Politics without Vision: Thinking without a Banister in the Twentieth Century

Tracy B. Strong is Distinguished Professor in the Department of Political Science at the University of California, San Diego. He is a former editor of Political Theory and the author or editor of many books, including Friedrich Nietzsche and the Politics of Transfiguration, Jean-Jacques Rousseau and the Politics of the Ordinary, and The Many and the One: Religious and Secular Perspectives on Ethical Pluralism in the Modern World.

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Strong, Tracy B.

Politics without vision : thinking without a banister in the twentieth century/Tracy B. Strong.

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Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-77746-7 (cloth : alkaline paper)

ISBN-10: 0-226-77746-4 (cloth : alkaline paper) 1. Political science—Western countries— History—20th century. 2. Political science—Western countries—Philosophy. I. Title.

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POLITICS WITHOUT VISION

THINKING WITHOUT A BANISTER IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

TRACY B. STRONG

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS

CHICAGO AND LONDON

For Babette—she made it better

The poem of the mind in the act of finding

What will suffice. It has not always had

To find: the scene was set; it repeated what

Was in the script.

Then the theatre was changed

To something else. Its past was a souvenir.

It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place.

It has to face the men of the time and to meet

The women of the time. It has to think about war

And it has to find what will suffice. It has

To construct a new stage.

—Wallace Stevens, Of Modern Poetry

I want to learn more and more to see the necessary in things as beautiful.

—Nietzsche, The Gay Science

CONTENTS

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

NOTE ON SOURCES AND ABBREVIATIONS

INTRODUCTION

The World as We Find It

ONE

Kant and the Death of God

TWO

Nietzsche: The Tragic Ethos and the Spirit of Music

THREE

Max Weber, Magic, and the Politics of Social Scientific Objectivity

INTERLUDE

What Have We to Do with Morals? Nietzsche and Weber on the Politics of Morality

FOUR

Sigmund Freud and the Heroism of Knowledge

FIVE

Lenin and the Calling of the Party

SIX

Carl Schmitt and the Exceptional Sovereign

SEVEN

Martin Heidegger and the Space of the Political

EIGHT

Without a Banister: Hannah Arendt and Roads Not Taken

CONCLUSION

The World as It Finds Us

NOTES

INDEX

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When one teaches the history of Western political thought, in general, for the period that goes from, say, Thucydides to Marx, perhaps even Nietzsche, one knows what to teach and roughly in what sequence. It is the canon, and, if the criteria for membership are not definitive, at least they are definite. When one attempts, however, to teach the political theory of the past century, neither the choice of authors nor their sequence is obvious. The difficulty lies in the fact that it is not clear what story one is to tell about the twentieth century. (There are several stories about the previous period[s]—I suppose there could be others, but there are stories that exist to be told in better and poorer manners.) There is as yet no story—there is as yet no mythos—for the twentieth century.

This is not for lack of trying. Francis Fukuyama’s 1996 The End of History and the Last Man with its vision of a world in which the clash of ideologies was coming to an end in the favor of liberal democracy proved short-lived. Samuel Huntington’s 1996 The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of the World Order foresaw the locus of war to be between different cultures with war as inevitable. In apparent response, Amartya Sen argued in Identity and Violence: The Illusion of a Destiny (2006) that such clashes were the consequences of a lack of pluralism in one’s identity. This list can be extended almost indefinitely. Yet, one must ask, what are the important qualities of the past century? This question underlies all attempts such as those above. I have chosen in this book to write about what I think most important for our times in the century just past. While I discuss this at some greater length in the introduction, it is worth noting here that the justification of my choices and my focus relies to a great extent on my understanding of which events were central to the twentieth century (and still are in our new century). If you do not see those events as central, this book will pass you by. I will not discuss these events at great length—reference to them will (have to) suffice—but they are so prominent that they are easily ignored. To be blunt: the past century has claim to have been the morally worst century in human history.¹

This book has been long in arriving. It has origins in my first book, on Nietzsche,² written at a time when such a topic was deemed to be a dead end— and a potentially promising young scholar was deemed to have thrown away his career. I was lucky professionally in that Nietzsche proved to be a growth industry; I was (more) lucky intellectually as the constant and repeated engagement with him has given shape to much of the other work that I have done—on Hobbes, Rousseau, and other figures in the canon. Taking Nietzsche seriously is a bit like having a voice beside you, constantly calling you to yourself, the ongoing dialogue that constitutes thought.

A second origin only gradually revealed itself over time. On finishing a book on Rousseau,³ I asked myself how it was that I could write with sympathetic favor about both him and Nietzsche, given all the nasty things that Nietzsche had said about him. The first answer that came to me was, They are both musicians. Accordingly, I began to investigate the understanding and practice of music in the period that went loosely from Rousseau to Nietzsche, only to determine that I was, in fact, interested (also) in the cognitive quality of the affective and even more complexly in the significance of those experiences for which we know that any words we might claim to have are inadequate. An implication of this is that there are some human problems for which the solution is not to be found in more knowledge, in the extension of scientific power, as it were. (Was this a precipitate from the role of music and other matters in the attempts at a cultural revolution in the 1960s and 1970s? Perhaps.) The first book was about transfiguration and the Rousseau book about the ordinary. I came to see that these were the same subject, and some of that sense informs the arguments of this book.

: : :

My debts, blessedly, cannot be repaid, only noted. I owe such debts to three individuals in particular: Stanley Cavell, George Kateb, and Babette Babich.

Since my first human encounter with the man, I have found myself engaged with the thinking and person of Stanley Cavell. Cavell’s thought has had—for me at least—a way of penetrating beyond assessment and becoming part of how I assess the world (indeed, that is almost a sentence of his). That this is a signally important quality of truly philosophical thought will, I hope, become clear in the course of this book. During those years since my first encounter with him (now close to forty), I have taken mounting pleasure at the increasing company of those for whom such an engagement was not entirely foreign: Hanna F. Pitkin, J. Peter Euben, Joshua Dienstag, Stephen Affeldt, Patchen Markell, Linda Zerilli, Andrew Norris, and Thomas Dumm come most immediately to mind among those who are closest to what I do. And, tacitly, there was always Timothy Gould. There are others, and it has been a privilege to travel somewhat of the same paths with each of them.

A second debt is to George Kateb. If (as shall appear over the course of this book) I find myself most often in agreement with Cavell, Kateb always lurked in the back of my head—a voice to be taken into account, a turn of phrase to be responded to. Ever since I was simply floored by the trenchant clarity of his response to a question I put to him from the other end of the dais at a conference over thirty years ago, I have been, whether via voce or not, in conversation with him. George keeps one—and has tried to keep me—honest to the best vision of oneself. Actually, he does not try: that is what he does. He does so by being completely honest in his writing and his speech: as with Cavell, although in a different tone, to read him is to see him. I was privileged to be his colleague for several years.

A last debt, and the most immediate, is to Babette Babich. She will recognize this, not only from the many citations of her work in this book, but also from the appearance of citation after citation from texts that I thought I knew but of which she showed me something new. She will recognize it from what she has tried to teach me over these years we have been together. The complex brilliance of her philosophy and the depth of her scholarship are an inspiration and have shown me how much more I could have done. She will find this book insufficiently philosophical—but that has helped me make it better.

A number of people have supported me in this project over the years. Peter Euben has been of good counsel and a friend for now longer than either of us will admit to. To Robert Pippin, Michael Gillespie, Volker Gerhardt, Stephen K. White, Kirsti McClure, Elizabeth Wingrove, and David Owen in particular go my heartfelt thanks. A privilege of teaching is free lessons from your students. On these topics I have learned in recent years from Keith Bybee, Frank Sposito, C. Nathan Dugan, Ted Miller, Verity Smith, Andrew Poe, Nancy Luxon, Philip Michelbach, and Christian Donath; earlier, Dana Villa and John Seery, now colleagues and friends, stand in for an exceptional set of students during the years I was at Amherst College.

I also offer tribute here to two individuals, alas no longer with us, who importantly shaped (and tolerated) my thinking—Wilson Carey McWilliams and Judith N. Shklar.

: : :

I was fortunate to receive detailed, insightful, and extraordinarily helpful readings from two reviewers. While I have not met all their suggestions, I have met many of them—and the book is much better for it. It is a sign of the intelligence and insight that my editor at Chicago, John Tryneski, brings to his work that he knew precisely whom to ask. I thank him for the patience and encouragement he has displayed waiting for this book over the years. Joseph Brown did a superb job of copyediting.

My first book was dedicated—in proper Nietzschean genealogical fashion—to my family. My parents are now gone; other relations have frayed. But I would be amiss if I did not call to mind the complex presences of the memory of Helene Keyssar; my brother, John, his wife, Sarah, and their children, Aaron and Anna, as well as their grandson, Anna’s child, Isaac; my sister, Jeanne, and her sons, Nik and Luk; my son and daughter-in-law, David and Kris; and my daughter and son-in-law, Anise and Adam, and their sons, my grandchildren, McLevy Robin Strong-Morse and Robert Keyssar Strong-Morse.

: : :

This book is long and could have gone on. The beginnings of its story are problems to be found in Rousseau and Emerson, among others. To continue the story, it would have addressed in particular the complex thought of Theodor Adorno and Walter Benjamin (of the early Frankfurt school) and proceeded on to contemporary French thinkers—Deleuze, Derrida, Foucault, Nancy, Blanchot, and others. Some of them appear in footnotes or in discussion, but each deserves a chapter für sich—not possible within the confines of this book. I have also chosen only rarely to engage thinkers who are not part of my story—there is some consideration of Rawls, passing glances at Habermas— but I have written on these and other scholars elsewhere and found no need to cumber these pages with what would be digressions.

I hope to have written the chapters of this book so that they form an ongoing discussion but also so that each may stand to a considerable extend alone, as a reading of an important thinker. The effect of the book is, I hope, cumulative, although the chapters have their own feet. I have, thus, included a limited amount of biographical material, in part to situate the thinker in time and space, but also to gesture toward the conviction that the validity of what a person says cannot be separated from who that person is. I should also call attention to the fact that a large proportion of the footnotes are written in dialogue with the text to which they are appended—they are part of the conversation of the text.

: : :

Some portions of these chapters have appeared in earlier forms; those selections have all been extensively revised for their appearance here. Portions of chapter 2 appeared in an earlier form in The Tragic Ethos and the Spirit of Music, International Studies in Philosophy, vol. 35, no. 3 (2003). Portions of earlier versions of material in chapters 3 and 5 appeared in Entitlement and Legitimacy: Weber and Lenin on the Problems of Leadership, in Constitutional Government and Democracy: Festschrift for Henry Ehrmann, ed. Fred Eidlin (New York: Westview, 1983). Another portion of the Weber chapter has been revised from Max Weber and the Bourgeoisie, in The Barbarism of Reason, ed. Asher Horowitz et al. (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1994). An earlier version of yet another portion of chapter 3 appeared in David S. Owen and Tracy B. Strong, Introduction: Weber’s Calling to Knowledge and Action, in Max Weber, The Vocation Lectures, ed. David S. Owen and Tracy B. Strong (Cambridge, MA: Hackett, 2004). A preliminary version of the interlude appeared in  ‘What Have We to Do with Morals?’: Nietzsche and Weber on History and Ethics, History of the Human Sciences, vol. 5, no. 3 (November 1991). Some parts of chapter 4 (on Freud) appeared in Psychoanalysis as a Vocation: Freud, Politics, and the Heroic, Political Theory 12, no. 1 (February 1984). Some portions of chapter 6 appeared in my introductions to Carl Schmitt’s The Concept of the Political ([1996], expanded ed. [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007]) and his The Leviathan in the State Theory of Thomas Hobbes (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008). I am grateful for the opportunities to test out my thought. All have been extensively reworked.

Earlier versions of portions of chapters 2–6 have been presented at various conferences and lectures. I am grateful to those who responded at those times both from the podium and from the floor. I am particularly grateful to the Rockefeller Study Center in Bellagio for a residency in 1995 that allowed me to determine just how complex and extensive was the task to which I was setting myself. I am also grateful to the Center for Human Values at Princeton for a Residency Fellowship during 2004–5, during which time much of the preliminary work on what has become chapter 1 was accomplished. The commentary on that material I received from my old friend Jerome Schneewind during that year showed me how much further I had to travel (although I do not think that the goal I hope to have reached will completely please Jerry).

Finally, the Political Science Department of the University of California has been my academic base during the writing of this book (and others). In particular, Peter Smith and the late Charles Nathanson were a source of reminder and support during difficult times. Marcel Hénaff was and is an indispensable friend and sounding board. My appreciation goes out to my departmental colleagues for supporting or at least tolerating what must have seemed to many of them strange interests for a political scientist ("I am not a ‘normative’ theorist," I repeatedly protested) and to the staff who have kept the department running smoothly without it appearing that they were doing it—what a Daoist would call administrative wu wei.

To all my greetings and my thanks.

La Jolla, California

June 21, 2011

NOTE ON SOURCES AND ABBREVIATIONS

The following abbreviations have been used throughout the notes:

Ak. Immanuel Kant, Gesammelte Schriften, Akademie-Ausgabe, 2nd ed., 23 vols. to date (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1968–).

WKG Friedrich Nietzsche, Werke Kritische Gesamtausgabe, 8 secs. in 30 vols. to date (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1967).

The Nietzsche citations are to the text in question and its internal divisions (if that work was published by Nietzsche) and then to the WKG, for which I give volume, subvolume, and page numbers, e.g.: "Friedrich Nietzsche, Gay Science, 124, WKG, 5-2, 158."

Unless otherwise indicated, translations from the Gesammelte Schriften and the Werke Kritische Gesamtausgabe are mine, although I have consulted the Cambridge University Press translations of Kant. Translations from other German- and French- language sources are mine but with consultation of the listed English-language versions.

Introduction

The World as We Find It

Everything goes past like a river and the changing taste and the various shapes of men make the whole game uncertain and delusive. Where do I find fixed points in nature, which cannot be moved by man, and where I can indicate the markers by the shore to which he ought to adhere?

Marginal note to Immanuel Kant’s copy of Observations on the Beautiful and the Sublime

He believes in banisters because he believes in his weakness and his fear.

Friedrich Nietzsche, Notes for Lou

It might be a basic characteristic of existence that those who would know it completely would perish, in which case the strength of a spirit should be measured according to how much of the truth one could still barely endure.

Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

DENKEN OHNE GELÄNDER (THINKING WITHOUT A BANISTER) IS THE phrase that Hannah Arendt used to describe the status of and demands on thought in the modern era.¹ It meant for her that humans no longer could rely on any transcendental grounding to finalize their thinking—be that God, or nature, or history. She saw this as both fearful and an opening of possibilities previously shut down: for the first time in perhaps twenty-five hundred years, humans could think on the basis of thought alone. Indeed, to think authentically at all could be engaged in only without outside support. Thought, she said, could be absolutely and uncompromisingly of this world. ²

That that hope and that possibility arise in the context of the revolutions in human affairs that mark the twentieth century is part of the story. Indeed, the First World War marks a coming into consciousness of developments that had long been taking more and more evident shape in the West. The events of that war brought home to an incredulous Europe and America that political and social events had a logic and a course of their own, with awful results, subject neither to the restraints that might have been imposed by the intentions of leaders nor to those that might derive from a preexistent moral community. A century that had started with a celebration of the possibility of the rational control of human events by human beings had transmogrified itself into the frightening pointlessness of the Battle of Verdun, where, during ten months in 1916, more than three-quarters of a million casualties were incurred in a struggle over a front line that never varied much more than two miles. An estimated forty million artillery shells were fired, and the ground was so poisoned by iron that little would grow there for several decades after. One might say that World War I marks the beginning of the full recognition that Western men and women lived increasingly in a time after utopia³ when the prospect of the rule of rationality over human affairs seemed to fade, persisting only as a mocking smile that reminded one of earlier hopes.

The century had only just begun. The 1920s were, on both sides of the Atlantic, a period of artistic and sensual flourishing, marked by sharp political conflicts between classes and interests. The surprising triumph and survival of the Bolshevik Revolution, the beginning of the end of colonialism, the eruption of the nationalist revolutions in China and elsewhere—all these and more mark a new place for politics in human affairs. In several texts, Friedrich Nietzsche had anticipated a transformation of the politics of the modern period into great politics and of their transformation into a Geisterkrieg— which might be translated as an ideological war but is better thought of as a war for the Geist. He writes with chillingly foresight: "The concept of politics has been completely subsumed in a Geisterkrieg, all understandings of power have been blown up into the air—there will be wars the like of which none has ever been on earth."⁴ A war for the Geist is a war, one might say, for λόγος—for the lógos—a word that means not only word but also that by which thought is expressed. Nietzsche was here making a claim about the development of war in the century that was to come. Modern politics, as he pointed out, is characterized by the fact that the entire populace is involved.⁵ What is the relation of great politics to the Geisterkrieg? Great politics had brought all members of society into political conflict, inevitably political conflict with all members of other societies, a recognition that is, as we shall see, at the core of the thought of Carl Schmitt. Nietzsche had, perhaps, observed this firsthand in the Franco-Prussian War, where the Prussian victory had not only mobilized movements like the Paris Commune and cost France two of its provinces but also meant the imposition on the defeated country as a whole of reparations to the sum of five billion francs (a sum incidentally in the range that Nietzsche once spoke of as the cost of great politics). One way of expressing what Geisterkrieg means is to say that whereas in the past wars were fought of the distribution of what there was, in the future (that is to say, in our times) wars will be fought to determine what there is to distribute. The wars of the twentieth century have been, as Nietzsche predicted, wars for the dominion of the earth.

So Nietzsche’s prediction is that this developing kind of international politics (perhaps the first truly international politics: we forget how different the politics of the twentieth century were from those of, say, the eighteenth) will give rise to unprecedented wars, in part because of the involvement of the populace at large. There is much truth to this prediction. Arno Mayer, for instance, has carefully analyzed the way in which the politics pursued by Wilson and Lenin were not only remarkably like each other in their conception of what politics was about but also radically different from those pursued by Clemenceau, Lloyd George, and most of the other leaders at Versailles.⁶ Clemenceau and his friends wanted to make sure that war never got out of hand again, as the Great War clearly had. They wanted, therefore, to make sure that the waging of war remained in the hands of and for the purposes of the elite. Wilson and Lenin sought, rather, to remake the very stuff of politics—in Wilson’s famous phrase when asking Congress to declare war, to make the world safe for democracy. (Note the ambiguity.)

As world history developed, it favored Wilson and Lenin. The war had involved the population as a whole: it was total, as Raymond Aron was later to call it.⁷ (Note that the century of total war is also the century of totalitarianism.) For Wilson and Lenin, the purpose of war was to extend certain social relations, that is, to make concrete and universal dynamics potentially inherent in political and social developments since, say, the French Revolution. Nietzsche sees the same thing as Wilson and Lenin, but with much more anxiety. He writes in 1882: Kriege über das Princip von Besser-Nichtsein-als-Sein [wars over the principle of better-not-to-be-than-to-be].⁸ He means that, eventually, wars will not be fought to assert what one is, let alone to achieve it; rather, they will have no possible particular goal, precisely so as not to come to an end. (Here, one might ask oneself what has really ended with the end of the Cold War?) Arendt will see much of the same in her analysis of modern imperialism.

Such were the wars that were started with World War I and saw their fuller development with the rise of fascism and National Socialism. Since the defeat in 1945 of the Axis powers, much of the political thought in the West has been devoted to developing theory that would keep it from happening again. Many of the distinctions that political theorists and liberal thought in general have, after 1945, drawn between thinkers are, in the end, answers dependent on a tacit question: What is the relation of this thought to the Nazis? So stunning a book as Fin-de-Siècle Vienna, in which Carl Schorske lays out the various strands in thought and culture in that most modernist of cities in 1900, is, finally, tacitly controlled by the question of whether each strand of thought led to, resisted, or was too blithely ignorant of National Socialism.⁹ Judith Shklar can, thus, in a review of Charles Taylor’s Sources of the Self, a book about the making of the modern self, suggest that a problem with the book is that it is instructive only to those who fear skepticism more than evil.¹⁰ In American political science, Robert Lane was only one of those who argued that too much participation is a bad thing for democracy and that to function properly the political realm requires, as Lane put it in Political Ideology, a touch of anomie.¹¹ There is nothing wrong with reading the present through the past: doing so does, however, constitute a sorting device that places thinkers into anachronistic categories. (I do not deny that anachronisms have their important uses.) As we shall see, however, if we bracket, as I intend to in this book, the tacit Nazism? question, unexpected similarities begin to appear before 1933.¹²

I do not suggest with this that we should forget that which I intend to bracket. Two of my authors were members of the Nazi Party; another was the often brutal leader of a revolutionary movement; some form of what we can too easily call elitism appears in almost all of them. It is, however, the conviction of this book that the focus on prevention has shaped most of the writing of political theory since the Second World War and that this focus has narrowed the possibilities for political thought in not always useful fashions. The thinkers I consider in this book are neither democrats nor liberals, at least in the Anglo-American sense of those terms (Arendt may be a partial exception on the first count). But it is also my conviction that, by examining their thought in a nonrejectionist manner, one can identify what I might call turning points—points of divergence at which they started down one of several possible paths. For some, perhaps because of the availability of apparently tempting paths, the choices were disastrous—Martin Heidegger and Carl Schmitt come most immediately to mind, but others are in their company. It is, however, to recover these turning points that I write, a desire to see whether there are roads not taken or, at least, less traveled by. I suggest, then, that, instead of writing to make sure it never happens again, we have to open some doors that have been closed down in order to explore paths that come after those doors but were not taken. This enterprise is not without its dangers—the paths that were taken sometimes have more appeal than is often allowed and not only to unthinking people: the seductions they offer are real, even if they should be refused. It is also the case that the notion of a turning point is misleading. If one was prevented from adhering to Nazism because one was Jewish (as might have been the case with men like Ernst Kantorowicz and Leo Strauss), was this a turning point or simply a piece of moral luck?¹³

THE QUESTION OF VISION

In 1960, Sheldon Wolin published a book he entitled Politics and Vision.¹⁴ It was both a history of Western political theory—designed in great part to counter the neopositivist orientation of George Sabine’s dominant A History of Political Theory¹⁵—and an act of political theorizing. Wolin argued that the political theory of the West could be understood as a series of visions, the overall course of which manifested a progressive evanescence of the place of the political in human experience. The last chapter—The Age of Organization and the Sublimation of Politics—portrayed a victory of the organizational and bureaucratic realm over the political. The first edition stopped, as it would have had to, with the late 1950s: it retained the possibility of some hope for a future recovery of the political in human life.

The book was of enormous importance to the generation of political theorists who came of age in the 1960s and after. It showed what was wrong with academic political theory as it was mostly practiced in Anglophone countries; it offered hope and pointed at away actually to begin to do political theory again without disappearing into overly refined analytic distinctions, or retreating into esotericism, or being smothered by historical context. It made real progress setting out a new path. And, indeed, for a few years, perhaps a decade, political life in America seemed to follow the path that Wolin had sketched out: the civil rights movement, the Free Speech Movement, the early anti–Vietnam War campaigns. The promise of the times, however, congealed and fractured—a cold wind was blowing against it. In 2006, Wolin brought forth a second expanded edition, close to double in length. The appearance of hope that remained a small but distinct light in the first had disappeared. The message was now that the elimination of politics from Western experience was all but accomplished and had been replaced by what he called inverted totalitarianism. Democracy as a form of human experience (and not as a form of government) was fugitive, a glimmer likely soon to be extinguished.

Notable in the second edition is the amount of time that Wolin spent on rejecting what he took to be the baleful post-1960 influences of Marx and Nietzsche (neither of whom had played any significant role in the first edition). In addition, liberalism—mostly in its Rawlsian and Deweyite incarnations— was, for all its decency, dismissed as resting on too thin a reed of supposedly reasonable, supposedly shared doctrines. If the first book had held out hope and pointed at a way, the second was angry and despairing. Why so? (Not that there is not much to be angry at and much to despair of.) It is striking that Wolin paid little or no attention to many of those to be considered in this book: little or nothing on Arendt, Freud, Heidegger, Schmitt, or Weber.¹⁶ Lenin had been considered only in the last few pages of the first edition.¹⁷ Nietzsche, however, was now the subject of a whole chapter and is attacked as a pretotalitarian (even if partially unwittingly).¹⁸ Wolin had paid little attention to these writers because, I think, they do not rely on—indeed, they reject— the notion of a vision. Lacking a vision, they are, for Wolin, at best empty and more likely dangerous. His new attention to Nietzsche (and to Marx, in separate full chapters) was an attack on figures whom he saw as pretending to have a vision: they were doubly dangerous for him.

I have chosen in this book to write about precisely those figures in the twentieth century who reject the need for, and the possibility of, a vision. They think, or try to think, without a banister. A premise or claim of this book is that, if political theory is to attempt to be adequate to the politics of the twentieth (and now the twenty-first) century, it must think without a banister and without any nostalgia for one. The point of examining in this book those who do so (and there could have been others) is to gain some insight into and even lessons about how to think without a banister—and, since there are dangers here, also how not to. I thus think that, in the end (if only in the end), the vision texts of the political theory canon that ranges from Thucydides to sometime in the nineteenth century are, to some significant degree, incapable of taking into account the political developments of the twentieth century.¹⁹ Whether or not there are perennial philosophical problems that have been with us since the Greeks,²⁰ it seems to me important to realize that the past century brings to the forefront questions of a different order. My choice of thinkers here is governed by the hope and the presumption that the writers engaged here can provide us with the possibility of achieving the elements of an understanding of the too often awful politics of the last century. I do not mean that we must adopt their stance unquestioningly; I do mean that they are among those who sought to confront the actualities of the past century (and, thus, of this one). Finally, it is worth noting that three of those I consider in this book—Schmitt, Heidegger, and Arendt—live long enough to reflect on both world wars, the rise of fascism, the Cold War, the growth of Third World nationalism and anticolonialism, the Vietnam War, and to some degree the events we have come to call the Sixties.

It is, thus, also my conviction that the writers considered here share more than is often realized. This is not simply a matter of none of them being liberals. Rather, I find that they share common approaches to the understanding and analysis of political and social questions. To anticipate too much, they all seek a way to make available that which cannot be directly known; they are all concerned with what they see as the progressive mediocrity of the Western human condition (in this they are not alone: one thinks of Mill, Tocqueville, Emerson, Thoreau); they all place some degree of hope in the possibility of some form of leadership; they are all concerned with the effects of two thousand years of Christianity on human sensibility. They are disillusioned with the capacity of rationality and knowledge to resolve or solve the human condition they see around them. They all call on human beings to be capable of not living what Thoreau in Walden called lives of quiet desperation. And not without cause: this is not a case simply of disaffected individuals. When asked in 1980 about the impact of the First World War, Roger Baldwin (the founder of the American Civil Liberties Union), who was thirty at the outset of the war, replied: It was the end of our faith in reason.²¹

THE QUESTION OF MODERNITY

In this introduction’s first epigraph, Kant reflected on the apparent lack of moorings that humans (now?) encounter. His philosophy was an attempt to provide such moorings on the basis of human capacities alone. In fact, such doubts and such seeking are generally associated with what is meant by modernity. I want now to look back at that development. What follows is an attempt to extract from a sketch of the genealogy of modernity a set of categories by which to interrogate the present and to set some terms for thinking in and of it. Marking the beginning of what we (Westerners, Anglo-American-European, mainly white, most often male) mean by modernity is not so much a hopeless task as it is an argument about what the most salient traits of that modernity would be.²² Hegel thought that Christianity and the advent of subjective freedom marked the transition between that which was not modern and the modern.²³ We can say this, at least: to be modern means, first, to have the possibility of experiencing the world, or portions of it, as if it or they raised self-referential questions. A self-referential question is one that raises the question of what something (actually) is—it is a critical question. The (at least initial) experience of modern art characteristically raises the question, "Is that art?" and, thus, of what art is; that is, the secure knowledge of what art is had been called into question by, for example, Duchamp’s Fountain.²⁴ One of the reasons that World War I can mark the beginning of the modern century is the experience that many had, both during and after those events, not just of How can this be happening? but even more of What is it that is happening?

To raise the question of what something actually is, one must forgo any sense that human action could be judged by a standard external and transcendent to it. Call this the necessity and the gift of skepticism. What is gained, however, is what modernity makes possible—a confrontation with the nature or essence or being of some activity. It is in the nature of modern art, modern music, as well as, I would argue, modern politics to raise the question, "Is that art [music, politics, etc.]?"²⁵ So it is my contention that the thought of those considered here raises ontological questions, about politics, about art, and, indeed, about thinking, as Heidegger asked in a question that can be only ambiguously translated: Was heisst denken? (What is called, has the name of, means, thinking?). (Thus the question is raised, one hopes, about philosophy itself.)

When Nietzsche’s character Zarathustra first comes into a town, he goes to the marketplace and announces the arrival of the overman who will supplant the last men.²⁶ The crowd responds: Give us this last man. . . . Turn us into this last man. Then we shall make you a gift of the overman.²⁷ Zarathustra’s problem is, not that he is not understood, but that the understanding that people have of him is incorrigibly wrong: it mistakes everything. One would have to change the person for him or her to get it right. So do all the writers considered here—writing as they do without reliance on external authority and, thus, with reliance on their words alone—have a problem in convincing people.²⁸ They have to provide, not only arguments, but also the framework in which those arguments make sense.

To elaborate this last claim: If to read someone or some text as a modern means to read it as raising the question of what something in its nature is, it thus, second, means to read someone or some text in relation to the Enlightenment.²⁹ We might think of the Enlightenment as the origin and development of the critical tradition, a tradition that found its classical formulation in Kant’s philosophy, although it certainly did not spring fully grown from the last half of the eighteenth century. Kant sought to uncover the conditions that had to be the case for some human action (e.g., knowing) to be possible. The critical tradition—later to find its political and human expression in, inter alia, Marx’s "critique of political economy" (the subtitle of Capital) and Nietzsche’s and Freud’s turning of the critique back onto the self—sought to unmask and set forth the hidden world that made the world that appeared to us have the quality of appearing to be the case. The question of what something actually was, not in its appearance, but in its being, or in its essence, or in its nature, was a question that called for revealing that which had lain hidden.

To read something in relation to the Enlightenment—to read and think critically—means necessarily to raise the question of the relation of one’s thought to the past, to that which came before, to that by which one is shaped and from which one emerges. Thus, Marx could write in The XVIIIth Brumaire of Louis Napoleon that the tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living, and James Joyce would echo the feeling in Ulysses when Stephen Daedalus says that the past is a nightmare from which he is trying to awake.³⁰ But how might one convey this sense of illegitimacy in relation to all pasts? Some of the writers considered in this book write in such a manner as to make it seem that they had read nothing, as if the ideas they put forth spring fully developed from their soul and body. Nietzsche is a prime example of this, but one finds something of the same in Freud, and the style is centrally characteristic of Wittgenstein’s thought. They do this, one assumes, because they feel it important that their thought strike the reader as completely fresh, as if the past had no testament. They are not the first to do this—much of Rousseau’s work is written in the same manner. Writing as if one had no antecedents derives from the wish that one’s words affect the reader at a level below assessment, such that they become part of assessment itself. Thus, these writers want to change the way in which the world is experienced: godlike, they do wish to make all things new. It is worth noting here that it is not the case that thinkers were, in fact, therefore genially content to pay no attention to the world of knowledge around them. Nietzsche is often read as if he knew Greek and Latin and not much else. While The Birth of Tragedy was, despite being the first publication of an anticipated major scholar, notoriously written without footnotes, recent work has shown that Nietzsche was, in fact, extensively acquainted with a wide range of the cutting edges of knowledge of his day.³¹ Wittgenstein is much the same, as any perusal of Garth Hallett’s monumental A Companion to Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations will demonstrate.³² The question must then be why they chose to write as they did. The answer—to be explored further below—is that these writers write for immediacy: as David Allison put it about Nietzsche, they write as if you, the reader, are their friend. They write "for you, not at you but for you."³³ They want their writing to strike you without intermediary so that it penetrates past assessment to become part of how you assess the world (and, thus, to change you).

Other writers—of those considered here, Weber, Lenin, and Heidegger are the most obvious—write in such a manner as to make it seem that they have read everything. If Weber’s learning is legendary—while the Birth of Tragedy was written without footnotes, The Protestant Ethic is buttressed by over one hundred pages of supporting material—it is also worn on his sleeve. Heidegger likewise writes as if he had read everything in Western thought (as he had, and he too lets you know it) and was, thus, able to engage it. Here, the writing acknowledges that weight of the past and implicitly argues that one can bear it or get rid of it—or at least accept as a guide someone who can bear it. The task here, as Heidegger urges us, is to read the authors of the past as if for the first time.

Both those who write as if there were no past and those who write as if they knew all the past write in such a manner as to separate themselves from it. They do so because they find bringing attention to that for which we do not have words centrally important to that which they want to accomplish. Thus, finally, a question raised by someone who works from or inside the critical tradition is a question to which there can never be an answer: What is the quality of the world that is hidden from us? What is most important is that one realize that nothing can count as an answer to this—as a last word, so to speak. For Kant, this was the noumenal realm, that realm of existence that, precisely because it was hidden, made knowledge and morality possible. The point of the noumenal realm was not so much to posit a realm of that which could not be known as to show that human understanding was not exhausted in the act of knowing. Knowing something that is, that is, can never be complete in itself. Approaching this problem, Stanley Cavell has written:

The problem with the notion of the thing-in-itself is not, as it has been put, that Kant does not, or cannot, explain its relation to the objects we know, or that he oughtn’t to be able so much as to imagine its relation (because in his view the categories do not apply to it). The problem with the concept of the thing-in-itself is that it should have itself received a transcendental deduction, i.e., that it itself, or the concepts that go into it (e.g., externality; world (in which objects are met)), should have been seen as internal to the categories of the understanding, as part of our concept of an object in general.³⁴

Hence, to read as a modern means to open oneself up to the existence of that which is or has been hidden to—and by—us, a world for which, by definition, we can never have adequate words. Not to acknowledge the existence of such a world means that one reads other than as a modern. A transcendental deduction of the thing-in-itself will not and cannot be a kind of knowledge, but it can become one’s life. The paradigm of our stance in relation to the noumenal, I shall argue in the next chapter, is the aesthetic. I mean here, not that it is (only what is called) art, but that, as with art, an aesthetic relation occurs with the acknowledgment of the presence of the incomprehensible and the consequent recognition that what one says about it is necessarily in and only in one’s own voice. (In the next chapter, we will find Kant referring to this as maturity.) In turn, we will see over the course of the book and especially in relation to the thought of Hannah Arendt that a judgment expressed as authentically one’s own (what Kant calls public) necessarily opens and relates one to others making a judgment of their own.

For now, this may remain somewhat gnomic, but already there are important implications. To the degree that something essential to our being cannot in itself be an object of knowledge, the thinker who wishes to make use of this will not be able to rely on argumentation and logic,³⁵ at least not on argumentation and logic alone. Rousseau, for instance, had already memorably asserted in the Discourse on the Arts and Sciences that philosophy will never do anything living as long as it advances claims to knowledge. His intention in that work was not so much to denigrate the knowledge humans had acquired over their history as to insist on its limitation if it was to be what it properly was. If we call what Rousseau thinks he does (real) philosophy, then philosophy should proceed by looking and seeing, by unmasking and unveiling, by making available. Ce que j’ai montré [that which I have shown] is Rousseau’s repeated claim.³⁶ Philosophy is or should be about what human beings think about when they think about human things, that is, things they cannot help but think about because they are human beings. Such matters, Rousseau seems to be saying, (can) appear to us; they are not summoned by acts of knowledge.³⁷ All the writers considered in this book want, albeit in different ways, to show as much as to argue, to be persuasive as much as to convince. It is as if the shared world that makes argument possible had itself been called into question.

The considerations above turn around six separate points:

1. The so-called death of God (to be explored in the next chapter) refers not (simply) to the decay of Christianity but to a set of problems that develop over time and correspond to the gradual unavailability of authoritative foundations for human knowledge and action.

2. This problem is conceptualized as the necessity of thinking without reliance on preexisting authority.

3. In the course of such thought, the world is conceived of in terms that reflect a vision of art, a vision of the world revealed to humans precisely because it is an artifact.

4. In the pursuit of this, knowledge on its own is understood to be insufficient to accomplish the construction of a new foundation or whatever might be understood in its stead.

5. The political realm will, to the degree that it responds to these developments (to which it must respond over time), manifest the above qualities.

6. Central attention will, therefore, be paid to the particular qualities that the agent must have in order to be the creator of a world and of an understanding.

If all the thinkers considered here share the above concerns to a greater or lesser extent, they also take different approaches to them. Three broad differences in focus appear, though these categories should not be considered rigid. Nietzsche, Weber, and Freud tend to or at least appear to foreground the individual—in different ways they each call for a new kind of human being, one not subject to the human-all-too-human neuroses of the present age. Lenin and Schmitt, on the other hand, find the focus of responsibility to lie in the group (the Party or the state): it is with them that decisionmaking should and must lie. Finally, Heidegger and Arendt develop in different but related ways the concept of the pólis, which is neither a group nor the state and which carries with it a particular notion of the individual. I repeat that these categories are not airtight: one ignores Nietzsche’s concern with the social and political at one’s peril; Lenin, as we shall see, is centrally concerned with qualities of individual character. These categories should serve only as a very preliminary orientation.

I turn in chapter 1 to an investigation of the preconditions for the above claims.

1

Kant and the Death of God

A voice said, Look me in the stars

And tell me truly, men of earth,

If all the soul and body scars

Were not too much to pay for birth.

Robert Frost, A Question

The greatest poverty is not to live

In a physical world, to feel that one’s desire

Is too difficult to tell from despair.

Wallace Stevens, Esthétique du Mal

NIETZSCHE ANTICIPATES THE GENERAL DEVELOPMENTS THAT LED TO the post–World War I disillusion and famously refers to them as the death of God. He means by this not only the discrediting and erosion of the Christian religion—after all, every Christian knows that God did die¹—but also the disappearance or discrediting of any realm that might stand independently of our understanding and to which our understanding might be referred. Call this the vision or a transcendental realm or, to reverse the orientation, a foundation. It serves as a banister. In practice, it means to recognize as authoritative some understanding outside ourselves, that is, as an understanding in which we claim to recognize ourselves. It could be class, race, reason, nature, logic, science, God. The death of God thus designates a situation in which we are cast loose from any source of authority external to our self, and it is, thus, the precondition for what Arendt referred to as the possibility of thinking ohne Geländer. In the paragraph of the Gay Science that immediately precedes the one that informs the populace of God’s death, Nietzsche calls attention to the fact that, even without the knowledge of his demise, humans find themselves cast adrift: We have left the land and taken to ship! We have demolished the bridges behind us—even more, we have destroyed the land behind us. . . . Woe, when you feel homesick for the land as if more freedom had been there—and there is no longer any land.² This says: we have started on a journey without an end (there are no more ports as we have destroyed the land). There is a danger that we long for the security of hard ground, failing to acknowledge that there is no longer any (was there ever?). Importantly, Nietzsche finds that our condition as cast adrift on a sea without the possibility of ports precedes the knowledge of the death of God. It is a development in process, and the sequence of seventeen paragraphs in the Gay Science that precede the announcement of the death of God (pars. 108–24) lead up to it just as the seventeen ones that follow it detail the possibility of clearing the air of everything Christian (pars. 126–42).³ Nietzsche proclaims God’s death in paragraph 125 of the Gay Science— it is a truth the news of which has not yet reached the general consciousness of the public, who continue to live on in the shadows of the dead God. Furthermore, Nietzsche sees God’s death as a murder and Westerners as the assassins. Those to whom a madman⁴ calls out in the marketplace of his search for God mock him: Is God lost? The madman replies:

We have killed him,—you and I! We all are his murderers! But how have we done this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the whole horizon? What did we do when we unbound this earth from its sun? To where does it move now? To where do we move? Away from all suns? Are we not continually plunging about? And this backwards, sideways, forwards, in all directions? Is there still an up and a down? Do we not wander though an unending nothingness? Does not empty space blow on us? Has it not become more cold? Does not the night and not only the night come constantly on? Must not lanterns be lit in the morning?⁵

As always, Nietzsche’s vividness makes a point. The man is mad because the world in terms of which he could make sense to and of himself is vanishing, now just a shadow. The death of God is the consequence of human actions, and the consequences of this death are or will be cosmic and catastrophic. The death of God means that we no longer know how to stand toward anything that used to give constancy and meaning. It is also a challenge: in the midst of this preaching, two problems are quietly set for the reader. The first has to do with a grasping of the consequences, actual and to come, that this event has for human understanding and life. There are, Nietzsche says, no natural limits anymore (no horizon), and regularity has disappeared as experience (the earth is unbound . . . from its sun). Our vision—that is, our security in what we understand—is impaired for night comes on and we are forced to rely on artifice to preserve our normal life patterns (to light lanterns . . . in the morning). Second, Nietzsche asks: How have we brought this about? In other words, what is it that humans have done such that God has died? There is, of course, a third question: What then is to be done? What is important here is that the death of God is not so much a declaration of atheism (and how could it, in fact, be?) as the formula for a set of experiences that are central to the West over the twentieth century.

Importantly, what is lost with the death of God is not just God but the human being who had an understanding of God. At the end of the Third Meditation, Descartes tells us that his nature could not be as it is if the God of which "the idea was in him did not exist."⁶ The implication—and it is present in Nietzsche’s understanding of the death of God—is that, should the concept of God disappear, then I would myself be changed. Hence, the changes demanded by the death of God are, while slow to come about (Nietzsche foresees two hundred years), changes in what it means to be human. If the twentieth century is the beginning of this process, the question arises as to how to take hold of it.

The various answers to these questions will take shape, I hope, over the course of this book. Preliminarily, in response to the first question—How will humans react to the disorientation in and of their world?—one might note that reactions typically took the path of trying to find a mooring point that was apparently not affected by the death of God. For some it was science and the extension of