Homo Bulla and The Philosophies of Magic

Sit tibi terra levis – May the ground be light on you

“Man is a bubble (Homo Bulla), they say;” writes Varro, the greatest scholar of ancient Rome, in his book on ‘On farming’, “in which case the proverb must be truer for an old man. And I am in my eightieth year, which warns me to pack up my baggage in readiness to journey out of this world.” (Varro, 1912, p. B) From this point on, the philosophies and the thinking I will write about find their best epitaph in these words of Varro.

In other words, “conservatism” now stands apart. [1]. Edmund Burke’s legacy, it seems, single-handedly, with thinkers such as Scruton and Oakeshott, is carried onwards by remaining worthy of the artistic appeal and a feeling necessarily connected with life, i.e., to make a home our dwelling place – enchantment. [2]. The conservatism that is more capable, and which we encounter more in our politics now, of what Nietzsche calls the “corruption of the text”, which in the absence of any deeper thought, appeals to ideas such as ‘the family’, ‘nation’, ‘my kind of people and religion’ and similar things. And, [3]. the conservatism with which I will deal now, the so-called “revolutionary conservatism“, (a denotation which finds its source in the book, and initially the doctoral thesis of the Swiss philosopher, unrepentant fascist and secretary of Ernst Jünger himself, Armin Mohler, “Die Konservative Revolution in Deutschland 1918-1932“). While Burke’s conservatism and the latter are similar in at least one way, I will not deal with conservatism caught up in certain ideas because its multiplicity makes it indefinable to deal with it in any meaningful way.

So where is the difference or the sameness between Edmund Burke’s conservatism and the revolutionary conservatism that Mohler testifies to?

I think that the division that Mohler saw between revolutionary conservatives (among whom he counts over 40 well-known thinkers such as Martin Heidegger, Ernst Jünger, Thomas Mann, Carl Schmitt, Ludwig Klages and others), and nationalism-socialism has little or no legitimacy. However, what can be said, and it is not difficult to conclude, is that revolutionary conservatism arose largely as a reaction to the ideas that liberal philosophies pushed forward, as did Burke’s conservatism. But the way how Burke talks to us about the preservation of heritage is different from the defense of the particular tradition of the revolutionary conservatives. To pay heed to Burke’s remedy with the feeling of enchantment as different from the nostrum of the conservative revolutionaries’ defense, this divide seems to be the case on a miniature scale, even in Albanian literature. For instance, Lukë Bogdani and Gjergj Fishta are the preserves par excellence of that which was and still is (especially the Fairy (Zana), the enchantment of which was preserved so without hostility that it has even entered the Albanian translation of the Bible, [Ezekiel, 3:15]), and definitely, Burke would have agreed when they show honor to life regardless of whose life it is by recognizing and honoring other heritages as well. (It is perhaps to show our love, or the lack thereof, of being a Burkean of conservation that we still call Naim Frashërin, a poet intoxicated by the philosophies of Rousseau and Voltaire, as our national poet. Compared to the sublime mysterium tremendum et fascinans verse of Fishta, Naimi sounds like someone who just recently started to write and read.) But when we talk, for example, about the works of Mid’hat Frashëri or even those of Ernest Koliqi (in whom the Fairy (Zana) is now not something to be preserved, but a means to mark the Albanian blood and race, which must be protected according to a certain tradition, always clean of unwanted features), then we are talking about a revolutionary conservatism and thus, a ‘little’ more than a dangerous conservatism. But why?

Burke’s conservatism and revolutionary conservatism agree that they are, ultimately, artistic projects: they use art in a particular way, one hiding itself behind it and the other pushing it forward. But while Burke finds it necessary to speak of a “moral imagination,” just as Oakeshott and Scruton speak of “morality,” they are concerned first and foremost with life – their art, it serves or should serve life. Enchantment is the becoming of the one who is alive. Although revolutionary conservatism started as an artistic project, in political action, it leaves art aside and to use the verses of the poet, whom Mohler considers a revolutionary conservative, and from whom Nazi Germany took concepts such as “the Reich of a thousand years”, “fire and blood” and “Nordic superman”, Stefan George –

“The walls are tapestried with velvet bloom

“– A fashion grown from some ancestral mood (stimmung) –

“Your arm in mine we come into the room

“And tell each other death is good.” (George, 1974, p. 149)

This conservatism is related to the concern, or the request that we lack this concern, about death. They seemed to be heading at the point where, when they talk about the death of the soul and only the body remaining (Klages), about the death upon which new things will flourish (George), being-towards-death (Heidegger) or even with the revival of völkisch movements and the denial of the Christian religion (for the Burkean kind, this religion has been durable and remained and we should be more careful when denying it), they are not afraid of death – but it is precisely this lack of fear in the face of death which, when the political action cleans away their artistic project, they are not afraid to bring it, blessed with Wagner’s music, in Auschwitz and Treblinka.

on-compos mentis – Of unsound mind

I think the conservative mind, the revolutionary mind to defend, and Burke’s mind to preserve are mad (marrëzi). But not in the sense that Mill called the conservative party (“the stupid party“), but in the sense that they are taken (driven mad: të marrë) by a feeling that one can hardly elaborate and that one can hardly live forever without feeling it. Where Burke or Scruton see enchantment in all that is, revolutionary conservatives take only a certain interpretation how things should be and make that the tradition that enchants them. Unlike Mohler and like-minded thinkers, I think that the holocaust is not just an act pushed forward as a result of the violence of Enlightenment ideas on the “soul of the people“. As I have argued, if Burke’s and Scruton’s concern is with the enchantment of the home: something has gone wrong when this home seeks to become the home of the world, for which neither Burke nor Scruton would have agreed; and what’s more, they themselves would say that this “universal [racial or similar of the revolutionaries’ defense] enchantment“, the revolutionary conservatives do not experience somewhere, but rationally create it themselves to respond to a certain tradition they want to protect, a tradition which makes them more similar than more distant to Nazi Germany. It is for this reason that I refuse to call conservatives revolutionaries as such, as Armin Mohler does, and I am of the thought that their designation should be the Philosophies of Magic, while their projects to be called Traditionalism. For if it is to be said, that if these traditionalist magical philosophies had an internal logic and consistency, then this consistency and this logic depends on their conviction that what was had to be affirmed, but only on one condition – if we believe their magic wand that they do not do everything according to the image of a tradition that they themselves created and push forward.

It is true that the liberal philosophies, with their definitions and with their deep traces in almost every constitution of present Europe, perhaps have to admit the hypocrisy and sometimes the same criticisms that they have made for their opponents (the hypothesis of the “natural state” is the groundbreaking hypothesis, that has thrown into the deeps of oblivion the lives of Europe’s best kings and revolutionaries): but in this essay I have not seen it fit to expand on this – because conservatism, although a reaction-to-the-Enlightenment, still calls forth a human feeling which is not a reaction against anyone or anything, except that it is there and we all experience it in the circumstances in which we are wired to encounter it. I think there is still room for this feeling in politics, and the nearer we are to Burke, the nearer we are to being worthy of knowing what we are preserving. But the closer we are to everything else, at least in conservatism, ideas against women, homosexuality or other houses (inhabited by people who also share their own enchantment) or if we accept the ideas from the philosophies of magic with their tradition ready to serve us – I think it is more than dangerous for these ideas to participate in our political and policy-making world. And I think their best place is in art, without the political action. Because in art, what happened to Stefan George is bound to happen now too; to Stefan George, who as the most famous poet and one of the most influential people in Europe of his time, leaves when the Nazis take power – refusing to be part of them. It is not that “revolutionary conservatism” separates itself from art; art separates itself from revolutionary conservatism. And it is this separation of art that leads us to the conclusion that it was the members of Stefan George’s circle who conspired the attempt to assassinate Hitler (Claus von Stauffenberg).

Now, when the more than danger of these nostrums in politics when they cause art to separate itself from them and the concern with death is elaborated, and then when Burke’s meaning stands embodied with life through enchantment, along with the conservatism caught up in ideas that has no idea what it is doing most of the time. I also need to mention that, to return to the beginning, Plato and Heraclitus again speak of a logos; a different logos, but still for a logos. It is Heraclitus, likewise, who speaks against Homer, which does not seem to be acknowledged anywhere by Plato when he mentions them together, but in whichever way the matter may be, in conservatism, Hyponoia does not call a ban on thought. We must also think beyond Burke (he himself would have preferred this rather than his thoughts to turn into a metaphysics of preservation), and we must certainly think beyond what the philosophies of magic try to do with their tradition. And if at all we still find ourselves at the crossroads of giving ourselves consolations for the feeling, or lack of it, of enchantment, I am of the opinion that perhaps we should listen more to Homer than to anyone else—

“παῦροι γάρ τοι παῖδες ὁμοῖοι πατρὶ πέλονται,

“οἱ πλέονες κακίους, παῦροι δέ τε πατρὸς ἀρείους.

“ἀλλ᾽ ἐπεὶ οὐδ᾽ ὄπιθεν κακὸς ἔσσεαι οὐδ᾽ ἀνοήμων,

“οὐδέ σε πάγχυ γε μῆτις Ὀδυσσῆος προλέλοιπεν,

“ἐλπωρή τοι ἔπειτα τελευτῆσαι τάδε ἔργα.”

(“Few indeed are the children like their father: / Most are worse, but few are better than their fathers / But since you will not be worthless or foolish, / Nor is the wisdom of Odysseus that has forsaken you altogether / (This is why you should have) hope that you will succeed in these things.”, Odyssey, Book II, verse 276-280.)

If there was at least one thought that would unite the preservers of the home from Homer, Heraclitus, Emperor Julian, Christianity (the latter one), to Burke and beyond, it is this – when we lose home, the journey to it – is ours and only ours alone. Anyone who starts talking to “us” to comfort us they are showing you a home that isn’t yours. Conservatism, in essence, is an alone and lonely journey. Conservatism is a misopogon (μισοπώγων, misopogon: beard-hater), like that of Emperor Julian to laugh at his own philosopher’s beard while showing others what they are forgetting. If a conservative can’t laugh at the lack of one’s own articulation – then that conservative is not enchanted. But just like in the political world, so in the art world, if one hasn’t translated or preserved the sense of enchantment so that others can at least understand it – one has failed. For by failing to reveal to the other the enchantment you experience, you have thus failed to feel your own enchantment yourself – to feel your own life yourself.

Conclusion

What is conservatism? My intention in this essay was to show not only that this wonder does not send us to a mere compendium or gathering of different views but that it sends us to a common human feeling. The feeling in which our belongings and our dwellings’ places take on a life of their own and become our homes is what Scruton rightly calls enchantment. The reasons why we have different histories about what it means to be conservative are to be found here (Scruton sees English Common Law as the embodied enchantment for the English). I have argued, then, that this feeling is central to understanding Burke and his legacy (which is furthered, single-handedly, by Scruton and Oakeshott) – and that these thinkers relate to each other because their thought is stranded on aesthetics first and foremost.

I have elaborated that we can find the antagonism towards this feeling even in the first drama of rationality and heritage, which Burke’s heirs have not considered enough, with Plato (Socrates) and Heraclitus and Homer. Where on the one side with Socrates, we have unchangeability, the good, the dianoia and the sacred or inner voice spirit (daimon), to achieve happiness, while on the other side with Heraclitus and Homer, we have what is and the deities as in becoming or changing, the hypotonia, the human daimon and the difficulty that in a world of perpetuity flux to have the hopes of embodying a paradise on earth – a paradise defined by those who cannot bestow another paradise except what they know as their own paradise (the regimes of the last century).

On Edmund Burke, I have dwelt more to show his difference with the liberal philosophies of the time, i.e., his thoughts on the social contract and what – here is also to be found why Burke’s legacy is that of enchantment – the nature of man is (art). Starting from his uses of the word art and elaborating on his views, I have succeeded in showing that the “cherishing” of “prejudices” is not wickedness as it is now often understood, but that it is the condition of the enchanted man, who opposes even the king, his kingdom, and the thought of the time – to show and appeal to the feeling of what his home is. The ban on slavery, the opposition to the abuses of the kingdom, the non-taxation of the American colonies, the state not interfering in its citizens’ lives, the non-divine law, and many other things are to be found here. Burke does not talk about power and defending the “status quo”; Burke preserves the enchantment and, thus, the feelings of one’s own home.

My argument why Burke’s philosophy is not an ideology but rather a method of policy-making is to be found in my distinction between heritage and tradition; that gives us two bodies of how they present themselves, that of preservation and defense. Heritage is only those things that remain, which we preserve even and primarily unconsciously, because we are enchanted by them, this is why Burke says that change is possible: given that human nature is art, everything is changeable, as long as we don’t have the confusion that arises when changing things brings old difficulties. Conservation has no enemies: conservation is simply an extension of the feeling of enchantment of things we experience as they are. Tradition is something else, tradition is a certain interpretation of the world, engraved and consciously defended. Tradition must have enemies because otherwise, it cannot exist. Burke speaks of heritage: the so-called “revolutionary conservatives” speak of the tradition.

I have distinguished three types of conservatism: [1]. that of Burke, [2]. that which is more similar to what Nietzsche calls “the corruption of the text”, the conservatism of the ideas of ‘family‘, ‘nation‘, ‘my kind of people and religion‘ and similar things, which refuses to explore its enchantment, [3]. and the revolutionary conservatism. I was not concerned with that conservatism, which refuses to examine itself, and I was more concerned with the distinction between Burke’s conservatism and the conservatism of the revolutionaries. Concluding that conservatism, whatever it may be, is an artistic project and relates more to our (if we are to talk about things through an outdated model) “irrational” than “rational” part. I have gone so far as to call all conservatives taken (driven mad, të marrë). The difference between Burke’s conservatism and revolutionary conservatism is to be found in the way they manifest themselves in policy-making. Burke’s conservatism and the revolutionary one are both artistic projects, but where Burke’s artistic project (with “moral imagination” and similar stable points) serves and is such because it should serve life, the project of revolutionary conservatism is concerned or seeks the mood to lack the concern, about death. I have argued that Auschwitz and Treblinka are not only reactions to the violence of Enlightenment ideas but that they are also artistic projects where art has been detached from them, and they have ended only with their only concern – death. Which they are not afraid to bring or experience.

I refuse to call conservatives revolutionaries as such, and I have labeled their thinking as the philosophies of magic and the compendium of their views as traditionalism, for they seek, by a magic wand, to conceal that they are interpreting what is in the way they think what is should be, and they are defending the tradition just, rationally, created (given what I have just said, one might reconsider putting Heidegger here: all the while, one has to recognize that his political actions, make his thinking more alike than dissipating before this tradition.) I have concluded the whole essay by saying that there is still a place in politics for Burke’s artistic project of life (naming his attitude a remedy), but not the conservatism of revolution or traditionalism with their artistic, nostrum-ridden projects of death. The latter have their place only in art (because art can domesticate them), and to them, as much as I have made a misopogon with Burke’s philosophy towards them, I have also shown them what they are forgetting. – The conclusion of their art (with Stefan George) and the verses of Homer.

References

The post The Remedies and Nostrums of Conservatism: A Misopogon Part II appeared first on The Miskatonian.

Introduction

Every so often a philosopher emerges who has a long-lasting effect on the ideas and concepts of experts and common people alike.  Herbert Spencer is one of those rare individuals who contributed groundbreaking ideas during his lifetime and was forgotten only to emerge again a century later in a new context.  Indeed, Spencer has changed the world in countless ways and seems to have received very little credit.  His contributions in the areas of evolutionary theory, sociology, sociobiology, and the philosophy of science alone, make him an undeniably powerful influence in the formulation of modern thought.  In an unfortunate turn of events, he was later slandered as a eugenicist with a cruel attitude towards the poor, causing many to turn away from him.

Spencer did more than just contribute to scientific advancement.  He also created a unique political and social theory identified by him as ‘Rational Utilitarianism.’  Rational Utilitarianism was at odds with the Empirical Utilitarianism of Jeremy Bentham and J.S. Mill.  This difference between Spencer’s political theory and Mill’s go a long way to explaining the chasm between modern liberalism and the classical liberalism of the Libertarians.  This unique political and social theory are at the heart of the modern Libertarian movement, thus making Herbert Spencer possibly the first modern Libertarian.

In the early parts of this paper Spencer’s early childhood, family relationships, and education will be discussed.  It is crucial to understand these aspects of Spencer to help place his later years into a clearer context.  His relationship with his mother and father go a long way to explaining why Spencer eventually came to oppose the women’s suffrage movement.  This will be closely followed by Spencer’s initial influences which would help to contribute to his natural philosophy of evolution, and his views on religion.

This will be followed by a look at his Victorian masterpiece A System of Synthetic Philosophy which laid out an entirely scientific and philosophical system designed to replace religion as the center of everyday human thought.  A system which, despite its authors disremembered contributions to modern thought, was highly successful in doing so.  Despite Spencer’s fall from lofty heights, at least some of his contributions still stand the test of time.

The final sections will address the many criticisms leveled at Spencer from colleagues, competitors, estranged disciples, and eventually society at large.  These sections will also address Spencer’s last few years in which his popularity had already begun to wane greatly.  Lastly, an overview of Spencer as possibly the single most important contributor to modern sociology, and as a primary influence on Karl Menger, Hayek, Rothbard, and Ayn Rand.  His influence, however, was not confined to Austrian economics as he has had a lasting influence on many notable mainstream philosophers and so it ends fittingly with last words from the philosopher and historian Will Durant. The goal of this work is to help reintroduce an entire generation of libertarians to one of the greatest intellectual inheritances of the libertarian tradition.

Section 1.  Herbert Spencer, the man

Herbert Spencer was born in Derby on April 27, 1820.  In his father’s family were several generations of church Anglican non-conformists, and his grandmother on his father’s side was a devoted Wesleyan.  Even though his uncle Thomas was an Anglican clergyman, he was a prominent Wesleyan within the Church.  Spencer’s father, however, was more of a non-conformist than either his grandmother or his uncle.  William George Spencer was the primary source for Herbert Spencer’s strong individualism.  “This drive to heresy became stronger in the father and culminated in the almost obstinate individualism of Herbert Spencer himself” (Durant 144).  George refused to remove his hat in public when in the presence of highly ranked members of society which Herbert mimicked throughout his later life.  At one point, Spencer remarked on the fact that in Britain, people removed their hats in the presence of people of high rank less than anywhere else in Europe. To him, this was a symbol of the kind of freedoms enjoyed by British citizens (Francis 93).

Though Spencer’s family members were people of faith, his father, George, rarely explained anything within the bounds of the supernatural.  George Spencer preferred mathematics to religion as a means of truth.  Though Spencer himself felt that this was not the case, it appears according to other accounts to be accurate (Durant 144).

Spencer’s grandfather and father were well-known teachers, and because of this, it is rather surprising that he did not complete his education until he reached middle age.  “The father, as well as an uncle, and the paternal grandfather were teachers of private schools; and yet the son, who was to be the most famous English philosopher of his century, remained till forty an uneducated man” (Durant 144).  While many hold that Spencer was a lazy child, this is not likely.  It is true that George Spencer indulged his son until the age of thirteen by not sending him off for education, but this was not caused by the young Spencer’s lack of a diligent attitude.  What is more likely is that Spencer was very attached to his mother and protective of her due to the abuse she sustained at the hands of George (Francis 52).

According to Spencer, his mother, Harriet, was a soft-spoken and kind but mistreated woman.  “According to her son, Harriet was sweet, moderate in temper when irritated, and self-sacrificing to the point of exhaustion.  Since she had married a man who never yielded, Herbert was left with a disaster to chronicle, although his filial sense of duty towards his father led him to do this in such a way as to make the latter appear less culpable” (Francis 52).  It has been noted that his mother was not an educated woman; she did not always speak in proper English, nor was she tactful in her manners.  Apparently, when Harriet spoke to George her informal manner of speaking caused irritation for George, resulting in his dismissal of her as if she did not exist.  “If he did not understand some question my mother put, he would remain silent; not asking what the question was, and letting it go unanswered. He continued this course all through his life, notwithstanding its futility; there resulted in no improvement” (qtd. in Durant 144).

The strong, intransigent, overbearing, science-minded, non-conformist George Spencer, and the kind, gentle, and meek Christian Harriet Spencer, and the dysfunctional relationship that resulted left Herbert skeptical of relationships.  This situation was an almost perfect representation of a dialectical dynamic.  The strong versus the weak and the dominated are trapped in an oppressive relationship with the dominator.  It is a relationship that would have a lasting effect on Spencer’s views on women, feminism, and evolution for the rest of his life.  While Spencer held a certain amount of disdain for his mother’s weakness, he also held her willingness to sacrifice for the betterment of her son in high esteem.  In Spencer’s view, human altruism was the direction of humanity’s evolution.  In his philosophy, it was women who would one day hold the highest place on the evolutionary ladder of humanity. “Since Spencer thought the future of the human species was one in which altruism would replace competition, he was assigning the highest evolutionary place to women” (Francis 53).  Thus, at 13 years old, young Herbert was finally sent to his uncle Thomas Spencer to begin his long overdue tutelage.  It was painful for Herbert to say the least.

George Spencer did have a mental collapse from which he never quite recovered.  Herbert personally claimed this as the reason that he did not receive an education until he was thirteen years old.  For a time, Spencer’s uncle Thomas took the place of George when discipline was to be applied.  Thomas apparently was a stifling paternal figure who regularly intervened on George’s behalf with young Spencer to stave off a rebellion.  “When George’s illness became so severe as to prevent him from exercising his parental duty, he did not rely on his wife as a substitute. Instead, one of his brothers, Thomas or William, would stand in his place, exercising sufficient authority to frustrate rebellion” (Francis 30).  Another indication of the repressive nature of Spencer’s upbringing was a conspiracy between his uncle Thomas and his father to keep him from spending very much time with his mother.  It seems that George and Thomas blamed her for Spencer’s rebellious moments (Francis 30).  From all indications, Spencer was taught to not display his personal emotions, especially in public.  It might be said that emotional outbursts appear to have been considered rebellion.  This emotional repression would bring Spencer anguish later in his life, and lead him to lament his choice to forgo romantic relationships.

Hence, the young Spencer began his academic training.  “Whereas Mill began Greek at the age of three, Spencer admits that at the age of thirteen he knew nothing worth mentioning of either Latin or Greek” (Copleston 122).  By the age of sixteen, however, he became knowledgeable in the application of mathematics.  Thomas whose education was funded by his brother George was tasked with the reformation and refinement of Herbert.  Thomas was a ruthless disciplinarian with Herbert, instilling in him a fearthat would only be exhibited in his presence.  “It was imperative to Thomas that the curb on the boy be enforced for a long period. He also strove to alter Herbert’s character, which he saw as being deficient in the principle of fear, by which he meant “both that Fear of the Lord” which “is the beginning of wisdom,” and “that fear of Parents, Tutors, etc.”. Ominously, he recorded that – “after a few struggles” during which he induced this principle – Herbert “entirely surrendered himself to obey me” (Francis 31).  Over a period of three years, Thomas crushed much of Herbert’s will, but he managed to teach him enough mathematics, science, and academic subjects that he was able to take a post as the schoolmaster at Derby.  After a few months, however, he took a position as a civil engineer for the Gloucester Railway (Copleston 122).

Spencer would later say that he was not sure just exactly what he had learned during the time he spent at his Uncle Thomas’s house.  It seemed to him he learned very little, and it was the only real serious application of teaching he had ever received in his entire life.  “He says, with characteristic pride: “That neither in boyhood nor youth did I receive a single lesson in English, and that I have remained entirely without formal knowledge of syntax down to the present hour, are facts which should be known; since their implications are at variance with assumptions universally accepted” (qtd. in Durant 144).  It is amazing that Spencer, undoubtedly the greatest philosopher of the Victorian age, the most famous mind in all the world in his own time, should have had little more than three years of formal education.

Even so, this was a dark period for Spencer due to the strict discipline he received at the hands of his family.  When combined with the influence of living in a household with a mentally ill father who was abusive towards his mother, it is a wonder he managed to thrive at all.  Spencer always made excuses for his father’s behavior by placing much of the blame on his mother’s meek Christian values.  He was resentful towards his mother due to her inability to protect him or herself; due to this he rarely mentioned her later in life.  It is, however, these relationships that provide some of his future thoughts about women, authority, and the overall nature of humans.

Spencer did, over the years, assuage his loneliness with his surrogate family, the Potters. He treated them with all the love and respected them as any person would their real family, and they treated him as the well-loved eccentric uncle.  In the mid-1850’s, he suffered a breakdown of his health.   It is primarily attributed to his long hours spent researching and writing, with little or no rest or leisure time.  Some have suggested that Spencer had a nervous breakdown.  Which is quite possible, but for the rest of his life, he made time for recreation.   Spencer was notoriously thrifty with money and a very eccentric character.  It has been said that he was the inspiration for the Ebenezer Scrooge in Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carole.  This notorious claim, however, is wholly untrue.  What is more likely is that Charles Dickens demonstrated Spencer’s point that government welfare encouraged the better off to be less charitable and more callous towards the poor and infirm (Wolfram).

Contrary to belief, his political views changed very little in his later years.  The changes that were made were not surprising.  One was Spencer’s position on universal suffrage in his later years.  It can primarily be attributed to his long-standing distrust for socialism and an increasing belief that women were more likely to support social programs and vote to increase the authority of government (Francis 73).

He was also accused of changing his stance on the nationalization of land.  He denied this claim, and maintained that his stance on property never changed, but was instead misinterpreted.  He was also disparaged by T.H. Huxley for his refusal to remove what Huxley viewed as an appeal to divinity from his A system of Synthetic Philosophy.

Lastly, Spencer refused to edit his works, as the science they were based on, became outdated.  As a result, a great deal of it became irrelevant before the end of his life.  However, his work The Man Versus the State, which was comprised of four essays, was first published in 1884.  It proved to be quite popular, but it also drew the ire of Huxley and other more progressive liberals (Francis 321).  In the last years of his life, Spencer became less and less visible in public and less popular as well.

As he neared the end of his life, he worked to complete his book An Autobiography.  Spencer sought to control what posterity would know about him.  By intentionally not acknowledging his influences, writing his biography and burning many of his personal letters and notes it is obvious he hoped to control the narrative.  On December 3, 1903, Herbert Spencer died at the age of 83.  The greatest philosopher of the Victorian age had already begun to fade away before he was, ironically laid to rest just a few dozen feet from Karl Marx.  A man whose ideology he had argued against most of his adult life.

Section 2. Herbert Spencer’s influences

Spencer did not show interest in a topic until he decided to write about it.  It is one way in which he earned his reputation as an autodidact.  Even then, Spencer often lacked the patience to research his topic fully.  “Collier, one of his secretaries, tells us that Spencer never finished any book of science. Even in his favorite fields, he received no systematic instruction” (Durant 144).  He tried to read Kant, but when he realized that Kant did not see time as an objective feature of the world, he became disgusted and discarded the book.  Regarding the philosophers that came before him, he was not greatly educated.  Spencer spent most of his time focusing on his ideas, and therefore his influences were few.  It might have been just as well, considering the amount of ground that he had to cover over the years writing his giant work A System of Synthetic Philosophy.  There was little time to pursue anything other than the topics for which he was to cover.   “As for the history of philosophy, he knew little about it, except from secondary sources” (Copleston 123).

Most of his influences were from his contemporaries and from the previous generation of academics or philosophers.  Many were obscure and have largely been forgotten, and because of this, Spencer’s ideas appear peculiarly unique, but this is not truly the case.  His first exposure to philosophy was probably G.H. Lewes after being appointed to the position of sub-editor to the Economist in 1848.  Lewes became a close friend of Spencer’s, and it is through him that many of his ideas regarding evolution were formulated.  He wrote for Lewes’s publication, the Leader, regularly on the subject of evolution.  One such article written anonymously was called The Development Hypothesis, in which a Lamarckian-influenced theory of evolution was put forth.

Spencer came about a great deal of his knowledge through his associations with T.H. Huxley, George Eliot, John Tyndall, and of course Lewes.  Much of the grist for Spencer’s ideas can be found throughout the pages of the Leader.  The publication was dedicated to the dissemination of scientific knowledge. However, it attempted to create a quasi-religious foundation based on science to replace Christianity and what were viewed as its contradictions.  This talented group spent time together socially, and they believed they would start something profound.  It was to be a ‘new reformation’ in which religion would be reformed and renewed for the age of industry and science.  Spencer replaced God with the “Unknown Cause” which he was fond of telling his readers from the Leader about, in hopes that they would search for answers that transcended experience.  Spencer said that without transcendence, those who searched for answers would be little more than atheists, and this meant a meaningless and empty universe was waiting for them (Francis 111).  It was almost Emersonian in its proselytization.  Spencer held to his ideas of the Unknown for the rest of his life, and it became a point of contention between him and T.H. Huxley later.

Spencer had primary influences from a few popular philosophers such John Stuart Mill.  Mill who was a friend through most of Spencer’s life became somewhat estranged in later years.  At the time, the philosophical landscape in Britain was sparse.  With the choice falling between Logical Empiricism or ‘Scottish Common Sense’ philosophy, Spencer opted for the latter, even when William Hamilton refused to acknowledge him, and Mill was more than happy to accommodate.

“The choice was philosophically stark: one could follow J. S. Mill and rely on experience without knowledge of a first cause: alternatively, one could uphold the intuitionism of William Hamilton, which would also mean that one truly possessed no knowledge. The second choice was slightly less bleak because a person might feel meaningful responses that indicated there was something out there even if this could not be known. This was Spencer’s solution; he believed that the responses he felt were significant, and on this basis chose to construct his philosophy” (Francis 111).

Spencer had a distrust for pure logic and was unwilling to accept it as the only fundamental aspect of human reasoning.  For Spencer, once a set of first principles had been established then the decisions which followed were a matter of intuition.  While Mills’ work certainly influenced him, he almost always sided with the intuition of Reid when there was a conflict between the two.  “The young Herbert Spencer was typical when he conflated the ideas of Hamilton’s edition of Reid with Mill’s A System of Logic; it seemed permissible to combine the former’s intuitive metaphysics with the latter’s empiricism. Although Spencer usually came down on the side of intuition rather than experience, he believed that he was striking a balance between the two compatible and parallel traditions of British philosophy” (Francis 166).  This influence of Scottish Common Sense philosophy and Mill’s Empirical Utilitarianism resulted in a unique and highly effective hybrid, one which Spencer called Rational Utilitarianism.

Spencer’s unique formulation of utilitarianism meshed very well with natural rights arguments.  While Bentham and Mill could justify, certain actions based on the total happiness of the collective society, Spencer’s system held that consequentialism was not morally justifiable.  It is precisely this belief, in which the common good does not take precedence over the individual which separated Spencer from his fellow liberals.  It combined with his metaphysical first principles, based on the theory of evolution, made him vulnerable to slanderous allegations of being a eugenicist.  His individualism is also a primary reason why his theories became conflated with Social Darwinism.

A major influence upon Spencer was the religious writer F.W. Newman.  Newman was a Christian progressive who espoused a form of Christian utility.  Newman called for such things as universal suffrage, socialism, and other national reforms that many would consider radical for the time.  Newman was also an influence on the editors and writers of the Leader and should be considered important in its formation of ideas on the new reformation.  A great deal of time was spent discussing ideas such as these within that group.  “The author who most completely captured the spirit of this age was F. W. Newman, whose Soul and Phases of Faith were required reading for any self-conscious radical of the mid-century” (Francis 115).  While Spencer was a part of this group and influenced by Newman’s ideas about religion and science, he attempted to conceal it in later years.  One reason for the subterfuge on this matter was his hesitance to be associated with the publication at all, which Spencer claimed was because of the socialist ideas which most in the group held (Francis 112).  What is far more likely is that Spencer felt personal egoistic satisfaction from the idea that his philosophy was a unique formula that he had created entirely from his original thoughts.  A look at the publications made during the short life of the Leader seems to provide much evidence otherwise.

Herbert Spencer was influenced early on by Ralph Waldo Emerson.  There is some reason to believe that early Spencer had accepted Emerson’s ideas regarding platonic love and beauty.  Initially, Spencer believed that physical beauty was only a means to bring one closer to the Beautiful Soul, as Emerson maintained (Francis 67).  He discarded this idea after his disastrous affair with the writer George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) ended.  Spencer maintained that he was not attracted to Eliot and her intellect was simply not enough for him.  It was because of this incident that he discarded Emerson’s idea of beauty and artwork as well.  “Spencer’s failure to love Eliot had destroyed his soulful imitation of Emerson’s ideal. He was shocked at the discovery that he was on the edge of feeling physical attractions and revulsions that had nothing to do with his estimate of a woman’s intellect or soul. This threw him into a lifelong desire to free his emotions, and his appreciation of art, from the idealistic shackles that imprisoned them” (Francis 67).  He maintained ever after that beauty was a part of evolution and grew critical of Emerson’s philosophy.

Spencer’s core ideas about religion are a direct result of his association with the staff of the Leader publication.  The Leader, in turn, was greatly influenced by F.W. Newman, who was a Christian progressive.  Inspired by these ideas, Spencer planned to create a new reformation based on a religion centered on the Unknown, and science was the motivation to develop his A System of Synthetic Philosophy.  Spencer was influenced by the ideas of John Locke and British Empiricism through the work of his friend John Stuart Mill.  Though Mill should not be considered the primary influence upon him, it is nonetheless important because, for many years, he believed he and Mill were in step with each other.

In the end, it was William Hamilton and several of his Students who provided the fundamental basis for Spencer’s views on ethics, politics, sociology, and psychology.  Spencer’s Rational Utilitarianism is based on William Hamilton’s Theory of Utilitarianism and not Mill’s.  It was unique at the time and provided a scientific justification for natural rights and an intuition-based ethics system.  Both Mill and Spencer had assumed that they were of the same thought regarding their theories of utility, but in later years, Mill came to understand this was not the case and attacked Spencer for it publicly.  Spencer was not a true empiricist in the strictest sense, at least not in terms of philosophical meaning.  In truth, Spencer was first and foremost an intuitionist, and for this reason, there is little doubt that his primary influence was Scottish Common Sense philosophy.

Works Cited

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The difficulty of “What is conservatism?” is not merely a difficulty to navigate amidst a compendium of summaries and views that preserve or defend something that was and still is. As we have come to see, “conservative” is called from the defense of constitutionalism and legality (Aristotle, Blackstone); the defense of kingship by Divine order (Filmer); past experiences, and the stability to have freedom (Hume, Johnson); the preservation of the heritage against the spoils that rapid change would bring us (Burke); equally form the meaning of conservatism and responsibility (Scruton, Kirk) – to what has been called, without any deep revision with the legacy of the concept, and made famous by the doctorate of the Swiss philosopher Armin Mohler, – “revolutionary conservatism” (Heidegger, George, Klags, Schmitt, and others who were intoxicated by the völkisch and volkstum movements).

But what is conservatism? My intention in this essay is to elaborate not only on the genesis and main features of conservatism but also to show how much of what is called conservative is not at all something that conserves. To fulfill this intention, I have divided my essay into three parts. In the first part, I will write about the “Genesis of Conservatism” – pushing forward, above all, a re-reading that perhaps all that Plato presents against Homer and Heraclitus can help us here. In the second part, I will write about the philosopher who single-handedly laid the most enduring and inspiring foundations for all the “conservatisms” to come – “Edmund Burke and the Preservation of What Is” – with the main question being whether Edmund Burke’s “conservatism” is, in one way or another, merely an ideology for policy-making or something much more. At the very end, in the third part, I will write about conservatism after Burke – “Homo Bulla and the Philosophies of Magic” – where I will try to elaborate what happened to “conservative“, especially German, philosophy in the last century. (Due to space and relevance, this essay will not deal with special cases such as Julius Evola and Yukoi Mishima.)

In this essay, I will also preserve the view that not necessarily everything that is conservative is also political. I think that this has to do with a lack of distinction between defending a thing and preserving a thing. That is, when the emperor Julian preserved the pagan gods and opposed the closing of the temples and the “Christian arrogance,” invoking something close to Tacitus’ attitude to call them “people without a home“: he was invoking what the ancient Greeks – which he thought that the Christians did not honor – had initially pushed forward with the union of the villages in the polis, i.e., συνοικισμóς (synoikismos), in etymology this has the meaning of dwelling together (συν, syn) in the same home (οἶκος, oikos). Thus, conservatism includes our love for those things that must go and be changed, our ‘immature’ feelings when we mourn fragility and loss in the face of decay and death, our common feelings towards those people with whom we share a common home, which we want to preserve and conserve – because it is our home and others are the same dwellers in it as we are.

I think there is no better summary than the verse of Homer, which the emperor Julian knew very well, “οὐ γὰρ ἔπ᾽ ἀνήρ, (. . .), ἀρὴν ἀπὸ οἴκου ἀμῦναι.” (“Is there no man here, (. . .), to remove the harm from the home.” Odyssey, book II, verse 60), to show that condition and state against which conservatism worries and tries to prevent everything from ending there. It is my hope that this will also be the concluding view, which I will elaborate on and ultimately support in this essay.

The Genesis of Conservatorism

Enchantment

“Modern conservatism is a product of the Enlightenment,” writes Sir Roger Scruton, “but it calls aspects of the human condition that can be witnessed in every civilisation and at every period of history” (Scruton, 2017, pre-history). Certainly, what is meant by “product” here means a reaction to what the Enlightenment was. But the most important thing I think we need to look at is in the second part of this sentence. My argument is that Sir Roger Scruton had in mind a particular feeling of the “aspects of the human condition” to which conservatism appeals and calls and which influenced his reading of the history of what it means to be a conservative. This feeling, which is the main “argument” and “theme” (Scruton, 2000, f. 210) in the book where he looks back at England, Scruton calls – “enchantment.”

For Scruton, enchantment is closely related to that which makes something our home. “The enchantment of things in the home,” writes Scruton, “is part of a larger spiritual project.” (Scruton, 2000, p. 13) By this, Scruton means that homes have their own customs, routines, rituals, set times, and special places. If not, they’re less of a home and less of a place to look to when, in adulthood, anger and rejection have intervened (Scruton, 2000, p. 13). “All attempts,” continues Scruton, “to find solace and in ritual and faith in some supreme (. . .) love have their origin here, and the enchantment of religion is not to be seen as the cause, but as the effect of another and deeper enchantment, which is natural inheritance of childhood.” (Scruton, 2000, p. 13)

We can think of enchantment as a state through which the things in whose presence we wander take on a life of their own. The places that hold enchantment for us are the places we call home – where everything has meaning for us, and we don’t feel pushed to justify why we are drawn or inspired by them. When this feeling is lost or when other things break this feeling, we don’t quite know what arguments to use. We know that something has gone wrong (Scruton, 2000, p. 7). Here is to be found Burke’s “cherishing” of “prejudices” (Burke, (vol. III), 1865, p. 346): likewise, here is to be found the chief distinction between the preservation of a thing and the defending of a thing.

When we are enchanted, we do not defend things because we have no known or unknown enemies. The very single-mindedness that we are enchanted with makes us preserve. And in preservation, we have no enemies because everything is in the order of things to be changed (even change is needed in order for something to be preserved) (Burke, (vol. III), 1865, p. 34). But to be changed slowly and not be presented with the difficulties of the things that were maintained (Scruton, 2014, p. 120). If you have to bring it into our daily life, in the smallest case, when we say “good morning,” even in places where we do not mean this exclamation, it is a very good indicator of maintaining the enchantment. We maintain this exclamation, even where we do not mean it at all, unconsciously, for in one way or another, we are drawn and inspired by the enchantment it has over us. (But more on this distinction between preservation (heritage) and defense (tradition), in the section on Edmund Burke.)

For Scruton, “enchantment,” in this sense, “is a personalizing force: it endows objects, customs, and institutions with a moral character, so that we respond to them as we respond to one another.” (Scruton, 2000, p. 13) In other words, it makes them homes: it makes them lives on their own, which we then experience as our dwelling. Except that, I would argue that by “moral character” Scruton means life itself – it is the same feeling that led him to make the modest argument, initially answered with “I don’t know“, for God (Scruton, 1996, p. 85-90), and, even more, a turning point (though not regrettable) from his hard-to-digest books like “The Meaning of Conservatism” or “Sexual Desire: A Moral Philosophy of the Erotic.”

When Scruton writes about “The English Character ” (Scruton, 2000, p. 43) – most definitely referring to Burke’s famous piece on “national character” (Burke, (vol I), 1865, p. 345) – this feeling of enchantment of England’s dwellers in a common house, is embodied in two things. – “The first,” writes Scruton, “is the instinct for justice and fair play; the second is the institution of common law – law not invented but discovered, through the working of impartial justice.” (Scruton, 2000, p. 55) When Scruton is reading the history of what it means to be conservative, he is reading it from this point of view – the enchantment of the Common Law (granted that the first instinct depends mostly on the doings and becomings of those who are) (Scruton, 2000, p. 10). Of course, Aristotle is a starting point for his defense of the Constitution of course that Johnson and Hume, Simone Weil, and others, which for one sound incomprehensible how a Marxist thinker turns out to be conservative (Scruton, 2017) are preserved by Scruton – as they had penetrated a feeling that if it does not invoke an English Common Law, it does invoke a social conservation. In other words, they had penetrated the feeling of enchantment. This is why Scruton’s story of conservatism and its efforts to thrive on the soil of Edmund Burke differs from that of Russell Kirk or Leo Strauss. Scruton did not go into politics to meet politics, he went in politics translating the feelings, the doings and the attitudes of those who are driven by the very necessity of living in the common home – to come out and argue their positions, even when they cannot articulate themselves properly.

“ἦθος ἀνθρώπῳ δαίµων”

(“ethos anthropo daimon” – “Man’s ethos is its daimon”)

But why enchantment? Isn’t the main feature of conservatism irrational: but why then are they accused of being uncreative?

I think there is no pure rational way to defend conservatism (nor that there is a necessity for there to be such a way), because I agree with Scruton that the fundamental feature that conservatism appeals to is enchantment. Whether this is more “aesthetical” than “ethical“, I cannot say: but the matter seems to be the same with Edmund Burke – whether with the first ironic book in philosophy, with his aesthetic strands, or with the imagined events of the execution of the king and queen of France and with “our natural affections” towards them (though in all three cases, his warnings have been entirely worthy of being considered as history has come to show): again, Scruton with his aesthetic strands, and with the enchantment: Oakeshott’s taking rationalism away from politics – the greatest conservative preservers have never “argued,” to borrow Scruton’s words, for a “change of mind“, but for a “change of heart,” and have done so either through art or by appealing to a feeling that we do not know how to elaborate.

But I think that conservatism if it doesn’t embrace “rationalism against art,” as it did with revolutionary conservatism, we can see how creative its conservation thinking really is. To know this properly, we have to start from what I will argue is the first drama between heritage and rationality (which can then also give us an answer: ‘Why enchantment?‘). That is the confrontation between Plato (Socrates) and the then-Greek heritage (especially Heraclitus and Homer).

. . .

Nietzsche thought that conservatives corrupt the text. In the aphorism below, he was writing more about how Aristotle was defended in France when his philosophy began to be replaced, but I think what Nietzsche wrote there can be said of all conservatives and their thinking –

“Their defenders rationalized these rules,” writes Nietzsche, “and why they ought to exist, for no better reason than not to have to admit that they were accustomed to them and their authority, and no longer wanted them otherwise. And this is what people do and have always done with every prevailing morality and religion: the reasons and intentions behind the habit are always ‘interpolated’ into it when some begin to deny its authority, and ask for reasons and intentions. Herein lies the great dishonesty of conservatives in every era – they corrupt the text.” (Nietzsche, 2019, aph. 60)

Granted, Nietzsche would say that even when these prevailing moralities or religions are questioned, they are questioned by the “artistic instinct” of those who can no longer bear them. For Nietzsche’s philosophy, what decides against Christianity now, for example, is our taste, not our reasons (Nietzsche, 2019, aph. 132). It still remains a wonder why Nietzsche’s strands that “knowledge kills action, because action requires a state of being in which we are covered with the veil of illusion” (Nietzsche, 2008, aph. 29), has not been read by the right in the academia. In any case, what Nietzsche witnesses is precisely the condition of that man when one is under the enchantment of preserving something but is driven to defend it rationally and quickly (as the things one is about to preserve are being attacked) and fails – thereby ending in the protection of thoughts that do not coincide with one’s own inner feelings. It fails because this man’s attitude is primarily internal, rather than elaborating or giving reasons why, it seems, there is nothing else to say but – “because I love these things” or “because that’s how they’ve always been“.

A conservative who does not investigate one’s own enchantment is not so much a conservative as a defender of a particular tradition. The conservator preserves the heritage, that which remains, which can and must change if it means that it can be done further. It is only the traditionalist who responds with “it must be so and only so” (almost all the contemporary “American Conservatives” are dusty traditionalists without a heritage to call forth): it is not at all comforting that today’s conservative is not someone who has sought one’s own enchantment to properly preserves what one conserves, but protects the ‘traditional family‘, ‘nation‘, ‘my kind of people and religion’ – without recognizing the meaning of why it is important or why one should preserve these at all.

When Scruton writes, for example, that we can see conservatism in Hegel (and liberalism in Kant) (Scruton, 2017, part iii): I am of the opinion that all things considered, what is found in Hegel may be a good defense of the “bildung“, but Hegel is too rational – so rational, indeed, that all nature somehow speculates (speculum) (Hodgson, 2005, p. 79) to him the rational through the Spirit – to be a conservative. The reason why, to this day, we still have a conservatism that does not explore its enchantment but a conservatism that defends certain ideas; it shows that conservatism is artistic enough to preserve, however irrationally, ideas that are not so conservative (that Hegel is conservative should be included here as well).

Conservatism is an (artistic) act to protect the things we love from being burned by the philosophies of the “luminous spectrum,” of rationalism, of the more than excessive Western Platonic sun. We can preserve conservatism today through Hegel: or give up like Burke on some metaphysical maxim to explain our doings. However, I will now present the argument that no one shows better what conservatism is than the meaning behind ‘daimon’ and ‘agathos’ in Plato’s division, or as Socrates says against those that “κατὰ μὲν Ὅμηρον καὶ “Ηράκλειτον καὶ πᾶν τὸ τοιοῦτον φῦλον οἷον ῥεύματα κιν-εῖσθαι τὰ πάντα (. . .)” (“according to Homer and Heraclitus and all the same who see everything in the movement of perpetual flux (. . .)”) (Plato, 1921).

When Plato has in mind his state Καλλίπολις (Kallipolis: the beautiful (kallos) city (polis)), he sees it as the highest goal of those who have knowledge (ἐπιστήμη, epistēmē) of ideas (εἶδος, eîdos), in which the highest idea is that of the good (ἀγαθός, agathós), which can be reached and is ontologically related directly to the beautiful (κᾰ́λλος, kallos). So, Plato’s politea (πολιτεία, policy-making) is that the most beautiful state (kallipolis), is the state that embodies the idea of agathos (of the good) (Plato, (vol II), 1930). This should be read hand in hand with Plato. This is how we achieve happiness (εὐδαιμονία, eudaimonia: soul (δαιμον, daimon), good (εὐ, eû)): the daimon of Socrates, is not simply an argument to defend Socrates that he supposedly believed in the city’s gods. Socrates’ daimon is Plato’s drunkenness to seek eudaemonia through his kallipolis: that is, to seek happiness (the good soul) in the ideal state (the beautiful city).

When Socrates speaks against what was then the Greek understanding and always equates the two, Homer and Heraclitus, we must also remember how Heraclitus understood the daimon. As I will argue that the biggest difference between Plato and Heraclitus is their understanding of the daimon. “ἦθος,” writes Heraclitus, “ἀνθρώπῳ δαίµων” (frg. 119) (“ethos anthropo daimon” – “Man’s ethos is its own daimon.”) For Heraclitus, our daimon was not an inner spirit or voice as in Socrates, but it was the habits or ethos (ἦθος, ethos) of man itself, (ethos in the Greek sense can also be read as what has remained through habit), so the daimon of man was the doings and becomings of the man themselves (and not something outside or within them) (Peters, 1969, f. 33).

Heraclitus was called the weeping philosopher (in Western philosophies, Burke was the first to talk about “positive pain ” (Burke, (vol. I), 1865, p. 102-106)), because Heraclitus did not see an eudaimonia somewhere, since the “daimon” of Heraclitus was the man in becoming (the same opinion that Homer held about the gods according to Plato (Plato, (Theaetetus), 1997)), which preserves a hidden logos that we must listen to (frg. 1). Unlike Dianoia (διάνοια, through (διά, dia), mind (νοῦς, nous)), in Heraclitus we speak, in the sense just related, of a Hyponoia (ὑπόνοια, under (ὑπό, hypo), mind (νοῦς, nous)): a lower knowledge, which Plato makes synonymous with mûthos (μῦθος, myth) (Peters, 1969, f. 121), here is one more reason why when he writes about Heraclitus he always mentions him with Homer. And one more reason why when Heraclitus uses and introduces the word “magic” (from magos, μάγος) to Europe  (J, 2002) – through which we have “magjepsje” (enchantment) in Albanian – he speaks against the people who enter the mysteries mediated (and not going in them by themselves) (frg. 14).

I think it is no accident that conservatives – Burke, Scruton, Oakeshott – do not mix their hands with rationalism (even though there are concessions here and there, or why Chesterton can’t speak to anyone with his Descartes to defend ‘Western thought‘), because they believed something close to or precisely the aphorism-like that man has ethos as its daimon. No matter how much rational calculative philosophy we will do – eudaimonia, or otherwise, that desire to make the earth a paradise, at best gives us a crippled government, and at worst, the regimes of the twentieth century, without exception. Conservatism admits of change, like that of Heraclitus and the gods of Homer; (the good daimon is not in Heraclitus, just as the good, moral, gods are absent in Homer); conservatism admits even the change of gods: the only thing that does not admit of change is whatever is raised by the ideas of Plato – whatever the rational subject comes to be in Western philosophy, in this sense, it is not at all strange that it gives the main seeds for liberalism. A historian of ideas would know this from Plato’s treatment of Heraclitus and Homer. But this should also be known by poets when they read Homer’s verses:

“εἴ γε μὲν εἰδείης σῇσι φρεσὶν ὅσσα τοι αἶσα

“κήδε᾽ ἀναπλῆσαι, πρὶν πατρίδα γαῖαν ἱκέσθαι,

“ἐνθάδε κ᾽ αὖθι μένων σὺν ἐμοὶ τόδε δῶμα φυλάσσοις”

(“If you only knew in your heart / How many difficulties Fate has for you before you reach your homeland / you would stay again, guarding this house with me.” Odyssey, book V, verse 206-208)

The conservator is someone who, even though one knows fully well that Fate has to bring its own difficulties because everything is in the making, still does not stay in someone else’s home. And returns and longs for one’s own home – where enchantment is its own dwelling. The conservative preserves because the conservative has something to lose, the traditionalist, on the other hand, defends – because the traditionalist has nothing to lose, even one’s own life is instrumentalized (it is only a traditionalist who stays in Plato’s house and shows Europe rationalism through rational philosophies to achieve happiness – albeit happiness according to their definitions, not ours).

Edmund Burke and the Preservation of What is

“Man’s nature is art”

It is generally accepted by philosophers and political thinkers that the first sowing of the seeds of conservatism belongs to Edmund Burke. As throughout Burke’s life, policy-making in Europe has changed a lot. While the reaction in essence of ‘conservatism’ was against the demands and hypotheses of the liberal philosophies, in the time we live in, what the world knew as liberal, and what I will elaborate as (Burke’s) conservatism, have come to resemble more of a center in the realm of politics – rather than two corners that spiral in opposition and reaction to one another (Scruton, 2017). But nevertheless, in essence, however much they are now closer to the center in the field of politics, there are key differences that should not be forgotten.

When Burke, for example, opposes the idea of the “social contract“, saying that, unlike liberal philosophies, policy-making is founded on things that are not only present but on the gratitude and participation with those who were, are, and will be (Burke, (vol. I), 1865, p. 359). – (Even Scruton, analyzing the enchantment of the Common Law, we can assume that he had this in mind when he is of the opinion that a liberal constitution is almost always in contradiction with itself when the pronoun “We” in our (liberal) constitutions does not responds only to an individual and not only to those who are now (Scruton, 2017).) And when Burke rejects any attempt to define human nature, writing that human nature is art (Burke, (vol IV), 1869, p. 176) – this definitely brings us to his “cherishing” of those highly misunderstood “prejudices”. For, in the absence of any world Spirit, the general will or human nature that leads to the natural rights of those who are, as liberal philosophies pushed and push forth (here more than anyone else’s philosophy, Burke responds to the dreary and sterile Rousseau’s one): nothing else remains but the things that their endurance over time has been the greatest proof of the enchantment they have over us (thus of our natural need to preserve them, even, as Burke writes, if we do this being ashamed (Burke, (vol. III), 1865, p. 346)).

But perhaps in this manner, Burke is dangerous because he seems to take and halt us away from protecting minorities from majorities in democracies; for example, he prevents us from fighting against imperialist abuses and prevents us from running away from ideas about the abolition of slavery; from the protection of those who live in the colonies when we have our king; the thought that the woman is not just an animal. Well, here is the opposite of whatever “prejudice” Burke tells us about, and it is purely a prejudice of ours that these thoughts are assumed that come only from one corner of political thought: for Burke was among the first thinkers to worry that in democracy (Burke is generally skeptical of democracy), minorities would always be oppressed by the majority and that same majority would fall into the hands of the leadership they voted (Burke, (vol. I), 1865, p. 38); he was among the first, and sometimes the only one, to oppose the king for the taxation of the American colonies and to speak out against the abuses in British India (Burke, vol II, 1869), (Burke, (vol X), 1869): he suggested not only the document to make illegal “the slave trade” (Burke, (vol VI), 1869, p. 254) in a sincere way (although with some misjudgments) in the kingdom then, but it was also Burke who wrote against “the empire of light and reason” of the revolutionary France, that in their reasoning “a queen is but a woman; a woman is but an animal; and an animal not of the highest order” (Burke, (vol. III), 1865, p. 333). Above all, it is Burke who does not believe that we should have a divine law, and still more, it is Burke again who says that the greatest achievement of the modern era is the state that does not interfere in the lives of those over whom it rules (Bourke, 2000, pp. 632–656).

When Burke talks about cherishing what remains, he does not have a tradition in mind. Tradition is always a bias of consciousness that defends the state of things over an interpretation of how these things should be. Burke speaks of a heritage; of a heritage which from its changeable possibility (“a state without the means of some change,” writes Burke, “is without the means of its conservation” (Burke, (vol. III), 1865, p. 256)); we are under its enchantment to preserve it: and change is possible because what Burke is talking about is not how these things ought to be, but how they are. When he writes that the nature of man is art, he is definitely referring to the essential meaning of the word art (lat. “ars“, as he uses it everywhere in the twelve volumes of his speeches, books, and letters, which reminds more than what Heraclitus calls ethos): it is for this reason why now conservatism, at least the Burkean one, is read more as a method than as an ideology (A Companion to Contemporary Political Philosophy (vol I), 2007, p. 285): an ideology has certain foundations that lead to certain conclusions of action, in Burke we do not have something like that, indeed, in Burke we have contempt for such thoughts. In Burke, precisely because this distinction between heritage and tradition can be made, we have the appeal of conservatism to not be something only political, but more of and closer to a specific and particular attitude towards things that are.

If conservatism is only Burkean, liberalism, with its conceptions of human nature, the general will, and whatever corner of rationalism and rights it finds, is more ideological. And it is no coincidence that in essence, Burke’s abandonment of philosophy after his book of aesthetics and his refusal to trust metaphysics or anything but political discourse to preserve things not only gave him the name “the madman” by his contemporaries – but it also gives us a beautiful picture of what it means to be stubborn in your own enchantment. Not to be blinded by what has always been your home, and the lack of fear that even before your king, when the latter seeks to spoil that feeling, to say to him –

“Again and again,” said Burke, “revert to your old principles – seek peace and ensue it; leave America, if she has taxable matter in her, to tax herself. I am not here to discuss the distinctions of rights, nor to attempt to mark their boundaries. I do not enter into these metaphysical distinctions; I hate the very sound of them. Leave the Americans as they anciently stood, and these distinctions, born of our unhappy contest, will die along with it (. . .) Do not burthen them with taxes.” (Burke, (vol II), 1869, p. 73)

This is Edmund Burke even to the philosophies that fueled and billowed the fires of the French Revolution. If there is a summary of Burke’s philosophy – then it is this: “Don’t burden us with things that are your whims and not the way things are“. The same thing can be observed when Burke – here we even can see the point where he exposes all of his enchantment feelings – thinking about the French Revolution concludes:

“As things now stand,” writes Burke “with everything respectable destroyed outside us and an attempt to destroy every principle of respect within us, one is almost forced to apologize for having common human feelings.” (Burke, (vol. III), 1865, p. 337)

Edmund Burke never apologized for his common human feelings, but after him, not everything conservative, in large measure, is what he preserved. Indeed, if it were not for the French Revolution, we would today recognize Edmund Burke as a rhetorician and philosopher deeply concerned with the multiplicity of feelings from within and their expression in policy-making – and we would be talking now about the “defenders” only about those who came after Burke, and then perhaps we wouldn’t read Burke only politically at all. However the case might be, something quite different begins to be understood across the English Channel in the twentieth century as conservative (or at least, named as such), and even further, something quite different begins to be preserved (or rather, here it begins to be defended) besides the feelings of enchantment or human nature as art. Here life ceases to matter, the concern about death begins.

References

A Companion to Contemporary Political Philosophy (vol I). (2007). Oxford: Blackwell publishing.

Bourke, R. (2000). EDMUND BURKE AND ENLIGHTENMENT SOCIABILITY: JUSTICE, HONOUR AND THE PRINCIPLES OF GOVERNMENT. History of Political Though.

Burke, E. (1865). The Works of the Right Honourable Edmund Burke (vol. I). Boston: Little, Brown & Company.

Burke, E. (1865). The Works of the Right Honourable Edmund Burke (vol. III). Boston: Little, Brown, and Company.

Burke, E. (1869). The works of the Right Honorable Edmund Burke (vol II). Boston: Little, Brown & Company.

Burke, E. (1869). The works of the Right Honorable Edmund Burke (vol IV). Boston: Little, Brown & Company.

Burke, E. (1869). The works of the Right Honorable Edmund Burke (vol VI). Boston: Little, Brown & Company.

Burke, E. (1869). The works of the Right Honorable Edmund Burke (vol X). Boston: Little, Brown & Company.

George, S. (1974). The works of Stefan George. Chapel Hill: THE UNVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA PRESS.

Hodgson. (2005). Hegel and Christian Theology. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

J, J. &. (2002). The Metamorphosis of Magic from Late Antiquity to the Early Modern Period. Paris: PEETERS.

Nietzsche, F. (2008). The Birth of Tragedy. Nanaimo: Vancouver Island University.

Nietzsche, F. (2019). Gay Science. London: Penguin Classics.

Peters, F. (1969). Greek Philosophical Terms: a historical lexicon. New York: New York University.

Plato. (1921). Theaetetus – Sophist. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

Plato. (1930). The Republic (vol II). London: Harvard University Press.

Plato. (1997). Plato, Complete Works (Theaetetus). Indiana: Hackett publishing company.

Scruton, R. (1996). An intelligent person’s guide to philosophy. London: The Penguin Press.

Scruton, R. (2000). England: an elegy. London: Chatto & Windus.

Scruton, R. (2014). How to be a Conservative. London: Bloomsbury Continuum.

Scruton, R. (2017). Conservatism: an invitation to the great tradition. United Kingdom: All point books.

Varro. (1912). On farming. London: G. Bell and Sons, LTD.

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The Greek polis and the Roman civitas represent some of the most distinctive forms of political and social organization in history. Yet, they are often misunderstood when examined through the lens of the modern state. Modern conceptions of the state—centralized, bureaucratic, and sovereign—emerged from the intellectual revolutions of the Renaissance and Enlightenment. Thinkers like Niccolò Machiavelli, Thomas Hobbes, and John Locke reimagined political organization as a rational system of governance designed to maintain order, safeguard rights, and administer territories. This shift marked the state as an abstract and impersonal authority distinct from ancient communities’ organic, participatory systems. Labeling the polis or civitas as early forms of the state distorts their essence and overlooks their fundamental differences.

The modern state is defined by its sovereignty, territoriality, and institutionalization. It operates through impersonal legal frameworks and hierarchies, ensuring governance through the centralized exercise of power. In contrast, the polis was a holistic community where governance was deeply integrated with social customs, religious practices, and communal identity. Participation in the polis was not merely a right but a defining aspect of life, as citizens actively engaged in decision-making and the administration of justice. Similarly, the Roman civitas was built on shared norms, mutual obligations, and a sense of collective responsibility rather than modern states’ hierarchical structures and territorial sovereignty. These differences highlight the need to study these ancient communities on their own terms rather than forcing them into a framework they were never intended to fit.

Understanding the polis and civitas requires a departure from linear narratives of political development that portray them as precursors to the modern state. The participatory ethos and communal integration of these ancient societies starkly contrast with the alienation and abstraction of contemporary political systems. Ancient thinkers like Aristotle and Plato articulated a vision of political life rooted in virtue, justice, and the pursuit of the good life, emphasizing the collective flourishing of the community over the efficiency or control often prioritized by modern states. This perspective offers valuable insights into alternative governance models and challenges modern assumptions about the nature of political organization.

By exploring the unique features of the polis and civitas, this essay seeks to illuminate their distinctiveness and the lessons they hold for contemporary political thought. Far from being primitive or incomplete states, these ancient communities were sophisticated systems that integrated governance, ethics, and culture in ways modern states have often failed to achieve. Recognizing their differences from modern states allows us to appreciate the diversity of human political experience. It opens the door to reimagining governance in ways that prioritize community, participation, and shared responsibility.

The Emergence of the Modern State and Its Philosophical Underpinnings

The modern state emerged as a distinct political construct during the intellectual transformations of the Renaissance and Enlightenment. These periods, marked by a renewed emphasis on reason, individualism, and universal principles, redefined political organization as abstract and systematic. Thinkers such as Thomas Hobbes and John Locke were pivotal in conceptualizing the state through the social contract framework. Hobbes, in Leviathan, argued for the necessity of a centralized authority to escape the brutish chaos of the state of nature. On the other hand, Locke saw the state as a mechanism to safeguard natural rights like life, liberty, and property. Both thinkers envisioned a political entity defined by sovereignty, bureaucracy, and legal-rational governance, a far cry from the communal and participatory ethos of the ancient polis and civitas.

This vision of the state was not just a theoretical construct but a reflection of broader social changes. The rise of centralized monarchies, the decline of feudalism, and the spread of capitalist economies necessitated new forms of political organization. The modern state became an entity capable of exercising impersonal authority over a defined territory, separate from the cultural or personal ties that characterized earlier forms of governance. It marked a shift towards abstraction, where institutions became the locus of power rather than individuals or communities. This framework profoundly contrasts with the polis and civitas, where governance was deeply embedded in the community’s lived experiences and shared values.

Greek Philosophy and the Distinct Nature of the Polis

Greek philosophy provides crucial insights into the polis as a unique form of human association. For Aristotle, the polis was not merely a political unit but an essential part of human existence. In his Politics, Aristotle described humans as zoon politikon—political animals—whose nature is fulfilled through participation in the polis. This community was not an abstract construct but a tangible and necessary framework for achieving the good life. The polis integrated social, ethical, and political dimensions, making it a holistic entity rather than a specialized institution. Its purpose was not efficiency or order, as in the modern state, but the cultivation of virtue and the realization of human potential.

Plato, too, underscored the polis’s ethical and philosophical dimensions. In The Republic, he envisioned an ideal polis governed by philosopher-kings, where the community structure reflected a harmonious order mirroring the human soul. While Plato’s idealism differed from the practical realities of most Greek poleis, his work highlights the polis’s focus on the collective pursuit of justice and the good. This contrasts sharply with the modern state’s emphasis on individual rights, contractual governance, and territorial sovereignty. In the polis, governance was inseparable from the pursuit of communal excellence, whereas the state prioritizes institutional stability and legal codification.

Misrepresenting the Polis and Civitas as States

Mischaracterizing the polis and civitas as states imposes a linear narrative of political development that distorts the diversity of historical forms. This narrative assumes that ancient communities like the polis and civitas were embryonic states, steadily evolving toward the modern paradigm. Such an interpretation fails to recognize that these ancient forms were fundamentally different, rooted in shared customs, face-to-face participation, and a communal sense of identity. The polis was not a proto-state but a distinct mode of human organization that cannot be understood through the lens of sovereignty, bureaucracy, or territoriality.

For example, Athens, often celebrated as the archetype of democracy, exemplified the participatory nature of the polis. Citizens gathered in the ekklesia (assembly) to debate and decide on public matters directly, without the mediation of representatives or institutions. This direct engagement was a political process and a cultural and ethical practice reinforcing communal bonds. Similarly, in Sparta, governance was shared among multiple institutions, including the dual kingship, the gerousia (council of elders), and the apella (assembly). These structures reflected a commitment to balance and collective responsibility rather than the centralized authority characteristic of the modern state.

The Holistic Integration of Life in the Polis

The polis was a holistic entity where political, social, and religious life were inseparably intertwined. Public festivals, religious rituals, and civic duties were all aspects of the same communal existence. For instance, the Panathenaic Festival in Athens celebrated not only the city’s patron deity, Athena, but also the unity and identity of its citizens. Participation in these events was both a religious act and a reaffirmation of one’s role in the polis. This integration contrasts sharply with the compartmentalization of life in the modern state, where political, social, and religious spheres are often strictly separated.

Similarly, legal practices in the polis were deeply embedded in communal norms and traditions. In Athens, the legal system relied on large citizen juries, often numbering in the hundreds, to ensure that decisions reflected the community’s values rather than the dictates of a professional judiciary. This participatory approach to law underscores the polis’s emphasis on collective deliberation and shared responsibility. In contrast, the modern state’s legal systems are administered by specialized institutions that operate independently of direct citizen involvement, reflecting the impersonal nature of modern governance.

The Roman Civitas: A Different Model of Community

Like the polis, the Roman civitas was a communal organization rooted in shared traditions and active participation. Unlike the modern state, which is characterized by territorial sovereignty and centralized institutions, the civitas was defined by the relationships among its members. Roman citizenship was not merely a legal status but a deeply ingrained social and moral identity. Citizens were bound by mutual obligations and shared values, with political authority emerging from the community’s collective will rather than from a separate ruling apparatus.

The civitas was also notable for its emphasis on legal and cultural integration. As Rome expanded, it incorporated conquered peoples into its political framework, granting them citizenship and allowing them to participate in the res publica. This inclusive approach reflects the communal and participatory ethos of the civitas, which prioritized shared identity and mutual obligation over territorial control or bureaucratic administration. The modern state, by contrast, often defines citizenship in terms of legal rights and territorial residence, emphasizing the individual’s relationship with the state rather than their integration into a communal whole.

Lessons for Modern Political Thought

The polis and civitas offer valuable lessons for contemporary political theory. Their emphasis on active participation, communal responsibility, and integrating public and private life challenges the atomization and bureaucratization of modern politics. In the polis, citizenship was not a passive status but an active practice, requiring individuals to engage directly in the community’s life. This model contrasts with the modern state, where political participation is often limited to voting or other symbolic acts mediated by complex institutional structures.

For instance, contemporary movements advocating for participatory democracy or community-based governance draw inspiration from the ancient polis. These movements seek to reclaim the sense of agency and collective responsibility that characterized ancient communities. Similarly, debates about the role of tradition and shared values in shaping public life can benefit from a deeper understanding of the civitas, where law and governance are grounded in communal consensus rather than abstract principles.

The Enduring Relevance of the Polis and Civitas

Understanding the polis and civitas on their own terms allows us to appreciate the diversity of political organization in human history. These forms were not precursors to the modern state but distinct entities with their own logic and purpose. By studying them, we can expand our understanding of what is possible in political life, moving beyond the constraints of modern assumptions. The participatory ethos of the polis and the communal integration of the civitas offer alternative models of governance that prioritize community, responsibility, and active engagement.

In conclusion, the ancient polis and Roman civitas were not states in the modern sense but unique forms of communal organization rooted in shared customs, traditions, and participation. To label them as states imposes anachronistic assumptions that obscure their distinctiveness and the lessons they offer for contemporary political thought. Recognizing the uniqueness of these ancient forms enriches our understanding of history and provides valuable insights into the possibilities of human association and governance.

Conclusion

The Greek polis and Roman civitas stand as unique historical examples of communal organization that defy the modern concept of the state. These ancient communities were deeply rooted in shared customs, traditions, and active participation, distinguishing them from the impersonal and bureaucratic systems that characterize modern states. By misrepresenting them as early forms of the state, we risk distorting their essence and losing sight of the alternative models of governance they represent. Understanding the polis and civitas on their own terms allows us to better appreciate their distinctiveness and contributions to political thought.

At the heart of the polis and civitas was a commitment to collective responsibility and the active engagement of citizens in public life. In these societies, governance was an extension of communal identity rather than a separate, centralized authority. The participatory ethos of the polis, where citizens deliberated directly on matters of governance, and the civitas, with its emphasis on shared obligations and legal traditions, reflect a fundamentally different understanding of political life. These systems prioritized the cultivation of virtue, justice, and mutual obligation over the efficiency or control emphasized by the modern state.

The lessons of the polis and civitas resonate in contemporary debates about political alienation, community, and civic engagement. In an era where politics often feels distant and impersonal, the participatory practices and communal bonds of these ancient systems provide a counterpoint to the atomization and bureaucracy of modern governance. By revisiting these ancient models, we can explore alternative approaches to political organization that emphasize active participation, shared responsibility, and integrating public and private life.

Ultimately, the polis and civitas challenge us to think more broadly about the possibilities of human political association. They remind us that governance need not be confined to the hierarchical, sovereign frameworks of the modern state. Instead, these ancient forms offer a vision of politics as a deeply integrated and participatory endeavor rooted in the collective flourishing of communities. By understanding the polis and civitas not as precursors to the state but as distinct and sophisticated systems in their own right, we enrich our understanding of political history and open the door to imagining new possibilities for the future.

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The Germanic and Norse cultures, as depicted in their sagas and epic poetry, held honor and martial prowess in the highest regard. In these societies, the warrior ethos was central, emphasizing bravery in battle, loyalty to one’s chieftain, and the preservation of personal reputation. Honor was not merely a personal trait but a societal expectation that could dictate one’s status and actions. Personal and familial vengeance was crucial for maintaining honor, often leading to cycles of violence and retribution. This honor-centric perspective created a culture where personal achievements in battle and protecting one’s reputation were paramount.

A fundamental aspect of Germanic and Norse worldviews believed in fate, or “wyrd.” This belief held that the gods had predetermined human roles, reinforcing a worldview where personal courage and marital status were highly esteemed. This fatalistic outlook shaped their ethical framework, valorizing individual bravery and honor as essential virtues.

In Ancient Greece, the concept of arete, or virtue, was central to societal values, particularly among the aristocracy. Arete encompassed qualities such as martial prowess, wisdom, and skill, reflecting a broad spectrum of excellence. The Homeric epics, including the Iliad and the Odyssey, underscore the importance of honor and heroic deeds. Greek heroes were often depicted as favored by the gods, and their heroic exploits were celebrated as models of virtue.

Greek ethical thought extended beyond individual heroism to emphasize civic duty and excellence within the polis. Values such as civic responsibility, rhetorical skills, and philosophical wisdom were significant. Influential philosophers like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle stressed the importance of virtue in personal life and public affairs, advocating for a broader conception of ethical behavior. While influenced by Greek notions of virtue, Roman ethics developed distinct concepts such as virtus and gravitas. Virtus included qualities like courage and character, while gravitas denoted seriousness and dignity. Roman culture highly valued military service and personal honor, reflecting these values in societal and legal norms.

The evolution of Roman legal principles marked a significant development in ethical standards. Roman law integrated personal honor with civic responsibilities, creating a complex understanding of ethical behavior that balanced individual virtues with legal and moral duties. This evolution represented a shift towards a more organized and systematic approach to ethics.

Christianity’s introduction to these societies brought a new ethical framework centered on the doctrine of agape. This principle emphasized unconditional, self-sacrificial love for all people, including one’s enemies. This represented a radical departure from the honor-based codes of earlier pagan traditions, prioritizing personal and familial reputation over compassion. The teachings of Jesus in the New Testament, particularly in passages such as the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7) and the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37), highlighted values of love, forgiveness, and mercy.

The doctrine of agape expanded ethical concern beyond immediate kinship groups to encompass all humanity, advocating for a universal sense of brotherhood and care. This shift significantly departed from the exclusive, honor-centric values of earlier pagan traditions, focusing instead on compassion and communal support.

Christian teachings also challenged the prevailing norms of retribution and personal vengeance. The emphasis on forgiveness and the principle of turning the other cheek (Matthew 5:39) sought to replace cycles of violence with reconciliation and peace. This approach signaled a significant shift in societal values, moving away from focusing on personal honor and revenge towards a new conflict resolution model based on forgiveness and understanding. The Christian focus on charity—love in action—led to the establishment of various social institutions, including hospitals, orphanages, and schools. These institutions reflected a commitment to caring for the less fortunate and departed from the more individualistic and honor-centric values of earlier pagan traditions. This focus on social justice and communal care represented a new approach to societal responsibility.

As Christianity spread throughout Europe, its ethical teachings began integrating with pagan practices. This gradual and often uneven integration reflected the complex interactions between Christian and pagan values. Over time, Christian ethics influenced legal codes, social norms, and even martial traditions. One notable example of this integration is the chivalric code of medieval knighthood, which incorporated Christian virtues such as humility and mercy. This code reflected the blending of Christian values with existing martial traditions, illustrating the impact of Christian ethics on societal norms. The chivalric tradition, with its Christian-infused ideals, significantly evolved from earlier pagan warrior codes. The emphasis on mercy, compassion, and the protection of the weak reflected the Christian influence on martial practices. This integration of Christian ethics into the chivalric code marked a transformation in societal values, shaping the development of Western civilization and its moral frameworks.

On this example of the chivalric tradition, C. S. Lewis, in his exploration of Christian ethics, elucidates how the doctrine of agape made the development of the chivalric knight tradition possible. Lewis argues that Christian virtues of humility, mercy, and self-sacrifice were instrumental in shaping the chivalric code, which became a defining feature of medieval knighthood. The chivalric code, which integrated Christian ideals into martial practices, emphasized bravery in battle and qualities such as honor, loyalty, and service to others. This synthesis of Christian and martial values created a new ethical framework that influenced Western thought.

Despite the spread of Christianity, some pagan traditions persisted alongside Christian teachings. In regions such as Scandinavia and Germany, pagan practices often adapted to fit the new Christian context. This blending of old and new values resulted in a gradual but uneven transition, highlighting the complexity of cultural and ethical transformation. The transition from pagan to Christian ethical codes was not immediate. The gradual integration of Christian teachings into existing pagan practices reflects the complex cultural and ethical transformation process that occurred over time. This process involved resistance and adaptation, illustrating the dynamic interactions between different value systems.

The impact of Christianity on personal behavior was profound. The shift from honor and vengeance to compassion and forgiveness marked a significant change in individual ethics. This transformation influenced personal conduct, leading to new ways of understanding and practicing ethical behavior. Christianity’s influence on social organization was also significant. The establishment of charitable institutions and a focus on communal care reflected a new approach to social responsibility and governance. This departed from the individualistic and honor-based values of earlier pagan traditions. Religious institutions played a crucial role in the dissemination of Christian ethics. The Church’s involvement in social welfare, education, and legal reform reflected the broader impact of Christian teachings on societal norms and values. These institutions helped integrate Christian ethics into various social and public life aspects.

The influence of Christianity on legal systems was profound. Incorporating Christian principles into legal codes led to a greater emphasis on mercy, justice, and the welfare of all members of society. This represented a shift from the honor-based legal traditions of the past, reflecting a more comprehensive approach to ethical and legal issues.

The spread of Christianity also contributed to the evolution of ethical philosophy. Christian teachings influenced philosophical discussions on ethics, morality, and the nature of virtue, leading to new understandings of moral behavior and social responsibility. Philosophers such as Augustine and Aquinas played a crucial role in integrating Christian teachings with philosophical thought, shaping the development of Western ethical philosophy. The impact of Christianity extended to artistic and cultural expressions. Art, literature, and music from the medieval period often reflected Christian values of compassion, humility, and community. This cultural shift demonstrated the broader influence of Christian ethics on societal values and creative expressions.

Missionary work was instrumental in spreading Christian ethics to new regions. Missionaries not only converted individuals but also introduced new social and ethical norms, contributing to the broader transformation of societal values. Their efforts played a crucial role in disseminating and adapting Christian teachings. Thus, the interaction between Christian teachings and existing cultural practices resulted in a dynamic change process. In some cases, Christian values were adapted to fit local traditions, synthesizing old and new ethical norms. This blending of values highlights the complexity of cultural and ethical transformation.

The challenges of integrating Christian ethics into existing cultural contexts were significant. Resistance to new values and the persistence of old traditions created a complex and often contentious process of cultural transformation. These challenges reflect the difficulties inherent in reconciling different value systems. Yet, the long-term impact of Christianity on European society was profound. The transition from honor-based, martial ethics to a focus on compassion and community shaped the development of Western civilization and its values. This transformation marked a significant evolution in ethical and social norms.

The legacy of Christian ethics continues to influence contemporary societal values. Principles of agape, charity, and social justice remain central to discussions on morality and ethics, reflecting the enduring impact of Christianity on ethical thought. This legacy underscores the ongoing relevance of Christian teachings in shaping modern values and practices. Therefore, comparing the effects of Christianity on different cultures reveals diverse responses to Christian ethics. Christian teachings’ varying adaptations and integrations highlight the complexity of cultural and ethical transformation. These differences demonstrate how Christianity influenced and was influenced by various cultural contexts. Looking to the future, the influence of Christian ethics is likely to continue evolving. As societies address new ethical challenges, agape and social justice principles will remain relevant in shaping ethical and social norms. The ongoing relevance of these principles reflects the enduring impact of Christianity on moral thought and practice.

In conclusion, the doctrine of agape introduced by Christianity marked a profound departure from the honor-based, martial ethics of the Germanic, Norse, Greek, and Roman cultures. Christianity reshaped personal behavior and social organization by emphasizing selfless love, forgiveness, and communal care. This transformation represents a significant evolution in ethical values, highlighting the power of religious doctrines to influence and redefine societal norms. The shift from pagan to Christian ethical codes underscores the transformative impact of Christianity on the values that guide human behavior and social organization.

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“We live in a first world civilized society and people are actively choosing to consume milk riddled with E. coli and listeria”, he said. Pasteurisation “is not some evil sorcery” for it “just kills the dangerous bacteria you morons”.

He was criticized by those he ridiculed, who argued that the pasteurization process removes valuable nutrients and countless probiotics, making raw milk by far the superior product. Raw milk enjoyers are among those who generally emphasize the benefits of a radically organic lifestyle. This usually involves beliefs about how the human metabolism is optimized to absorb unfiltered and natural animal products and how detrimental ultra-processed foods are by comparison.

In this there is said to be something of a Lindy Effect, a theorem itself named after a New York Delicatessen. The human metabolism has had millennia of adjustment to optimise the absorption of beneficial nutrients from naturally produced foodstuffs, but only a few years of consuming industrial chemicals like the canola oil, sulphates, nitrates and emulsifiers that are now ubiquitous in pre-packaged food.

There is a deep suspicion of big business and government at play here, of a sort of industrial-eat-bugs complex that grew around tobacco companies moving into factory food processing to replace lost cigarette revenue and the food industry’s cynical pivot to demonizing the consumption of fat in relation to high cholesterol to shield consumers from the dangers of excessive sugar.

Without rehashing debates about dietary regimens, it is interesting that Walsh accused raw milk enjoyers of magical thinking. “Evil sorcery” suggests there are hidden forces at work conspiring to bring about the ruin of souls through industrial-scale mechanized food production.

This brought with it some more serious accusations from others. Inferring from the fact that aficionados of the current dietary trends code right-wing, it was suggested there is some link to the racism inherent within it. In trying to deduce what such detractors might mean, one can presume they suspect a sort of fixation on biological purity at work, along with a certain physiological supremacism being apportioned to the pre-industrial Western European diet. I’m not convinced there’s anything inherent about this lifestyle trend and the darker forces being alleged to reside within it. This is not to say there isn’t an adjacent relation, but this is something accidental. What interests me is what the new nutritional purism might mean symbolically.

As I’ve argued elsewhere, even the most patently absurd conspiracy theories are hermeneutically valuable, being interpretations of the human world. Criticisms of online ‘disinformation’ thus wholly miss the point; in the same way, a philistine philologist misses the point by condemning the Book of Genesis or the Iliad for not being true. Mythical pictures explain aspects of reality within their symbolic idiom. There are aspects of reality explained by those blaming 5G for SARS-2 or those subscribing to Pizzagate or QAnon. Interpreted symbolically, such theories bespeak an intuitive sense that our cultural atmosphere is increasingly permeated with unsanitary and harmful things and that those in power are more culpable for this fact than they care to admit.

Plato comes to mind in this connection. In the Republic, we learn that most people simply won’t live according to logos, philosophical conclusions, and reasoned arguments, but they can and should be edified as appropriate by mythos. The myths could provide a narrative idiom for enabling the apprehension, ultimately, of goodness, truth, and beauty. Whether we can present a similarly generous hermeneutical approach to today’s widespread phenomenon of conspiratorial thinking remains to be seen – but it is clear enough that railing about ‘disinformation’ alone will not suffice because we’re not dealing here with information alone.

Now, the appreciation of raw milk and its lifestyle has much more logos than mythos – even Matt Walsh should admit some probiotic and nutritional deficit results from pasteurization. The honest debate surrounds whether this deficit outweighs the risk of consuming harmful bacteria and whether that which is lost can’t simply be replaced through other, safer means. Nonetheless, Walsh accused the pro-raw milk faction of succumbing to wrongheaded mythos in the shape of “evil sorcery”, mythos disassociated from the true.

That said, Walsh’s ridicule wasn’t entirely unjustified. Many of us will know someone who has taken it all a bit too far. I mean someone who, while enjoying a night out with friends, won’t eat anything in a particular restaurant because they cook with rapeseed oil. Or the guy who brings their pre-cooked-in-grassfed-cattle-butter ground beef to eat from a Tupperware box during the family’s Christmas dinner. There is, in extreme cases of any dietary purism, a move toward the sort of obsessive control around eating/not eating that would ordinarily be associated with eating disorders.

The fact that the element of control in such disorders is a form of transference is broadly accepted. Uncontrollable emotional trauma or personality defects are transferred into a different idiom of sorts, a realm of choice-making where a sometimes-deadly level of control is mercilessly adhered to. What might such traumas and defects be in the case of the latter-day nutritional purist? We’re back to that intuitive sense I mentioned above: that our cultural atmosphere is increasingly permeated with unsanitary and deleterious things and that government and big business are more culpable for this fact than they care to admit.

Unsavory cultural expressions are almost impossible to avoid in a digital age – and even when they can be avoided, the language and sentiments they express gradually filter into everyday interaction anyway. Culture is formed by contagion. The society we portray becomes the society portrayed. Like theories, consuming soy increases estrogen, which enters the water supply and ends up saturating everything – the good, the true, and the beautiful drowning in an onslaught of their opposites.

Plato’s Republic describes how unsanitary and deleterious cultural expressions harm those who encounter them. For Plato, that which is genuinely true is, of course, the Forms, which spring forth directly from the mind of the creator. The world of nature, which we perceive with our senses, is one step removed from the ideational reality and hence subject to myriad forms of unreliability. Objects formed by human beings are then even more ambiguous, being formed from nature they are thus two-steps removed from the realm of the true. Hence, human artifice is a dissident species of representation – of mimesis. This is a problem not only in terms of truth but also goodness and beauty, and thus ethics and aesthetics.
Hence Plato’s distrust of artists. The mimetic dissidence of art in relation to ultimate reality means the sort of character exhibited by those formed by human representative constructions – by art or poetry – will be mired in illusion, improper conduct, untruth, and relative ugliness. As he writes, a “low-grade mother like mimesis”, will “produce low-grade children”.
Yet it is not as simple as just opting instead for edifying representation, for manipulating mimesis for noble ends. In his more radical moments, Plato maintains that mimesis itself is inherently problematic. There is something about it that will always drag people down. We will be carried away by base feelings due to the intensity of artistic representation, as opposed to the calmer and more measured business of philosophical contemplation. And because, in stories, we’re beholding lives so far removed from our own, we can’t help but take a perverse delight in “the sight of the kind of person we’d regret and deplore being ourselves”. Moreover, because the artist or poet will always be in need of an audience, he will deliberately play to the “petulant and varied side of our characters” to evoke the most impassioned responses.

I’ve taught these elements from the Republic numerous times – and I’ve never fully agreed with him on this. I believe in the nobility and worth of art and poetry. But in recent years, certain passages from the Republic have developed a compelling sense of vindication. I wonder if there isn’t much in today’s world that is proving him right after all. Digital images mediated through internet technology inherently tend to be the lowest common denominator far more than any medium in prior history. One can point obviously to pornography, which accounts for an estimated 10% of internet traffic, but increasingly to the sheer slop of most social media content – particularly the short-form video bequeathed to us from TikTok, which is to the nurturing of attention what fentanyl is to wakeful consciousness. As put memorably by Mark Fisher, we live in a “superficial frenzy of newness, of perpetual movement,” a sort of permanent “recombinational delirium” constantly overrun by images that enact a dreadful “besieging of attention.” Algorithmic reasoning vividly demonstrates Plato’s concerns. The infuriating, appalling, tempting, lascivious, or just utterly stupid representations emerge triumphant from the fray by clocking millions upon millions of likes.

Now, of course, one could argue that, just as Plato went a step too far in condemning mimesis to court, we can use digital communications in a modified fashion, exercising control and intention in what we occupy our minds with and when and why. The trick is to be always mindful of not giving free reign to base emotion, or what Plato called “the petulant and varied side of our characters”. In some of my more reactionary moments, however, I’m not so sure. I sometimes wonder if there isn’t something inherently detrimental about photographic representation itself, mediated digitally, that constitutes a form of mimesis carrying its own “evil sorcery.”

Karl Ove Knausgaard discusses the original genesis of mechanical image reproduction in relation to the development of Renaissance art. He mentions how medieval art was shot through with human conception, not just perception. This is best demonstrated by the early medieval religious icon. Here, “depiction was routed through the human sphere, meaning the human being’s inner world of images, thoughts, feelings, notions, intuition and experience” was “transposed and objectified in the form of colours on a canvas”. This is shown by the formalized and decidedly non-representative tendencies of, say, a saint’s face or an angel’s body, with not a trace of the painter’s world present therein. This meant what was portrayed seemed not to belong “to any definitie moment” but rather “to all moments, to eternity”. During the Renaissance, artists increasingly prioritized earthly sight over transcendent conception.

It is precisely this trajectory that mechanical image reproduction emerges. Knausgaard writes that the “mechanization of the lens…liberates our attention from the soul”. It offers the promise of a “soulless eye” – a reality without the sort of principled goods that human souls ever bring to bear on that which they encounter, a glimpse of reality seen through the eyes of a ruined soul, a world purged of heaven, by freeze-framing a split-second moment or looping it through endless replay – a foundational condition for the development of human character is destroyed: temporality. In this sense, Geoff Dyer is right to call photography “the negation of chronology”. Digital communication brings with it a radical solitude in how such images are viewed, combined with a negation of space – you don’t need to go anywhere to see the image, and it is viewed by people everywhere more or less simultaneously.

Shorn of space, time, and interdependence limitations, the soulless eye takes over and mounts the throne of a pseudo-divine vantage point. People go out less; they lose hours at a time and increasingly spend their lives alone. On a journey in the Americas in 1924, D. H. Lawrence wrote about using his Kodak that photographers “see as the All-Seeing Eye sees” and that humanity could inhabit a non-human perspective and “see ourselves as the sun sees us.” But myths and legends are full of warnings about what this entails.

In this sense, the current age can sometimes seem inextricable from magic and sorcery – from the tale of Dr Faustus, from the fate of Prometheus, and also from Icarus. The solitary smartphone viewer losing hour after hour to short-form video is disappearing into what Shakespeare called “the vasty deep” from whence gruesome spirits are conjured, bringing about the ruin of souls. The great question of the age is, therefore, whether our consumption of these representations can sanitized by something like pasteurization, by the gentle heat of noble intentions and the pursuit of virtue. Or it might be that the reproductive process itself is so detrimental to natural goods that we’d do better to submit to Plato’s revenge and somehow try to begin again.

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Bardet argues that thought and movement are intertwined gestures. The intersection of thinking and moving creates a dynamic where movement becomes thought, and thought becomes movement. This abstraction of dance to its most primal form—movement—suggests that thought without movement cannot exist. Echoing Heraclitus, Bardet reminds us that the essence of existence is movement itself.

The movement inherent in dance represents the mind’s journey through the Platonic world of ideas. If we consider parallel dimensions, dance might create a fissure allowing pure ideas to enter reality, ready to be grasped by the dancing thinker. This thinker, through dance, can break free from the rigid structures that bind them to a world of superficial opinions and cognitive biases.

Imagining a philosophy infused with dance that could be studied or even expressed in academic prose is challenging. The impersonal nature of academic writing seems at odds with the spontaneous vitality of dance. This raises several questions: Can philosophy exist without dance? Or is all philosophy inherently a display of movement? How should we judge the work of thinkers who lack this agility?

In this light, philosophical prose would require a style akin to the Socratic-Dionysian dance. The aesthetic character of dance would become essential to philosophical writing and philosophy itself. Consequently, the relationship between philosophy and aesthetics would shift; aesthetics would no longer be a mere branch of philosophy but its backbone, especially in an era of widespread skepticism and disillusionment.

It is also crucial to understand dance as an individual phenomenon and see how its essence infiltrates the philosophical realm. From a Nietzschean perspective, Martinez Gallardo describes dance as an intrinsic quality of God, portraying a being vital and transcendent beyond conventional morality. Dance emerges as a significant element in an epistemological quest and a quality that brings life and connects humans with a higher aspect of themselves. This understanding gains even more importance in the modern era, marked by the death of God and the triumph of philosophical skepticism. Thus, dance, with its total bodily engagement, can revitalize the art of thinking and bring us closer to a new conception of divinity.

In this new vision, the divine arises from human willpower, guiding us across the abyss. This god is rooted in an archaic substrate beyond rationality, embodied in the pure expression of creativity—an unstoppable cosmic instinct. This divine presence shines brightest during the wild, unrestrained Dionysian festivals, outside the established order and Apollonian restraint, where blood, wine, desire, and dance merge in vigorous communion.

The convergence of dance and philosophy, as Bardet suggests, occurs in a setting that is not necessarily civilized. Dance offers an escape from the ordinary, Apollonian, and confined civilization. There is perhaps a connection between dance and madness, as both can open the field to new forms of understanding reality. Physicist Vadim Zeland notes that excessive seriousness and importance attributed to an idea create a kind of resistance that hampers the free flow of vital consciousness energy. This resistance, termed potential excess, dissolves through concrete action, particularly when it involves both body and mind. In this sense, dance acts as a perfect solvent for potential excess and, thus, the primary opponent of the free flow of consciousness and thought.

Dance, therefore, becomes a medium through which we can transcend the limitations of rigid, schematic thinking. It allows for a fluid, dynamic interaction with truth, mirroring the perpetual motion of life itself. Through dance, the thinker can break free from the chains of dogma and preconception, embracing a more holistic and embodied approach to philosophy. It is not a surprise, then, that even in the most authoritarian of environments, dance is usually the last thing that can be prohibited. Perhaps this is a signal of the intrinsic freedom that is found within the rhythmic movement, which has not only a liberating power but also the capacity to elevate the morale of whoever allows himself to go with the flow

From the movement of molecules to the explosion of the Big Bang, life in retrospect seems to be nothing more than a grand, majestic dance that transcends language itself and reconnects the individual with their true self. And if the thinker of the most abstract order dares to learn this discipline, perhaps they may reach places where few dare to venture. And perhaps it is this never-ending dance that is destined to take us there. Thus, we must think, dance, and think once more.

References:

Alvaro, D. (2016). Articulating gestures: Review of Bardet, M. (2012). Thinking with movement: An encounter between dance and philosophy. Buenos Aires: Cactus. In Diferencia(s) Journal, 3(2), 223-230. ISSN 2469-1100.

Bardet, M. (2012). Thinking through movement: An encounter between dance and philosophy. Buenos Aires: Editorial Cactus.

Martinez Gallardo, A. (2018). Why every philosopher should know how to dance. Retrieved from Pijama Surf.

Zeland, V. (2004). Reality transurfing, vol. 1: The space of variants. S.l.: Obelisco Editions.

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This time, I will give directly contradictory advice.

Sometimes, people are hampered by a certain intimidation factor when it comes to difficult texts. They feel that they are too uneducated, haven’t read such-and-such books that ought to come before, need the for-dummies introductory version, and need someone to hold their hand while offering them a glass of milk.

I think such students should get over it and become comfortable reading things that they don’t understand and aren’t ready for.

So you didn’t completely understand what Kant was getting at because you never did read the Hume assignment and you’re not entirely sure what he’s referring to. So what? Keep going and focus on the part that does make sense to you.

At other times, the very best way to start understanding something is to immerse yourself in a huge flood of it. This is common advice for foreign languages. Just expose your mind to large volumes of the desired language without bothering to understand each and every word. Your mind will be processing all these currently unintelligible sounds in the background without any conscious, methodical analysis. There is a caveat with this, however. You can’t just passively leave the radio on in the background while doing other things. You may pick up a Spanish phrase or two this way, but it will be a long, long time before you can speak the language. You do have to make some effort to follow what is being said and grasp what you can out of the unintelligible mess as it is flying past.

I give this advice to middle school students approaching Shakespeare for the first time. When students first start, there are a huge number of unfamiliar words. Looking each one up would make the whole thing a slog and would interrupt the joyous rhythms of Shakespeare’s poetry. They need to just revel in the sound of it for a little while, even without understanding the meaning. If they just read and read and read while making—this part is important—some effort to understand, the language slowly starts to become more and more intelligible. By the time they’re on their third play, they might be ready to follow the plot. After a while, they don’t need to look up many words at all because they learn the words from context and usage.

I said that this week’s advice contradicts last week’s, but I’m (mostly) speaking tongue-in-cheek. In reality, I think the two approaches just apply to different scenarios. The flood-of-unintelligible-material approach applies when the kind of learning in play mostly involves making large amounts of intuitive associations. This applies to broad aesthetic appreciation, to gross physical skills like running or chopping wood, to fluency with language, or to intuitive social skills. It also has its place when you want to have a very broad but shallow knowledge of some reading material in preparation for a deep dive into one specific area.

By contrast, the step-by-step-painfully-slow approach applies when you need to grasp a piece of careful analytical reasoning or gain a detailed understanding of something by breaking it down. This applies to logic, to close legal arguments, to the detailed mastery of specific micro-skills in dance or painting, or to grammatical analysis of language.

Both have their place, and human intelligence is at its best when we use both in combination under appropriate circumstances. The trouble is that many people seem to apply the flood-of-unintelligible-material approach out of laziness when they should be making an effort to understand just one tiny thing at a time, but for the same reason, they give up on that approach long before they’ve actually exposed their mind to enough material for it to work.

When it comes to tough philosophical argumentation, which is most of what I teach, I’ll stick to my earlier advice.

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If you can read a text breezily, in a reclining position, with a cocktail in one hand, and come away with confident assurance that you have understood every single thing the author has said, then that text is probably not worth your time. It might be good as pure, time-filling entertainment, but you may as well watch daytime reruns of soap operas.

Such a text isn’t telling you anything you don’t already know, so it isn’t stretching your mind. To learn from a text, it has to have a certain level of difficulty and this means going well beyond your current level of understanding. It can’t be completely incomprehensible, of course, but I don’t think that many of my students are laboring under the false expectation that they should be forcing their eyes to run over paragraphs of Linear A.

How should one approach such texts, then, so that the difficult and challenging is not, at least, tortuous?

I have one simple tip, but it requires patience and the willingness to get through fewer pages (it’s tough for those achievement-oriented checklist types and worse for procrastinators reading last minute for a deadline). Read one sentence at a time, even one clause at a time, if the sentences are complex. When you hit the period, pause. Think about it. Make sure that you have actually understood at least the most obvious implications of what has been said. Then, move to the next sentence. Pause. Think about it. Now here comes the crucial bit: Do you understand why this thought follows from the one before it? If you do not grasp the logical progression from the thought in sentence A to the thought in sentence B, don’t keep going. Stop. Read the two sentences together again. You may even have to go back a paragraph or two—or ten.

Naturally, this will be slow-going, but it gets faster in time. The more you practice this kind of deliberate reading, the more you will begin to understand the deep structure of what the authors are saying. Human beings across centuries have very few truly new ideas, and the connections between the ideas flow along largely predictable lines. When you master the flow from A to B to C in one author, you will much more readily grasp the flow from A to B to C in another. You’ll even be much quicker in recognizing the flow from A to B to D in a third author who disagrees with the first two. You’ll be able to spot the critical juncture of their disagreement.

When I first explain this way of reading to freshmen college students, they often roll their eyes, sigh, and make clear that what I’m suggesting sounds like a total drag. Really, it’s a much more enjoyable experience than the alternative.

I surmise that most of them read like this: Read a sentence. Kinda get the gist, or at least that certain subjects were mentioned. Read another sentence. More words on that subject. Great. Read another sentence. Think about pizza. Half-realize that their eyes have passed over three intervening sentences. Skip. Read another sentence. Kinda get that sentence because it reminds them of a funny clip from The Office (they haven’t seen the full episode, only the clip on TikTok). Read another sentence. Totally meaningless. Wonder when this whole ordeal will be over so they can order that pizza. Read another sentence. More meaningless philosobabble. Put the book down so they can order the pizza anyway. Think about picking the book up again twenty minutes later, experiencing a shudder of revulsion for the whole previous experience, a vague sense that they are being judged by someone for being stupid, immediately followed by a series of defensive slogans belittling the usefulness of philosophy.

Such an exercise is much worse than wasted time. After a few such experiences, many students will fall into misology—a distaste for thinking—which Socrates gravely warns against in the Phaedo.

Since the student moved on from the very first sentence with only a vague impression of the subject matter, it was inevitable that the following sentences would devolve into an incomprehensible mess. When we are faced with a stream of incomprehensible nonsense, it becomes increasingly difficult, with every passing second, to keep our interest up (don’t just blame technology for our short attention spans). When our interest is broken, and we become distracted by numerous other things that we do understand and care about, then the game is up. There’s even less chance at that point that we will understand the flow of thought from the following sentences since they assume that the reader has read and understood what came before them. Hence, each following sentence will just get worse and worse. Continuing to move our eyes across the page at that point is simply an exercise in self-masochism.

I would much rather have a student who came into the next class and said, “Professor, I’m sorry, but I simply could not finish the whole reading assignment. I became stuck on the very first sentence. If I understand him correctly—and I’m still not sure that I do—I think Aristotle is suggesting that…and I became very puzzled by why he would think that, let alone begin there. I spent an hour wrestling with the grammar of this long first sentence before giving up. I had to move on to my math homework. Here are my notes.”

That student gets an A for the day and is exempt from the quiz.

Stay tuned for Part 2, in which I will give directly contradictory advice.

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