fairly low otherwise. (This also generated permissiveness toward the annoying tendency of boy wonders pontificating on any topic they put their intellectual spotlight on.) But Knobe's proposal and the evidence he provides for the curricular changes in the graduate curriculum provide some evidence for my claim from a few years ago, when I mused about the likelihood that there will be a divergence between formal philosophy and analytical philosophy.

Second, based on my own experience in the philosophy of economics, I agree with the spirit behind an observation by Richard Zach: I haven’t looked at any other formal methods course but I suspect that a) you’ll need more mathematical background and b) you’ll learn less how to think mathematically [than by taking a logic course] and [c)] more how to just apply various tools without proving anything." (emphasis added). I am unsure how to cash out mathematical thinking -- that just makes me stutter -- or the significance of proving anything, but I do think I understand what Zach is getting at; logic (and modal logic) really help me to ask very important and foundational questions in economics, including the foundations of statistics. (This is distinct from the fact that for a while set theory turned out to be very important in the practice of mathematical economics.) These are questions I was really not sensitized to ask by my prior exposure to graduate level statistics. A lot of graduate training in a formal area, is really learning how to apply a tool.

And this second point gets me to voice a suspicion. It would be really cool if philosophers became much more sophisticated about the use of statistics or simulation software (etc.) and the evidential uses of statistics (simulation software, probability theory, etc.). But I think that not because I think philosophers should become equal partners in various non-trivial empirical/experimental research or teaching enterprises (in my political science department I teach works that have non-trivial statistical components). To be sure, I am all for folk striking out in that direction and to turn themselves into hybrid philosophers and empirical scientists (of the sort that Joshua Knobe exemplifies so nicely); but I really worry we would be losing something important, no supremely valuable, if we didn't try to keep training folk that can ask questions that are, in some sense, orthogonal to existing normal science, and I think the old logic requirement was, unintentionally, fertile ground for that within the larger philosophy curriculum.

Hobbes and Microaggression

We doe not therefore by nature seek Society for its own sake, but that we may receive some Honour or Profit from it; these we desire Primarily, that Secondarily: How by what advice Men doe meet, will be best known by observing those things which they doe when they are met: For if they meet for Traffique, it's plaine every man regards not his Fellow, but his Businesse; if to discharge some Office, a certain Market-friendship is begotten, which hath more of Jealousie in it than True love, and whence Factions sometimes may arise, but Good will never; if for Pleasure, and Recreation of mind, every man is wont to please himself most with those things which stirre up laughter, whence he may (according to the nature of that which is Ridiculous) by comparison of another mans Defects and Infirmities, passe the more currant in his owne opinion; and although this be sometimes innocent, and without offence; yet it is manifest they are not so much delighted with the Society, as their own Vain glory. But for the most part, in these kind of meetings, we wound the absent; their whole life, sayings, actions are examin'd, judg'd, condemn'd; nay, it is very rare, but some present receive a fling before they part, so as his reason was not ill, who was wont alwayes at parting to goe out last. And these are indeed the true delights of Society, unto which we are carryed by nature.--Hobbes De Cive, 1.2 (emphasis added) [HT: Terese Bejan Mere Civility: Disagreement and the Limits of Toleration, p. 87)

Self-styled realist and adult critics of attempts to raise concern over microaggression on college campus tend to respond either with derision or, more politely, with the thought that students need to be prepared for the real world. (Here I ignore the implied further derision that a university environment is somehow artificial or unreal.) Such responses have a peculiar quality: for, first, derision instantiates the very offense being protested. It is as if a petty thief responds to being told that theft is a crime by stealing another Cartier watch. Of course, theft does occur in the real world, but it does not follow it should be acceptable. Fair-minded commentators may well disagree how to reduce and prevent theft, and under what conditions a would-be Robin Hood turns from villain to hero. But, second, to point to our very imperfect, world as a justification for an aggressive unwillingness to engage with the youthful concern over microaggression is to side foolishly, without argument or justification with an immoral status quo against would-be-improvements. I’ll explain why I call this stance ‘foolish’ below.

Teresa M. Bejan's learned and wickedly funny book, Mere Civility: Disagreement and the Limits of Toleration, notes that Hobbes treats of what we now call microaggressions as a serious topic for reflection. (Bejan calls attention to it on p. 2 of her introduction, and then returns to it in her chapter on Hobbes.) Hobbes notes that in the marketplace of life (the real world) the merriment of many of our ordinary social interactions comes at the expense of others (especially when they are not present). And some such mechanism is also part of the social glue that generates factions. The intent may not be to hurt others -- rather the motive is pleasure (or laughter)  - but such joy is not innocent, even if jocular, because it generates both hurt in the recipients and creates potentially dangerous partisanship.*

My point here is not to rehearse Bejan's ingenious analysis of Hobbes's treatment of and attempted solution to the problem of microaggression. (Bejan's own sympathies are not with Hobbes but with Roger Williams--about which some other time.) Rather it is to note that Hobbes had no doubt that microaggressions were a part of the real world and dangerous to civil peace because they reinforce a pattern of mutual hurt and, when combined with factionalism, this can degenerate into outright civil disorder or war.

It is fair to say that Hobbes was no snowflake and not somebody who confused his own wishes for reality.

From a Hobbesian perspective one can say  that, purportedly world-wise folk that belittle concern over microaggression with further derision or dismissive-ness are fools because they reinforce a pattern of behavior that can lead to civil conflict and only a fool would wish that. The previous sentence is compatible with a rejection of Hobbes's and Hobbesian solutions to the problem of microaggression.**

Microaggression was the topic du jour ca 2015 (recall this blog post, and I was late to the game). It's not in the news anymore, and so my analysis is not topical (relevant/newsy, etc.) But with the benefit of hindsight we can also see the student concern ca 2015 as a canary in the democratic coal-mine. That some of our students were demanding to be in environments with less derision toward others showed a concern not just for (creating a safe environment for) their own education, but for our civic health. Now, while we're hanging over the precipice of civic disaster, their concern seems prescient, and unheeded.

On the Missing Footnote

But there are sad celebrations as well, whose object is either to meet a calamity, or else merely to commemorate and deplore it. These rites have a special aspect, which we are going to attempt to characterize and explain. It is the more necessary to study them by themselves since they are going to reveal a new aspect of the religious life to us.

We propose to call the ceremonies of this sort piacular. The term piaculum has the advantage that while it suggests the idea of expiation, it also has a much more extended signification. Every misfortune, everything of evil omen, everything that inspires sentiments of sorrow or fear necessitates a piaculum and is therefore called piacular. So this word seems to be very well adapted for designating the rites which are celebrated by those in a state of uneasiness or sadness.--E. Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, Translated by J. Swain, p. 389.

Adam Smith's views on moral luck have received steady interest from excellent philosophers and scholars, including Thomas Nagel, Paul Russell, Aaron Garrett, Chad Flanders, and Keith Hankins.  Even so, I felt that the full significance and weirdness of his views were not fully grasped because his account of the piacular -- "A man of humanity, who accidentally, and without the smallest degree of blamable negligence, has been the cause of the death of another man, feels himself piacular, though not guilty" (recall) -- had received little attention. So, I worked out my view in a paper on Smith and the piacular, which I presented at a conference and then published in a fine edited volume. The paper had a companion piece, which I also presented at a conference, and then published in another fine special issue. The two papers were put together within a larger argument in my book, Adam Smith: Systematic Philosopher and Public Thinker (OUP,  in press, available for pre-order here!). That book received two extensive referee reports. I turned in the final, corrected proofs on Monday. As it happens, an earlier version of my book had also been refereed by two excellent referees at Routledge (see here for what it would have looked like). So this material has been read carefully by more than half-dozen referees and learned editors.

A few weeks ago, in Oxford, I gave a talk at Blackwell's where they were running their usual 3 for the price of 2 sale on Oxford classic paperbacks. One of the discounted books I bought was Durkheim's Elementary Forms. At Chicago, as a graduate student, I knew plenty of PhD students in sociology, religion, anthropology, and social thought who had read Durkheim (for comps, etc.). But while I taught Comte and Weber, I never got around to study him seriously (although I am pretty sure I read him on suicide). Yesterday, I decided to try to read it.

As an aside, when I had more time or was younger (or both), I would happily read several books alongside each other. But nowadays, I prefer to focus on one book at a time. When I don't have an obligation to read a particular book (because of research, a deadline, some social reason, etc.), I find that I can aimlessly pick up a book, read a bit in it, and then put it down--this can be repeated several times with different books in a row; a book needs to grab me before I settle into it.

Yesterday, I started reading Durkheim's introduction: "...to study the most primitive and simple religion which is actually known, to make an analysis of it, and to attempt an explanation of it... in the first place, when it is found in a society whose organization is surpassed by no others in simplicity." This surprised me because Durkheim shows here, at once, his debt to eighteenth century Scottish social theory with its idea that societies develop from simple to complex, and that the simple societies can reveal something characteristic about the nature of a social practice. (The previous sentence simplifies the Scottish social theory methods, but let's leave that aside.) And while some of the Scots would have looked at Scottish Highlander culture or American Indians, Durkheim  promises to draw on field work done among  Australian aboriginals.

At that point -- I am still on Durkheim's first page --, I put the text down, and start looking for references to Hume, Ferguson, Millar, or Smith. I knew from Durkheim's other work (on the division of labor) that he was familiar with Adam Smith. In fact, when I first conceived my monograph, I had intended to compare Durkheim to Smith because, originally, my book was going to include a major reception history of Smith (up to Rawls and Foucault). But I came to recognize that executing this would be an excuse never to finish my monograph. Much to my surprise Durkheim does not mention any of the Scots in his religion book. (In fact, his explicit treatment of Smith is rather thin in the division of labor book, although I think Durkheim is quite indebted to Smith's social theory.)

Then I flipped to Durkheim's table of contents, and to my horror I noticed that one of the chapter titles is called: "Piacular Rites and the Ambiguity of the Notion of Sacredness." I then checked the French version on-line: Les rites piaculaires et l'ambiguïté de la notion du sacré with a footnote to Pliny. (I have traced Smith's use to Livy and the poet Lucan.) Durkheim does not mention Smith or The Theory of Moral Sentiments (TMS), but he does mention another (once) famous book, Religion of the Semites, by another (nineteenth century) Scot, William Robertson Smith, which has a whole chapter on piacular sacrifice among the Ancient Hebrews. Robertson Smith's chapter mentions Lucian (Hume's and Smith's favorite author) en passant, but no Smith nor TMS. Now, I would be amazed if Robertson Smith was unfamiliar with Adam Smith's TMS, but that requires further research. I did find this gem, which ought to be the motto for us scholars, in William Robertson Smith:

    It is precisely the things that seem most obvious which in a subject like ours require the most scrutiny (p. 390).

Before I close, an autobiographical remark. Parts of my monograph can be traced back directly to my dissertation which I defended in 2002. But the dissertation did not hang together as a book, and I published a few chapters as papers and wrote a few occasion pieces inspired by my earlier research. When later, I moved to Europe, and entered the research grant environment, several grant reviewers complained that I did not have a monograph. (To make matters worse: I was being recruited for a prestigious chair, and then at the last minute was told that my lack of a monograph disqualified me.) While I was contemplating what I should write my book about, I read a draft of Ryan Hanley's terrific book on Adam Smith. Ryan and I had overlapped in graduate school (and one of my first publications was a criticism of one of his first papers), and I had edited one of his other papers. Even so his book was an eye-opener. After we left graduate school, Ryan had clearly re-read Smith with a fresh eye. And so, with a generous and much appreciated invitation from Brian Leiter (really!), I decided to re-read Smith and also work up a book on Smith for his series. This took me another seven years to produce. That is to say, when I turned in the final, corrected proofs, I had been researching Smith on-and-off for almost twenty years.

While I am pretty pleased with how my monograph turned out (except for the total lack of humor--I blame Adam Smith, who really was not funny), I am depressingly sure there are typos and ungrammatical sentences left in my monograph. It is what it is, I try to console myself. While I do not expect to do more original, scholarship on Adam Smith, I also know that my book won't be the last word on Smith (or public philosophy, the history of liberalism, etc.).

Then, last week, prompted by a very fine, draft paper by Maria Pia Paganelli and Michelle Bee, I wrote a blog post on material and insights that are only partially incorporated in the monograph. That post connects to the central argument of the book, and I am annoyed with myself for not discerning it more fully before I turned in the book. Even so, the vain scholar in me is even more annoyed for not catching the piacular connection between Smith and Durkheim; that would have made a fine note invisible to most readers, but impressive to the discerning. 

Then, as I was musing about my missing footnote and debating if I should write a post about it, Google teaches me that another scholar, Christopher M. Driscoll (previously unknown to me, I think), has put together my treatment of Adam Smith on the piacular with Durkheim's in a fascinating context I did not foresee at all. And not for the first time, I feel blessed that I can participate in an intellectual enterprise beyond my control and which reaches unexpected and surprising, temporary resting spaces that cause wonder.

 

The end of Liberalism; or the coming age of unreasonable views

David Held and Pietro Maffettone collect essays exploring the global dimensions -- and arguing for the necessarily global character -- of contemporary political theorizing...In addition to the familiar topics of human rights and global distributive justice, it includes contributions on the legitimacy of international law and transnational political institutions; on just war theory; and on a cluster of issues including territoriality, the global economy, and humans' relations to the natural environment and to future generations.

This integrated approach is welcome, and the book as a whole is a valuable resource for readers seeking to acquaint themselves with the state of the art in global political theory. The editors' introduction makes two agenda-setting points. First, they claim, political theory has reached a "cosmopolitan plateau," where acceptance of the equal moral status of all individuals (regardless of birthplace or location) defines the boundaries of reasonable disagreement in normative theorizing. Of course, different authors draw significantly different conclusions from the assumption of equal moral status; many theorists accept it without understanding themselves to be thereby committed to radically revisionist conclusions about global distributive justice or about the entitlements of states to control their own borders.--Emma Saunders-Hastings @NDPR Reviewing David Held and Pietro Maffettone (eds.), Global Political Theory, Polity, 2016.

When I started reading the review of Global Political Theory, I naively assumed that it would be an eclectic -- in the traditional sense of choosing the best from different stuff -- book trying to canvass what different intellectual traditions, necessarily partially interpreted and constituted, from different parts of the globe can contribute to political theory today. As the reviewer and the introduction of the volume make clear that's not what the volume is about. Global political theory (hereafter GPT) develops the implications of a certain class of moral egalitarianisms to ethical issues that have a global reach. It does so, as the editors of the volume under review note in their introduction (pp. 8-9), by quoting and accepting Thomas Pogge's (1992) framework of cosmopolitanism, which entails that (i) individuals are the units of ultimate moral concern (individualism); (ii) it applies to all humans (universality); (iii) such moral concern (ought) to have moral force for everyone (generality).

As an illuminating aside (in order to bring out the intellectual parochialism of GPT), something weird happens in the quote from Pogge's widely reprinted and influential 1992 essay, which self-consciously was written to fill the moral gap made available by "a new world order." The essay's general ambition is to make "moral progress" possible and it hopes that with the "gradual institutional reform" it proposes, "borders could be redrawn to accord more easily with the aspirations of" -- peculiarly enough not individuals, but -- "peoples and communities." (48) In Pogge's essay the second feature, universality, is contrasted with moral concern for a "subset" of humans, for example, "men, aristocrats, Aryans, whites, or Muslims." This happens to be one of two mentions of Muslims in the book (or, as it happens, Pogge's essay). (In the volume, the other is a reference to Muslim Brotherhood.) While it is no doubt true that Muslims have done immoral things to non-Muslims (as well as, countless Muslims) in the name of Islam, Islam is a religion that is especially hospitable to a variety of cosmopolitanism;* and it is no surprise that in it, self-consciously cosmopolitan perspectives have been embraced. One could argue, as William Gallois does, that this legacy is the source of continued revival of cosmopolitanism in later European thought and (perhaps more speculatively) one reason why asylum seekers are welcomed with comparative generosity in some Muslim majority states.

In his 1992 paper, Pogge contrasts his concrete inspiration with the ways "politicians are speaking of a new world order." In historical context this is a nod to President Bush's first Gulf war to restore the border between Iraq and Kuwait and restore a (protected) sovereignty to Kuwait sanctioned by international law and global institutions. In that context, a new world order referred to American supremacy within the constraints of, and channeled  by, international law and institutions. The complex entanglement of contemporary ethics with American hegemony (in the way Mill's or Green's thought was intertwined with imperial power) demands to be better understood and, I would argue, questioned (recall Khan on Singer). Be that as it may, Pogge's willingness to revisit borders is prescient, although as we've learned since, the actual process of redrawing of borders tends to be (a few notable exceptions granted) violent. 

That there are many who wish to turn political theory (and international law) into a branch of a certain flavor of ethics is familiar enough. As it happens, this past year I have conducted three job searches in political theory (including comparative), and so have  seen about (by a conservative estimate) 300 job dossiers of candidates with PhDs fairly recently minted in North America and Western Europe. The vast majority of these projects buy into some version of such moral egalitarianism and a good many apply it in the manner of GPT.

What I had not truly grasped before is that within GPT deviation from such cosmopolitan egalitarianism marks one as unreasonable (in the way predicted by Carl Schmitt). Again, I had naively assumed that being reasonable would consist in something like the disposition of treating disagreement even conflict with others by way of discussion in which reasons are (sincerely) offered, analyzed, and jointly evaluated. But in GPT to be reasonable means that one cannot enter the conversation unless one accepts certain moral commitments (in professional terms, a certain "consensus"). In their introduction, Held and Maffetono do not explain where such views about the boundary of legitimacy originate and who polices the boundary of who is let into the conversation (presumably that dirty job is farmed out to anonymous referees who -- like the marines -- do their work outside the scope of publicity).

One thing one learns from Thomas Kuhn (or George Stigler) is that where we find a professional consensus absent science, there are other forces that produce uniformity. In fact, Kuhn teaches that if one wants the appearance of intellectual progress one does well to create such uniformity of background commitments. The previous paragraph suggests, then, that the avalanche of work on GPT is the collective considered wisdom of our young scholars that the primary road to professional advancement and (for the more idealistic among them) improvement of humanity requires one to work within some version of GPT. 

We know from history that intellectual mono-culture are great at problem-solving (and this can generate great creativity), but otherwise not very robust. They are incapable of adapting to changing circumstances and unable to confront, truly, the most urgent questions in which one must come to terms with arguments of the deviants from orthodoxy. (For this would require it to be self-critical about its own commitments.)+ So, a moment of reckoning is due. If history were ironic, then the professional triumph of GPT is also the moment it becomes obsolete.** After all, the political and democratic resurgence of views that reject versions of GPT's normative cosmopolitanism is the striking feature of our time. So, it is tempting to preach the end of liberal cosmopolitanism and become a prophet for a new order.

But history is probably not ironic. So, while some of us, outside the professional boundaries, search for alternative political theories, GPT may well continue to thrive even if the political conditions that gave rise to it, and that allow it to shape the political order, have long passed. After all, some of the greatest philosophical scholastics lived in the twentieth century and have enriched our intellectual universe.

 

 

On Identity Politics and an Open Letter to the Editors of the Journal of Political Philosophy

To the editors of the Journal of Political Philosophy,

First, a primer: the idea ‘black lives matter’ and the political movement bearing that phrase represent something expansive but specific. The idea ‘black lives matter’ is an ethical demand calling for an end to the erasure of black lives and presence by systems of racist power anchored in a history of white supremacy. The movement puts this ethical demand into action by seeking to influence city, state, and federal policies through acts of protest and civil disobedience. In our current moment, both the idea and the movement are aligned against the notion that black experiences are irrelevant or negligible for organizing our collective view of civil society.

So, if you might – please do – try to imagine my distaste when it was brought to my attention that your journal published a philosophical symposium on ‘black lives matter’ with not one philosopher of color represented, without one philosopher of color to convey her or his contextualized sense of a movement that is urgently and justifiably about context.  It certainly cannot be said there was no one to ask. I should know. I just published a book on the philosophical foundations of black lives matter.

Now, it might be the case that this particular symposium is merely unfortunate –the journal asked every black philosopher and political theorist it could find and was turned down. (Disclosure: I was not asked.) From an outside point of view, someone desiring to take on this more generous stance but not wanting to do so on blind faith would have only to do something simple: revisit the journal’s publication record and if it turns out that the topic of race or at least black philosophers, no matter the subject of their work, were decently represented in the journal’s pages, then we have some grounds to extend good faith. But things don’t look very good on this front, either.

Trayvon Martin was shot by George Zimmerman in the early months of 2012 and it was his shooting and the subsequent exoneration of Zimmerman in the summer of 2012 that sparked the movement. But we all know that. Right? Yes. So we are now five years on from that event, and since what is at issue is what appears to be a problematic mishandling of a symposium on the movement for black lives we can ask whether the journal has in these five years taken the political problem of race seriously as philosophically worthy. One might (or might not) be surprised to learn that at four issues a year, making a total of nearly twenty issues (including a special issue titled “Philosophy, Politics, and Society”), the Journal of Political Philosophy has not published a single article on the philosophy of race: voting, elections, immigration, global markets, and animals have gotten their time in the journal’s sun. But as black Americans, and the philosophers who study racial inequality – a political philosophical problem – have directly engaged one of our era’s most sinister moral and political quandaries, the journal has failed to represent race in its pages. Maybe more damning, so far as I can tell, not one black philosopher has seen her or his work appear in the pages of your respected journal, on race or any other topic.

You can see, then, how at this point the generous reading of the mishandling of the symposium comes under significant pressure. So much pressure, in fact, that it becomes compressed into something else: strained hope. The hope that intelligent and imaginative people can see the landscape of morality in its complexity and be sensitive to life-worlds beyond their range of experience. And the way we do this is to diversity the voices to which we listen. You see? – diversity really is an ethically important ideal. To be clear, I welcome the participation of non-brown voices in a symposium on black lives matter. It is important that there be a range of viewpoints on a matter that is democratically urgent – we are all involved in this problem. So my issue is not in the least with those authors whose papers were appropriated for the symposium. Rather I am directly challenging the editorial staff to account for their offense against a movement and community.

....And this is especially important as what we do – when we write and publish – contributes to the historical record. What is so deflating about the journal’s misstep here is that this contribution to the historical record is in fact a kind of replaying of history that the movement for black lives has dedicated itself to eliminating from a society struggling to be decent – the erasure of black presence when and where it counts and is needed.

With regret,

Chris Lebron@Philosopher

When we understand the production and scrutiny of argument as the characteristic practice of philosophy, we may well come to believe that the form can be separated from the person engaged in and evaluation of argument.+ That is, while it is a sociological and professional (and, thus, economic) matter who gets credit for originating or advancing an argument and its refinements (and who does the drudgery of refereeing and editing arguments), one may come to hold that it is not a properly philosophical concern to worry about who has a seat at the argumentative table except in so far as the participants are good at the argumentative stuff.+

In what follows, let's stipulate, for the sake of (ahh) argument, that being competent at the argumentative stuff is a necessary condition for participation in philosophy. While, as feminists have shown (see this piece by Lisa Shapiro), this necessary condition rules out quite a few (potentially truth-apt) practices from philosophy and may well exclude people who share certain characteristics (being a woman, being born outside of Europe, etc.), this may be a price to pay in order to talk of a practice -- philosophy -- as a particular unity.

A nice feature of this argument-centric understanding of the nature of philosophy is that it is potentially emancipatory in two important ways: First, the barriers to entry are relatively low and even powerful social boundaries (of religion, class, gender) can, thereby, be overcome. For example, it is a remarkable fact that the early analytic, Lvov-Warsaw school of logic included lots of women and Jews (when this was extremely rare). Second, it allows for a very wide ranges of concepts and topics (say, from modal arguments for the existence of God to new conceptualizations of social ontology) to become subject of philosophical inquiry. This, too, makes philosophical practice, in principle, welcoming to people from all kinds of walk of life. So, (recall) while the argumentative conception of philosophy is compatible with turning philosophy over to disembodied machines, in practice it means many different kinds of embodied thinkers can participate in the practice (until a corporation marketing deep learning program manages to put us out of business).

The weak philosophical link in this self-understanding of philosophy, is the input of the argumentative machinery: the source of our premises. Depending on the population of philosophers, there may well be biases (in the methodological sense) that prevent the full possibility space of premises to be searched, mapped, and evaluated. Starting points may be thought intuitive, when they are really biased (the trope of X-PHI), and objections may be missed because folk are unaware. (Recall my post on how reading Barnes on disability made me change my idea of what a human is.) Reflection on this weak link is one reason why epistemologists, philosophers of science, and political epistemologists/philosophers have become increasingly welcoming of epistemic diversity (for a nuanced discussion see Solomon) and sensitive to inductive risk (Heather Douglas), epistemic injustice (e.g., Miranda Fricker) and (Spivak's notion) of epistemic violence (Dotson) in knowledge production and, when reflexive, in philosophical practice. I made some such point in one of my responses to the Hypatia debacle.

These issues can be discerned in one strain of argument in Lebron's open letter:* it's the one focused on having "black experiences" present in the professional discussion. Lebron (who may not embrace a conception of philosophy as focused on arguments) calls attention to the fact that one professional conduit for having such experience be part of the collective professional evaluation of argument, "philosophy of race," is absent in one of the leading journals in political philosophy.** Of course, Lebron's ambitions are wider because he is not merely concerned with the profession, but also with the construction of the "collective view of civil society." There are, in fact, complex questions to be asked about the relationship between philosophical discussion and the collective view of civil society, but let's stipulate that philosophy can contribute to this view (this matters in what follows next).

It is a peculiar fact about the state of the profession that when these themes are applied to professional philosophy, there is a willingness to dismiss attention to social identity of existing members of the profession (and the excluded ones) either as identity politics or as facilitating entrenchment of a pernicious status quo (Brian Leiter has been posting about this). While the charge is often made by the same people (with a fondness for a kind of masculine Marxism or Nietzscheanism), it is important to see that the two charges actually pull in different directions. For, one can recognize that one may safely downplay (social) identity when society is fully just (so that epistemic lack of diversity need not reinforce existing or create new forms of moral and political harms). But to insist that one should organize the epistemic norms of the profession as if one already inhabits a just world (while one does not do so) generates a peculiar practical contradiction whereby the practice that is intended to contribute to some improvement of the world actually generates more harms (cf. my former colleague, José Bermudez @IHE). That is, part of the charge of identity politics only makes sense in contexts radically different from reality.

The folk that argue that identity politics entrenches a bad social order (by making it seem more just, by reducing friction, by increasing number of stake-holders in it, etc), accept that the world is less than ideal and also accept that professional philosophy has some role in improving it (recall this post on Nancy Fraser). And, in fact, let's stipulate for the sake of argument (what is really a complex empirical question) that they are correct that if (what they call) identity politics in professional philosophy were successful (first in philosophy and then in influencing the construction of civil society) the political (neoliberal, unfair, etc.) status quo would be further entrenched. That is, it prevents other forms of social/political revolution. (Of course, for some preventing revolution and the bloodshed that accompanies it may well be a noble goal.)

Now, it strikes me as completely legitimate to remind others that their otherwise worthy efforts may hinder other valuable causes. (I have noted that European animal rights activists have by focusing on the harms of ritual slaughter, tended to entrench further discrimination of Muslims in Jews; and I have expressed misgivings about the presentation of the institution of marriage in Obergefell vs Hodges.) But it is another to demand that informed others, especially subordinated others, agree with you on means and ends and then to go on to say to them 'do not engage in your potentially emancipatory participation in, say, the construction of a better view of civil society because I reject that as a proper end for us.' Then one edges remarkably close to treating others as objects for one's own ends and to demand from them that they embrace their own subordination until some higher end is achieved.

As it happens, the risk of objectification, and as I'll suggest, commodification is also intrinsic to contemporary professional philosophy. To be sure, the objectification and commodification of others in philosophical research is a complicated matter and involves lots of contextual judgment. Yet, what matters here is that the argument-centric conception of philosophy always runs the risk of some such objectification in virtue of the epistemically and socially useful fact that arguments can be decoupled (as epistemic objects) from the persons and experiences that initially gives rise to them or which they purport to represent.++

Even if one thinks that there is no problem with arguments as such (after all one may think there is a useful division of labor between, say, activists and those that argue about activism), arguments are not just a means to philosophical truth but they are also means to social status and credit, in part, through publication in journals. They then enter a complex credit economy that translates into jobs, promotion, and social recognition. The absence of such recognition and, worse, the erasure of a certain presence -- the "when and where it counts" -- is not merely an instance of commodification of other people's experience(s), but, when noted, also becomes a potent symbolic representation of the ways in which our epistemic practices can entrench a harmful social status quo.++

I am glad to read that the editor of JPP (in response to a letter by Melvin Lee Rogers) is treating this as an opportunity of "how to learn" from the situation. And I am curious to learn how the journal responds, and learns.

Let me close with a reflection, I don't think it is a surprise that analytic philosophy is confronting these issues right now (while allowing that social media amplifies their intensity and rapidity). Its methods and practices were developed and calibrated on the study of logic/mathematics/physics and extended to natural languages and meta-ethics. The methods work well in casuistry in which lots of background commitments are givens.*** (Even in so-called 'core' areas it's been an age of meta-philosophy for a while now.) The increasing, sustained interest in social ontology, political philosophy, and social amelioration are relatively recent phenomena, and how to think about the relationship between our professional practices and research ethics has not been -- outside standpoint epistemology and philosophy of race, perhaps -- a subject of central concern (as it is, say, in anthropology or medicine). Some may recoil from socially and policy relevant philosophy (under the rubric of risk-aversion to controversy and social justice warriors). Others, I hope our best lights, may develop a better understanding of and improvements in research ethics and methods.

 

 

On Cobwebs and Coxcombs: Adam Smith's criticism of Metaphysical technicality

At any rate, I cannot allow myself to believe that such men as Zeno or Cleanthes, men, it is said, of the most simple as well as of the most sublime eloquence, could be the authors, either of these, or of the greater part of the other Stoical paradoxes, which are in general mere impertinent quibbles, and do so little honour to their system that I shall give no further account of them. I am disposed to impute them rather to Chrysippus, the disciple and follower, indeed, of Zeno and Cleanthes, but who, from all that has been delivered down to us concerning him, seems to have been a mere dialectical pedant, without taste or elegance of any kind. He may have been the first who reduced their doctrines into a scholastic or technical system of artificial definitions, divisions, and subdivisions; one of the most effectual expedients, perhaps, for extinguishing whatever degree of good sense there may be in any moral or metaphysical doctrine. Such a man may very easily be supposed to have understood too literally some animated expressions of his masters in describing the happiness of the man of perfect vurtue, and the unhappiness of whoever fell short of that character.--Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments, 7.2.1.41

Adam Smith deliberately left us an enigmatic, brief History of the "Ancient Logics and Metaphysics" (in his posthumous, Essays on Philosophical Subjects). Moreover, his more polished essay on the origin of language -- attached to the the third edition of The Theory of Moral Sentiments (hereafter TMS) and well known in the 19th century -- is, in part, a conjectural-naturalistic account of the development of the human, cognitive capacity for “metaphysical analysis.” So Smith's interest in metaphysics is well-attested.

Even so, one may well think that Smith is no fan of metaphysics. In Wealth of Nations (hereafter WN), he writes about the Scholastics, "if subtleties and sophisms composed the greater part of the Metaphysicks or Pneumaticks of the schools, they composed the whole of this cobweb science of Ontology, which was likewise sometimes called Metaphysicks." (WN 5.1.f.29) Moreover, in TMS he writes, in a passage critical of the stoics, "The stoical apathy is, in such cases, never agreeable, and all the metaphysical sophisms by which it is supported can seldom serve any other purpose than to blow up the hard insensibility of a coxcomb to ten times its native impertinence." (TMS 3.3.14) Other than the fact that Smith is using 'sophisms' as a pejorative, it's not obvious why he would dislike metaphysics in these passages and in the passage quoted at the top of this post. Even so, if we look at the three passages (TMS 3.3.14 & 7.2.1.41 and WN 5.1.f.29) in light of each other and in context, a clear pattern of thought develops.

The WN passage is offered in the midst of a much larger treatment of the role of government in and financing of education. In immediate context, the argument is part of a broader (Spinozistic) Enlightenment attack on philosophical "subservience" to "theology" and neglect of the duties appropriate to this life. He blames the ascetic philosophy produced by Scholasticism and its casuistry for the corruption of moral philosophy--"by far the most important of all the different branches of philosophy" (WN 5.1.f.30) Here scholasticism is criticized (somewhat unfairly) due to its effects. In particular, "liberal, generous, and spirited conduct of a man" was rejected because it does not secure entry into heaven. (Smith echoes Hume's attack on the Monkish virtues, although Smith's embrace of thumos is noteworthy.) The Scholastic curriculum is said to be improper for the "education of gentlemen or men of the world," and unable "either to improve the understanding, or to mend the heart."

Now, the Wealth of Nations passage makes it seem that Smith rejects Scholastic metaphysics because he does not like its orientation (toward the after-life) and (life-denying/ascetic) conclusions. Something similar may be thought of Smith's rejection of Stoic metaphysics because he takes apathy to be an absurdly foolish orientation toward life. (I have polemically criticized the idea that Smith is some kind of Stoic here.) Here, too, Smith attacks a species of metaphysics for the conclusions its supports.

As an aside, Smith is a fierce critic of casuistry (see also TMS 7.4.30). As I have argued elsewhere, his indictment against casuistry concerns the way in which experts for hire and their skill commercially facilitate moral-psychological escapism and so prevent the embrace of our proper reactive attitudes. In contrast to many of his modern admirers, Smith does not think that all free markets are always just.  Smith is especially suspicious of the manner in which the market for (moral) expertise operates. That is to say, Smith thinks casuistry is always wrong because it prevents even undermines the proper functioning of our moral dispositions. The question is, is Smith's critique of metaphysics akin to his critique of casuistry?

The critique of Chryssipus (here I ignore its veracity) suggests that Smith's attitude toward metaphysics is more complicated. He does not object to metaphysical doctrine as such. But he certainly thinks that a certain amount of technical sophistication backfires on the status of doctrine. He does not fully explain his reasoning. But he clearly thinks of philosophical doctrine as animating and guiding/informing behavior. In the context of Stoicism, a school that proposed a whole way of life, this is by no means anachronistic. In fact, Smith clearly thinks that one very important criterion for the evaluation of philosophical practices and systems as such (so past and present) is its likely effect on behavior. In my forthcoming book <grin>,* I analyze this in terms Smith's commitment to responsible speech or inductive risk. (It is no surprise then that Smith treats moral philosophy as the most important branch of philosophy.)

In particular, Smith's objection is not to metaphysics but to technicality.*** His objection is, I think, two-fold: first, it removes us cognitively from our valuable, practiced dispositions and, thereby, second, is likely to move us away from how we ought to behave. That is to say, here technical philosophy is treated as corruption of the ordinary soul.+ How it does so is not entirely explained, but presumably Smith thinks that certain, fine-grained distinctions distance us from the proper objects of moral evaluation (people, motives, effects, institutions, etc.) or, at least, from the proper comportment toward these.

Obviously, one may claim that some technical, sophisticated (moral) philosophy is truth-tracking. But Smith would respond that such philosophy would not be needed (outside the seminar room***)!  Smith makes it a bit easy for himself by not investigating the ways in which technicality may well be fruitful in some areas of philosophical expertise. (This is especially surprising because at the start of WN, Smith is very clear that the intellectual of division of labor takes place within philosophy and so facilitates technical specialization.) But, it's clear that Smith thinks that all technical philosophy has an ever-present danger of certain forms of escapism from reality built into their practice (see Astronomy 4.14). So, it's easy to distance oneself from Smith's critique of technicality (especially if one lacks fondness for gentlemen) until one starts reflecting (with nudges from Ruth Chang (recall), Audrey Yap (recall), or Michael Rea [recall]) on the ways that our sophisticated, philosophical practices may corrupt our dispositions.++.

 

A note on the history of the Social Contract

This convention is not of the nature of a promise: For even promises themselves, as we shall see afterwards, arise from human conventions. It is only a general sense of common interest; which sense all the members of the society express to one another, and which induces them to regulate their conduct by certain rules. David Hume Treatise of Human Nature, 3.2.2.10.

I have noticed before in the context of describing Adam Smith's criticism of Hume, in joint work with Spencer Pack, that despite Hume's many criticism of the social contract, in the passage above (where Hume is describing the origin of justice as a human convention), Hume echoes one of the more striking moments in Hobbes Leviathan. For according to Hobbes, the commonwealth is, when not founded through conquest, instituted by a covenant “of every man with every man … as if every man should say to every man, I Authorise and give up my Right of Governing my selfe, to this Man, or to this Assembly of men” (II.17; see also II.18).*

Both thinkers seem to be claiming that the rules of justice should be understood, or conceptualized, as originating at a particular moment in time when all the potential members of a society say something to all the other members about their wish to be ruled by law. In the Treatise this is not intended as a historical claim about the original departure from the state of nature because Hume is pretty clear that "the rule concerning the stability of possession... arises gradually, and acquires force by a slow progression, and by our repeated experience of the inconveniences of transgressing it." (3.2.2.10) Moreover, on Hume's views of cognition, in those pre-historical times there is little reason to believe that  humans are capable of fully grasping the nature of some such "general sense of common interest." But it does not follow that the social compact has, as is often thought, no place in Hume's political theory.+

As I noted yesterday, Andrew Sabl's excellent Hume's Politics, has made me return to familiar passages with fresh eyes. Sabl notes that Hume portrays the Middle Ages "as a barely tamed baronial anarchy." (191) The taming of this anarchy starts under Edward I, who uses the rule of law to protect ordinary people against the barons in order to enhance his own authority. One key moment in the long-term rise of liberty in England, is Edward's summoning of the first commons in 1295. Sabl discusses the episode throughout chapters 6-7, and it includes significant contributions to the history of political philosophy. (My post does not summarize it; go read it yourself!) Edward (who needed money for his foreign wars) had the right to levy taxes, but he lacked the ability. "Sabl writes, "The first parliament was an ad hoc response to necessity, not a recognition of new legal authorities. (192)

Here's Hume's account of the episode:

But when the multiplied necessities of the crown produced a greater avidity for supply, the king, whose prerogative entitled him to exact it, found that he had not power sufficient to enforce his edicts, and that it was necessary, before he imposed taxes, to smooth the way for his demand, and to obtain the previous consent of the boroughs, by solicitations, remonstrances, and authority. The inconvenience of transacting this business with every particular borough was soon felt; and Edward became sensible, that the most expeditious way of obtaining supply, was to assemble the deputies of all the boroughs, to lay before them the necessities of the state, to discuss the matter in their presence, and to require their consent to the demands of their sovereign. For this reason, he issued writs to the sheriffs, enjoining them to send to parliament, along with two knights of the shire, two deputies from each borough within their county, and these provided with sufficient powers from their community, to consent, in their name, to what he and his council should require of them. As it is a most equitable rule, says he, in his preamble to this writ, that what concerns all should be approved of by all; and common dangers be repelled by united efforts; a noble principle, which may seem to indicate a liberal mind in the king, and which laid the foundation of a free and an equitable government. History 2.106

As Sabl notes, the first commons was called to solve a coordination problem and to reduce transaction costs to the sovereign ("the most expeditious way"). Even if one allows (as Sabl notes) that Edward is planning a transaction, he does not seem especially liberal: he brings the representatives together in order to require consent in the name of his necessity.  For with Edward I we're far removed from the people's or parliamentary sovereignty--the king is the sovereign.

Even so, as Sabl emphasizes, Edward's formula, "what concerns all should be approved of by all" is an English rendering of Quod Omnes tangit ab omnibus approbetur (or q.o.t.)--an important doctrine dating back to Roman law (p. 211). Hume remarks the significance of this: it is the commitment to, and the institutionalization of, this principle that laid the foundation of a free and equitable government. That is to say, for Hume the ideals which accompany our practices make a huge difference.

As Sabl books illustrates, it is the interplay of these ideals and practices in local context that form a kind of dynamics of historical, practical reason. (This is not Sabl's term, but it captures the position nicely I hope.) Often our practices run ahead of our ideals and laws (as the theorist of spontaneous order would emphasize), but sometimes our ideals inform the (undoubtedly contested) reformation of our practices. (The contestation matters because these are not historically determined outcomes--Hume is no providentialist.) Many of the long-term consequences are unintended, but as Sabl remarks, Hume allows that some of them are intended.

Let me wrap up with a final observation. In the set-piece of Edward I in the History, Hume provides a case study when "a general sense of common interest" is observed (by the Sovereign) and articulated by the sovereign who "discusses" the matter in the presence of the representatives, who then "consent."** In fact, we may say about the institution of the practice/rule that the commons have to consent to new taxes that it, in fact, fits rather nicely the conceptualization of the convention of justice in Treatise 3.2.2.10. For, henceforth, the English regulated, with fits and new starts, their conduct in light of the new instituted practice and the ideal, and, thereby, started the slow escape from the feudal and barbaric state of nature.

 

Adam Smith's Greatest and Noblest of All Characters and Hume's History

The leader of the successful party … may re-establish and improve the constitution, and from the very doubtful and ambiguous character of the leader of a party, he may assume the greatest and noblest of all characters, that of the reformer and legislator of a great state; and, by the wisdom of his institutions, secure the internal tranquillity [sic] and happiness of his fellow citizens for many succeeding generations. (The Theory of Moral Sentiments 6.2.2.14)

Because of the contemporary focus on meta-ethics, much critical scholarship on Adam Smith's The Theory of Moral Sentiments (TMS) focuses on the nature and significance of the impartial "and well informed" spectator, whose "sympathetic feelings" are the “precise and distinct measure,” of the propriety of our (properly moral) sentiments (TMS 7.2.1.49). It is easily overlooked that TMS is organized around a series of vignettes of instructive, exemplary characters (but see Heydt 2008 and Hanley 2008; or my chapter here).

Near the end of his life, Adam Smith added a whole part, the character of virtue, to the final, revised edition of TMS. In it, he is more explicit about issues pertaining to political theory and, inter alia, returns to the problem of faction. The passage quoted above occurs in this new material. Here Smith echoes the classical ideal, explicitly endorsed by Hume, that "wise regulations in any commonwealth are the most valuable legacy that can be left to future ages." ("That Politics may be reduced to a Science.") In context of his essay, Hume is talking about institutional design by legislators in the foundational sense (familiar from Plato, Aristotle) often associated with the figure Lycurgus (see Plutarch). But Hume's text also applies to those that improve regulations of an existing state.

In fact, although Smith sounds like Rousseau there, Smith's agreement in the quoted passage with Hume is not superficial here. For, Smith is describing the significance of the restoration of a constitution after a period of intense factional, party strife or (worse) civil worse. At that point the leader of a success party can transform him/herself from party-leader to statesman by focusing on the peace and happiness of all citizens. (It is crucial that this act of statesmanship is pacific not warlike.) S/he does so by a kind of act of re-founding (recall my treatment of Spinoza and Lincoln). Rather than being a self-styled revolutionary such a re-founder re-establishes and improves the constitution. (This is, in part, a matter of self-presentation.) In context, Smith leaves unclear if there are historical exemplars that fit his description of the "greatest and noblest of all characters." In fact, I worried about this because the only historical example I could think of, the emperor Augustus, goes against the anti-imperial (and somewhat republican) commitments I tend to attribute to Smith.

As it happens, in his very fine book, Hume's Politics: Coordination and Crisis in the History of England, Andrew Sabl calls attention to the significance of Hume's treatment of General Monk (who "ended England's civil war and restored the constitutional monarchy" (164)). In it, Sabl quotes the following passage:

This year, on the 3d of January, died George Monk, duke of Albemarle, at Newhall in Essex, after a languishing illness, and in the sixty-third year of his age. He left a great estate of 5,000 l. a year in land, and 60,000 l. in money, acquired by the bounty of the king, and encreased by his own frugality in his later years. Bishop Burnet, who, agreeably to his own factious spirit, treats this illustrious personage with great malignity, reproaches him with avarice: But as he appears not to have been in the least tainted with rapacity, his frugal conduct may more candidly be imputed to the habits, acquired in early life, while he was possessed of a very narrow fortune. It is indeed a singular proof of the strange power of faction, that any malignity should pursue the memory of a nobleman, the tenor of whose life was so unexceptionable, and who, by restoring the antient and legal and free government to three kingdoms, plunged in the most destructive anarchy, may safely be said to be the subject, in these islands, who, since the beginning of time, rendered the most durable and most essential services to his native country. The means also, by which he achieved his great undertakings, were almost entirely unexceptionable. His temporary dissimulation, being absolutely necessary, could scarcely be blameable. He had received no trust from that mungrel, pretended, usurping parliament whom he dethroned; therefore could betray none.

I have to admit that I had somehow missed this passage (which Hume buries in a footnote). I am not entirely sure I agree with Sabl and Eugene Miller (whom Sabl cites), who claim that Monk is here held up as "the greatest Briton of all time." For, Hume emphasizes the unexceptionable tenor of his life and the means by which Monk restored "the antient and legal and free government to three kingdoms."  That is, it matters to Hume that General Monk was, in certain respects, quite ordinary. In fact, Monk's frugal habits picked up in early life, are more associated with professional and commercial life than great statesmanship. That is, General Monk is exemplary, in part, because in certain respects he represents the anti-heroic virtues of modernity: this is the new kind of glory that Hume (and Hobbes) promote. In his own autobiography, Hume had emphasized his frugality and commercial independence (see here for discussion.)

Either way, Hume's description of General Monk fits Smith's description of the transformation from leader of successful party (he was one of Cromwell's important generals) to reformer and legislator of a great state. It is notable further evidence that in context of Hume's description, Hume attacks the factionalism of Burnet's more critical treatment of Monk in his History of My Own Time (here).

On Loving for Both

Se o teu coração não quiser ceder
Não sentir paixão, não quiser sofrer
Sem fazer planos do que virá depois
O meu coração pode amar pelos dois--“Amar Pelos Dois”.

If your heart doesn’t wish to give in
Not to feel passion, not to suffer
Without making plans of what will come after
My heart can love for the both of us--"Love for Both of Us."

On Monday, in a moment of melancholy, I was curious to learn who had won the Eurovision song festival. I had not watched the festival in a long time. But was pleasantly surprised to learn that Salvador Sobral had won singing his sister's song. I was enchanted by the fact that an introverted, longing ballad had won. Despite listening loyally to Catarina's Brazilian Music on Fridays, and a general, excessive fondness for Brazilian coffee and football, I don't understand a word of Portuguese (except for obrigado). So I had no idea what I was listening to.

I hesitated checking the lyrics knowing that the spell would be broken: pop tunes are too often trite, cliche, and shmaltzy. I can't say I was surprised it was a melancholic love song. The way I understand the song, the vocalist has been left by his/her beloved. Rather than accepting the end of the affair, the vocalist decides not to let go and will (stubbornly) go on loving for two.

Even though the desire to treasure something of value after it has passed is noble, the protagonist is a fool, of course; and may well have some kind of clinical disorder. (I leave it to others to label it.) Experience teaches that is better to move on after one has been dumped (after a period of mourning or reflection). This is not to condemn the fool who can't be otherwise.

I was about to let go of the song when I reflected on the oddity of saying about oneself that one has a big heart, which from stoutness shades into magnanimity. (A modest person would never say s/he could love for both; but a magnanimous person...) We tend to say that philosophy just is love of wisdom. But to philosophize often means unrequited love. By this I do not just mean the elusiveness of wisdom or truth. Rather, too often, in practice, our favorite means, argument, is designed to end discussion rather than to generate shared pursuit or mutual exchange. In the hands of many argument becomes a means of silencing--a weapon in a duel of brainpower.

Here my train of thought halted... too often in a philosophical exchange we need from each other a willingness to love for both, and there are few greater, rare joys when we give it to each other.

 

Hayek on True Agreement & Liberal Civil Religion

It is the price of democracy that the possibilities of conscious control are restricted to the fields where true agreement exists and that in some fields things must be left to chance. But in a society which for its functioning depends on central planning this control cannot be made dependent on a majority’s being able to agree; it will often be necessary that the will of a small minority be imposed upon the people, because this minority will be the largest group able to agree among themselves on the question at issue. Democratic government has worked successfully where, and so long as, the functions of government were, by a widely accepted creed, restricted to fields where agreement among a majority could be achieved by free discussion; and it is the great merit of the liberal creed that it reduced the range of subjects on which agreement was necessary to one on which it was likely to exist in a society of fierce men.--Hayek The Road to Serfdom, p. 109.

Yesterday, in the context of discussing Jacob T. Levy's attempt at a rebirth of classical liberalism, I quoted a passage in which Hayek (1939) writes, "Government by agreement is only possible provided that we do not require the government to act in fields other than those in which we can obtain true agreement." (Emphasis added) A Facebook comment by the distinguished economist, Peter Boettke, reminded me that I had not paid attention to the significance of the claims in this sentence. Hayek here is offering a (proto-)argument for limited government in name of democracy (or, perhaps, non-violence [''agreement"]. That Hayek dislikes planning is familiar enough. That he understands himself as defending democracy less so (which is one reason why the essay by Levy' that I responded to is important).

Of course, much turns on the nature of true agreement. The argument returns and is clarified by some remarks in the Road to Serfdom (a re-reading of which frames Levy's essay): "The fact is that in these fields legislation does not go beyond general rules on which true majority agreement can be achieved, while in the direction of economic activity the interests to be reconciled arc so divergent that no true agreement is likely to be reached in a democratic assembly." I think Hayek's idea is that an agreement in which a population's interests are reconciled is a true agreement. He offers as an example, the general rules that inform the (to adopt Rawl's terminology) the basic structure of society. (Of course, Hayek and Rawls would disagree, perhaps, over the content of these rules and what is part of the basic structure.) Here, in principle, everybody's interests -- in civil peace, fair play, impartial rule of law, etc. -- are in agreement. (This is why Rawls can use a representative agent in the original position.)

Because in many affairs our interests diverge or are zero-sum, true agreement over these is not possible according to Hayek. In context it is clear that Hayek is concerned both with discretionary power and the delegation of power to experts. The connection between these two issues is not obvious. But from discussion later in The Road to Serfdom (see here), it's clear that Hayek thinks that in both cases a small group will impose its ends on society. And the policies that promote those ends will not merely impact the interests of those represented; many more (non-voters, non-citizens, foreigners, etc.) may well be affected by them. The bigger the federation of states, the more likely that people with divergent interests will be affected by its policies. For Hayek, this is a desirable outcome because it will limit harmful planning and, as I noted yesterday, reduce state capacity.

Some other time, I'll return to Hayek's (much more complex) ideas on free discussion  on majority rule. But here I conclude with an observation. One may wonder, how in a democracy, even one with a free press and spaces for free discussion, one would come to agree on what topics or policy areas true agreement is possible, that is, how self-limitation is embraced by a democratic populace. Here, it turns out, is a function for liberal ideology or, if one dislikes the term, religiosity ("widely accepted creed"). That is to say, on Hayek's view a liberal society can be a democratic society if its citizens accept liberal values. This puts Hayek closer to nineteenth century (classical) liberalism than to the neutrality endorsing liberalism (of later Rawls) that stakes its claims on a tenuous overlapping consensus. It also suggests that the Hayekian liberal state may well have to embrace a species of civil religion through which liberal values (the creed) and its institutions are entrenched.