In several posts I have argued that the structure of civilization consists of an economic infrastructure joined to an intellectual superstructure by a central project, and that, moreover, the civilization extant today consists of an industrial economic infrastructure joined to a technical intellectual superstructure by the central project that we know as the Enlightenment project. Contemporary civilization as so defined dates back only to the 18th century, when the Enlightenment project emerged as a reaction to the carnage of the religious wars in Europe. The three pillars of modernity — the scientific revolution, the industrial revolution, and political revolutions — all burst the bounds of traditional feudal societies, and ever since the world has been trying to master the forces unleashed by these revolutions.

The American revolution was the first and the most successful of the political revolutions that swept aside traditionalism, feudalism, and aristocracy. (Sometimes I think of the American revolution as being, in this sense, like Augustus, who was the first of the Roman emperors, and arguably the best of the lot. After that, it was all downhill.) The unique confluence of circumstances that made the American revolution successful, both militarily and politically, included unlikely revolutionaries who were property owners, the pillars of colonial society, and also well-read, as Enlightenment gentlemen were expected to be.

There was nothing democratic about the mostly aristocratic founding fathers, other than their desire to found a new kind of political order drawing upon the best of ancient Greece (democracy) and the best of ancient Rome (republicanism). The founding of a new political order required a revolutionary war to separate the United States from the British Empire, but it also involved a profound intellectual challenge to conceptualize a new political order, and this challenge had already begun in Europe, where the Enlightenment originated.

The Enlightenment produced a large number of top-notch philosophers whom we still read today, and with profit: their insights have not yet been exhausted. Also, these Enlightenment philosophers were highly diverse. They disagreed sharply with one another, which is the western way. We disagree and we debate in order to analyze an idea, much as an alibi is dissected in a courtroom.

William Blake, who represents the romantic reaction to the Enlightenment, wrote a poem criticizing Voltaire and Rousseau in the same breath:

MOCK on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau;
Mock on, mock on; ’tis all in vain!
You throw the sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again.

Never mind that Voltaire and Rousseau quarreled and represented polar opposite ends of the Enlightenment. When Voltaire received a copy of Rousseau’s The Social Contract, he responded in a letter to Rousseau: “I have received your new book against the human race, and thank you for it. Never was such a cleverness used in the design of making us all stupid. One longs, in reading your book, to walk on all fours. But as I have lost that habit for more than sixty years, I feel unhappily the impossibility of resuming it.” But perhaps this was Blake’s intention to invoke opposite spirits of the Enlightenment, given his appreciation of antitheses as expressed in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell — both Voltaire and Rousseau were to be condemned for their mockery of tradition.

If these quarreling Enlightenment thinkers were alive today, feuding bitterly with each other, the popular press would say that the Enlightenment was obviously burnt out and was now “tearing itself apart.” Soon, the pundits would presumably say, we could go back to the comforts of monarchy and a universal church as though nothing had happened, the whole episode of the Enlightenment having been something like the social equivalent of a bad dream.

Strangely enough, we find a view much like this on both the far left and the far right today. The far left, as represented by the philosophers of the Frankfurt school (the dread prophets of “cultural Marxism”), rejected the Enlightenment (cf. Theory from the ruins: The Frankfurt school argued that reason is dangerous, mass culture deadening, and the Enlightenment a disaster. Were they right? by Stuart Walton), just as neoreactionaries reject the Enlightenment by contrasting the 18th century Enlightenment with the “Dark Enlightenment,” the latter growing organically out of the counter-Enlightenment of J. G. Hamann, Joseph de Maistre, and others.

Like Blake’s dual condemnation of Voltaire and Rousseau, the dual condemnation of the Enlightenment by both left and right is a condemnation of two distinct faces of the Enlightenment. Partly this is a result of the ongoing debate over the proper scope and application of reason, but I think that the deeper issue is the failure of western civilization to overcome the chasm separating its twin ideals of freedom and equality, which are two faces of Enlightenment morality.

Naïvely we want these two ideals to be fully realized together within democratic institutions; when we grow out of our naïveté we usually see these ideals in conflict, and assume that any attempt to mediate between the two must ultimately take the form of a compromise in which we lose some freedom in exchange for equality or we lose some equality in exchange for freedom. But the nineteenth century, which produced the counter-Enlightenment, also produced Hegel, and Hegel would have pointed out that a dialectic, such as the dialectic between freedom and equality, will only be resolved when we transcend the antithesis by a synthesis that is more comprehensive than either ideal in isolation.

When we consider the absolutizing tendency of political rhetoric we would not be at all surprised to see Hegelian formulations like, “The absolute is freedom,” later to be countered by, “The absolute is equality.” Even if such things are not stated so explicitly, it is clear from the behavior of many who set themselves up as the arbiters of American values that they typically take the one or the other as an absolute ideal, and absolutization of one or the other prevents us from seeing the more comprehensive synthesis in which freedom and equality can not only coexist, but in which each can extend the other.

The problem of freedom and equality is the equivalent for social thought of the problem of general relativity and quantum theory for physics. Some are certain that the solution to their integration lies on one side or the other of the divide — there must be quantum gravity because all of physics is now formulated in quantum terms — but the truth is that, at our present stage of intellectual development, the solution eludes us because we have not yet achieved the intuitive breakthrough that will allow us to see the world as one and whole.

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Happy 4th of July!

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Grand Strategy Annex

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project astrolabe logo smaller

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From time to time we need to be reminded (that is to say, we need to remind both ourselves and others) what it means to live in a free and open society, as the discipline of liberty is a stern one, and it is easy to go slack and to find oneself becoming tolerant of all kinds of compromises to one’s freedom, not to mention the freedom of others, which is relatively easy to sacrifice. Every day a thousand details compete for our attention, and these practical exigencies of life are often sufficient to distract us from our true interests in the long term, and in the big picture.

History does not stand still. Those in possession of the apparatus of state power are always seeking new ways to get the public to go along with the fashionable governmental programs of the moment, while citizens are always seeking ways around the controls that government attempts to impose upon them. It is a cat-and-mouse game — à bon chat, bon rat. Descartes, who lived during the period of the consolidation of the nation-state (and who fought as a solider in the Thirty Years’ War, the settlement of which was part of this process) adopted a motto from Ovid, bene qui latuit, bene vixit: He who hid well, lived well. This is a prudent maxim for any who are subject to state power.

The continual flux of one’s individual perspective, and the continual movement of history, together tend to obscure rather than to clarify where our true interests lie, and so we would do well to recur to classic formulations of liberal democracy (in the sense in which Fukuyama uses that term), and there is no more classic formulation of individual liberty in liberal democracy than is to be found in John Stuart Mill:

“…the sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or collectively, in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number, is self-protection… the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant. He cannot rightfully be compelled to do or forbear because it will be better for him to do so, because it will make him happier, because, in the opinions of others, to do so would be wise, or even right. These are good reasons for remonstrating with him, or reasoning with him, or persuading him, or entreating him, but not for compelling him, or visiting him with any evil in case he do otherwise. To justify that, the conduct from which it is desired to deter him, must be calculated to produce evil to some one else. The only part of the conduct of any one, for which he is amenable to society, is that which concerns others. In the part which merely concerns himself, his independence is, of right, absolute. Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign.

John Stuart Mill, On Liberty, Chapter I, “Introductory”

Mill’s uncompromising assertion of individual sovereignty is one of the high points of specifically western civilization, with its emphasis upon the individual and individualism. Uncompromising though it may be, it is not, however, absolute: the prevention of harm to others is not defined, and therefore subject to interpretation. An individual or a group that is bound and determined to exercise control over some other individual or group will twist their interpretation of the world until they they proved to their own satisfaction that the actions of the other individual or group are invidious to the public good, and therefore, under classic principles of political liberalism, they are justified in bringing coercion to bear in forcing the individual or group to conform to social expectations.

Mill’s assertion of individual sovereignty is also, in a sense, unexpected. For Mill in this passage, how we exercise state power matters. This way of thinking about Mill’s conception of liberty is really quite remarkable in view of the fact that Mill is probably also the most famous utilitarian, and therefore as a utilitarian is committed to a teleological (or consequentialist) ethic. But this passage is much more in the spirit of deontology than teleology. In my last post, Teleological and Deontological Conceptions of Civilization, I sought to show that teleological and deontological systems of ethical thought that have been applied to the individual also can be applied to social wholes, and here Mill, among the greatest of the representatives of utilitarian teleology, presents a case for a thoroughly deontological conception of the state and its power (i.e., mankind taken collectively).

What are we to make of individual sovereignty in an age of choice architecture? I can imagine the advocates of choice architecture making the argument that “nudging” rather than forcing citizens to adopted preferred behaviors in order to arrived at preferred outcomes is ultimately to recognize the sovereignty of the individual, and not to infringe upon that sovereignty any more than is necessary. But what is this necessity? What is the necessity of state power in industrial-technological civilization? State power in our time is primarily technical, so that its necessity is also understood as a technical requirement.

I have noted in several recent posts (Religious Experience in Industrial-Technological Civilization among them) that in industrial-technological civilization the organizing principle is technical; it is procedural rationality in its many forms that is the basis of social organization. (The term “procedural rationality” originates in the work of economist Herbert A. Simon — also known for his work on bounded rationality — though I am using the term in a wider signification than that employed by Simon, intended to include all decision making undertaken in complex contexts employing available empirical evidence in a theoretical framework that recognizes bounded rationality.)

Rationality is more constrained for some than for others; the technocrat of procedural rationality imagines that those in possession of state power have more and better information available to them than the subjects of state power, who suffer from a more tightly bounded rationality than their leaders. Therefore those with less bounded rationality and possessing greater horizons have a political responsibility to transfer their greater knowledge to the population at large through the power of the state. Choice architecture seems to be the least coercive way of doing so. (Choice architecture is not limited to state power: one could argue that the private enterprises that make it very easy to sign up to receive a good or service, but make it almost impossible to stop the delivery of said good or service, are practicing a kind of choice architecture, but these unsavory business practices are occasionally reviewed by the courts, and when found to be sufficiently coercive the courts may provide legal redress to aggrieved customers.)

The publication of Nudge: Improving Decisions About Health, Wealth, and Happiness in 2009 by Cass Sunstein and Richard Thaler, was an event of some significance in Anglophone political circles, as it was immediately seized upon by policymakers as a legitimation and justification of their “expertise” in social organization — precisely the expertise in procedural rationality that is central to industrial-technological civilization. This was unintended intellectual flattery of the first order. The great unwashed require experts to shape the finer aspects of their lives, rough-hew them though the ignorant masses may. Delivered from their miserable choices to preferred outcomes to which they are nudged, the people should be grateful to their leaders for their enlightened intervention.

In the context of social organization through procedural rationality, the inevitable rise of expertise in technical matters comes to dominate society at large. The process begins with the mere details of how life is organized, but the nature of state power is to grow without bounds (see below on the slippery slope, here applied to state power), and as procedural rationality steadily expands its scope, the state approximates what Erving Goffman called a total institution:

“The common characteristics of total institutions derive from the coercion of inmates to conform to an internal regime. They are stripped of their former identities and obliged to accept an alternative selfhood, designed to fit the expectations of staff. This transformation is effected by procedures and practices including the breakdown of the divisions separating work, sleep and play. All activities are tightly scheduled and geared to serve institutionally set tasks. These can be carried out only by obeying rules and regulations that are sanctioned by privileges and punishments administered by staff whose authority is sustained through the maintenance of a distance from inmates.”

The Social Science Encyclopedia, Third edition, Edited by Adam Kuper and Jessica Kuper, VOLUME II L-Z, LONDON AND NEW YORK: Routledge, 2004, “Total Institutions,” pp. 1031-1032

The state as a total institution could be employed as a definition of totalitarianism. “Nudge” politics is very long way from being totalitarianism, or even the thin edge of the wedge of totalitarianism, but there are dangers nevertheless of which we should be aware.

At what point does choice architecture become coercive? How narrow may an individual’s options be made before we are willing to acknowledge that that individual’s life has been compromised by the institutions with the power to shape the choices available to the individual? How much can the life of the individual be compromised before we recognize this as a form of coercion? If coercion is held below the threshold of violence, is it more morally acceptable that coercion that is openly violent?

Ultimately, state power is about violence; it is not always or inevitably manifested as violence, but as violence is the ultimate guarantor of state power, any politicized question is ultimately about violence. Everyone is familiar with Max Weber’s definition of sovereignty: “The state is the human community that, within a defined territory — and the key word here is ‘territory’ — (successfully) claims the monopoly of legitimate force for itself.” While such a state does not always employ force, it can employ force if necessary, and here the only necessity is political necessity, as defined by the sovereign state. As noted above, today this is a technical necessity governed by technical requirements, and in so far as the human condition is made rigorous, technical necessity leaves no aspect of life untouched.

A common but commonly unstated theme in such discussions is the doctrine of tacit consent. Everyone today, in virtue of being born on some particular scrap of geography, is the subject of some territorially-defined nation-state that seeks to enforce the territorial principle in law. Thus every human being alive today has been judged to have given their tacit consent to the state power of some nation-state or other. What is the basis for this claim? Along with John Stuart Mill, one of the godfathers of political liberalism is John Locke, whose Second Treatise of Government was an important influence on the American founding fathers, but Locke was willing to assert a sweeping doctrine of tacit consent that I find problematic at best, an invitation of inter-generational tyranny at worst:

“Nobody doubts but an express consent of any man entering into any society makes him a perfect member of that society, a subject of that government. The difficulty is, what ought to be looked upon as a tacit consent, and how far it binds — i. e., how far any one shall be looked upon to have consented and thereby submitted to any government, where he has made no expressions of it at all. And to this I say that every man that has any possessions or enjoyment of any part of the dominions of any government does thereby give his tacit consent and is as far forth obliged to obedience to the laws of that government, during such enjoyment, as anyone under it; whether this his possession be of land to him and his heirs for ever, or a lodging only for a week, or whether it be barely traveling freely on the highway; and, in effect, it reaches as far as the very being of anyone within the territories of that government.”

John Locke, Second Treatise of Government, section 119

Here Locke appears unambiguously as a theorist of the territorial principle in law (also assumed by Weber in the quote above), as no one who came from interpenetrating ethnic communities, each ruled by their own law (i.e., the personal principle in law), would ever assert that lodging for a week in some territory subjects the individual to the law of the government that claims sovereignty over that territory. In this way, we can see Locke as one of many political philosophers who contributed to the formulation of the theory of the nation-state at a time when the nation-state remained yet inchoate.

The slippery slope of political obligation in the context of tacit consent would imply that every citizen of a nation-state that engages in genocidal persecution and warfare is at least an accessory, if not a willing and active participant, in such moral outrages (cf. Genocide and the Nation-State). Throughout the twentieth century, in fact, this was the conclusion that was derived in fact, if not in theory. Thus the destruction of a wartime enemy’s population was justified because that population facilitated the prosecution of the war, even if their employment had not changed since the war in question began (i.e., even if they are not employed in war industries). They have, after all, given their tacit consent to the nation-state in which they reside. This kind of political reasoning brought humanity face-to-face with annihilation in the twentieth century, and we can be glad that, whatever the horrendous depredations of that century, it did not ultimately follow through to the bitter end the political logic of its time.

For a logician, a slippery slope is a fallacy, and the logician is right: there is no logical way to derive a transition from the thin edge of the wedge to the thick edge — but if there is a sledgehammer pounding down on the wedge, the likelihood of the thin edge leading to the thick edge is quite high. Life is not logical. Psychologically a slippery slope is very real, very treacherous, and every consummate manipulator (if you live long enough, you will meet many of them) knows how to exploit human frailty with a slippery slope. (This is why we say, “in for a penny, in for a pound.”) Indeed, any logical explication of the slippery slope fallacy ought to be presented with an explication of the cognitive biases of availability cascade, bandwagon effect, illusory correlation, and irrational escalation. We could, in fact, name a new cognitive bias — say, the slippery slope effect — which is the likelihood of individuals to allow themselves to be led down a slippery slope despite this slope being a logical fallacy.

While logicians recognize the appeal to a slippery slope as a fallacy, the logicians have no answer to the paradoxes of the heap, also called sorites paradoxes, which consider the problems inherent in vagueness. Well, it would not exactly be right to say that logicians have “no answer” to sorites paradoxes, only that there are many logical theories for dealing with sorites paradoxes, but none of these theories are universally accepted, and the paradox appears so frequently in human experience that its paradoxicality cannot be wished away. Where exactly the transition from choice architecture to coercion occurs admits of no easy answers.

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Grand Strategy Annex

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revolutionary years with dates

Like 1968 and 1989, 2013 is looking a little like the original “Springtime of Nations” in 1848, when popular rebellions against entrenched power spontaneously emerged in widely divergent societies. While the energies released in these revolutionary movements proved to be too scattered to form the basis of a new political order that could replace the established political order — and far short of the ideal Novus ordo seclorum imagined by Virgil — the high political drama of such events leaves an impression that should not be denied or trivialized.

It is the historical exception that the American Revolution, the French Revolution, and the Bolshevik Revolution resulted in far-reaching political changes that shaped the future of the planet entire. The first of these, the American Revolution that we celebrate today, far from being a mere ephemeral moment like the protests of today, established a political institution that was to dominate the planet, requiring less than two centuries to grow into the sole superpower in the world. Few Revolutions can boast of such an issue, but whether we want to celebrate the prescience of the Founding Fathers in pursing the expedient of regime change through political revolution and armed struggle, or whether we see this as the opening of Pandora’s Box is another matter.

How are we to understand revolution? The best summary that I have found of the nature of revolution itself is a paragraph from Sartre’s essay, “Materialism and Revolution.” This essay dates from before Sartre became a Marxist and a Maoist apologist. Mark Poster discussed the origins of this essay in the context of the post-war French communist movement and Sartre’s troubled relations with prominent French communists:

With the unrestrained polemics against Sartre from the Communists multiplying day by day, Sartre felt called upon to defend himself and his ideas. His response came in a lecture in 1945 called “Existentialism is a Humanism,” and in an article in Les Temps Modernes of 1946 entitled “Materialism and Revolution.” In these ripostes Sartre advertised his own existentialism as a true humanism, the only suitable philosophy for a liberating politics, over against the Marxism of the French Communist Party, which was a dehumanizing materialism. He proposed naively that the CP substitute existentialism for its own diamat. It was at this point in the controversy between Marxism and existentialism that the two camps were most sharply opposed and that the Communist criticisms of Being and Nothingness were most poignant. It was also at this point that Sartre was attacked by the Trotskyists because his lecture attacked Naville. Sartre’s response to the Communists was based, in general, on a defense of his concept of radical freedom as a needed ingredient in revolutionary theory: “…the basic idea of existentialism is that even in the most crushing situations, the most difficult circumstances, man is free. Man is never powerless except when he is persuaded that he is and the responsibility of man is immense because he becomes what he decides to be.”

Mark Poster, Existential Marxism in Postwar France: From Sartre to Althusser, Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey, 1975, pp. 125-126

It is a salutary exercise to remind ourselves that the later Sartre was but a shadow of his former, younger self, when he defended freedom and had not yet capitulated to Marxism — a capitulation that itself might be characterized as a failure of freedom, since Sartre capitulated to the apparent historical inevitability of Marxism, and the belief in inevitability is a form of fatalism and an abandonment of freedom (mauvaise foi, no less). In any case, here’s what Sartre wrote about revolution when he still thought that human freedom was central to revolutionary action:

“…a revolutionary philosophy ought to set aside the materialistic myth and endeavor to show: (1) That man is unjustifiable, that his existence is contingent, in that neither he nor any Providence has produced it; (2) That, as a result of this, any collective order established by men can be transcended toward other orders; (3) That the system of values current in a society reflects the structure of that society and tends to preserve it; (4) That it can thus always be transcended toward other systems which are not yet clearly perceived since the society of which they are the expression does not yet exist — but which are adumbrated are in, in a word, invented by the very effort of the members of the society to transcend it.”

Jean-Paul Sartre, Literary and Philosophical Essays, “Materialism and Revolution,” New York: Collier Books, 1955, p. 235

There is a lot going on in this passage. Its vision of a society that continually transcends itself through revolution is an explicit negation of Comte de Maistre’s finitistic political theory, which shows both Sartre and de Maistre in their true political colors: Sartre as a revolutionary, and de Maistre as a reactionary.

This passage also formulates a social and collective expression of what in Gibbon, Sartre, and the Eurozone I called Sartre’s Principle of Inalienable Autonomy for Individuals, or, more briefly, Sartre’s Principle. I contrasted Sartre’s principle as an individualistic principle to Gibbon’s principle — namely, that no assembly of legislators can bind their successors invested with powers equal to their own — which is a collective or political principle. But now I see that I could have dispensed with Gibbon and formulated the principle both in its individualistic and collectivistic forms with reference only to Sartre.

In Gibbon, Sartre, and the Eurozone I argued that the individual principle, Sartre’s Principle, was ultimately the foundation of the freedom of societies and social wholes; in other worlds, social freedom supervenes upon individual freedom.

The nearly unique value placed upon individual liberty in the American revolution is significant here: this was a revolution that was successful because it recognized the supervenience of social liberty upon individual liberty. The French and Bolshevik revolutions gave way to terrors and atrocities because their vision was of a Rousseauian majoritarianism in which the individual was to be “forced to be free.” That didn’t turn out to well.

Many of those protesting and marching and rebelling today also believe in the possibility of society transcending itself to another order, even if they cannot precisely imagine what that order will be; these efforts are likely to be successful only in so far as they respect individual liberty as the foundation of social liberty. To the extent that this grounding of liberty in the individual is denied — indeed, in so far as it is denied in the US today by fashionable anti-individualists — these efforts will fail to bear fruit.

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Happy 4th of July!

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Grand Strategy Annex

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A Note on Human Freedom

10 April 2010


The ideas that we have of things often trump the reality of the things in themselves. The idea we have of human freedom or the idea we have of human nature can end up being more powerful than human freedom or human nature are in themselves.

I have several times cited Sartre’s contention that there is no such thing as human nature. In Existence precedes Essence and Human Nature I quoted at length from Sartre’s famous “Existentialism is a Humanism” lecture to the effect that “If man as the existentialist sees him is not definable, it is because to begin with he is nothing. He will not be anything until later, and then he will be what he makes of himself.” In his later life, after he became a Marxist, Sartre repudiated his earlier absolutizing of human freedom, but certainly the earlier Sartre is more interesting that the later, compromised Sartre.

I have also had occasion to point out one could say that, for Sartre, human nature is simply identical to this absolute freedom he posits. Now I see that an absolutely free human nature is free to conceive of itself as unfree: human nature is nothing but human freedom, but human freedom is constrained both by material circumstances as well as by an idea of an authentic human nature, and these constraints in turn become de facto human nature. These constraints on human freedom are not necessary constraints; they do not inherently, ontologically limit human freedom. Nevertheless, they do constrain human freedom as a part of what Sartre called man defining himself.

As we all know so well, material circumstances vary considerably among individuals and social classes of individuals, so that what functions as a constraint for one individual or for one social class functions as a facilitation for another individual or another social class.

The idea of human nature that we entertain as a consequence of our place in history and society lacks the vulgar directness of material constraints, but for the same reason is all the more pervasive because abstract and apparently inevitable, as belonging to the realm of ideas rather than to the realm of things in an ever-changing Heraclitean flux. Our individual human nature is free, and because it is free we can impose upon it an idea of human nature. Because we are free, we are free to entertain any idea we like. But because we find ourselves in the midst of an existential context of family, community, society, and political subdivisions of humanity — that is to say, we find ourselves in history — we are likely to find in these pervasive, enveloping milieaux some already existing idea of what a man should be, or what a human being should be.

These twin constraints on human freedom — the material constraints that are imposed upon us and the intellectual constraints that we impose upon ourselves — are nicely summed up in a passage from Simone de Beauvoir’s Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter, when she recounts her first and only meeting with Simone Weil:

“She intrigued me because of her great reputation for intelligence and her bizarre outfits… I managed to get near her one day. I don’t know how the conversation got started. She said in piercing tones that only one thing mattered these days: the revolution that would feed all the starving people on the earth. I retorted, no less adamantly, that the problem was not to make men happy, but to help them find a meaning in their existence. She glared at me and said, ‘It’s clear you’ve never gone hungry.’ Our relations ended right there. I realized she had classified me as a high-minded little bourgeoise, and I was angry.”

In this exchange Weil represents the hard facts of materially imposed constraints on life — viz. hunger — while de Beauvoir represents the intellectual constraints upon life — viz. meaning. The early Sartre, with his emphasis upon the freedom of consciousness, is given voice by de Beauvoir; the later Sartre, with his emphasis upon the force of circumstances and practical ensembles, is already anticipated by Weil.

To a certain extent, the absolute freedom that the early Sartre expressed was more true in his milieu than it had been for previous generations. In a stable society, the idea of human nature is also stable. But from the beginnings of the Industrial Revolution in the nineteenth century, previously existing society and its social conventions were profoundly called into question. The Industrial Revolution changed societies and changed the social roles and life histories of individuals. I noted in Social Consensus in Industrialized Society that ever since the Industrial Revolution those societies that have industrialized have sought some kind of social consensus by which to live in industrialized societies. Two paradigms (or, if you prefer, two models) of industrialized life were tried and found wanting. The advanced industrialized regions of the world are still groping after the formulation of a third paradigm of life in industrialized society.

In times of social change the gap between the individual’s absolute freedom and the idea of human nature that he may impose on himself narrows: freedom has greater range to express itself, and the idea of human nature itself becomes more fluid and open to revision. In times of long term social stability (say, the tens of thousands of years of anatomically modern human existence prior to the Neolithic Agricultural Revolution, or the period from the Neolithic Agricultural Revolution to the Industrial Revolution), human nature becomes an idée fixe and the gap between ideal, absolute human freedom and the idea of human nature becomes greater the longer these conditions obtain. This is one of the sources of acculturation to absence of change that I discussed in my Political Economy of Globalization.

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Grand Strategy Annex

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