Plato the Fascist: Was He Serious or Satirical?

A philosopher presents a detailed program for an ideal society: that’s what Plato’s Republic seems at first glance to be. But careful readers often suspect that something very different is afoot: is Plato joking?

The idea that the Republic is an extended comedy seems foreign to those who’ve cut their teeth on the ponderous nineteenth-century scholarship which treats Plato, and the entire Greco-Roman classical canon, with great reverence. Such scholarship attributes great gravitas to Plato, and considers it unlikely that he’d play such a prank.

The text leaves the reader with a choice: either Plato was joking or he was serious.

This choice, however, points to a less comfortable option: if Plato were serious, then he advanced a blueprint for a society that would be both cruel and bizarre. Couched in Plato’s friendly prose are details which would violate any level-headed concepts of justice or human rights.

Plutarch’s account of Lycurgus and the Spartan constitution seem mild compared, e.g., to Plato’s prescription that a child should never be allowed to know who her or his parents are, and that the parent should never be allowed to know who their child is.

There are details about Plato’s plan for an ideal civilization that are so strange and brutal that the plausibility of the Republic as a scheme for social engineering is stretched to the breaking point.

Among these oddities are some self-destructive recommendations by Plato that the activities of writers be severely restricted. Such limits would presumably apply to Plato himself, and, as author Hans Magnus Enzensberger explains, would be the basis for government oppression of written creativity. Enzensberger shows what the literal effects of Plato’s text would be:

The state decides what poets may or may not write — that is a nightmare as old as the Occident. Decency and good behavior must be observed. The gods are always good. Statesmen and officials may not be disparaged in public. Praise be to heroes, no matter what. The crimes of our rulers are not fit subjects for poetry but for committee meetings behind closed doors. Protect our youth! Therefore, there must be no portrayal of unbridled passion unless it is authorized by the state. Irony is forbidden. There must be no effeminacy. Poets, being born liars, are to be assigned to the public-relations detail. The control commission not only assigns topics; it also decrees what forms are admissible and what tone of voice is desired. The demand is for harmony at all costs; this means “good language and good harmony and grace and good rhythm” — in a word, affirmation. Nuisances will be exiled or eliminated, their works banned, censored, and mutilated.

Indeed, Enzensberger makes Plato guilty for a number of problems in Western Civilization’s treatment of creative writing:

These familiar maxims, formulated in a small Balkan state more than two thousand years ago, can be found at the root of all European discussion of poetry and politics. They have since spread across the entire world. Dully, monotonously, brutally, they clang through history with the terrible regularity of a steam hammer. They do not question what poetry is, but treat it simply as an instrument to influence those held in subjugation, as something to be used at will in the interests of authority. Hence the tenacious life of these maxims, for they are tools of power — the selfsame thing into which they are trying to turn poetry. For this reason they are passed from hand to hand through history, like bludgeons, fungible, easily detachable from the philosophy from which they were hewn. Not only do they serve Platonism as cudgels against Aeschylus and Homer, but they serve every political administration.

But Enzensberger’s indictment of Plato is valid only if Plato was sincere in his instructions. Is there a chance that Plato was joking?

The likelihood that Plato did not intend for his directions to be taken literally increases with the consideration that Plato, as an author, would have suffered greatly under his own rules. Consider the constraints mentioned in the text of the Republic, as worded in Jowett’s translation:

The first thing will be to establish a censorship of the writers of fiction, and let the censors receive any tale of fiction which is good, and reject the bad; and we will desire mothers and nurses to tell their children the authorized ones only. Let them fashion the mind with such tales, even more fondly than they mold the body with their hands; but most of those which are now in use must be discarded.

Plato goes on to suggest that even the texts of Hesiod and Homer be redacted:

The doings of Cronus, and the sufferings which in turn his son inflicted upon him, even if they were true, ought certainly not to be lightly told to young and thoughtless persons; if possible, they had better be buried in silence.

Through the mouthpiece character of Socrates, who is clearly in no way related to the actual Socrates, Plato asserts that such stories are “not to be repeated in our” republic:

We shall never mention the battles of the giants, or let them be embroidered on garments; and we shall be silent about the innumerable other quarrels of gods and heroes with their friends and relatives.

Whether the stories are taken as literal or figurative does not matter to Plato: in either case, they must be eliminated: “​​These tales must not be admitted into our” Polis, “whether they are supposed to have an allegorical meaning or not.”

This censorship is in no way a self-censorship, or one informally imposed by social custom, but rather a statist enactment:

The founders of a State ought to know the general forms in which poets should cast their tales, and the limits which must be observed by them.

A translation by Paul Shorey confirm’s Jowett’s rendering: “We must not accept from Homer or any other poet the folly of such error.” The state will determine what is true, and will eliminate any text which asserts an untruth. Plato writes that the state “will not approve” or “permit our youth to hear” certain passages from Aeschylus. Plato has named at least three major poets as earning censorship. This amounts, if taken literally, to a frontal assault on the Greek canon.

Which is a good reason not to take it literally.

In his other dialogues, Plato demonstrated affection and respect for Homer, Hesiod, and Aeschylus. Yet in the Republic he instructs the audience to redact, censor, and ban them from his polis. Either he is guilty of blatant self-contradiction, or his comments in the Republic are meant as satire.

The text of the Republic goes on to assert that the state will forbid an individual to “assert” certain things “in his own city if it is to be well governed.” This would be “one of the laws” and “speakers and poets will be required to conform” to it.

Plato goes so far as to assert “we” will not “allow teachers to use” Homer and Aeschylus “for the education of the young.” This proposition does such great violence against Greek sensibilities that it certainly urges the reader to suggest that Plato is joking.

Likewise, a translation by George Grube, revised by C.D.C. Reeve, shows the strict censorship which Plato proposes: “We must supervise such stories and those who tell them.” Plato writes: “We’ll expunge” and “delete” texts which are displeasing to the state. “Names for the underworld must be struck out.” Not only will the state forbid poets to write certain things; the state will also require them to write other things: “We’ll compel the poets.”

Francis Macdonald Cornford also confirms what is in Plato’s text: “We shall have to prohibit such poems and tales and tell them to compose others in the contrary sense.” In these words, Plato goes beyond censorship and conscripts the writers into the service of propaganda:

Then we must not only compel our poets, on pain of expulsion, to make their poetry the express image of noble character; we must also supervise craftsmen of every kind and forbid them to leave the stamp of baseness, license, meanness, unseemliness, on painting and sculpture, or building, or any other work of their hands; and anyone who cannot obey shall not practice his art in our commonwealth.

After deciding that most of the other arts — sculpture, painting, music — should also be subject to strict censorship, Plato concludes that “we could not but banish such an influence from our commonwealth.”

The reader, then, is left with a choice: Either Plato is making a joke — an absurd joke, a provocative joke — or Plato is proposing the most ruthless type of censorship.

On the one hand, history teaches us that such extreme and inhumane censorship is indeed possible: one need only to consider activists in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries who sought to forbid the reading of Shakespeare, Milton, Chaucer, Thomas More, Mark Twain, and others.

Censorship is merely one of the brutal measures prescribed in the Republic. Taken together, the sum of the ordinances in the text would constitute a fascist totalitarian program which would locate Plato among the bloodthirsty likes of Joseph Stalin, Chairman Mao, Pol Pot, and Daniel Ortega.

On the other hand, Plato has already demonstrated his ability to write comedy in the Ion, one of his most humorous dialogues.

Surely, a poet who calls for the banishment of poetry and a creative author who calls for the rigid regulation of creativity must be writing ironically. If Plato’s program were enacted as written, most of his dialogues would be condemned and he would be exiled.

If Enzensberger is correct in seeing Plato as a serious totalitarian, and if Plato was therefore not joking, then the implications for civilization are indeed as grim as Enzensberger paints them.

But if Enzensberger is wrong, and Plato is merely joking — it will be a separate question as to whether his joke is funny — then generations of scholars have misdirected their students into a literal reading of the Republic.

The Blessings of Chaos: The Noisy Public Square Keeps Humanity Humane

As in the past, so in the present: the obiter dicta which an author places into the mouths of fictional characters serve as vehicles for aphorisms on a wide variety of subjects, applying to situations well beyond the central plot of the book in which they appear.

In the novel Persepolis Rising, author James S.A. Corey takes the opportunity to do precisely this, when one character in the book endorses a totalitarian government because parliamentary processes can become bogged down and stuck in discussions. Impatient with such legislative processes and eager for quick and decisive action, the character says, "There has to be a way to come to a final decision."

In response, the interlocutor offers this epigram:

No, there doesn't. Every time someone starts talking about final anythings in politics, that means the atrocities are warming up. Humanity has done amazing things by just muddling through, arguing and complaining and fighting and negotiating. It's messy and undignified, but it's when we're at our best, because everyone gets to have a voice in it. Even if everyone else is trying to shout it down. Whenever there's just one voice that matters, something terrible comes out of it.

James S.A. Corey, which is actually a nom de plume for a two-man writing team, offers an analogue to Winston Churchill’s famous quote:

Many forms of Government have been tried and will be tried in this world of sin and woe. No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed, it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all those other forms that have been tried from time to time; but there is the broad feeling in our country that the people should rule, continuously rule, and that public opinion, expressed by all constitutional means, should shape, guide, and control the actions of Ministers who are their servants and not their masters.

Churchill spoke in 1947; Corey wrote in 2017. The sentiment holds. People who are otherwise reasonable and rational can be seduced into totalitarianism in several different ways; one of them is the simple desire to see things done in an orderly way paired with a distaste for squabbling chaos. Thus it is that totalitarianism sometimes sneaks in under the disguise of being scientific or technically proficient: “let the experts decide.”

But the price of order achieved by means of dictatorship is too high.

By placing the word “final” into mouth of the character who advocates totalitarianism, Corey alludes to Hitler’s National Socialism and its Endlösung — the “final solution.” The word Nazi is simply an abbreviation for the German phrase for “National Socialism.”

As a fiction author not constrained by the academic’s duty to insert all manner of qualifications and cite relevant antecedents, Corey is able to move on with his plot after briefly reminding the reader of a truism about freely elected representative bodies, and of the need to patiently endure annoying and even painful political processes: the alternative is far worse.

The Development of Roman Military Strategy: The Empire’s Army in Different Phases

The last phase of Roman history is the history of the empire: it began around 27 B.C. and ended in 476 A.D. This imperial phase came after both the monarchical phase and the republic phase. This final five centuries of Roman civilization can be further subdivided into three segments, according to historian Edward Luttwak. These three spans reflect three different goals for the imperial military. They are, in chronological order, expansion, maintenance, and defense.

Like most historical generalizations, these three phases of the empire cannot be taken as precise demarcations. There is some blurring of the distinctions and some overlapping of the time segments. Edward Luttwak presents the three phases as he devises them:

With brutal simplicity, it might be said that with the first system the Romans of the republic conquered much to serve the interests of a few, those living in the city — and in fact still fewer, those best placed to control policy.

Even within this first phase, there was development, both of the basic principles of this phase, and of what would become features of the next two phases. “During the first century,” Luttwak writes, “Roman ideas evolved toward a much broader and altogether more benevolent conception of empire.”

Although the first phase was characterized by expansion, it was in 9 A.D., during this first phase, that a German chieftain, known as Arminius or Herrmann, successfully attacked, defeated, and largely destroyed “three legions and auxiliary troops” commanded by Varus. Thus features of the latter two phases — maintenance and defense — are seen already in the first.

The clever act of bestowing fully Roman citizenship on many people living in the colonies or provinces marks the second phase. Enjoying their citizenship, and the rights and privileges it brought, these people developed an attachment to the empire, and were willing to support it and serve in its defense.

Under the aegis of the second system, men born in lands far from Rome could call themselves Romans and have their claim fully allowed; and the frontiers were efficiently developed to defend the growing prosperity of all, and not merely of the privileged. The result was the empire of the second century, which served the security interests of millions rather than of thousands.

During the third phase, in which Edward Luttwak sees the Roman military as largely defensive during the gradual contraction of the empire, echoes of the first phase are seen in, e.g., attempted Roman expansion eastward into Persia and Persian-controlled territories.

Under the third system, organized in the wake of the great crisis of the third century, the provision of security became an increasingly heavy charge on society — and a charge very unevenly distributed, which could enrich the wealthy while certainly ruining the poor. The machinery of empire now became increasingly self-serving, with its tax collectors, administrators, and soldiers of much greater use to one another than to the society at large. Even then the empire retained the loyalties of many, for the alternative was chaos. When this ceased to be so, when organized barbarian states capable of providing a measure of law and order began to emerge in lands that had once been Roman, then the last system of imperial security lost its last source of support, men’s fear of the unknown.

In addition to dividing the military history of the empire into these three phases, Luttwak also conceptualizes the fall of the empire as having one of its many roots in the growing awareness on the part of the Roman populace of the fact that the Germanic tribes could be, and often were, reasonable. The end of the empire would not be a descent into total chaos and destruction, but could be a someone orderly transition of power.

Indeed, when the Germanic chieftain Odoacer ended the empire in 476 A.D., he was careful to observe a number of customs and phrases as he presented himself, and a number of Roman institutions were left functioning in place, like the Senate.

Julian the Apostate: His Ambivalence

The history of Christianity during the Roman Empire is bumpy and complicated. The Roman Empire began around 27 B.C. and Christianity began around 30 A.D.

During the earliest years of Christianity, the Roman officials regarded Christianity as simply a variety of Judaism: Jesus being a rabbi, the events starting the Christian faith having taken place in Jewish territory, and the first groups of Christians being Jews.

After the first few decades, the Romans came to see Christianity as something distinct from Judaism, but this understanding didn’t make a practical difference: both religions were persecuted by the Roman authorities. Thousands of Christians and Jews were arrested, jailed, beaten, and killed.

Despite this oppression, the Christian faith spread rapidly. The new religion gained members from all social classes and in every region within the empire. Conditions, however, gradually began to improve for Christians.

On April 30, 311, the Emperor Galerius issued The Edict of Toleration. Between February and June 313, Emperor Constantine and Emperor Licinius, ruling jointly at the time, issued the Edict of Milan. These two documents established Christianity as a legally accepted option alongside the various forms of paganism in the empire.

Christianity was tolerated, but not accepted. A century later, in 410, Christians were being harassed as pagans blamed them for military defeats, primarily when Germanic tribesmen sacked the city of Rome in that year. Christianity was an all-purpose scapegoat: it could be blamed for any social difficulties in the empire.

After Constantine’s edict in 313 A.D., Christianity did not become the state religion of the empire, as is sometimes reported. Christian baptism was not a legal requirement. Quite the opposite: Christians were a minority of the empire’s population, and Christianity remained on the margins of society.

The imperial career of Julian makes this clear; historian Edward Arthur Thompson reports that

Julian (Flavius Claudius Julianus) (331 - 363), commonly called Julian the Apostate, Roman emperor A.D. 361 - 363, was born at Constantinople, the son of Julius Constantius, a half brother of Constantine the Great.

Julian’s family tree alone gave him a headstart on the road to power and fame. In addition, he was smart, obtained a good education, and proved himself practical in matters of military leadership.

He had a half brother named Gallus. Like Julian, Gallus was destined for leadership roles in the upper levels of the imperial administration. Edward Arthur Thompson explains that Emperor Constantius II promoted Gallus:

In 351 Gallus was elevated to the rank of Caesar and appointed to rule at Antioch; and it seems to have been about this time, when he was associating with the best-known philosophers of the day, that Julian secretly abandoned Christianity.

The career of Gallus came quickly to an end in 354, when the emperor Constantius II suspected him of disloyalty and had him executed.

Julian was aware that Constantius II was paranoid — even if the paranoia was perhaps justified by the ambitions of power-seeking men — and so remained alert for any threats from the emperor. Meanwhile, Julian’s military successes gave him political momentum, and his reputation was so good that the men of his army named him augustus — effectively emperor — by acclamation. He was certainly now a target for the wrath of Constantius II.

Julian’s spiritual involvement was at this point in time ambiguous. Although a pagan, he had occasionally attended Christian worship events, perhaps out of curiosity, or perhaps for the thrill of engaging in an event which was not in the social mainstream. But that would soon change, and his attachment to paganism would become a determining factor in his actions:

On Jan. 6, 361, he attended a church service, perhaps for the last time.

Frequently on the move, as his army’s task was to keep the Germanic tribes away from the city of Rome, Julian spent some time stationed at a city called Naissus, modern-day Nis, in Serbia. It was while Julian was at Nis that he learned that Constantius II had died, probably of natural causes.

Some reports claim that Emperor Constantius II asked to be baptized shortly before his death. Whether Julian received those reports, and how they may have factored into his thinking, is not clear.

In any case, with the emperor’s death, the immediate threat to Julian’s life was removed — of course, there would be others, as was the case for nearly every Roman emperor. Julian would now effectively be emperor and sole ruler of the empire. Perhaps it was this elevation that moved him from an interest in, and attraction to, paganism, toward a commitment to paganism. From the beginning of the empire until Julian’s reign, the vast majority of Roman emperors were pagans.

Julian appears to have become openly a pagan while still at Naissus.

Having become emperor in 361, Julian now wanted to build his reputation as emperor. While Jews and Christians had abandoned the practice of animal sacrifice for three centuries, it was still a central activity among the pagans. Julian hoped to solidify his emperorship’s reputation by these pagan rituals. While Christianity was a minority religion in most of the empire, Antioch was one city in which a large percentage of the residents were Christians. Julian received an unenthusiastic reception there:

Envious of Alexander the Great, Julian wished for military glory in the east and entered Antioch on July 19, 362. Associating closely with the pagan orator Libanius, he frequented the temples, multiplied his sacrifices to the gods, but failed to win much popularity with the predominantly Christian citizens.

Although now a dedicated pagan, Julian still pursued the tactic of religious tolerance, at least until late 362. He saw the growing numbers of Christians as a threat and a mystery. They were a threat to the credibility of paganism, and they were a mystery because their membership grew despite the movement’s lack of political, military, or economic might.

Julian hoped to pattern a new version of paganism after Christianity:

On Aug. 1, 362, Julian was still recommending religious tolerance. He decided to reorganize the pagan priesthood, appointing a chief priest in each province, and his letters of instruction to these men were most detailed: he wished to equip the pagans with an organization comparable to that of the Christians.

When Christians expressed disagreement with his paganism, and with some of his harsher actions, Julian abandoned the policies of tolerance, as Edward Arthur Thompson explains:

Christians were forbidden to teach in the schools, certain bishops (including Athanasius) were exiled, taxes were levied on Christian clergy, preference was given to pagans in appointments to high office, etc.

Although Julian was now openly persecuting Christians, he still wanted to see paganism restructured along Christian lines. He wanted the pagans to have the same success that the Christians were having, as Timothy Dalrymple writes:

In the fourth century, a Roman emperor who was so riddled with religious skepticism and pagan ideology that he was known as Julian the Apostate could not help but recognize the transformative power of Christian love and care. In a letter to a pagan priest, Julian wrote, “The Christians support not only their poor but ours as well; all men see that our people lack aid from us.” Julian’s letter went so far as to urge the pagan priest to mimic the charity of the Christians.

Among the Romans, the Christians were sometimes referred to as “Galilaeans.” The full quote from Julian’s letter reads:

For it is disgraceful that, when no Jew ever has to beg, and the impious Galilaeans support not only their own poor but ours as well, all men see that our people lack aid from us.

Julian was not the only Roman to notice the counterintuitive growth of the Christian movement. Other texts from the era express similar bemusement and similar observations, e.g., Pliny the Younger in his letters to Trajan.

It puzzled many Romans that such a movement with no financial or legal power could attract so many followers so quickly. Among the Christians, some Roman social patterns were violated. Pliny writes of a Christian gathering led by female slaves; sitting in the audience were free male Roman citizens who listened attentively and regarded these speakers as authoritative. This represented a reversal of the Roman social order: slave vs. free, male vs. female, citizen vs. non-citizen. Yet the movement grew, attracting ever more members from all demographic categories.

The Christians were persistent in providing food and medical care to anyone who needed it. Christian missionaries carried this ethic of service to every corner of the empire. Brian Palmer writes about such activity:

The missionaries don’t profit personally from their work. They are compensated very poorly, if at all.

Julian hoped to instill such determination among the pagans. His death in 363, while fighting in Persia, brought an end to his efforts. It’s worth noting that for the remaining 113 years of the Roman Empire, which ended in 476, all the emperors were Christian.

While many Romans deprecated, admired, or were mystified by the rapid growth of the politically powerless Christian movement, Julian had a slightly different response: he hoped to co-opt Christianity’s method and duplicate Christianity’s success for paganism.

Julian’s plan didn’t work.

Crime and Lack of Punishment

The legal tradition of Western Civilization has long distinguished between crimes against persons and crimes against property. This distinction existed long before the United States became an independent country, and is found in many different countries around the world.

In practical terms, for example, this distinction helps to identify the importance of legal concepts like domestic violence and victims’ rights. Both of these notions deal with crimes against people, and the law views those crimes more severely than crimes against property.

Legal scholar Brian Mackie notes that it is “rare” to have “a judge sentence someone to jail for a property crime” in the United States. Prisons are not “filled with shoplifters, dope smokers, and car thieves.” Instead significant prison sentences are given to “people we should be afraid of.”

Looking specifically at the State of Michigan, Mackie notes “that Michigan is the second most violent state in the Midwest,” with “a violent crime rate more than fifty percent higher than the state of Ohio.” What seem to be high rates of incarceration in Michigan are actually lower, considered as rates, than states like Montana.

Michigan doesn’t “seek jail terms for folks who steal Slurpees,” in the words of journalist James Leopard who reported in 2020 on both Mackie and Mackie’s critics.

Mackie reports that Michigan doesn’t routinely imprison those who’ve committed a crime against property. Instead, “74% of Michigan’s prison inmates are sentenced for a violent crime (a figure which the national ACLU reports).” Those who commit crimes against property are routinely spared prison time, and engage in various forms of rehabilitation or restorative justice.

The tendency to distinguish between ‘crimes against persons’ and ‘crimes against property’ is a tendency that is found in Western Civilization. In other civilizations, there are legal traditions which include severe consequences for theft: the amputation of hands, for example, or the death penalty.

In Western Civilization, the death penalty was and is reserved for only extreme crimes against persons: murder, rape, kidnapping, and treason.

Western Civilization does not allow the capital punishment for burglary, theft, or other forms of stealing. This is a statement about the value of human life.

In non-Western civilizations, capital punishment is meted out for various forms of theft, for adultery or infidelity, and for various ‘thought crimes’ and ‘word crimes’ like blasphemy, defamation, slander, or libel.

The challenge facing the legal system in the United States at present is the growing demand to severely punish various ‘speech crimes.’ This demand represents a departure from Western Civilization, demanding a physical penalty for spoken or written words. This demand would see individuals fined, jailed, or removed from gainful employment because they expressed certain thoughts.

Another challenge to Western Civilization’s value system is the minimizing of rape. Traditionally, rape was considered a serious crime, even in some cases meriting the death penalty. The trend in recent years has been to give lighter sentences to convicted rapists. This undermines the dignity and worth that Western Civilization has traditionally attributed to women.

Likewise, in non-Western civilizations, the status of the victim affects both the legal proceedings and the sentences issued at the end of those proceedings. In some countries, e.g., a driver who negligently kills a pedestrian will be sentenced more harshly if the victim was a man, and sentenced more lightly if the victim was a woman. In Western Civilization, legal doctrine has long decreed that a crime’s sentence — e.g., for negligent manslaughter — should be the same with no regard to the demographic of the victim or of the perpetrator: the sentence should be the same, regardless of gender, age, race, religion, economic status, etc.

This concept, too, is being challenged in the current legal environment: harsher sentences are being demanded based upon the race or gender of the victim or of the perpetrator. This is a direct contradiction of Western Civilization.

The current era will be seen, from the perspective of the future, as a pivotal one: an era in which either Western Civilization’s basic sense of justice held, or an era in which it crumbled.

The Death of Friedrich Schiller: Romanticism, Enlightenment, and Idealism

The history of literature is ever plagued by ambiguities, especially when it tries to sort various authors into various movements, schools, and eras. The roots of imprecision are necessarily rooted deeply in the method of sorting authors into these types of groupings, because the groupings themselves are constructs: they are generalizations made after the fact, and subject to a necessary amount of inexactness.

In discussing the career of Friedrich Schiller, and in describing the influences in his environment, some scholars use a bewildering flurry of terminology, including: Romanticism, pre-Romanticism, proto-Romanticism, Classicism, neoClassicism, Sturm und Drang, Weimar Classicism, and Enlightenment.

Each of those words is alleged to describe some literary trend. Yet when examined carefully, the ambiguities and indistinctnesses multiply. Where do the boundaries of these groupings fall? Which characteristics are defining for these groups? Do these movements overlap each other, include each other, or exclude each other?

There is a clear distinction in methodology: one can compare and contrast two texts, examining the observable concrete details of each, or one can compare and contrast two constructs, muddling through ever more ambiguous generalizations. One can compare and contrast Herder’s Christliche Schriften with Goethe’s Dichtung und Wahrheit, or one can attempt to compare and contrast Weimar Classicism with the Enlightenment. The former can yield well-articulated conclusions, which, even if false, nonetheless have clear content, while the latter will produce merely increasingly vague generalizations about generalizations.

Two scholars, Julius Maria Roth and Paul Schulmeister, describe the death of Friedrich Schiller:

Als Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805) mit nur 46 Jahren in Weimar verstarb, waren die Ärzte, die für die Obduktion des Dichters zuständig waren, höchst verwundert — vor allem darüber, »wie der arme Mann so lange hat leben können«. Seine Lunge hatte sich fast aufgelöst und war mit den verknöcherten Rippen und dem Herz verwachsen; das Herz selbst war laut medizinischem Bericht ein darüleerer Beutel», fast ohne Muskelgewebe; ähnliche Befunde lieferten Niere, Milz und Gedärme. Woher hatte Schiller überhaupt die Energie, zu schreiben, genommen? Die Antwort lässt er seinen Wallenstein geben: »Es ist der Geist, der sich den Körper baut.«

Note the transition from precise concrete details to generalized constructs as these same two scholars continue, in their next paragraph:

In der Aufklärung rückten vor allem die erzieherischen und selbsterzieherischen Aspekte in den Vordergrund: Die Distanzierung von den Affekten und leiblichen Dringlichkeiten, von Naturzwängen und Trieben wurden als Emanzipation verstanden. Die Freiheit des Geistes sollte in jedem entfacht werden und ihn zu einem mündigen Bürger machen. Schiller ist der leibhaftige Beweis, dass es sich dabei um mehr als nur leere Worte und windige Ideen handelt.

It is not merely the use of abstractions which characterizes the second paragraph, but rather the exclusive use of abstractions, and specifically abstractions which have no clear method verifiability. The second paragraph probably contains some specific meanings, but a great deal of interpretation would be necessary to distill those meanings and to relate them to any observable or concrete phenomena — even the phenomena found in a literary text.

Abstractions can be used in salutary ways, and are not to be banished from all writing. But abstractions carry more meaning, and carry it better, when connected to concrete features of a text or of a historical event.

A grammatical analysis might reveal features in Schiller’s texts: how often verbs are used in the imperative mood; how often in the passive voice. A semantic analysis might reveal how often concrete nouns are used in comparison to abstract nouns; how often the subject of a sentence is specified; how often the metrical structure of a poem is maintained or violated.

It requires a great deal of self-discipline for a scholar to confine herself or himself to the concrete details of a text or the concrete details of an author’s historical context. The generalizations of constructs about movements and genres is ever enticing and seductive.

Formulaic Art Is Not Necessarily Bad Art

All too often, commentators lazily dismiss a work as “formulaic.” This practice needs to be examined and greatly reduced.

As ever, definitions are in order: Nearly every work of art is in some way “formulaic” in a broad definition of the word. If “paint on canvas” is a formula, then all paintings are formulaic. If “words on paper” is a formula, then every novel, poem, or essay is formulaic.

In less obvious and more meaningful examples, the sonnet is a form: Should one dismiss every sonnet because it is formulaic? The landscape or the portrait is a formula: Should all such paintings be dismissed?

Some critics dismiss the waltzes written by Johann Strauss II as formulaic. He composed more than 100 of them. But could ‘formulaic’ be in some sense a virtue rather than a vice? The composer found a way to create music in a pattern; this is perhaps an achievement rather than a crime.

Shakespeare wrote more than 150 sonnets. There are certain similarities among them. Should they all be dismissed as formulaic?

So also with the more than 130 marches composed by John Philip Sousa.

To be sure, there are examples of lazy and uninspired artists who rely on formula, and formula alone. The distinction should be made between those who use formula, and those who rely solely on formula.

In the end, both lazy critics and lazy artists are at fault. The concept of ‘formula’ is not at fault.

Timeless Principles: What Are They?

Over the course of centuries, human beings have discovered eternal truths: Principles that are true at all times and in all places. These discoveries form a part of the foundation for knowledge, civilization, and science.

During Hellenistic Age of Greek History, Euclid compiled some of those truths and founded what is now known as geometry. The Hellenistic Age began roughly with the death of Alexander the Great in 323 B.C. and lasted for approximately two centuries. Two thousand years later, Euclid’s collection of axioms and definitions still serves not only students everywhere, but also engineers and architects. Euclidean geometry contains timeless principles.

In the realms of geometry and mathematics, more such principles accumulated over the centuries, as people discovered non-Euclidean geometries, trigonometry, algebra, and calculus.

Physics also contains timeless principles, the discoveries of Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein and many others. The fact that Newton physics differs from Einstein’s physics does not detract from the reality that both men discovered absolute principles.

Just as the quadratic equation is an eternal truth in mathematics, so also in society and civilization there are eternal truths about how to structure communal life.

In the same way, thinkers like Thomas Hobbes and John Locke have discovered timeless truths about human nature. Hobbes and Locke wrote in the 1600s. In the late 1700s, their works would play an important role in American history. In the history of the United States, the authors of foundational documents like the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights began by looking to ancient and modern philosophers to collect some of these timeless principles, as Ben Shapiro writes:

The Constitution was created to deal with flaws in human nature, not to cope with technological advancements: we may have better means of communication than we did in 1787, but we don’t have better people. People are the same as they ever were. The founders constructed the Constitution on the basis of three main realizations about human beings. First, they realized that human beings are imperfect, selfish, driven by self-interest. They will go to war with each other to assure the victory of that self-interest. The founders agreed with the central theory of Thomas Hobbes, that without government, man reverted to constant warfare: “No arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death; and the life of man solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”

In writing the Constitution, the founders took into account that human nature is essentially imperfect, flawed, and limited. Hobbes had gone on to suggest that the best way to deal with human nature was to establish a powerful and unchallenged government, which would then control people to prevent them from running wild.

The founders rejected the solution proposed by Hobbes, even while accepting the principles he had discovered: yes, human nature is imperfect, but, no, the best solution to that problem is not to establish an absolute dictatorship. Ben Shapiro explains:

But they disagreed with Hobbes that the only way to solve this conundrum was a great and powerful ruler. They believed that such rulers were similarly capable of brutality in their own self-interest. They adopted this philosophy from John Locke, who wrote, “The end of government is the good of mankind; and which is best for mankind, that the people should be always exposed to the boundless will of tyranny, or that the rulers should be sometimes liable to be opposed, when they grow exorbitant in the use of their power, and employ it for the destruction, and not the preservation of the properties of their people?” In other words, if rulers invaded the rights of others, they ought to be curbed.

John Locke argued that the purpose of government was not to control human beings, but rather to protect their lives, freedoms, and properties. The founders wove into the Constitution ideas from Hobbes and Locke, combining two sets of eternal truths.

They rejected the idea of Hobbes that an absolute, all-powerful, unlimited government was the solution. So what did the founders of the United States do instead?

So, how could society survive without an all-powerful ruler checking men? By a series of mutual checks and balances. As James Madison famously stated in Federalist #51: “If men were angels, no government would be necessary. If angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on government would be necessary. In framing a government which is to be administered by men over men, the great difficulty lies in this: you must first enable the government to control the governed; and in the next place oblige it to control itself. A dependence on the people is, no doubt, the primary control on the government; but experience has taught mankind the necessity of auxiliary precautions.”

If the founders decided that having an absolute dictatorship was not the way to go, then which type of government would be better? The answer lies in limiting government: making sure that the government doesn’t get too powerful.

It’s important to avoid a powerful government, because if it is powerful, then it will try to control its citizens rather than protect their freedoms.

One way to limit a government's power is to divide the government into parts, and then pit the parts against each other. This system of “checks and balances” is usually known as “separation of powers.” If the different parts of the government are busy battling with each other, then they won’t have the time or energy to try to control the citizens, and then the citizens have their liberty:

Checks and balances were designed to prevent government from overreaching its boundaries; only widespread agreement could overrule such checks and balances. The judiciary was therefore designed not to lord over the executive and legislative branches, but to interpret the law “under the Constitution”; it was checked by its requirement of funding from Congress and execution from the executive branch. The legislative branch was designed to pass laws in concurrence with the Constitution; the president was given the power to veto laws. Congress itself was checked by distribution of power between the House, chosen by population, and the Senate, chosen by state. The executive branch was checked by the legislature; the executive couldn’t create laws or self-fund, and the legislature could always impeach an incipient tyrant. The federal government as a whole was checked by state governments, all of which had their own checks and balances.

Even though human beings are by nature essentially imperfect and flawed, they still have rights. A limited government works to protect those rights. An unlimited government will work to violate those rights.

People sometimes forget that the U.S. Constitution is not a set of laws for citizens to follow. It is a set of rules for the government to follow. Citizens do not need to obey the Constitution; the government must obey the Constitution.

The structural Constitution, not the Bill of Rights, is the essence of American government. And it has nothing to do with technological progress. It relies on the same vision of human nature held by the founders, and the same vision of human rights: that because you are a human being, you have inviolable rights that cannot be removed from you by majority vote.

Because the Constitution is based on, and contains, timeless principles, it “is a timeless document.” It is backed up by the experiences and reflections of several thousand years — from Babylonians, Egyptians, and Hebrews to Greeks, Romans, and the highpoints of medieval Europe. These principles have been shown to accurately address all human beings, at any time, at any place, of any race, religion, or ethnicity. These are universal principles.

An Unexpected Lesson from Martin Luther: How Social Media Affects Writing in the Twenty-First Century

If a writer is trying to create some introspective and meditative prose in the current era, she or he may well learn some valuable lessons from Martin Luther, who wrote in the first half of the sixteenth century. Luther’s lack of media made him a better writer.

Although Luther found himself in the midst of the most heated debates in centuries, he was also able to shut out the passion and invective for days, weeks, and even months at a time. This allowed Luther to think, and to think without interruption: to reflect, to analyze, to ponder.

Luther was able to write without instant feedback. He was able to write without worrying about the immediate reaction he might receive. To be sure, he would receive reactions, both friendly and hostile, but he would receive them at the pace of pen on paper, and at the pace of a mail delivery system which travelled by foot over dozens of miles, requiring days and weeks before a letter reached its destination.

Considering Luther’s writing process, historian Jonathan Kay notes:

Saul Bellow, in his introduction to Allan Bloom’s The Closing of the American Mind, makes the memorable point that great and important writing is possible only when one is able to shut out “the noise of history.” This is what Luther managed to do when he created his 95 theses, his translations and the other texts that became part of the Reformation’s early canon. As a writer (not a religious one), I deeply admire his dedication to the craft.

I envy him, too. Five hundred years later, there are few writers, artists, designers or intellectuals who do not feel impelled to deliver regular updates on their work online, or at weekly grad seminars, shareholder meetings or workshops with colleagues. And all of us, whatever our professional subculture, imagine ourselves as plugged into some larger intellectual “community” that sits in judgment of an idea’s worth.

Comparing Christianity in the 1500s to Islam in the twenty-first century, Jonathan Kay points to the ways in which thoughts are shared in writing. Could the publishing styles shape something so profound as major religious movements?

These networks make us more professionally productive and accountable. But they also can make us more cautious, since we know that any new idea can expose us to instant censure from complete strangers in other parts of the world who know nothing of our local circumstances. This phenomenon goes by different names — groupthink, political correctness, herd mentality. But in every form, it serves the interest of the orthodox and frustrates the heretic.

This may help explain, for instance, why the path of religious reform has been halting in so many parts of the Muslim world in recent decades: The same miraculous technology that allows would-be reformers to communicate their modern, pluralistic interpretations of Islamic liturgy also allows hard-liners to brutally suppress them.

The speed at which ideas travel shapes history. Luther was able to get his ideas spread across Europe quickly, thanks to the printing press. His famous 95 theses were printed mechanically; multiple printings occurred in various cities within a few months of their appearance.

Luther’s ideas spread quickly, but not too quickly: there remained the quiet weeks between mailing a copy of his theses and receiving a reply — friendly or hostile — from the recipient. This gave Luther time, not to react, but rather to respond: time to craft thoughtful, analytical responses.

This timing also slowed Luther’s enemies. They could not create a “flash mob” to “shout down” Luther’s insightful questions.

In Bangladesh, for example, Islamists have engaged in a systematic campaign of extermination against bloggers who express even moderate critiques of their religion. In Pakistan, a man recently was sentenced to death for posting criticism of the prophet Muhammad on his Facebook page. Even in my Toronto neighborhood, in the heart of one of the most liberal and tolerant nations on Earth, a friend of mine who leads a group of ex-Muslims takes pains not to reveal the location of her monthly meetings, lest such information attract the attention of extremists on the other side of the planet. If modern Islam had its Luther, we might never know, because he could be silenced, or worse, before his ideas could take root.

Luther lived in that historical sweet spot between the invention of the printing press and the invention of the telegraph, when communication was not quite too fast nor quite too slow. As such, he was able to tune out the noise of history — not to mention the threat of death at the stake — and transform his demons into an idea that set the world ablaze. Since then, there has not been a religious revolutionary like him. My guess is there never will be again.

Twenty-first century technology plays all too easily into the hands of violent extremists, allowing them to silence thoughtful observations.

Europe in the 1500s was situated so that its communication was fast enough that Luther’s 95 Theses could be spread across the continent in a few weeks or months, but slow enough that it was the rationality of the responses which shaped the discussion rather than the quick large numbers of emotional reactions.

For those whose research and discoveries are in some obscure corner of the natural sciences, the speed and tone of discourse is not significant. If a researcher invents a new and better way for empirically measuring the halflife of isotopes, a social revolution or cultural upheaval is not at stake. He may share his results quickly or slowly, and the only difference may be to his professional and academic career.

But for those whose work is liable to create change in society or culture, the ways in which they communicate can make a major difference. Reasoned responses from opponents are welcomed as part of a dialectic, but virulent reactions from enemies are not constructive. The communication methods of the twenty-first century make it sadly easy to shut down, shout down, and ensure that reasonable ideas are neither heard nor read.