Original text: The Straussian Moment (Peter Thiel)
I once explored the future, straining my eyes to gaze far away,
hoping to see the distant landscape of the world, to witness the various miracles that will appear;
seeing trade in the air ceaselessly, mysterious fleets shuttling back and forth,
pilots of violet twilight descending in succession, carrying precious goods;
hearing the sky filled with cries, fleets of warring nations clashing in the center of the blue sky,
a terrifying dew descending;
at the same time, amidst the rustling sound of the warm southern wind that sweeps across the world,
amidst the rumble of thunder, the flags of various nations march forward bravely;
until the call to cease fire, until the battle flags are lowered,
lowered in the assembly of all humanity, in the federation of the whole world.
— "The Loxley Estate"
The twenty-first century began with an attack on September 11, 2001. In those shocking hours, the entire political and military framework of the 19th and 20th centuries, as well as modernity, and its emphasis on deterrent armies, rational nation-states, open debate, and international diplomacy, were all called into question, as how could a small group of mad, determined, and suicidal individuals be stopped by mere dialogue, or even by overwhelming force, when their actions seemed to transcend all norms of liberal Western society? Given that technology has advanced to the point where a very small number of people can cause unprecedented destruction and death, what is now required?
Recognizing the vulnerability of the West demands new compromises, and this new compromise inevitably requires a reduction in freedom in exchange for enhanced security. At the level of public policy in a narrow sense, airports need more X-ray machines; there are more security personnel on planes; more ID checks and invasions of privacy; and a reduction in the rights of some defendants. Overnight, the fundamentalist civil rights zeal of the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), which championed inviolable personal rights, turned into an impractical error of the times.
Even as the debate over freedom and security grew more intense, any military force that could be mobilized was used to hunt down those responsible for the 9/11 attacks. Despite the rapid mobilization, the success of these efforts was limited. The outdated American military was ill-suited to deal with such enemies, as it was not only necessary to hunt down enemies in a few terrorist camps in the U.S. or Afghanistan, but also to pursue them to the ends of the Earth. Worse still, like the Hydra, the enemy was proliferating; for every jihadist killed, more than ten sought martyrdom through wrongful means.
On a broader level of international cooperation and development, the 9/11 attacks demanded entirely different arrangements. The problem of unilateralism, and the issue of institutions aimed at providing cover for unilateralism, were publicly raised for the first time since 1945. Much has been said elsewhere about the relative roles of the U.S. and the United Nations in the political arena, but the debate behind it extends even to more fundamental questions.
For the moment, it is necessary to focus on a fundamental issue: the policy debate on the containment of violence in the 20th century. After World War II, the centrist consensus on international development called for a massive transfer of wealth from developed countries to developing countries. Supported by the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, and a host of other organizations, hundreds of billions of dollars (in the form of low-interest loans or direct grants) flowed into Third World countries, promoting economic growth and prosperity. But was this consensus correct? Were economic incentives truly sufficient to contain violence?
In fact, the transfer of wealth made some sense at the end of the 1940s. Those who took Marx seriously, haunted by the specter of communist revolution, hoped that the wealth transfer mechanism could help win the Cold War and bring about world peace. For the Rockefeller family, to preserve their wealth (and their heads), they might have been wiser to distribute some of their wealth to the unfortunate on Earth, thereby reducing some of the misfortune.
But in hindsight, one cannot help but ask how policymakers could be so naive. Setting aside the uncomfortable fact that the wealth transfer mechanism never worked as advertised, much of the wealth of the West was wasted on useless projects, with no real economic development; even in the best cases, this money merely flowed back to the West, ultimately ending up in the Swiss bank accounts of Third World dictators. Recent events vividly illustrate that the real problems with this theory are much deeper. Because when the long-awaited blow finally came, it did not come from the slums of Rio de Janeiro, nor from starving farmers in Burkina Faso, nor from herders earning less than a dollar a day. Instead, it came from a direction that modern theories had not anticipated: the perpetrators were the middle class of Saudi Arabia, typically well-educated and harboring great expectations. Their mastermind, Osama bin Laden, inherited a fortune currently worth about $250 million, most of which was earned during the Saudi oil boom of the 1970s. Had he been born in America, bin Laden would have been a member of the Rockefeller family.
Thus, the example of bin Laden and his followers renders the economically driven political thought that dominates modern Western thought incomplete. From the right's "Wealth of Nations" to the left's "Capital," and through Hegel, Kant, and many followers in between, the brutal facts of 9/11 demand that we reexamine the foundations of modern politics. The open intellectual agenda of this article is to suggest a reconsideration of what is needed.
The Question of Human Nature#
Since the Enlightenment, modern political philosophy has been characterized by the abandonment of a set of core questions that were viewed as central in earlier times: What is the good life? What is the meaning of being human? What is the nature of the city and humanity? How do culture and religion fit into all of this? For the modern world, God is dead, accompanied by the disappearance of the question of human nature.
This disappearance has had many effects. If humanity can be approximated as rational economic actors (even Adam Smith and Karl Marx would agree), then those who seek glory in the name of God or the state appear quite strange; however, if these strange individuals are quite ordinary and can assert their views with explosive force, then the political explanation that pretends they do not exist needs to be reexamined.
Of course, there is an older Western tradition that offers a less dogmatic economic view of human nature. This ancient perspective recognizes that not all people are so humble and lacking in ambition that they would be satisfied with merely cultivating their own gardens, as in Voltaire's "Candide." Rather, it recognizes that humans are potentially evil or at least dangerous beings; although there are significant differences between Augustine's Christian virtues and Machiavelli's pagan virtues, both thinkers dared not ignore the essential nature of the question of human nature.
Therefore, to understand a world in which not everyone is an economic man, the most direct approach seems to require a return to certain versions of the old tradition. However, before we attempt to return, we must confront another puzzle: Why did the old tradition fail from the very beginning? After all, it seems to have posed some obvious and important questions. How could these questions be discarded and forgotten?
On a theoretical level, the old tradition consists of two fundamentally incompatible streams, represented by Athens and Jerusalem. There is a vast chasm between Athens and Jerusalem. Pierre Manent summarizes this division in "The City of Man":
In the eyes of the citizen, when it is not important to kneel but to ride a horse, when the sins that people should atone for, or more precisely, correct, are not the sins committed against chastity and truth, but rather military and political errors, what value does Christian moral cultivation have? In the eyes of the Christian, when he believes that, regardless of victory or defeat, whatever regime it is, this world is a valley of tears ravaged by evil, and the state is merely a large group of robbers, what value do his political and military efforts have? For these two protagonists, each other's sacrifice is in vain.
For a long time during the Middle Ages and beyond, the West attempted to cover up these conflicts, instead building on many commonalities of these traditions, but in the long run, like two enormous millstones grinding against each other, "the city and the church... wore each other down in the process of moving from conflict to reconciliation. Each side attempted to return to the original truth, but failed." Neither side could achieve a decisive victory, but in the long run, each side could decisively discredit the other, thus giving rise to the modern "individual," who defines himself by rejecting all forms of sacrifice: "Since the city and the church accuse each other's sacrifices of being vain, the individual is the one who rejects every form of sacrifice and defines himself by this rejection."
In reality, this dialectic has never been simple, nor is it fundamentally rational. Because when people take these questions seriously, they have serious consequences, and the same reasoning applies to modern movements and counter-movements that involve abandoning these questions.
The early modern period of the West—the 16th and 17th centuries—was characterized by the disintegration of these two ancient traditions and increasingly desperate attempts to recombine everything into some sort of functional whole. As the consensus on virtue, the good life, and the true religion began to unravel, direct attempts included achieving such agreements through force. This force escalated during the Reformation and Counter-Reformation and peaked in the Thirty Years' War, which may have been the deadliest period in European history. It is estimated that more than half the population in the conflict-ridden Germany was exterminated.
However, at the end of this process, agreements became harder to reach than ever, and divisions grew larger than ever. Violence failed to create a new unity. This failure was formally established in the Peace of Westphalia, thus 1648 can be fixed as the only year marking the birth of the modern era. The questions of virtue and true religion would be decided by each prince, with each holding different views. Inevitably, the questions of virtue and religion became private matters; polite and respectable people learned to speak less about these issues, as they would only lead to unproductive conflict.
For the modern world, the question of human nature would be viewed as akin to the struggle of Lilliputians over how to properly cut an egg. Hobbes, the first true modern philosopher, boasted of how he escaped during the religious wars; a cowardly life is preferable to a brave but meaningless death. "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country" (Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori) was once an important part of the old tradition, but from then on, it would be seen as nothing more than an old lie.
Thus, the Enlightenment undertook a significant strategic retreat. If the only way to prevent people from slaughtering each other over the correct way to cut an egg is to establish a world where no one thinks too much about the issue, then the intellectual cost of stopping such thinking seems quite small. The question of human nature was abandoned because it was too dangerous to discuss.
John Locke: The American Compromise#
The new economics and the practice of capitalism filled the vacuum left by the abandonment of the old tradition. The most important supporter of this new science was John Locke, who achieved the greatest practical success in America, a country whose concept is largely credited to Locke, to the extent that to call him its ultimate founder is only a slight exaggeration.
We must return to the 18th century to appreciate the immense changes brought by Locke. Revolutionary America was plagued by the fear of religious wars and the fervor of moral imposition by the entire nation. The Declaration of Independence's appeal to "the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" stands in contrast to the old tradition, where the latter did not exist, and the pursuit of happiness seemed less important (and certainly more subjective) than a moral life. Fast forward to America in the 1990s, and the founding context has been forgotten. It turns out that America has been so successful in shaping the modern world that most Americans can no longer recognize the originality and peculiarity of its founding ideals.
Locke's personal example is instructive for the subtle path of the American Revolution toward liberalism. Locke's arguments were made in a low-key manner; he did not wish to incite passions by taking sides in the debates of the 16th and 17th centuries. However, if the most important thing for people is foolish or trivial, that would be offensive, and he must also avoid inciting passions by publicly disparaging all those who take a side. Nowhere is sensitivity more needed than in religious matters. Religious passion led to religious wars, but a strong denial of religion (especially Christianity) does not bring peace. Locke did not need examples from the French or Russian revolutions to understand this.
Thus, the philosopher chose a seemingly moderate path. In "The Reasonableness of Christianity," this philosopher begins to condemn those "justly decried" atheists who publicly question the importance of the rules set by God for mortals. But in the process of this condemnation, we learn many new things about these rules. Locke tells us that if parents are "unnaturally careless," then the commandment for children to honor their parents does not apply. Marriage remains an important contract, but "the wife has the freedom to separate from [her husband] in many cases," and "the first and strongest desire implanted by God in man is not love for God or others, but a healthy concern for self-preservation." Unfortunately, the state of nature is an "ill condition," and those living in it are "poor and miserable"; however, escaping nature provides a path to self-preservation and happiness. Thus, humanity is not the steward of nature (for God provided very little at the outset), but rather the creator of wealth and property: "The value of what we enjoy in this world is largely created by man." From this perspective, the extension of the basic principles of capitalism is that moderate greed is no longer a deadly sin, and the infinite accumulation of wealth is not wrong; naturally, "God and natural law" state that the government "may not tax the property of the people without the consent of the people themselves or their representatives."
As for Christ himself, Locke tells us that the words of Jesus cannot be stated plainly. If Jesus had accurately told people what he was doing, the Jewish and Roman authorities "would take his life; at the very least, they would... obstruct his work," because his teachings would threaten civil order and the functioning of government. Therefore, Christ concealed his meaning so that he could live and preach. Locke's conception of Christ is far removed from the world of the medieval passion plays or the film "The Passion of the Christ"; however, the character Locke attributes to Christ aligns quite well with both Locke himself and the indifferent world he created.
Over time, the state established by Locke would discard the religious nature of Christianity, even as it retained many of its outward forms. America would ultimately become more secular and materialistic, although most of its citizens would continue to call themselves "Christians." There would be no catastrophic anti-religious wars like those in France or Russia, but neither would there be a counter-revolution. Only occasionally would conservative moralists express their confusion about how a nation ostensibly founded on Christian principles could deviate so far from its original concept; they never considered that this gradual process of deviation was part of the original concept.
In the capitalist world, fierce debates about truth—whether regarding religious and moral issues or the question of human nature—would disrupt the productivity of commercial activities. Therefore, it is best to eliminate or obscure such issues. Thus, in Hobbes's view, all the complexities of humanity are reduced to the desire for power:
The passions that most provoke intellectual differences are primarily the more or less intense desires for power, wealth, knowledge, and honor. All of this can be reduced to the first, which is the desire for power. For wealth, knowledge, and honor are merely types of power.
In Locke's "Concerning Human Understanding," the author elaborates on the concept of power while further stripping away anything that belongs specifically to humanity: will is the power to prefer one action over another; freedom is the power to act according to that preference; understanding is a form of power; matter is merely the power to produce certain experiential effects, but these effects do not tell us the nature of the underlying matter.
Locke proceeds cautiously once again. He does not directly tell us that human nature does not exist, or that the ancient traditions of Aristotle or Aquinas are absolutely wrong; he does not seek a complete break with the past, but he ruthlessly undermines the old tradition, for when we observe things (including others), we can only see their secondary effects as manifested by various powers. We cannot understand their true nature or substance; the finitude of humanity is an irreducible part of the conditions of human existence, and humanity can never understand the essence of human nature. Asking a question about human nature, or the teleology of human power, leads to meaningless debates like "whether the best relish is to be found in apples, plums, or nuts."
In human nature, Locke leaves us with an unknowable "X." This awareness of ignorance lays the foundation for the founding of America, and although the foundation is low, it is solid. Humanity's "X" may have certain needs and preferences, but no one is in a position of authority to challenge those needs. Thus, in a somewhat paradoxical way, the unknowability of "X" leads to a strong assertion of classical liberalism and the different rights belonging to this unknowable X, namely religious freedom, because we can never know what people are truly thinking in the sanctum of their minds; freedom of speech, because we cannot unarguably criticize how people express themselves; property rights and commercial rights, because we cannot predict how people will handle what they own. "Capitalism," as Nobel laureate Milton Friedman summarized, "is simply human behavior when abandoned."
Of course, there are various difficult-to-define situations. People may wonder what the liberal framework has to say about the rights of children, criminals, or the mentally ill, or about the limitations on commodification (extortionate interest rates, contract slavery, prostitution, sale of body parts, etc.). But for Locke and the other American founders, these special cases could be postponed for later consideration; in any case, the general principle of the unknowability of human "X" would, over time, encourage the gradual expansion of the realm of human freedom.
Such boundary cases have a particularly important category that involves questions of origin. We will return to this broader question later, but it is worth noting a specific variant: even if we should not interfere with how people handle their property as they see fit, how do we know that this property was originally acquired justly? The importance of strong property rights seems to compel us to raise some tricky questions about the origins of property itself.
However, Locke again urges us not to worry too much: the value in a state of nature is minimal, and most value is added through human labor or intellect. Therefore, we need not reflect on the past but can focus on the future: most new wealth will be created through strengthened property rights and enjoyed by those who adhere to the rules of capitalism. Those who acquire property through violence will lack the ability to grow their wealth, and by then will possess only a small portion of the world's wealth, with no influence. Locke would immediately refute Balzac's sweeping and subversive view that "behind every great fortune lies a crime." We need not heed Brecht's call for more inspectors and interrogators. Nothing can prevent us from enjoying the prosperous peace of the capitalist paradise we have built for ourselves.
Since September 11, our peace has been shattered. Because there is another very important boundary that the American people have forgotten exists. They have forgotten the rest of the world, forgotten the profound divisions within the Western world. The non-Western world has yet to see the Peace of Westphalia. The Enlightenment developed at different speeds in different parts of the world. In the world beyond the West, the questions of religion and human purpose remain central; even in 2001, the greatest fear was not the fear of a painful death, but the fear of life after death.
Thus, a religious war was brought to a land that no longer cares about religious wars. Even President Bush, who styled himself a religious conservative, could not convince himself that religion was truly important: "This great nation with many religions understands that our war is not against Islam, nor against the faith of the Muslim people."
Bush downplayed the differences between the two, while bin Laden emphasized them, starkly contrasting the pure Islamic world with the decadent Western world: "Loving this world is wrong. You should love the other world... die for the right cause, and go to the other world."
Unfortunately, bin Laden is not merely an inconsequential madman, like someone one might find shouting at a confused audience in Hyde Park. For bin Laden, unlike Locke, the moral and behavioral dilemmas do not need to be postponed; their answers are clear, and resolution cannot be delayed. Bin Laden is a man passionate about wealth and power, so his personal example reminds us of the boundary cases that Locke easily dismissed.
In fact, bin Laden's source of wealth—the oil industry—is one of the most obvious examples, standing in stark contrast to Locke's apt summary. Because most of the value of oil exists merely in nature, the "labor" added by humans in extracting and refining this oil is relatively small in proportion. However, at the same time, the rise and fall of economies depend on the price of crude oil, thus oil occupies a significant share of world wealth. In fact, the original appropriation of this oil has created enormous wealth for up to half of the 20th century. Therefore, the development of the oil industry dominated by dictators and autocrats from Asia, the Middle East, and Africa is a less-than-secret crime story, so vast that the proceeds of crime are sufficient to purchase dignity and nearly everything else. In helping to form the consensus of centrist economic policies after World War II, the Rockefeller family forgot their own family history.
Of course, in the long run, power and prosperity are likely to belong to those who follow the rules of capitalism, so in the long run, those religious fanatics who intervene violently and suddenly will ultimately lack the wealth and technology needed to threaten the non-religious world established by the Enlightenment in the West; but if we all die in the short term, none of this matters.
Today, mere self-preservation compels all of us to reexamine the world, to think strange new thoughts, thus awakening from a long and fruitful intellectual slumber and amnesia, a period mistakenly referred to as the Enlightenment.
Carl Schmitt: The Persistence of Politics#
However, when the new commercial and capitalist world seems so simple, joyful, and pragmatic at every point, why return to the old tradition? The German legal scholar Carl Schmitt offers an extreme choice for Locke and all Enlightenment thinkers. He acknowledges that the signers of the Peace of Westphalia would never reach any consensus on the most important matters regarding religion, virtue, and human nature. However, when Locke says that ignorance of human nature is part of human nature, Schmitt responds that being divided by such questions and forced to choose sides is also part of the human condition.
Politics is a battlefield of divisions, and humanity is forced to choose between friends and enemies. "The climax of politics," Schmitt asserts, "is the moment when the enemy is clearly identified as the enemy." The existence of an enemy forces us to confront the fundamental questions of human nature. The enemy is our own problem. Since these contentious questions always exist, people cannot unilaterally escape all politics; those who try to do so suffer from extreme self-deception; this includes the signers of the Kellogg Pact of 1928, which declared all wars illegal.
Indeed, it is worse; "If a portion of people declares that they no longer recognize the enemy, then, depending on the situation, they will stand with the enemy and assist them." Unilateral disarmament is not safe. When one chooses not to make a decision, they have still made a choice—often a wrong choice—that implicitly assumes humanity is fundamentally good or without problems. In Schmitt's view, "this is a sign of the end of politics":
In Russia, before the revolution, the doomed class romanticized the Russian peasantry as good, brave, and Christian... In the French aristocratic society before the revolution of 1789, they cherished the "innate goodness of man" and the virtues of the masses... No one noticed this revolution; it is incredible that when 1793 had arrived, these privileged people, while discussing the goodness, virtue, and innocence of the people, displayed a secure and unquestioning attitude—this is a terrible mockery.
Without an invasion from outer space, there will never be a world state that politically unites all humanity. This is logically impossible:
This political entity cannot be universally inclusive of all humanity and the entire world. If different nations, religions, classes, and other human groups on Earth should unify to the extent that conflicts between them are impossible, even unimaginable, if in this globally embracing state, civil wars cease forever, then the distinction between friends and enemies would also cease.
In the medieval Catholic tradition, Schmitt believes that humanity's permanent political division is a pale reflection of the "eschatological conception of historical state," which ultimately compels people to follow or reject Christ. He links politics and religion, declaring himself opposed to neutralists, abortionists, cremationists, and pacifists. Just as pacifists believe that political decisions can be avoided in this world, cremationists reject the resurrection of the body and also refuse to make religious decisions for the next world.
In this way, politics constantly reminds fallen humanity that life is serious, that some things are truly important, and thus Schmitt strongly agrees with the Puritan Oliver Cromwell's condemnation of Spain:
Why, truly, your greatest enemy is the Spaniard. He is a natural enemy, and he is so by nature because he harbors hostility toward everything divine. Everything that is of God, within you or possibly within you.
When bin Laden declared war on "infidels, Zionists, and crusaders," Schmitt would not suggest reasonable compromises. He would urge the initiation of a new crusade as a way to rediscover the meaning and purpose of our lives, perhaps borrowing from Pope Urban II's exhortation at the Council of Clermont, where in 1096 he urged his eager audience to join the First Crusade: "When the army of the Lord charges against his enemies, let them shout! Dieu le veult!"
Regardless of its shortcomings, Schmitt's description of politics captures the strange essence of the confrontation unfolding between the West and Islam. This strangeness lies in the fundamental differences in how both sides view the confrontation itself. Perhaps never before has there been such a vast difference. The Islamic side maintains a strong religious and political perspective on reality; it views the struggle with the West as more important than life and death, as Allah will judge his followers based on their performance in the struggle after death. Bin Laden would approvingly quote Cromwell and Pope Urban II's speeches with little need for alteration. These words still resonate, inspiring the spirit of heroic self-sacrifice.
In contrast, on the Western side (if it can even be called a side), there is tremendous confusion about the purpose of this war and why there exists a civilizational conflict. Openly declaring war on Islam is unimaginable; we are more inclined to view these measures as police actions against some unusual anti-social criminals who happen to blow up buildings. We fear considering the larger significance of this struggle, even the most ardent supporters of the Western war know that we no longer believe in the existence of God in heaven.
Then, one encounters Schmitt's unsettling challenge. On this side, everyone, like Hobbes, views earthly life as more important than death; on this side, everyone seeks to avoid fighting and confrontation; but when one runs away from an enemy that continues to shine, they ultimately fail—no matter how great the initial numerical and technological advantage, Schmitt's solution to this impending failure requires an affirmation of Western politics. However, here we must confront another possibly more unsettling conclusion. Because let us assume it is possible to turn back time, setting aside uncertainties; we can return to the faith of Cromwell and Urban II; we understand Islam as a God-given enemy of the West; then we could respond as fiercely to Islam as it currently attacks the West. This would be a pyrrhic victory, as its cost would be the elimination of everything that fundamentally distinguishes modern Western society from Islam.
The way Schmitt divides the world into friends and enemies harbors a dangerous dynamic. This is a dynamic that undermines this distinction, and Schmitt's clever calculations completely overlook this: One must choose their enemies well, for they will soon become like them.
If one agrees with Schmitt's starting assumptions, then the West must lose the war, or it will lose our identity. In any case, the persistence of politics will bring doom to modern Western society, but for the sake of completeness, we must also consider the opposite possibility, which Schmitt himself has indirectly hinted at in his writings. For although politics likely guarantees the seriousness of life, and as long as politics exists, the world will remain divided, it does not guarantee that politics itself will survive.
Let us acknowledge that unilateral disarmament is impossible, at least for those who value survival, but is it not possible for everyone to lay down their arms simultaneously while rejecting politics? There cannot be a universal political entity in the world, but there can be a universal renunciation of politics.
Hegelian Alexandre Kojeve believes that the end of history will mark the complete abandonment of all dilemmas. Humanity itself will disappear, but there will be no more conflicts:
If humanity becomes animal-like again, its actions, its loves, and its games must also become purely "natural" again. Therefore, it must be acknowledged that after the end of history, people will build their buildings and create their art as birds build nests and spiders weave webs... "The so-called total destruction of humanity" also means the final disappearance of human discourse in the strict sense. This animal called Homo sapiens will respond to sound signals or gestures as if they were "languages," so their so-called "discourse" is akin to the "language" of bees. Thus, what disappears is not merely the exploration of philosophy or wisdom in discourse, but wisdom itself.
Schmitt responds to these views, although his conclusions are quite different. In such a unified world, "what remains is neither politics nor the state, but culture, civilization, economy, morality, law, art, entertainment, and so on." The world of "entertainment" represents the climax of a departure from politics. The representation of reality may replace reality: violent video games replace violent wars; without heroic feats, there may be thrilling amusement park rides; without serious thought, there may be "various conspiracies," as in soap operas. This is a world where people entertain themselves to death throughout their lives.
Schmitt does not deny the possibility of such a world spiraling out of control, but he believes it will not happen in a completely self-generating manner:
The sharp question to be raised is, who will bear the terrible power inherent in an economic and technological organization that embraces the world? This question must not be overlooked—because to believe that everything will operate automatically, that things will self-manage, and that government by the people for the people will be superfluous, because then humanity will be absolutely free. What will they be free from? This can be answered through optimistic or pessimistic conjectures, all of which ultimately lead to anthropological beliefs.
Such an artificial world requires a "technical religion" that believes in "unlimited power and dominion over nature... believing that humanity has unlimited potential for change and happiness in this world's natural existence." For the political theologian Schmitt, this "Babylonian unity" represents a fleeting harmony, foreshadowing the ultimate disaster of the apocalypse. According to medieval tradition, Schmitt knows and fears that this artificial unity can only be achieved through the dark figure of the Antichrist. At the end of human history, he will tempt people with the promise of "peace and security," secretly ruling the world:
God created the world; the Antichrist forged it... the evil magician recreated the world, changed the face of the Earth, and conquered nature. What is the indifference of nature serving him for—satisfying any human need, for comfort and ease? Those who allow themselves to be deceived by him can only see the mythical effects; nature seems to have been conquered, the dawn of a safe era has arrived; everything has been taken care of, a clever foresight and plan have replaced divine providence.
Everything seems to be in a self-managing world is a world of science fiction, the world of Stephenson's "Snow Crash," and the world of those who choose not to take the red pill in "The Matrix." However, no representation of reality will be the same as reality; people must never overlook the larger framework in which representations exist, for the cost of abandoning oneself to such artificial representations is always too high, as the decisions avoided are always too important. By making people forget they have souls, the Antichrist will successfully deceive them.
Leo Strauss: Proceed with Caution#
We find ourselves at an impasse.
On one hand, we have the newer Enlightenment, which has never become fully global and perhaps always at the cost of too high a self-rigidification. On the other hand, we return to the older tradition, but this return is fraught with too much violence. The incredibly extreme solutions favored by Schmitt in his dark reflections have become impossible in a world filled with nuclear weapons and technological annihilation after 1945.
So, what kind of coherent body of knowledge or practice is possible? Political philosopher Leo Strauss attempts to resolve the core paradox of this postmodern world. The challenge of this task is reflected in the difficulty of Strauss's own works, which are extremely obscure to outsiders. A representative, albeit not entirely random, passage can serve as an example: "The unity of knowledge and the communication of knowledge can also be compared to the union of man and horse, although it cannot be compared to a centaur."
In fact, nothing in Strauss's writings is clearer than the need to reduce transparency. Unfettered philosophical thinking poses great risks to philosophers (and the cities they inhabit), for even in the freest or most open regimes, there exist certain seriously problematic truths. Strauss is convinced that he is not the first to discover or rediscover these truths. The great writers and philosophers of the past also knew these things, but to protect themselves from persecution, these thinkers employed an "esoteric" mode of writing, where their "literature is not directed at all readers, but only at trustworthy and intelligent readers."
As a thought experiment, Strauss invites us to consider the position of "a historian living in a totalitarian state, a universally respected and unquestioned member of the only existing political party." Due to his research, this historian "begins to doubt the reasonableness of the government-supported interpretation of religious history." On the open level, this historian would passionately defend the state-supported viewpoint, but between the lines, "he would write three or four sentences in that concise and clear style that easily attracts the attention of thoughtful young people." This would be sufficient for the attentive reader, but not enough for those government censors who are always somewhat less intelligent. Alternatively, our writer might even publicly state "certain facts... we have ample reason to discover so many interesting devils, madmen, beggars, sophists, drunks, hedonists, and fools in the greatest literary works of the past" by using some notorious characters as mouthpieces.
Strauss summarizes the benefits of this strange mode of discourse:
It has all the advantages of private communication without the greatest disadvantage—it only touches the author's acquaintances. It has all the advantages of public dissemination but lacks its greatest disadvantage—executing the author.
Because some books (perhaps other works as well) "cannot reveal their full meaning as the author wishes unless people think about them 'long and hard' day and night," cultural relativism and epistemological nihilism are not the final conclusions. Strauss believes there exists a truth about human nature that can, in principle, be known by humanity. In fact, the great writers of the past recognized this truth far more than their publicly expressed disagreements would lead superficial readers to believe, "because there are more great men who are the stepchildren of their time or at odds with the future than people find it hard to believe." These writers seem to fit only the different cities they inhabit. Strauss hints at the dangers they face by reminding us of Goethe's warning to Faust's assistant: "A few understand the human heart and mind; those who are foolish enough not to restrain their entire thoughts, but rather to show their feelings and visions to the vulgar, were once nailed to the cross and burned."
Strauss has no shortcuts. The philosopher practices what he preaches, and thus one will futilely search for a systematic statement of hidden truths in Strauss's writings. Perhaps the only concession Strauss makes to future philosophers is that his works are evidently obscure and difficult to understand, in contrast to the past writers whose books seem simple, but whose true esoteric nature thus becomes even more obscure. Harvard University government professor Harvey Mansfield claims that "the public agenda of Straussians" is limited to "reading classics for their own sake," without providing simplified summaries.
However, certain themes appear and reappear—the questions of city and humanity, the questions of founding and origin, and the relationship between religion and the best regime. To summarize further, even if we cannot fully start from exceptional cases (like Machiavelli and Schmitt), this is a situation that cannot be forgotten. To speak only of political reports that discuss the smooth operation of government institutions is incomplete; one must also consider the environment in which this institution was originally established or created, and where it may be threatened, modified, and rebuilt.
If we broaden our perspective, we will find that in the modern world of Locke and Montaigne, there are more things between heaven and earth than we imagine. The hidden facts do not mean they do not exist or are unknowable. For example, regarding the question of origins, Strauss notes a remarkable consistency, at least at the level of factual details, between the Roman myths about the founding of the greatest cities of the ancient world and the account of the founding of the first city in Genesis.
Does Strauss believe that "without Remus being murdered by his brother Romulus, a great and glorious society could not exist?" At first, he seems to imply that America is the only exception in history and approvingly quotes patriot Thomas Paine: "Accompanying American independence is a revolution in the principles and practices of government... based on moral theory, universal peace systems, and humanity's inalienable hereditary rights, the government is now rotating with a stronger momentum from west to east than the sword government from east to west." But within a few pages, we find that even in the Declaration of Independence, this patriotic narrative is not necessarily the whole truth, as readers are informed that perhaps "America's greatness is due not only to its consistent adherence to the principles of freedom and justice but also to its occasional deviations." Furthermore, we are told that there exists a "malicious interpretation of the Louisiana Purchase and the fate of the Red Indians." In fact, the philosopher's decision to write this book is mysteriously a reminder to us that even in America, the historically freest regime, there are politically incorrect taboos.
In reminding us of the permanent questions, the political philosopher agrees with the political theologian's admonition for seriousness and, along with the latter, rejects the notion that "everything is taken care of," viewing it as an illusion. However, because philosophers do not share all the hopes and fears of theologians, there is more freedom to navigate a middle path between "absolute" Sira and "relative" Calybdus. As Strauss states, "There is a universally valid hierarchy of purposes, but there are no universally valid rules of action."
Strauss illustrates this claim by reminding us of the "extreme situations" in which the existence or independence of a society is threatened. This extreme situation is war. What a decent society does in war "will depend to some extent on the enemy—possibly an absolutely ruthless and barbaric enemy—forcing it to do so." Therefore, "there are no predefined limits, no limits that could become retributive." Moreover, "considerations applicable to external enemies are likely to apply to subversives within society." The philosopher ultimately calls: "Let these sad emergencies wear the veils they ought to wear."
Let us recap. Modern Western society has lost confidence in itself. In the period of the Enlightenment and post-Enlightenment, this loss of faith liberated immense commerce and creativity. At the same time, this loss has made the West vulnerable. Is there a way to consolidate it without completely destroying modern Western society, a way that does not throw the baby out with the bathwater?
At first glance, Strauss seems to offer such a mild middle path, but his road is also fraught with danger. Because once the philosopher's theoretical obscurity combines with some form of practical implementation, the problems of self-reflection will emerge one after another: an understanding of the essence of urban problems makes an unreflective defense of the city impossible. Thus, Strauss's contradictory restoration of these permanent questions may make solving them even more difficult. Or, from Schmitt's eschatological perspective, Strauss's plan is to protect the katechon but has turned into an "accelerator against its will." No new Alexander can solve the problems of our time.
Moreover, the constitutional mechanisms of America prevent a direct path forward. Through a carefully designed system of checks and balances "to counter ambition with ambition," it prevents any ambitious person from rebuilding the old republic. The freedom of action enjoyed by the founders of America far exceeded that of later American politicians. Ultimately, the ambitious will realize that politically, humans are powerless, and all political careers end in failure. The self-aware intellectual paralysis contrasts with the political paralysis in our open system of government.
However, the possibilities for action are more numerous than they initially appear, precisely because there are more areas than those listed by traditional laws or judicial systems. Roberto Calasso reminds us in "The Ruin of Kasch":
It can be imagined that the period from 1940 to the present can be presented through two parallel histories: historians, with their carefully designed parameters, discuss characters, masses, parties, movements, negotiations, production; and the history of secret departments, telling tales of murder, traps, betrayal, assassination, cover-ups, and arms trafficking. We know that both narratives are insufficient, each claiming to be self-sufficient, one can never transform into the other, and they will continue their parallel lives. But hasn't it always been this way?
Strauss also reminds us that a special framework is needed to supplement America's institutions: "Without 'intelligence,' that is, espionage, the most just society cannot survive," although "espionage is impossible without interrupting certain rules of natural rights." Similarly, he and Tennyson do not disagree on the outcome, only on the method. The United Nations is filled with endless, fruitless parliamentary debates, like the idiotic tales of Shakespeare told by fools; we should view the secret cooperation of the world's intelligence agencies (Echelon) as the decisive path to genuine American-style global peace.
Liberal critics who disagree with the philosopher's views also tend to dislike the philosopher's politics. Just as a theoretical framework unaffected by public debate seems somewhat unstable and problematic, the political framework described in high school textbooks outside of representative democracy's checks and balances seems somewhat subversive and immoral; but if American liberalism is decisively incomplete, then its criticisms are no longer so decisive. For Straussians, Oswald Spengler's dramatic conclusion in "The Decline of the West" calls for action, and there is no fundamental disagreement.
Rene Girard: The End of Human Cities#
Despite the excitement of Strauss's plan, there remains a disquieting suspicion that it may completely lack something fundamental. If the extraordinary description of world history by French literary theorist Rene Girard is partially correct, then Strauss's moment of victory may prove to be fleeting.
In important ways, Girard's analysis of modern Western society resonates with some of the themes already discussed. Like Schmitt and Strauss, Girard also believes there exists an unsettling truth regarding the city and humanity, and the entire problem of human violence has been obscured by the Enlightenment. Moreover, one day this truth will be fully known: "Today, no question has more promise than the question of man." The possibility of transcending the unknown human "X" has already been implicitly contained in the entire project of 19th-century evolutionary science by John Locke and 18th-century rationalists. Just as Darwin's "On the Origin of Species" transformed natural science, so too will the works of other writers on "The Origin of Religions" provide a logical and chronological sequel that will one day change human science.
For Girard, this post-Darwinian description must somehow combine the gradualism of Darwinian evolution with the essentialism of pre-Darwinian thought, emphasizing the continuity and discontinuity of humanity and the natural order. This more comprehensive description of human nature will center on the insight already contained in Aristotle's biology: "Man differs from other animals in that he has a stronger capacity for imitation." Here, we must see both the differences in kind and the differences in degree, which can provide a basis for the synthesis of Aristotle and Darwin. Such a synthesis and connection were already hinted at in Shakespeare's time, when the word "ape" referred both to "primate" and to "imitation."
However, the new human sciences must push the concept of imitation further than before. According to Girard, all natural institutions, starting with children imitating their parents to acquire language, require this imitative activity, so it is not excessive to describe the human brain as a vast imitation machine. Because without imitation, humanity would not exist, we cannot say that imitation itself is problematic, nor can we say that those imitators are in some way inferior to those who do not imitate. According to Girard, the latter category of people does not exist at all—although it remains the most cherished myth of various modern ideologies, celebrating a completely fictional, independent human self that exists apart from others.
However, the necessity of imitation does not render it unproblematic. Traditionally, people tend to view imitation primarily as representational, such as learning language and the dissemination of various cultural institutions, but nothing prevents imitation from extending into the realm of acquisition, nor does anything prevent people from imitating the desires of others. In the process of "comparison," imitation pushes people toward escalating competition. This unsettling truth about imitation may explain why knowledge about imitation remains almost unconsciously suppressed. Among all the irreconcilable sins of medieval Catholicism, jealousy is the one closest to imitative competition, an unforgivable sin that remains a cultural taboo even in the most avant-garde postmodern circles.
Finally: because humanity's capacity for imitation is more advanced than that of other animals, we lack sufficiently strong instincts to limit the scope of this competition. Therefore, at the core of the theory of imitation lies a mystery: what happened in the distant past when all apes pursued the same goal, and the competition between imitative substitutes had the potential to escalate into limitless violence?
For the philosophers of the Enlightenment, this war of all against all will ultimately end with the warring parties acknowledging the irrationality of such a war. In a crisis, the warring parties would sit down, engage in calm discussions, and draft a social contract that would provide the foundation for a peaceful society. Because Girard considers this notion absurd, he believes that the social contract is the fundamental lie of the Enlightenment—so shameless a lie that from Hobbes to Rousseau, the advocates of social contract theory do not believe that an actual contract was ever signed.
In Girard's alternative description of these issues, the war of all against all does not culminate in a social contract but rather in a war of all against one, as the same imitative forces gradually drive combatants to unite against a specific individual. The war continues to escalate without any reasonable flashpoint, at least until this individual becomes a scapegoat, whose death helps to unite the community and brings limited peace to the survivors.
This murder is the secret origin of all religious and political institutions, remembered and transformed in mythic form. The scapegoat, deemed the primary source of conflict and chaos, must die for peace. Violence ends violence, and society is born. However, since society is built on a belief in its own order and justice, the founding act of violence must be concealed by the myth that the victim was indeed guilty. Thus, violence is placed at the core of society; myth is merely a fleeting narrative of violence. Myth sanctifies the violence of the founding murder: it tells us that violence is justified because the victim was truly guilty, at least in the context of ancient cultures, truly powerful. Myth transforms the murdered scapegoat into a god, and religious rituals reenact the founding murder through the sacrifice of humans or animals, thereby creating a peace that is always mixed with some form of violence. The centrality of sacrifice is so great that those who manage to delay or avoid execution become objects of reverence. Every king is a living god; this is the true origin of monarchy:
Without a grave, there is no culture; without culture, there is no grave; ultimately, the grave is the first and only cultural symbol. The grave on the ground does not necessarily need to be invented. It is the pile of stones under which the victim, stoned to death by consensus, is buried. It is the first pyramid.
This is how things used to work. But we now live in a world where the cat is out of the bag; at least to some extent, we know that the scapegoat is not as guilty as the persecuting community claims. Because the smooth operation of human culture depends on a lack of understanding of this truth about human culture, ancient rituals will no longer work in the modern world.
As Hegel said, the owl of Minerva only spreads its wings at dusk. The unveiling of the mythical past opens a future where we no longer believe in any myths; in a dramatic break with the past, they will be deconstructed, thereby losing credibility. But unlike Hegel, our awareness of hidden history—"the things hidden since the foundation of the world"—does not automatically lead to a glorious final synthesis. Because these founding myths also play a key role in distinguishing between legitimate and illegitimate violence, their dissolution may cause humanity to lose the effective operation of limited, sacred violence, which is needed to protect itself from unlimited, desacralized violence.
For Girard, this combination of imitation and deconstruction of ancient cultures suggests that the modern world contains a powerful dimension of revelation. From Girard's perspective, the current political debate remains insufficient to address the contemporary global situation, to the extent that across the board, people still deny the foundational role of violence caused by human imitation, thus systematically underestimating the scope of apocalyptic violence. Nuclear weapons create a terrifying dilemma, as people still deny the foundational role of violence caused by human imitation, thus systematically underestimating the scope of apocalyptic violence. But what if imitation drives others to attempt to acquire these weapons to gain the imitative prestige they confer, thus the technological situation is never static but contains a powerful dynamic of escalation?
One might define "liberals" as those who are ignorant of the past and this history of violence but still cling to the Enlightenment's view of the inherent goodness of human nature. One might define "conservatives" as those who are ignorant of the future and unaware of how the world is destined to unfold, thus still believing that nation-states or other institutions rooted in sacred violence can contain unlimited human violence. The terrifying synthesis of this dogmatic ideological blind spot, the synthesis of violence and globalization, is one in which all boundaries regarding violence are abolished, whether geographical, professional (e.g., non-combatants), or demographic (e.g., children). In extreme cases, even the distinction between one's own violence and violence against others is disappearing, as seen in the disturbing new phenomenon of suicide-murderers. Using the term "terrorism" to describe this unlimited, apocalyptic violence is most appropriate.
In fact, one might wonder whether any form of politics is still possible for a special generation that first learns the truth of human history. It is precisely in this context that one must remember that the original meaning of the word apocalypse is to unveil. For Girard, this terrible unveiling of knowledge opens a catastrophic fault line beneath human cities: "This is the true apocalypse, the Christian apocalypse, the unforgettable abyss of the victim."
History and Knowledge#
In the debate between Strauss and Girard, the key issue of contention may be reduced to a question of time. When will this highly unsettling knowledge suddenly appear in the consciousness of the masses, making all politics impossible and ultimately ending human cities?
If Girard announces the founding of a great enterprise, then Strauss might note that his situation is similar to that of Nietzsche's madman, who announces the death of God to a godless world:
I came too early... my time has not yet come. This great event is still on its way, still wandering, and has not yet reached people's ears. Lightning and thunder need time; the light of the stars needs time; even when things are done, time is needed for them to be seen and heard. This matter is further away from them than the most distant stars—yet it is they who have done it!
For Strauss, just as for Nietzsche, the truth of imitation and the original murder is so shocking that, wherever and whenever, most people will not believe it. The world of the Enlightenment may be based on certain misunderstandings of human nature, but a comprehensive understanding of these misconceptions may still be the domain of the philosophical elite. What is truly frightening is the successful popularization of this knowledge; it is in this context that Strauss's follower Pierre Manent launched a fierce attack on Girard's theory: "If human 'culture' is fundamentally based on violence, then [Girard] has no other way to bring about the destruction of humanity under the guise of non-violence." Girard would counter that there is no redemption to be found in the silence of philosophy, for one day, there will be no more esoteric knowledge:
I do believe that we need to have the discussion we have been pursuing here. However, if we choose another path, others will accept this notion. In any case, there will be others who repeat what we are saying, and they will advance matters beyond what we have already been able to do. However, the books themselves are not important; the events surrounding the emergence of these books will be more persuasive than anything we write, and will establish truths that are difficult to describe, even in simple and mundane examples. They are already very simple, indeed too simple, to interest our current Byzantium, but these truths will become even simpler; they will soon be accepted by anyone.
For Girard, the recognition of the murder of the scapegoat is driven by the historical work of Jewish-Western revelation. Revelation may be slow (because it contains information humanity does not wish to hear), but it is irreversible. Thus, the decisive difference between Girard and Strauss (or Nietzsche) centers on the issue of historicism.
On a personal level, even in the end, there will still be some choice between Jerusalem and Athens. We have St. Thomas More, a Christian saint, as a helper in making this choice. More declares in "Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation":
To prove that this life is not a time for laughter, but a time for weeping, we find that our Savior himself wept two or three times, but he never laughed once. I will not swear that he never did so, but at least he left us no example of such. On the other hand, he left us examples of weeping.
The saint knows that Socrates's situation is precisely the opposite; he left us no examples of weeping but left us examples of laughter.
But the world has not yet come to an end, and it is hard to say how long modern twilight will last. So, what must Christian politicians or political leaders aspiring to be the wise stewards of our time do?
The negative answer is simple. We cannot return to the ancient world, nor can we return to the strong political concept envisioned by Carl Schmitt. We cannot truly adapt to the Enlightenment, as many of its clichés have become deadly fallacies in our lives. But neither can we decide to avoid all decisions, retreat to studying the Bible in anticipation of the Second Coming, for in that case, one would no longer be a politician.
Christian politicians or political leaders must diverge from Strauss's teachings in one decisive aspect. Unlike Strauss, Christian politicians or political leaders know that the modern era will not be permanent and will ultimately give way to something very different. One must never forget that one day everything will be unveiled, all injustices will be exposed, and those who commit these crimes will be held accountable.
Therefore, in determining the correct combination of violence and peace, Christian politicians or political leaders should wisely stand on the side of peace at any critical juncture. There is no formula to answer the key question of what constitutes "closure"; this must be determined in each specific case, and likely the cumulative decisions made in all those closely related cases will determine the fate of the postmodern world. Because that world may differ from the modern world in that it may be worse or better, such as the unlimited violence of uncontrolled imitation or the peace of the Kingdom of God.