Digressions&Impressions

Hume, Lazar, Locke, and the State of Exception, revisited

The protector, the two secretaries, the council of state, with any five or more that the senate appoints, are possessed, on extraordinary emergencies, of dictatorial power for six months.--David Hume, Idea Of a Perfect Commonwealth

Seven years ago (recall) I discussed the quoted passage on this blog, and then eventually published a paper on the material (here). Today, I revisit it because of an extraordinarily fertile book (published in 2009), States of Emergency in Liberal Democracies by Nomi Claire Lazar, which I recently read and had overlooked before. Lazar offers what she calls a 'Lockean' approach to states of emergency amply documented in Locke's Second Treatise, but developed and elaborated by her in very creative ways.

Now, the key move of Lazar's Lockean approach is to insist that states of emergency need not abolish accountability (of the sovereign, the executive, the dictator). In the right sort of political order, accountability is "an ever-present possibility." (p. 149) And one of the neatest chapters in her book shows that this is even so in the case of the institution of Roman dictatorship (made famous (recall) by Livy in his treatment of Cincinnatus). Such accountability can be formal in a political and juridical sense. Or it can be more informal by way of the political restraints of countervailing powers and forces, including public opinion.

That during states of emergencies accountability need not be abolished builds on another key insight of hers: that there is no sharp division between states of emergency and the ordinary rule of law. In particular, first, in both instances rights derogation occur, but the manner in which this happens is different. In fact, her book reminds the reader that even in the most noble liberal democracies, many of our rights can be derogated within the ordinary rule of law (as rights clash or in instances of ordinary punishment). This is recognized in treaties and constitutions that set an explicit limit on which rights can be derogated (see p. 145). Second, these rights derogations reflect the ordinary pluralism, even "pervasive" conflict of values in ordinary political life (p. 89).

And, third, office holders have considerable discretion not just in cases understood as emergencies, but also in ordinary political life. As Locke notes in his "Of Prerogative," which, as noted, is important to Lazar's overall argument, "many things there are, which the law can by no means provide for; and those must necessarily be left to the discretion of him that has the executive power in his hands, to be ordered by him as the public good and advantage shall require." (Second Treatise, Chapter 14, sect 159; quoted by Lazar on p. 116). The cumulative effect of these three points is that states of emergency are part and parcel of what Locke (and Foucault) call the 'art of government.' If Lazar is right -- and she is -- then states of emergency also belong to a distinctly liberal art of government.

However, there is also a complication. And I introduce it by way of Locke. Locke goes on to claim that this discretion is in the service of "public good and advantage" in the context of circumstances "that as much as may be, all the members of the society are to be preserved...for the end of government being the preservation of all." It is notable that Locke puts this not in terms of the survival of society (the effect of, or instituted by, the social contract), but rather in terms of the preservation of  "all" the individuals (the "members") that compose society. On Locke's view, the prerogative, thus, really is in the service of the preservation of (individual) life rather than, say, the preservation of the state.  (This makes sense because for Locke, unlike Hobbes, we can survive just fine outside society and the state.)

The claim in the previous paragraph nicely illustrates Lazar's point that "emergency powers take on the moral character of the end they serve." (p. 138) In Locke, then, the prerogative and the powers it licenses are means toward serving the interests of individuals. Admittedly, Locke often treats this in terms of serving the "public good" -- which is more expansive than mere individual survival --, so I don't mean to suggest that for Locke emergency powers ought only focus on preservation of bare life. But for Locke the proper functioning prerogative is in the service of the same values as those that justify the social contract. And in so far as we can treat these as liberal -- some will object here to my anachronism here -- for Locke emergency powers can be liberal.

The point of my last two paragraphs is to note that Lazar goes beyond Locke in an important way . To be sure, Locke anticipates, as she notes, her claim that public opinion is an important check on the use of prerogative. But rather (and this gets me to the complication), for Lazar, emergency powers are invoked when "the state order through which norms and laws are normally enforced is threatened, the order itself is threatened." (p. 103) As she recognizes the preservation of such order is not self-evidently a liberal value. In her account this is not a bug, but a feature. Because for her, 'extra-liberal values' are also "pervasive" in "the moral life of liberal democracies." (P. 93) She includes "security, order, desert, group cohesion, cultural pluralism, and the preservation and expression of cultural heritage" among the list of pervasive non liberal values, and the source of pervasive pluralism and conflict of values in liberal democracies. 

And the way Lazar handles this conflict -- and this puts her in the camp of political realists -- is to distinguish between the "quotidian ethics animating the day-to-day functions of political order" which are constituted by "liberal values" and the "existential ethics" that govern the foundation and preservation of the liberal democratic order (p. 88; see also p. 12). And such existential ethics "are characterized by their relative uniformity across regime types." (24) So, for Lazar, the ordinary liberal art of government always involves navigating extra liberal values. And this is, we might say, intensified and more noticeable during states of emergency where the existential ethics that guide the preservation of order may be more important.

In a way, Lazar meets contemporary critics of liberalism, often inspired by Schmitt on their own ground (recall this post on Agamben). These tend to insist that the state of emergency is always (and hypocritically) lurking in liberal practice. And such critics have had ample ammunition during the last (say) fifteen years with the ways in which central banks operated during the great financial recession, the ways in which France (and other countries) have tackled Islamic terrorism, and the ways in which the Pandemic has been governed. Lazar shows that the critics are not wholly wrong in calling attention to the phenomenon, but they misunderstand the significance of it. 

As an aside, I take the positing of two such ethics as characteristic of what is now known as political realism, which insists that political life has norms of its own and, if the state is worth having, ought to be governed by them. (For a an important recent paper on this, see Matt Sleat here, which nicely refutes the idea that such political norms must be non-moral a view he associates with my colleague Enzo Rossi.) And Lazar's slender work (but fertile in ideas) ought to have a place in the developing canon of recent political realism.*

Be that as may, as should be clear from what I said above I do not think Locke is committed to such bifurcation between quotidian ethics and existential ethics. Because for Locke the state of nature is livable, the preservation of order is always instrumental to the grounds of (entering) civil society.

Having said that,  Lazar's view does characterize Hume's position nicely. (For recent work on Hume as such a political realist, see Andrew Sabl's book (here), and my paper.) As the quoted passage above makes clear, in his ideal constitutional order, Hume made place for provisions of states of emergency. That order -- it is a federation -- is modeled (and Hume is explicit on this) on Dutch political arrangements improved in light of experience. And, in fact, Hume's construction quite clearly addresses a weakness in the Dutch political order that Hume has diagnosed in his History. That in foreign policy affairs its decision-making process could be too slow and so too vulnerable to foreign influence: 

The articles of this confederacy [viz. the defensive alliance between England Holland negotiated by Temple and De Witt] were soon adjusted by such candid and able negotiators: But the greatest difficulty still remained. By the constitution of the republic, all the towns in all the provinces must give their consent to every alliance; and besides that this formality could not be dispatched in less than two months, it was justly to be dreaded, that the influence of France would obstruct the passing of the treaty in some of the smaller cities. D’Estrades, the French ambassador, a man of abilities, hearing of the league, which was on the carpet, treated it lightly; “Six weeks hence,” said he, “we shall speak to it.” To obviate this difficulty, de Wit had the courage, for the public good, to break through the laws in so fundamental an article; and by his authority, he prevailed with the States General at once to sign and ratify the league: Though they acknowledged,13th Jan. that, if that measure should displease their constituents, they risqued their heads by this irregularity. [Emphasis added]

The emphasized part in the quoted passage nicely illustrates one of Lazar's key points that even in an emergency, a political leader is aware of the reality of accountability and acts accordingly.+

In larger context, Hume presents De Witt as acting for the survival of the Dutch republic which is threatened by (their former ally) France which has just overrun Flanders. And so the alliance with England is negotiated (while England and Holland are still at war with each other!) in order to save "the remaining provinces of the Low Countries could be thereby saved from the danger, with which they were at present threatened." And it is clear that for Hume the survival of the state, the continued existence of order (and property), "the public good" justifies the means. While Hume rejects the social contract, he is in this respect closer to Hobbes than to Locke (as I have argued in a paper with Spencer Pack here).

That, for Hume, non-liberal values can guide the art of government is illustrated by Hume's praise for the De Witt (earlier in the 1665 war with England) "by his management a spirit of union was preserved in all the provinces." This shows that for Hume the conditions that maintain the survival of the state -- this includes among them such a public spirit -- are, indeed, part of the non-liberal art of government. So, I'd like to suggest that Hume (who I am here treating as a key thinker in the liberal tradition) is the historical figure that anticipates Lazar's position.

 

 

Freedom in The Dawn of Everything, Pt 1.

But for us, the key point to remember is that we are not talking here about ‘freedom’ as an abstract ideal or formal principle (as in ‘Liberty, Equality and Fraternity!’). Over the course of these chapters we have instead talked about basic forms of social liberty which one might actually put into practice: (1) the freedom to move away or relocate from one’s surroundings; (2) the freedom to ignore or disobey commands issued by others; and (3) the freedom to shape entirely new social realities, or shift back and forth between different ones.
   What we can now see is that the first two freedoms – to relocate, and to disobey commands – often acted as a kind of scaffolding for the third, more creative one. Let us clarify some of the ways in which this ‘propping-up’ of the third freedom actually worked. As long as the first two freedoms were taken for granted, as they were in many North American societies when Europeans first encountered them, the only kings that could exist were always, in the last resort, play kings. If they overstepped the line, their erstwhile subjects could always ignore them or move someplace else. The same would go for any other hierarchy of offices or system of authority. Similarly, a police force that operated for only three months of the year, and whose membership rotated annually, was in a certain sense a play police force – which makes it slightly less bizarre that their members were sometimes recruited directly from the ranks of ritual clowns.
    It’s clear that something about human societies really has changed here, and quite profoundly. The three basic freedoms have gradually receded, to the point where a majority of people living today can barely comprehend what it might be like to live in a social order based on them.--David Graeber & David Wengrow (2021) The Dawn of Everything, p. 503.

After live-tweeting my impressions of each chapter (see here for links) of The Dawn of Everything, I wasn't sure if I wanted to blog about it. But the last few weeks the book has been popping up in various Digressions. So, it's time to confront it more directly. And since I have actually not seen yet a substantive discussion of their account of freedom (a topic I also have modest amount of expertise), I thought I start there. My treatment is mostly expository, but I will share a few reservations along the way.

The quoted passage is from the conclusion and actually nicely reveals some key features of the (anarchist) political philosophy that is immanent in the work. Just so that you don't think I am cherry-picking, earlier in the book, they called these "the freedom to move, the freedom to disobey and the freedom to create or transform social relationships." (p. 426)

The first freedom  -- (1) the freedom to move away or relocate from one’s surroundings -- is familiar as exit. (It is bit strange that it is not discussed in the terms made familiar by Albert Hirschman in Exit, Voice, and Loyalty back in the early 1970s.)+ Crucially in The Dawn of Everything, when this freedom is discussed, it is in the context of the social infrastructure that makes it possible. An especially memorable treatment is the way in which people can wander in and out of tribes and societies over enormous distances in turtle island (North America). I quote their own summary:

It would seem, then, that kinship in such cases is really a kind of metaphor for social attachments, in much the same way we’d say ‘all men are brothers’ when trying to express internationalism (even if we can’t stand our actual brother and haven’t spoken to him for years). What’s more, the shared metaphor often extended over very long distances, as we’ve seen with the way that Turtle or Bear clans once existed across North America, or moiety systems across Australia. This made it a relatively simple matter for anyone disenchanted with their immediate biological kin to travel very long distances and still find a welcome. (p. 280)

What this shows is that the kind of political/social exit they are interested in requires a pre-existing social infrastructure (a scaffolding in their terms) to allow people to enter somewhere else. And this infrastructure (in this case the Turtle and Bear clans) functions orthogonally to the political units that people are exiting from and entering into. If I understand the larger argument of the book correctly this infrastructure is partially the effect of myths and narratives that generate collective teaching on important political events of the past. (I say partially because other practices must sustain the infrastructure.)

In fact, one of the neatest elements on the book is how often what I would like to call longue durée memory is salient. (See, especially, their treatment of Teotilihuacan in chapter 9 and Cahokia in chapter 11.) Their longue durée can be centuries long! The politically salient memory is often encoded in myths and shared narratives as a reservoir for important political choices.  This is one way in which (1) enters into (3). 

In this sense, Graeber and Wengrow contribute to the overcoming of what I once called (recall) two classical conceptions of myth: first, myth is associated with superstition and something to be overcome by modernity and rationalization. On this view, which takes myth seriously as the necessary stepping stone toward a political or ethical decision that removes us from the state of myth. The other, second, classical conception is that myth just is the stuff of everydayness, an ordinary comportment or way of being in the world. But as they show myth can also be constitutive of debates involving rational political choice. And those of us trained in the classical conceptions of myth have to unlearn our biases against myth. As regular readers know I came to the view through my encounter with Aaron Tugendhaft's beautiful (2017) Baal and the Politics of Poetry,* which nicely complements their chapters 7-8.*

But to have a shared myth and to share in social infrastructure orthogonal to political units means one shares significant features of (ahh) a culture. So, one does not get this kind of exit -- Neil Levy alerted me to this -- simply. Admittedly this is a feature not a bug of their approach. Today, too many states are creating lots of severe obstacles to entry and exit. (Strikingly more than in, say, the nineteenth century.) 

Before I move on to the second freedom, it is worth noting that some of  the most interesting features of the book for political philosophy are the way these collective choices are themselves effects of a process of large scale cultural schismogenesis; that is, the tendency of whole peoples to define themselves against each other. And while I was sad they ignored all the modern political science literature on polarization, I thought their examples truly fascinating and will discuss them again in the future (see also below).

The second freedom (2) the freedom to ignore or disobey commands issued by others -- is rather important to the anarchic project of The Dawn of Everything. It is also really a breath of fresh air. For, one annoying feature of the scholarly debate within political philosophy (about liberal democracies) is that many bread and butter journal articles basically involve arguments about what and when states and their officers may legitimately compel their citizens (and even more their non-citizens). The impulse behind these articles is basically noble -- they always involve arguments that conclude considerable limitations on what folk can be compelled to do --, but I have to admit these discussions prevented me from self-identifying as a political philosopher for a long time. It basically turns our devotion to our disciplinary projects as ahh the nicest functionary of the modern state. (This is also visible in discussions on civil disobedience and immigration.)

The second freedom is really incompatible with statehood. Even the freest modern states compel lots of actions (not just taxation), and raise enormous costs to even relatively trivial disobedience. Much of this is completely internalized by their citizens. In part because they thereby solve endless coordination problems and avoid unpleasant friction with their neighbors. The small number of commands that are politicized and matters of controversy should not obscure these facts. That is to say, while I think (public) opinion is far more important in such matters than Graeber and Wengrow allow, one should not ignore the violent underpinnings (including the many small fines) of the system.

It's pretty clear from The Dawn of Everything that in societies in which one may ignore commands, there are fewer of them and that they involve considerable pre-existing discussion. But these come at a cost they themselves note (about all kinds of local governments), "resolving such inequities might require many hours, possibly days of tedious discussion, but almost always a solution will be arrived at that no one finds entirely unfair." (p. 426) As I noted yesterday (recall here; which includes a section on their book, but is not presupposed here), societies in which the division of labor is advanced tend to avoid this approach. And, in reasonably well functioning liberal societies, the right and luxury to ignore politics are one of its great blessings. Of course, this comes at the price of bureaucracy.

Throughout The Dawn of Everything, there is a polemic against bureaucracy. I don't think they ever have a nice thing to say about it, and they often say bad things about it. And this is because at bottom they see it as a species of "domination" grounded in "knowledge," and buttressed by a domination based on (state) "violence." Interestingly enough, the word 'impartial' or its cognates never appears in the book! So, what fairness  (decoupled from norms of impartiality) means for Graeber and Wengrow always involves some kind of local, particular judgment. In most contexts I myself prefer impartiality over particular judgment, but since bureaucracies are themselves shaped by unequal background conditions, I can understand why others might demur. 

The third freedom -- (3) the freedom to shape entirely new social realities, or shift back and forth between different ones -- is a collective one. For those who are entirely unfamiliar with the book (and the discussion about it), the book is full of examples in which whole societies switch major social organization (often seasonally). As I noted on Twitter, such collective switching when it really matters (so not traditions of carnival) are familiar to early twentieth century Europeans, who switched dramatically between collective mobilization and peace-time economies.

But the more important point is that for Graeber and Wengrow this third freedom also involves the collective rejection of the trappings of statehood (and its violence and hierarchy) altogether by particular groups. For readers of the Hebrew Bible this is not unfamiliar because the early narrative is (as Yoram Hazony notes in The Philosophy of Hebrew Scripture), all about shepherds trying to avoid empire a theme discussed with scientific rigor in James C. Scott works. But they add huge number of examples, and -- most interestingly -- also point to large urban settlements as examples.  

In fact, their understanding of such collective freedom to shape new social realities often comes close to what we political theorists call, republican features of self-governance familiar from (ahh) Rousseau and Machiavelli. (Rousseau's Discourses on Inequality is mentioned a lot to motivate the discussion (about that some other time perhaps), but The Social Contract isn't at all.) In fact, as the book proceeds popular assemblies are mentioned with greater frequency and as a positive alternative to democracy as understood in modern representative/elected democracies. A key passage is this one: "Yet democracy, in modern states, is conceived very differently to, say, the workings of an assembly in an ancient city, which collectively deliberated on common problems. Rather, democracy as we have come to know it is effectively a game of winners and losers played out among larger-than-life individuals, with the rest of us reduced largely to onlooker." (p. 367)

They go on to explain that the 'larger-than-life' individuals are modeled on the (anti-urban) aristocratic values. They present this as wholly original, and indeed their discussion is fresh. But the eighteenth century scholar in me is amused; in my introductory lecture courses on the history of political theory, I always make a big deal about the contrast between direct and indirect democracy, and I always add for good measure that what we would call 'democracy' would have have been called 'aristocratic' by the Greek ancients (sometimes mentioning Madison in passing). [Update: on twitter David Wengrow pointed out, correctly, that on p. 311-312, they credit the idea to Munro Chadwick and their "contribution is to trace the opposition back to the very origin of cities (and aristocracies) in the fourth millennium BC." My presentation misrepresents their view here, and so I am happy to correct it.]

Kidding aside, the significance of the quote from p 367 is that it kind of offers a window into the ways they view assemblies which oddly sound like Habermasian affairs and -- while I enormously respect Graeber and Wengrow -- is wholly at odds with what we know about most documented urban assemblies from literary sources not just in the ancient world but also medieval European world (or the New England town hall). They rightly reject the idea that we should treat reports of indigenous assemblies as plagiarisms from Livy. But it is worth reading Livy (amongst others), who is (for all of his inventions) a pretty useful source on the ways in which assemblies are turbulent and raucous affairs. And even when calm, often such assemblies are dominated by a few figures (often aristocratic in some pertinent local sense) in which many others have a much smaller role to play. In fact, their own (again fascinating) treatment of the decision by the Ayuntamiento (city council) of Tlaxcala to ally itself with Cortés fits this pattern.

I don't mean to deny that sometimes assemblies can avoid results that involve winners and losers, but that's true of representative parliaments. To put the point conceptually, assemblies and parliaments are mechanisms for collective decision-making and they both have features that promote ways to avoid zero-sum outcomes, but they also have features that generate it. (For example, in popular assemblies without secret ballot, it is very difficult to stand against 'the consensus.') That is to say, I was not at all convinced they have started to offer a compelling argument here. What they have done, and this is no mean feat, is to sketch the anarchist position in lively and appealing colors (see Justin Smith's essay on the book). But they do not offer a sober comparative analysis.

The previous paragraphs may hide what's crucial here. The freedom to shape entirely new social realities is not itself incompatible with liberal democracy (as I already remarked above with the terrifying example of the world wars). To illustrate this I quote an anecdote apparently due to Élie Halévy, but which I read in Ortega y Gasset. I use this anecdote because thanks to BLM the topic is highly salient again, and in their terms the adoption of a real police force is a major disaster for a community (see the quote at the top of this post).  I use Ortega y Gasset because he is an elitist liberal (I have not edited away his class biases), and so far removed from Graeber and Wengrow. Since at the time France and England were great rivals, I think the anecdote also illustrates their notion of schismogenesis:

It might be well to take advantage of our touching on this matter to observe the different reaction to a public need manifested by different types of society. When, about 1800, the new industry began to create a type of man- the industrial worker-more criminally inclined than traditional types, France hastened to create a numerous police force. Towards 1810 there occurs in England, for the same reasons, an increase in criminality, and the English suddenly realise that they have no police. The Conservatives are in power. What will they do? Will they establish a police force? Nothing of the kind. They prefer to put up with crime, as well as they can. "People are content to let disorder alone, considering it the price they pay for liberty." "In Paris," writes John William Ward, "they have an admirable police force, but they pay dear for its advantages. I prefer to see, every three or four years, half a dozen people getting their throats cut in the Ratcliffe Road, than to have to submit to domiciliary visits, to spying, and to all the machinations of Fouche."  Here we have two opposite ideas of the State. The Englishman demands that the State should have limits set to it.--The Revolt of the Masses, 123-124.

What is worth reflecting on, in light of their book, is why such large scale social decisions seem so rare in liberal democracy.  And this is connected to what they describe in terms of the question "How did we get stuck?" That's actually a very important question for political philosophy.  To be continued.

Quentin Skinner, Paley, Tocqueville, and the Charge of Utopianism (III)

A number of critics [of neo-roman liberty] argued that, even if this contention is not actually incoherent, the suggestion that an equal right to participate in government is indispensable to the maintenance of civil liberty is so Utopian as to make it irrelevant to the political world in which we live. This objection was widely canvassed at the time of the American and French revolutions, with William Paley coming forward in his Principles of Moral and Political Philosophy in 1785 as perhaps the most influential spokesman for what became the classical liberal case. As Paley urges in minatory tones, 'those definitions of liberty ought to be rejected, which by making that essential to civil freedom which is unattainable in experience, inflame expectations that can never be gratified, and disturb the public content with complaints'. warning takes on an added significance in the light of the fact that his Principles became for the teaching of political theory throughout the nineteenth century.
I shall not attempt to counter Paley's criticism, save by observing that I have never understood why the charge of utopianism is necessarily thought to be an objection to a theory of politics. One legitimate aspiration of moral and political theory is surely to show us what lines of action we are committed to undertaking by the values we profess to accept. It may well be massively inconvenient to suggest that, if we truly value individual freedom, this commits us to establishing political equality as a substantive ideal. If this is true, however, what this insight offers us is not a critique of our principles as unduly demanding in practice; rather it offers us a critique of our practice as insufficiently attentive to our principles.--Quentin Skinner (1998) Liberty before Liberalism, 77-79

The quoted passage is just before Skinner takes on the main, "more knock-down objection commonly levelled against the [neo-Roman] theory I have been laying out." (79) So the quoted material is easy to miss also because Skinner admits that he is not attempting "to counter Paley's criticism." As promised (recall here; here; here; here), I shall take on Skinner's response to the "more knock-down objection" in a future post, but I hope readers find dwelling on the quoted passage instructive anyway.

One reason to think it might be instructive is that in the second paragraph, Skinner enunciates a principle -- "One legitimate aspiration of moral and political theory is surely to show us what lines of action we are committed to undertaking by the values we profess to accept' -- that is central (recall) to his  defense of his methodology; near the end of the argument of his  lecture, when he is defending his methodology, he claims that "professed principles...will nevertheless help to shape and limit what lines of action you can successfully pursue." (p. 105) I won't repeat my criticism of this claim here, but I think it is fair to say that while this part of Skinner's response to Paley (yes that Paley) may not be central to his own refutation of liberal liberty, it does represent an important strain in Skinner's thought.

So, it is a peculiar fact that Skinner misunderstands Paley's objection. For, the charge against the neo-roman definition of liberty here is not that it is utopian, but that is dangerous. The charge of "utopianism" is a charge of feasibility (e.g., "unduly demanding"). Admittedly, Skinner himself clearly need not understand the charge of utopianism as a charge of feasibility (despite "utopianism;" "unduly demanding"). For he also losses it, as a charge of massive inconvenience. This is indeed much closer to Paley's sense, and so I treat this as Skinner's objection. But even this misunderstands the nature of Paley's position.

Now Paley is clearly a consequentialist and, as Skinner suggest, one of the early utilitarians.* So, it is not surprising, even consistent, that Paley would evaluate the "propriety" (see Paley) of a definition or a principle in terms of its foreseeable effects. The key part of Paley's is criticism is not the feasibility claim, although it is present in his argument ("unattainable in experience"). That is not a problem. If accepting unfeasible principle would produce good consequences, Paley might (if it does not offend other features of morality and religion) well have to embrace it. But rather that in virtue of its infeasibility, people's expectations will be raised and denied. This is bad enough in its own right given that for Paley the "final" aim of "all rational politics" is to "produce the greatest quantity of happiness in a given tract of country." Let's call this Paley's internal objection to the neo-roman definition. It is internal to Paley's system and may well be unsatisfying to those who reject his other commitments.

But, Paley is also offering a political objection against the neo-roman definition in the passage quoted by Skinner at the top of this post. For, the political objection to neo-roman liberty is that it makes minimal civic concord impossible.

To see what this is about it is important to remember that there are roughly two models of the causes of political revolution. First, there is (recall) the Platonic model that in an unequal/class/hierarchical society disunified elites cause revolutions (Republic 545d). Second, there is the model commonly associated with Tocqueville that revolutions occur when things start to improve:

Revolutions are not always brought about by a gradual decline from bad to worse. Nations that have endured patiently and almost unconsciously the most overwhelming oppression, often burst into rebellion against the yoke the moment it begins to grow lighter. The regime which is destroyed by a revolution is almost always an improvement on its immediate predecessor, and experience teaches that the most critical moment for bad governments is the one which witnesses their first steps toward reform.--Tocqueville, The Old Regime and the Revolution**

One of the possible mechanisms behind this second model is anticipated in Paley's idea that inflamed desires that are frustrated are dangerous. (I take it this is the significance of Paley's use of inflamed.) These cannot (remember infeasibility) be removed by "wisdom or the benevolence of government."  

Now, if one thinks a revolution is warranted then perhaps thinking then, perhaps, it is natural to treat a warning about not facilitating the conditions of revolution as menacing ('minatory'). But if one thinks that even the most welcome revolutions are also dangerous/harmful to many innocent bystanders -- as they nearly always are --, then Paley's stance may well be thought humane, even moral.

More contextually, neo-Roman ideas were implicated in the revolution of the US then (1785) recently concluded. So Paley is clearly pointing out that neo-roman ideas generated the conditions of revolution. Now, none of us need to mourn the diminishment of British empire. But Paley's idea is simply that neo-Roman ideas are always dangerous to public order. This is why I call the 'political objection.'+

Notice that Paley takes his own political objection seriously enough to propose alternative principles that one can live by. So, while it may be true, from a neo-roman perspective that there is"a critique of our practice as insufficiently attentive to our principles," Paley is not an appropriate target of this complaint because he is changing the principles in virtue of their foreseeable effects. And Paley's stance is consistent because he embraces principles that (plausibly) are capable of delivering what he takes to be the end "rational politics." (That is compatible with noticing that labeling this 'rational' is a form of political rhetoric by making other  ends seem irrational!)

One may well charge Paley, as one may charge many utilitarians, of being too close to the perspective of authority and power here. And, perhaps, Paley, is taking too much the perspective of his students (the future clerical and political elite). And one may also wonder if the rejection of revolution is, in context, a species of admirable gradualism (of the sort I attribute to Adam Smith) or just quietism. But Paley's particular charge is that neo-republican liberty invites permanent turmoil, if not, revolution. 

Skinner could deny Paley's claim on empirical grounds. Perhaps Paley is wrong about the empirical effects of neo-roman liberty. One may also argue (on Machiavellian/Popperian grounds) that some kind of permanent tension is fruitful. But in so far as political theory is, in part, also the search of principles that lead to stable authority, and, thereby stable expectations that can generate what we may call the fruits of peace, Paley's objection instantiates responsible speech. For Paley's view is de facto (and here he echoes Hume) that on neo-roman grounds no legitimate government is possible in actuality.

On Quentin Skinner On the Practice Use of Historical Studies (I)

We ought, I think, to be prepared to ask ourselves quite aggressively what is supposed to be the practical use, here and now, of our historical studies. It has never seemed to me adequate to reply that they satisfy a natural curiosity, and it seems to me dangerously self-indulgent to suggest, as Lord Acton once did, that 'our studies ought to be all but purposeless', especially in a culture as committed as ours has become to a banausic view of 'relevance'. The accusation of antiquarianism is, in short, one that troubles me deeply, and it is one that all professional  historians ought, I think, to stand ready to answer, at least to the satisfaction of their own consciences. We must expect to be asked, and must not fail to ask ourselves, what is supposed to be the point of it all....

[O]ne of the ways - perhaps the only way - of improving our understanding will be to go back to the historical juncture at which this way of thinking about politics was first articulated and developed. We shall then be able to see how the concepts we still invoke were initially defined, what purposes they were intended to serve, what view of public power they were used to underpin. This in turn may enable us to acquire a self-conscious understanding of a set of concepts that we now employ unselfconsciously and, to some degree, even uncomprehendingly. It is arguable, in short, that we need to become intellectual historians if we are to make sense not merely of this but of many comparable aspects of our present moral and political world.
    This is hardly a new thought. It is the thought animating F. W. Maitland's last and most dazzling group of essays---Quentin Skinner, (1998) Liberty Before Liberalism, pp. 107-110

βαναυσικός can be translated as 'pertaining to mechanics.' In English 'banausic' seems to have been coined as a pejorative in the middle of the nineteenth century (see here); this reflecting aristocratic prejudice. But is pretty clear that Skinner means to say that in our culture 'relevance' has a kind of practical or mundane sense. And, while he may well feel some regret over this fact, he seems to use 'banausic' in neutral fashion. It is noticeable that dictionaries often use 'utilitarian' when explaining banausic; because part of the overall argument of the book is that the purportedly liberal utilitarians (from Paley to Sidgwick) have displaced the neo-roman sense of liberty with a different sense by using less than fully convincing arguments.+ 

After rejecting pure antiquarianism -- a charge that arises from Skinner's early work -- and an "essentially aesthetic" (p. 107) justification for engaging in historical studies, Skinner takes up a practical justification for historical studies in his extended version of his justly famous (1997) inaugural lecture. He is unusually forthright, perhaps historicist, in suggesting that in our culture* antiquarianism (and aesthetics, perhaps) are not properly self-justifying. Strikingly, Skinner does not claim to be offering a justification to the wider or interested public (of the sort rejected recently (recall here) by Zena Hitz (and her book)), but rather he hopes to craft a response that can convince the "consciences" of his fellow "professional historians." Skinner leaves it to the reader to figure out what standards of judgment enter into such disciplined conscience.

Part of the answer can be found in the second half of the passage I quoted above. The point of historical practice of intellectual historians is to generate a species of  "self-conscious understanding of a set of concepts that we now employ unselfconsciously." This is rather Socratic. Skinner wishes to provide a form of self-understanding of (to switch to Wittgenstein) fundamental concepts habituated in our form of life and, then, indirectly, to make questioning of these forms of life possible.* (I return to my 'indirectly' below.)

Skinner is cautious in the way he conveys the questioning part. He explicitly distances himself from moralising historians, who are likely to be enthusiasts or indignant when "surveying the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind." (p 118) He prefers the "aloof" kind of historian. Yet, he also suggests that in our status quo, we do not understand our most fundamental concepts; we deploy them 'unselfconsciously" and "most of us do not know" what some of these may mean. (p. 109). It is worth remarking that it is left unclear if this is a typically liberal disease or, as seems more likely, a perennial, or durable, feature of political life. 

So, the task of the professional historian, who wishes to improve thinking about politics for most of us not in the know, is to remove the pervasive ignorance about core even hegemonic  (p. 117) moral and political concepts. So, while the justification is offered to fellow historians, it is the many, or the public, which is supposed to benefit from the exercise. One cannot help admire such philanthropic impulse!

Above I used 'indirectly' because while Skinner leaves no doubt that he thinks that within "the traditions of thought about the character of the liberal state" (p. 119), the arguments that displaced the neo-roman conception of liberty are based on fallacious reasoning; at one point he claims that "the conclusion has already been inserted into the premise." (p. 115)).+ Despite exposing the argumentative flaws in a certain kind of liberal self-understanding (recall), he leaves it to the reader's autonomous, ruminating (120) judgment to decide whether the past choices "between different possible worlds" (p. 117) were right. So, the professional historian exercises vocational self-command. 

Since Skinner is a celebrated and much admired historian of our age, we can say that he has found a way to question moral and political pieties without attracting Socratic notoriety. Perhaps, this indifference to such foundational challenge is characteristic of liberal society.

I close with two thoughts. First, Skinner very adroitly prevents a certain kind of philosopher, who thinks the origin of concepts is irrelevant to present self-understanding, of raising the genetic fallacy. Skinner claims that by retracing concepts to their first definitions and use may help uncover what is now in some sense suppressed from us (recall: "how the concepts we still invoke were initially defined, what purposes they were intended to serve, what view of public power they were used to underpin. This in turn may enable us to acquire a self-conscious understanding of a set of concepts that we now employ unselfconsciously and, to some degree, even uncomprehendingly.")

Skinner doesn't offer us an argument why this is the best or the only way toward self-understanding (which he need not insist on); nor does he explain how this is supposed to work at an abstract level. He does not need to explain it because he has just exhibited/shown it in the book. I agree firmly with Skinner (who explicitly associates this with Foucaultian "archaeological analysis" (112)) that returning to the historical moment when concepts enter into practice/fashion is often very illuminating on the possibility spaces they help open up, and foreclose; and so heartily endorse his practice. This is because when concepts are first introduced, and the principles they animate, they are often explicated and contested by those who understand the foreseeable effects of uptake. This helps shed light on how concepts become part of an "ideology" (23; 59; 77) or life-affirming practice.

Second, one may wonder whether removing the lack of ignorance about core moral political concepts and principles improves thinking about politics. I am not here questioning the Enlightenment faith that removal of ignorance is conducive to better thought in some sense. Rather, what I have in mind is something more roundabout. Skinner explicitly endorses Pocock's idea that what is revealed by the "intellectual" historian (101) is "the changing political languages in which societies talk to themselves." (p. 105) One can agree that Namier's position -- that is, that how we talk politically acts "as the merest ex post facto rationalisations of political behaviour" -- is undoubtedly too narrow an understanding of such talk. Skinner is right to object to this because what one might wish "to legitimise [politically]...depends on what courses of action you can plausibly range under existing normative principles." (p. 105) 

But he then goes on to claim that "professed principles...will nevertheless help to shape and limit what lines of action you can successfully pursue." (p. 105) Let's grant that this is so in some great political cultures which have a juridical sensibility. Even so, this is a peculiar claim.** I do not just mean that wholly new principles may be invented or old ones reinterpreted to legitimate and even explicate the manner of success of actions after the fact (as Namier suggested), but rather, and more importantly for one's craft as political philosopher, that in order to grasp the nature of politics we must leave open the possibility of actions devoid of legitimacy and ungrounded in principles, and yet successful, even necessary, after a fashion. 

 

On Livy and Kant

During this year while labourers were digging at some depth on land belonging to L. Petilius, a scrivener who lived at the foot of the Janiculum, two stone chests were discovered about eight feet long and four wide, the lids being fastened down with lead. [4] Each bore an inscription in Latin and Greek; one stating that Numa Pompilius, son of Pompo and king of the Romans, was buried there, and the other saying that it contained his books. [5] When the owner at the suggestion of his friends had opened them, the one which bore the inscription of the buried king was found to be empty, with no vestige of a human body or of anything else, so completely had everything disappeared after such a lapse of time. [6] In the other there were two bundles tied round with cords steeped in wax, each containing seven books, not only intact but to all appearance new. There were seven in Latin on pontifical law, and seven in Greek dealing with the study of philosophy so far as was possible in that age. [7] Valerius Antias says further that they were Pythagorean books, thus shaping his belief to the opinion of the masses [vulgatae opinioni] that Numa was [8] a disciple of Pythagoras, and trying to give probability to a fiction.

[9] The books were first examined by the friends who were present. As the number of those who read them grew, and they became widely known, Q. Petilius, the City praetor, was anxious to read them and took them from Lucius. [10] They were on very friendly terms; when Q. Petilius was quaestor he had given Lucius Petilius a place on the decury. After perusing the most important passages he perceived that most of them would lead to the dissolution of the national religion [dissolvendarum religionum],. [11] Lucius promised that he would throw the books into the fire, but before doing so said that he should like to find out, if allowed to do so, whether he could reclaim them either by the right of possession or by the authority of the tribunes of the plebs, without, however, disturbing his friendly relations with the praetor. The scrivener approached the tribunes, and the tribunes left the matter for the senate to deal with. [12] The praetor stated that he was ready to declare on oath that the books ought not to be preserved. [13] The senate held the praetor's asseveration to be sufficient, and that the books ought to be burnt as soon as possible in the comitium. Whatever sum the praetor and the majority of the tribunes thought a fair price for the books was to be paid to the owner. The scrivener refused to accept it. [14] The books were burnt in the comitium in the sight of the people in a fire.--Livy, 40.29.

Machiavelli famously treats Numa (the second King of Rome) as more important to Roman history than even Romulus himself and finds in Numa's introduction of religious practice the most important cause of Rome's greatness. Machiavelli emphasizes Numa's skill in creating the instrumental use of religion as a civic glue of a savage people. Following Plutarch, Machiavelli treats Numa's ability to converse with the gods as a useful device to create authority for Numa's legislation (which included a ban on images of gods [see also Cumberland's treatment]). (By contrast to Romulus, Numa was a foreigner and lacked the power of arms to impose his will.) Machiavelli's version of Numa is very similar to Spinoza's version of Moses (in the TTP).* But to the best of my knowledge Machiavelli does not explicitly comment on the quoted passage above.

Livy clearly does not believe that Numa was a philosophical disciple of Pythagoreas. (Not obvious the dates would match up.) And so this is why, perhaps, he does not allow himself comment on the curious fact that Numa's religious doctrines are written in Latin, while his philosophical writings are in Greek--not to mention the clean split between the two topics. To be sure Numa was a Sabine (and there were legends about their connection to Greece). This is curious because the clear implication of the two sets of books is that Numa derived his political use of religion, perhaps even the content, from Pythogorean philosophy and practices adapted to a Roman context. Given that Livy finds that connection improbable, and does not treat the archeological find as evidence for it, the archeological discovery itself stops making sense.*

One is, thus, left with the sense that Livy either finds the archeological discovery completely baffling or (as seems more likely) he suspects the whole thing is staged, but he refuses to dignify that fact with any elaboration.

But regardless of what Livy thinks the true back story on the archeological find was, he recounts without comment how the ruling elites of Rome (of 181bc) decided to burn the (purported) evidence about the true origins of the religious laws. That is, they do not treat Numa as legend. But peculiarly, they explicitly allow that Numa's writings would unmask and thus destabilize Rome's religious laws. This has the effect of creating and reinforcing a taboo on the origins of Rome's religious practices/laws (and its philosophical pre-history).

I do not find it peculiar that Numa's writings would be taken to undermine the origin myths of Rome at a later date. And I also do not find it peculiar that these myths are (thought) important to the civic functioning of the state. But it is peculiar that (i) one lets on that there exists texts that could undermine and (ii) burns these texts publically as a kind of spectacle. (One ought to keep these things secret!) It is a bit frustrating Livy does not comment on this point, especially because he explicitly notes that before they were burned the books had been read by a considerable number of friends of L. Petilius had read them. One imagines that these friends would generate a number of further legends/stories about the contents of Numa's (purported) books.

As an aside, it's interesting to see such an early account of what we would call eminent domain in action. It seems clear that existing practice was in favor of returning the books to the person who found the books on his land no less. But this was overriden by reason of state (as determined by the senate). And it is pretty clear that by refusing the money, the scrivener is, perhaps, protesting the confiscation of what he took to be his property.

Regular readers know, that, thanks to Žižek, I have long been fascinated by Kant's insistence that one must respect a partial taboo on the origin of one's state:

It is futile to inquire into the historical documentation [Geschichtsurkunde] of the mechanism of government, that is, one cannot reach back to the time at which civil society began (for savages draw up no record of their submission to law; besides, we can already gather from the nature of uncivilized human beings that they were originally subjected to it by force). But it is punishible to undertake this inquiry with a view to possibly changing by force the constitution that now exists. (6:339-40 and the German)

I say 'partial taboo' because a purely distinterested inquiry into a state's past would (counterfactually) seem to be permitted. In one sense Kant here agrees with Rome's Senate at the time of the discovery of Numa's (purported) books. It's better not to inquire into the origins tory.

But Kant's analysis simultanaeously (and perhaps unintentionally) also suggests that Numa, whose reputation was one of a man of peace, who did not use force (and, in fact, had Romulus's bodyguard disbanded**), simply could not have played the role of founder of Rome's civil society that Machiavelli (and others) attribute to Numa.  Kant does so by (tacitly) relying on a kind of argument familiar from Scottish stadial thought (going back to More): only through force can savages (and first generation Rome is warlike-savage) become civilized.*** So, from Kant's perspective the actions attributed to Numa can't be possible at all.

 

Hume and the State of Exception

The protector, the two secretaries, the council of state, with any five or more that the senate appoints, are possessed, on extraordinary emergencies, of dictatorial power for six months.--Hume, Idea Of a Perfect Commonwealth

In Hume's plan for a perfect commonwealth (recall this post), foreign policy is insulated from democratic control. He lodges it in the "council of state" which includes only three members: "The protector and two secretaries have session." These three members are chosen by the senate, which has some kind of function in deliberating about foreign policy. (Hume is not entirely clear on this point.) It turns out that the the three members of the council of state are the core membership (of eight) of a dictatorial junta in "extraordinary emergencies." That the council of state is always part of the dictatorial junta suggests that for Hume the emergencies arise, if they do, in foreign affairs, especially the context of war and conquest. 

As an aside, Hume's willingness to plan for exceptional circumstances with the abrogation of the rule of law in "what is the most perfect of all" possible political orders, is noteworthy because (a) Hume tends to be associated with a firm commitment to the rule of law and (b) with a kind of conservative commitment to the value of tradition. While Hume does not go so far as Walter Benjamin [recall] in treating the state of exception as the rule, he recognizes that it must be planned for.

In one sense, Hume's proposal is a nod to Livy's famous account of the dictatorship of Cincinnatus in Republican Rome. But Hume is explicit that his commonwealth is an improvement of ancient republics because he thinks these as "oppressive." Moreover, he has little fondness for Ancient Republicanism (which requires slavery). So, it would be a bit odd if he is really trying to make space for a modern Cincinnatus.

A better sense to understand Hume's treatment is to take him at his word, and note, first the "resemblance that [the blueprint of a perfect commonwealth] bears to the commonwealth of the United Provinces,a wise and renowned government." One of his improvements over the constitution of the Dutch Republic is by his own light the removal of the veto power "which every province and town has upon the whole body of the DUTCH republic, with regard to alliances, peace and war, and the imposition of taxes, is here removed." So, Hume's perfect commonwealth is not a confederation, but a federation that can act as a true unity in foreign affairs and even in an emergency.

In fact, Hume has also modeled the dictatorial power on a particular episode in the history of the Dutch Republic that he recounts in the History:

But the greatest difficulty still remained. By the constitution of the [Dutch] republic, all the towns in all the provinces must give their consent to every alliance; and besides that this formality could not be dispatched in less than two months, it was justly to be dreaded, that the influence of France would obstruct the passing of the treaty in some of the smaller cities....To obviate this difficulty, de Wit had the courage, for the public good, to break through the laws in so fundamental an article; and by his authority, he prevailed with the States General at once to sign and ratify the league: Though they acknowledged that, if that measure should displease their constituents, they risqued their heads by this irregularity. After sealing, all parties embraced with great cordiality.--Hume's History of England

I have already noted that Hume has, despite his fundamental criticism, very high praise for De Witt. In the quoted passage, Hume praises De Witt's courage and public spirit in risking the charge of treason by breaking the law (that gives all the provinces a veto power over treaties) in the case of an emergency (in foreign policy). So, Hume designs his own ideal state to make space for future leaders that can make public spirited decisions without too much constraint. But rather than trusting a single person with emergency powers, he assigns such authority to a small group; in addition, he requires the senate's judgment that there is, indeed, a state of emergency. It is an open question if Hume's approach does not lead to the oppression he dreads.

 

On Historical Necessity and Morality (Art & Propaganda in John Williams's Augustus)

In the matter of passion, whether of love or war, excess is inevitable. Yet I have always been bewildered when, in the ease of peace, men raise the questions of praise or blame. It seems to me now that both judgments are inappropriate, and equally so. For those who thus judge do not judge so much out of a concern for right or wrong as out of protest against the pitiless demands of necessity, or an approval of them. Necessity is simply what has happened.--Maecenas to Livy, in John Williams Augustus: A Novel (70)

You forget that I am artist myself, and know the necessity of asking what to ordinary people would seem the most insulting and presumptuous things. How could I take offense at that which I myself would do, without the slightest hesitation, for the sake of my art? I detect the odor of a moralist. And it seems to me that the moralist is the most useless and contemptible of creatures. He is useless in that he would expend his energies upon making judgments rather than gaining knowledge, for the reason that judgment is easy and knowledge is difficult. He is contemptible in that his judgments reflect a vision of himself which in his ignorance and pride he would impose upon the world I implore you, do not become a moralist; you will destroy your art and your mind. And it would be a heavy burden for even the deepest friendship to bear.—Maecenas to Livy (128)—John Williams Augustus: A novel

There was no possibility of virtue without the idea of virtue; and no effective idea of virtue that was not encoded in the law.--Octavius to Damascius (302), John Williams Augustus: A novel

If we allow ourselves the thought, we probably tend to think of propaganda as not-art or, perhaps, as bad art.+ Williams's clever novel reminds us that some of the greatest art (Virgil, Horace, etc.) is, in part, propaganda for what we might call, military dictatorship and empire. In addition, in the second quoted passage above, Williams portrays the chief artist-propagandist, Maecenas, not just as a Spinozistic-fatalist -- with his repeated invocation of necessity --, but as would-be-censor of the historian Livy. It is to Williams's credit that he makes us see both the case for benevolent, imperial dictatorship as well as the price the establishment this extracts not just on the protagonists themselves (notably Augustus and his daughter Julia – ultimate Augustus trades the daughter of flesh and blood for an "adoptive daughter" [the Roman empire], a trade that, in turn, is said to be made legitimate because "acknowledged" by "the adoptive daughter" [that is the laws] (306; as if all trade requires the sanction of law) -- ), but also on the arts (history, poetry, and philosophy).

Few professional historians would claim that they are in the business of judging. In so far as Historicism has won the day (see Beiser's majestic book), historians see themselves as scientists (if not akin to natural scientists than at least as practitioners of their very own special Geisteswissenschaft) and not as moral judges. Obviously, even those that advocate moralism in history would wish to see it consequent knowledge.* Williams's (1972) novel (recall this post) subtly invite us to see constraints and power in (or outside) the margins of works of art, history, and philosophy. Williams's readers were familiar with the McCarthy era, of course, so, perhaps, they need little such reminding. It is an open question to what degree some readers at the time thought the US was, itself, heading -- amidst major disagreements over civil rights and Vietnam war -- toward its own civil war (and to what degree they were tempted to follow the model of benevolent dictatorship). Perhaps, too, Williams makes the reader reflect on the nature of the post US-Civil War settlement (which, after all, is a key feature of Butcher's Crossing (recall my post)).

In Williams's portrayal of Maecenas, art (poetic and historical) is (amongst other things) supposed to be useful. In context, it is entailed that if political circumstances had been different some other art would be useful. The moralist is said to be useless because he can't contribute to knowledge-generation and, less explicitly, change what's happened. Meacenas's argument presupposes not just the Hobbesian idea that within the context of state of nature, there is no justice, but a distinction between two kinds of judges (moralists/artists). Those that judge appropriately with authority (and force) and those that judge – for lack of a better word -- frivolously. By 'frivolous' (recall) I do not mean consequent-free; the novel is very clear that death (Cicero) and exile (Ovid) may well await frivolousness.

On Starting Out as A Fool

No man may know himself, nor how he must appear even to his friends; but I imagine they must have thought me a but of a fool, that day, and even for some time afterward. I was a bit luxuriant then, and fancied that a poet must play the part. There is much that cannot go into books, and that is the loss with which I become increasingly concerned.-- Maecenas to Livy (John Williams Augustus: A Novel, 15-16 [emphasis in original--ES])*

I have been hesitant to post about John Williams's (1971) Augustus: A Novel because I have been eager to re-read Yourcenar's (1951) Mémoires d'Hadrien, which, I suspect, inspired Williams, first. But  impressions are fleeting and by their very nature can never complete what they aim for. So, I cut a corner here.

The novel tells an exciting story, but is a serious (sometimes too serious) exploration of the most fundamental political philosophy by way of a mixture of letters and notes/diary fragments by a number of characters. This is a clever device in a novel set in history because it allows the author to introduce relevant material that frames the action rather than engage in lengthy, explanatory asides. Chapter One (of Book 1), the thematic introduction of the book, which contains two letters and two such fragments does not let Augustus speak in his own voice. In fact the four entries give us schematic types. The four 'entries' jump around in time  and exhibit indirect form, a theme explicitly stated at the start of the book:

I am a poet, and incapable of approaching anything very directly.--Maecenas to Livy (12)

And indeed, the book is an extended meditation -- an unfolding -- on art (both in the literary sense and in the art of ruling). The novel reaches its climax with a long set-piece (a letter from a dying, nearly delirious Augustus to Nicolaus of Damascus which occupies the whole of Book Three) in which the poetic art and the art of being emperor are said to spring from the same kind of love and involve analogous ordering patterns and self-deceptions. So, the novel calls attention to the oblique status of its presentations. The reader is expected to do some work.

As an aside, we are also warned** that this work of figuring out the oblique point is tricky because of human nature. For, the first chapter closes on: "death and greatness...the two words go around in my head, around and around, until they seem the same." (26) Williams never gives us the latin (Mortem et Magnitudo (allow a gymnasiast his play)), but while there are a great many deaths -- the historical, temporal start of the novel is the final part of the great age of Roman civil war -- the novel is, in fact, also an investigation of the nature of greatness, especially greatness of soul. But in these lines  we are also reminded that the mind has a capacity of conflation, of effacing difference, such that homogeneity results (we might say, there is nothing greater than God, or the universe, and it coincides with death--not a strange thought amidst war). These words ("death and greatness..." etc.) are spoken, as we learn in the novel, by a traitor. (Perhaps some readers will dimly recall this from their school days.)

One of the schematic types (or part-players), a hybrid, poet-politician/patron, (Maecenas) presents himself in the lines quoted at the top of this post, as an anti-philosophical philosopher: "No man may know himself." If true, this would imply that the philosophical life ('know thyself' etc.) is doomed to failure for everybody. If it didn't violate guild-rules on acceptable philosophical speech, it would have the form of a philosophical claim! After all, it's one thing to stake one's claim on the familiar trope that the path or search is more important than the destination; it's another thing to claim that the destination is a kind of two-level mirage (not just no possible self-knowledge, but even no access to the image of you by your intimates).