Executing Truth: Public Policy and the Threat of Social Science 1793603316, 9781793603319

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Executing Truth

Executing Truth Public Policy and the Threat of Social Science Stuart Weierter

LEXINGTON BOOKS Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com 6 Tinworth Street, London SE11 5AL Copyright © 2019 by The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data ISBN: 978-1-7936-0331-9 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN: 978-1-7936-0332-6 (electronic) TM The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Acknowledgments 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

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Introduction Truth, Politics, and Public Policy Harold Lasswell and the Possibility of Political Science John Dewey’s Politics of Poetic Craftsmanship Rationality in Action: Max Weber’s Political Science Hegel’s Resolution Self-Knowledge and the Everyday Conclusion: Theory in Practice

1 29 55 77 99 129 161 179

References

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Index

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About the Author

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Acknowledgments

This book is based on my PhD thesis in politics, undertaken at the University of New South Wales, under the principal guidance of Miguel Vatter, with Geoffrey Levey as associate. Many thanks to Miguel for his exceptionally deep and broad criticism. The present work would have been much more muddled without his clear-headed advice. I thank also Geoff for his many helpful comments, especially on the early chapters. Melanie White also played a part, and I thank her for her keen insights on social theory. Each has been exceedingly generous in sharing their criticism of my work. Whatever muddles remain, I can thank only myself. More broadly, thanks to Bernard Clarke (he of indefatigable philosophical spirit) and Michael Holmes (for his perspicacious one-liners). I mention also Paul Tyson for his unfailing verve. And also, to an anonymous reviewer of this book, thanks for the helpful comments. The introduction, conclusion, and Hegel chapters were much improved following his/her review. Belated thanks also to my early academic years in university business and management schools. With this experience I know now the pits, so to speak, of a modern university education. The management and business school ethos has, sadly, metastasised, spreading cancer-like within the academy. I credit David Long for pointing out to me another way. And I am indebted to Art Schulman for showing me that not all sink. Finally, the team at Lexington Books has been a delight. For this, I am grateful to Joseph Parry, Bryndee Ryan, and Meaghan Menzel for their professional guidance. Text from Alan White’s translation of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right has been reprinted by permission of Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., all rights reserved.

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Chapter One

Introduction

The academy, it has often been said, is an ivory tower. From the outside, the world of academe presents itself as a world apart. This is a world of seemingly abstruse arguments, with a language quite different to the common vernacular. For many, it is a ‘closed shop,’ or a conversation had only amongst academics themselves. What absolves academe from the public’s charge that it is self-absorbed, or engaged in some trivial pursuit, is that academic work gets things done, either by way of technological advances, education, or the dissemination of knowledge. This is the public face of the university. For the public, this is not work that should favor one group over another. Or rather, if the work does set out to favor one group over another, it does so for some higher or universal interest. In the spirit of the modern professions, universities, and the knowledge they generate, are expected to serve the common good. Advances in medicine, for example, or in fluid mechanics, or mathematical topology, will, it is hoped, add to the stock of knowledge, a stock upon which others might draw in order to make the world a safer, healthier, more enjoyable, and thus more comfortable place for us all. The public makes a political judgment, in other words, and it is a judgment about the usefulness of knowledge according to these presumed universal interests. The social sciences are, obviously, not themselves immune to this judgment. If they serve only sectional interests, or are merely of idiosyncratic significance, or if, from a broader perspective they show themselves as simply trivial, then these social sciences are ripe for the cutting. To avoid extinction, the social sciences must show themselves as either worthy for their own sake, or, in absolving themselves of the charge that they are idiosyncratic (i.e., trivial), show that they serve some universal interest. If they cannot demonstrate their worth at the level of ‘theory’ – and here I mean ‘theory’ in

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Chapter 1

the classical sense, as revealing something of the essential nature of ourselves – then they must appeal to their utility, broadly understood. These matters of truth and politics lie at the heart of this book. Herein I explore their problematic relation; and, in particular, how this problematic is resolved by the applied social sciences. I judge the adequacy of this contemporary resolution against the perennial nature of the problem. As a first step in this direction, consider that any defense against the charge of idiosyncrasy is a matter of comprehensiveness. By comprehensiveness, I mean something like the difference between cosmology and electrical engineering, or Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov and a poststructuralist interpretation. Cosmology shows itself as more comprehensive than electrical engineering, for it deals not with an already existing part, but the beginning of all parts: it seeks to describe the genesis of matter, along with the structure of the cosmos. Here, comprehensiveness is equated with truth, not utility. Similarly, to judge the truth of a poststructuralist interpretation of The Brothers Karamazov against the work itself, we must bow to comprehensiveness. Obviously, comprehensiveness cannot mean, here, a judgment by way of a method of interpretation. Comprehensiveness must be more akin to discernment. Given, then, that comprehensiveness is a term of reach, we are likely to support the work of cosmologists despite it being of little use (since they would, we imagine, reveal the whole of which we are a part). In a similar fashion, given that comprehensiveness is a term of discernment, we desire to keep alive the works of great authors and thinkers. In taking our bearings by comprehensiveness, we cannot easily classify the cosmologist as politically entangled. This is so even if we adhere to some version of Kuhn’s (1996) thesis, namely, that science is as much socialization or communal practice as it is a rational enterprise. For even if science is understood this way, we remain in a world in which the comprehensive is distinguishable from the derivative. Consider that if we follow Kuhn, and count our descriptions of the world as a species of communal inquiry, we can still judge the reach of one natural science over another. This is because communal practice, on this account, must play its part in all realms of inquiry, and so we would not defer to it in order to distinguish between different accounts of the world. Distinctions between the comprehensiveness of accounts would still appear to us, in other words, despite them also being communally derived accounts. If, to put it bluntly, the world is coherent, as it is for Kuhn, then we might still judge degrees of coherence. Given that comprehensiveness is also a matter of discernment, though, we might presume that we could more easily pass judgment on the great authors and thinkers, calling them out as infected in some way by their own prejudices. Here we find ourselves in a more difficult position, as here we must show that our judgment surpasses theirs. That is, we must argue with them on their terms, for to reduce an author to a method is already to discount the discern-

Introduction

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ment of his or her thought. To be sure, this cannot be the ranking of one idiosyncratic perspective over another; rather, discernment in this case comes down to comprehensiveness, and comprehensiveness is another name for understanding what we, as human being, are. In all, it might be said that of the most comprehensive accounts, if we are to count them as politically entangled, it is only because we ourselves have risen to a more comprehensive perspective. This, then, confirms the original insight that it is by way of comprehensiveness that truth, and not mere utility, is sought. To place itself in the same camp as the ‘truth-tellers,’ social science 1 would itself need to make some such claim to comprehensiveness. This is a mighty challenge. For social science strives for reach in the realm of discernment. Or, to bring us back to the examples above: if not of mere utilitarian value, if striving also for what is true, social science must surpass the idiosyncrasy of any Dostoyevsky to attain the comprehensiveness of the cosmologist, all the while holding that this comprehensiveness reveals human not material things. Here it is enlightening to consider that social science is a science of social or political phenomena, of human interpretations, and of symbolic representations, etc. As a scientific enterprise it is derivative of discernment, and as a non-trivial discipline it must exemplify discernment. And so, we can see that it might only present itself as of not mere utilitarian worth if comprehensiveness as discernment is equated with comprehensive as reach. Encapsulating this nicely is Karl Mannheim’s (1960, 146) proclamation that a science of politics is possible, because: It is only to-day, when we have become aware of all the currents and are able to understand the whole process by which political interests and Weltanschauungen [world-views] come into being in the light of a sociologically intelligible process, that we see the possibility of politics as science. . . . A political sociology which aims not at inculcating a decision but prepares the way for arriving at decisions will be able to understand relationships in the political realm which have scarcely even been noticed before. Such a discipline will be especially valuable in illuminating the nature of socially bound interests. . . . Only he who is able to formulate the problem in such a manner is in a position to transmit to others a survey of the structure of the political scene, and to aid them in getting a relatively complete conception of the whole (144, 145).

The problem, however, is that the reach of social science is delivered by way of some method, or justified by a peculiar way of thinking (following a theory of knowledge, for example). 2 Social scientists are thus politically entangled, in that the knowledge they produce is infected by the method or the thinking which produced it, a situation faced by neither the cosmologist (who disregards comprehensiveness as discernment) nor a Dostoyevsky (who does not bow to method or theory). Social science is, then, caught

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Chapter 1

between the rock of truth and the hard place of its subject matter, which is the ambiguous, contested play of surface and depth we call political or social life. The root problem for social science, and the problem which seems, at first blush, to offer no resolution, is that its entanglement in political life arises with what should otherwise avert this entanglement, namely, the quest for truth. Discernment is compromised by reach, yet reach is the mark of discernment. Entangled thus, social scientists might defend their craft by (1) justifying their methods and philosophical underpinnings, or (2) by citing their own usefulness or, simply, by seeking to become more useful. The first justification, I suspect, must invariably draw on the second. Few would disagree that the chasm separating theory and practice invites us to bridge it. Certainly, most social scientists would agree that their work should help to bridge the gulf between theory and practice. Rightly so. For if social scientists are unwilling, or unable, to address the question of ‘what to do?’ or to prepare us for action, they will tend toward irrelevance. In drawing on the second aspect (relevance) whilst also honoring the first (theory), I suggest that practice must become theoretical. Let me put this another way. Consider that our ability to judge what is fitting, given the enigmatic character of everyday political life, is diminished the more we must rely upon abstract construction. With this in mind, it would seem that in trying to render social science relevant we are caught in a bind. For in making social science relevant, by putting it into practice, we find ourselves confronted by a world which requires of us discernment and finesse, not abstraction and theory. Let us say that there is a disjunction between the theoretical perspective of the social scientist and the everyday practice of men and women. If bowing still to relevance (or what is fitting in everyday life), this disjunction must reveal to the social scientist the limits of his or her theoretical apprehension (and not the other way around, for only those who care not for relevance force the world to fit themselves). His or her theoretical apprehension is revealed as limited because it does not also account for itself, or does not include the social scientist’s own political practice. It follows that any further apprehension must then encompass in theory his or her own practice of theoretical apprehending. In everyday life, this means that at the deepest level, practice – if it is to be true – must always follow from, or be equivalent to, theory. Practice must be objective or disinterested. And so the distinction between reach and discernment is resolved thus: practice converges with theory in order to overcome theory (since theory is itself politically entangled). It follows, then, that the question of ‘what to do?’ is resolved with a turn from theory to ‘non-political’ or bureaucratic practice. As an exemplar of theoretical or impartial practice we might cite the contemporary collusion of social science and the state executive. Superficial-

Introduction

5

ly, we find this collusion driving such movements as ‘big data,’ behavioral economics, and the automation of decisions using algorithms. The danger of these movements is that they are indicative of, whilst also spurring on, our desire to turn away from the deeper problem of politics and truth. This deeper problem or the problem of ‘what to do?’ is revealed only when we consider the perennial – or essentially human – quandary of ours. This quandary, as I hinted at above, involves the distinction between truth (as comprehensiveness) and politics (as what we value or count as good). With a deeper awareness of this problematic we can better grasp the coherence of truth, and its possible distinction from the value-web of our politicised lives. We can better understand how far we should transform political life under a contemplative or scientific understanding. The aim of this book, then, is to explore this problem of truth and politics as confronted and resolved by social science. I do this, initially, with an inquiry into debates in the policy sciences, in which various, ever more inclusive, attempts are made to integrate social science into political life, and vice versa. Since this scholarly space takes as its point of departure the ‘coal face’ of the relationship of social science to government administration, it allows me to explore the site wherein truth and politics meet in reality: that is, the reformation of political judgment by the state executive. Once the terrain has been cleared, so to speak, I aim to unearth how the problem might be more adequately resolved. To do this, I return to the foundational thinkers. Since my concern throughout this book is with the nexus of theory and practice (or what I have described above as reach and discernment), I have chosen foundational thinkers who each, I believe, occupy important positions in this debate. Each, as I hope to show, exemplifies increasing degrees of comprehensiveness. Specifically, my chosen few are Harold Lasswell, the social scientific father of policy sciences, John Dewey, the philosophical father of pragmatic social science, Max Weber, a profound social scientific critic of applied social science, and Georg Hegel, who offers, I believe, the most coherent resolution of the problem posed by truth to politics (and vice versa) – resolved by him as self-knowledge. An advance warning: at the end of it all I propose that we must seek still what Hegel presumes to have attained – self-knowledge – but without the outrageous claims by which he might attain it. To this end, I return to the everyday (or the most comprehensive basis for distinguishing between theoretical perspectives) and outline the implications of this return for those political advisors – state executive actors – tasked with ‘speaking truth to power.’ My ‘method,’ consonant with what I have presented thus far, is broadly dialectical, insofar as I seek the roots of the problem and its possible resolution, guided by what I take to be the most comprehensive of perspectives. Given that truth and method are not wholly distinct affairs, it should come as no surprise that such a ‘method’ would bring us back to the everyday; for the

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Chapter 1

everyday is, obviously, the most comprehensive of vistas. It is not itself merely transparent, though, as witnessed by the need to move beyond it (and hence the impetus for the political and social sciences). The everyday calls out for interpretation. Most comprehensively, such an interpretation, I argue, must account for ourselves, as ones who seek and value the truth. WHAT’S NEW? One might argue that none of this is new. Social scientists have always sought to be useful, and by way of state tutelage, no less. Think of Auguste Comte’s ‘religion of humanity,’ for example, or even earlier, of the ‘cult of reason,’ established during the French Revolution. We might also look to Jeremy Bentham’s utilitarian philosophy, as well as to the eugenics movement and its entanglement in the development of modern inferential statistics, which drew from jurisprudence, mathematics, and biology (the work of Francis Galton and Karl Pearson comes to mind). Each of these had as its goal social reform. But now, it would seem, we have moved on. Many of these examples strike us as naive, ill-conceived, if not downright tyrannical. At its worst, we now know that the scientific reformation of society undergirded an equally blunt and brutal politics. Social science nowadays is more ‘critical,’ more ‘psychological,’ and, in many cases, more ‘inward’ or self-aware. With this comes a different view of itself, as well as of its subjects. Consider the difference between eugenics and social psychology, for example, or how utilitarianism differs from symbolic interactionism. Along with these ‘theoretical’ differences we might ponder ‘methodological’ differences. Compare the obtuseness of traditional inferential statistics – such as linear regression – with the self-referencing impetus of Bayesian statistical models, such as those underlying theories of ‘active inference.’ 3 All in all, as disciplines which must show themselves to be publicly worthwhile, and non-trivial (if not bearers of the truth, simply), the social sciences enter the public realm aware of what is politically palatable now, given what they understand of themselves either via the psyche (following psychology) or as a more critical reflection of themselves following some theory of knowledge. One might say that they have become more like social sciences, more politically astute, and not just (as with the eugenicists and utilitarians, for example) natural or legal sciences to be applied politically. This brings to the fore the problem of relevance and legitimacy, a problem subtler and more confounding than that faced by the eugenicists, for example. The movement from eugenics to social psychology is not merely a matter of expanding the effectiveness, or of increasing the power, of social science – for one might say that eugenics is much more powerful than social psychology. Rather, the movement is suggestive of a greater self-awareness

Introduction

7

and self-understanding. This is unsurprising, as social scientists must reckon themselves as occupied in the business of truth-telling. As a form of truthtelling, this movement (of self-understanding) is best described as one of an internal critique, following what is, or might be, understood of ourselves. To put this in context, consider the period of the Vietnam War, a time when social sciences were, like never before, put to practical use, and those that were not were called upon to do so. For example, although psychological testing had been used in previous wars, it was during the Vietnam War that the social sciences hit their stride. Psychologists, sociologists, anthropologists, and political scientists all played major roles behind the scenes, bringing their academic expertise to bear on Department of Defence policies (see Rohde 2013). And following the 1961 appointment of Robert McNamara as U.S. Defence Secretary, formerly a professor of the Harvard Business School, emerging computer power was harnessed to statistically analyze datasets for the purposes of ‘improving’ military decision-making (see Harrison 1988). As Rohde (2009; 2013) points out, though, this was not without its critics. Indeed, as it began to emerge how far the social sciences had been implicated in the war – pursued in the name of freedom, democracy, and American values – it began to dawn on some that these social scientists had been naive, insufficiently critical, and untrue to themselves. They were ideological lackeys. It is not surprising that the political sciences came up for particularly sharp criticism. If political naivety should have been avoided, it should have been avoided by those who must (by the terms of their science) claim to see politics more clearly than others. This was not just an argument about the character of political scientists, then, but about what, exactly, political science is. If merely a scientific discipline along the lines of natural science, if ‘value-free,’ then it might be put to use for any political position whatsoever. It would be apolitical, in other words. Or, not master of its own domain. Indeed, it could not even live up to the promise of the eugenicists, who, in not considering politicized life, need not have deferred to it. Enlightening is Bay’s (1965, 39) argument that what was needed was not more ‘value-free’ research but ‘an intellectually more defensible and a politically more responsible theoretical framework for guiding and interpreting . . . empirical work; a theory that would give more meaning to . . . research, even at the expense of reducing its conceptual and operational neatness.’ Political responsibility for Bay boiled down to the distinction between the satisfaction of idiosyncratic needs and the satisfaction of universal needs. His was an argument which deferred to a universal psychology, as it were (he deferred to the freedom implied in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs), in order to derive a more intellectually defensible position, and a more politically palatable one. Political naivety was, thereby, avoided with a greater understanding of human being. Intellectual defensibility was, likewise, fortified insofar as the

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Chapter 1

defense of universal needs was understood to be the best public defense. As Easton (1969, 1060) puts it: ‘Reform becomes inseparable from knowledge.’ And by ‘reform’ Easton meant under the light of the universal or ‘real’ needs of humanity. Here we can see that the problem of political entanglement is resolved by way of comprehensiveness, a movement which itself throws up ever deeper problems of entanglement. Consider that with the movement from a biological account of humanity to some ‘value-free’ account of human behavior, social scientists find themselves personally implicated in their science. Such an implication is not faced by the eugenicist. Of course, the eugenicist is himself the object of his own science, as it were, being himself a genetic creature. But he cannot be the subject. Not being the subject of his genes, he is not personally implicated (by the strict terms of his science). Turning to the behavioral and psychological sciences, by contrast, the genesis (or subject) of behavior cannot be so easily distinguished from the science of behavior. If not reduced to biology, the genesis of the psyche is unearthed by sociology or anthropology (and the genesis of anthropos unearthed as human history). As such, the science of behavior is merely a subset of some more expansive science, of which the social scientist is him or herself a subject. Entangled thus, in seeking a firmer foundation for this science, the ground is forever slipping away. It is not surprising, then, that recourse was made to something like the ‘universal needs’ of humanity. As universal (or foundational), these needs put a stop to the infinite regress associated with social science’s entanglement in the genesis of behavior. In overcoming this entanglement, in turning to the ‘real’ foundation of behavior, the reformation of (false) behavior comes to the fore. Of course, here we enter broader territory, insofar as any defense must stand before the judgment of the (abstract) public. From this perspective, the relevance of research is only legitimated politically if it truly does serve universal needs or values. But how are these determined? Following Bay and Easton (from above) these universal needs are revealed scientifically. The problem of ideological lackey-ism has not been resolved, then, but merely pushed one step back: not now American patriots, but scientific partisans. In order to attain legitimacy once again a couple of avenues are available: social science might show itself as having dropped any political pretensions (such as ‘hidden’ universal values) and become truly and universally useful, or it might attempt a more thorough explication of its own foundations. In the former we return to a wholly pragmatic science, having ditched any theoretical (or ideal) pretensions such as ‘universal needs.’ And following psychology (not biology, as did the eugenicists), political pretensions are recognized and limited by way of some understanding of agency – think here of the concerns around self-determination which occupy behavioral economists (a fusion of social psychology and economics) (e.g., Thaler and Sun-

Introduction

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stein 2008). The guiding concern is ‘what works,’ within limits. Within these limits, practice must follow directly in the footsteps of empirically validated, utilitarian-styled, theory. In the latter, in encompassing also political things, the aim is more comprehensive. I draw on Dowding’s (2016) well-received book on the philosophy and methods of political science as an example. Where the behavioral economists would ask only one type of question – ‘what works?’ – Dowding moves further afield, arguing that depending on what questions we are asking, certain social scientific methods will present themselves as more suitable and others not. His aim still is explanation, or, better yet, prediction; but not simply according to instrumental rationality (43–52). The legitimacy of his political program is not revealed directly in its immediate relevance, then, but arises also by way of its truth (e.g., 245). Truth here is understood as akin to a revealing of the deepest structures of explanation (247–50). In turning to philosophy (understood by him as a theoretical account, epitomised by metaphysics – i.e., ontology and epistemology – and exemplified as Darwinian evolution – see 5, 31), explanation would rise to the reach of comprehensiveness, which, in turn, would vouchsafe for discernment (e.g., 7, 30, 48). 4 Here we find political science striving to be both relevant and comprehensive; or, to put it another way, both useful and aware of what it is doing. What underlies this is a theory of knowledge, insofar as we only come to know, to really know, by empirically distinguishing necessary truths from the contingent (e.g., 29, 43, 52). If these necessary truths are exemplary, and if experience is not fully an exemplification of these truths, because we ourselves interpret the world in various ways, it makes sense that discernment would be sought with a matching of methods to research question. For what we’re after in this case is the closest approximation to necessity, given the form of the question (law-like or not) arising from the problem we find before us. In each case, though, the answer remains theoretical: what we seek are guiding paradigms or models, or representations of the world which bring to the fore the most enduring connections, associations, or identities. As an account limited to theory, we might argue that, politically, this is merely an idiosyncratic perspective – the politics of a philosophy of political science is incommensurable with a philosophy of political science. This is problematic, though, only if the political realm is more comprehensive, and so potentially more exemplary of the truth, than the scientific. If not, and this is the path followed by Dowding, we might hold that the political is revealed by, or simply finds its perfection in, the philosophical. Indeed, taking Dowding’s path, we discover that the politics of a philosophy of political science is simply equivalent to that science which makes possible such a philosophy. As Dowding (2017, 228) puts it:

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Chapter 1 My interest in the history of ideas is driven by what others in the past thought, and by the way they thought, but because there is so much that they could not know I am not as convinced as many that we can learn much directly from them. What we can learn is how our words today need to take on new meanings from what our forebears meant by them because we know so much more.

Following Dowding, it is fair to say that what we know, and what those from the past could not have known, is theoretical (i.e., explanation by way of necessity). The philosophy of political and social science – which only now is possible – secures the political legitimacy of social science, so it follows, since only by way of such a philosophy do we know that we have left our prejudices behind. We know more now, in our age, because of our own predilection for explanation (or theory) over practice. We surpass thinkers of the past because they could not have understood what they were doing. They were creatures of history. They were unable to rise above history because they were still on the way to discovering what things are. They were hoodwinked still by appearances. Enquiring into opinions about things, for example, they remained still deceived by what things mean (culturally bound as they were – see Dowding 2016, 221). The discoveries which made this transcendence of history (or of appearance) possible were – following this line of thought – of a universal nature, insofar as these discoveries might hold for all political things whatsoever (Dowding 2016, 221). Moving to a more analytical, discrete, or detached account, we might – so it goes – discover the essential make-up of all things. This would, so it follows, hold good across all times and places, or as close to this as we can get. Still, at the broader level of politics, do we not encounter here a petitio principii? At this level, is not our assumption of political legitimacy too quickly secured? For doesn’t our theory of knowledge – a theory which we must have inherited, by this account – lead us already to limit how and what we might know? And in so doing, in presuming to know what knowing is – namely, theoretical – don’t we foreclose too soon on the question of politics and truth? For this question arises for us not in theory, as it were, but in practice. Think of the difference between a well-crafted military operation plan, and the reason for its crafting. Only in ‘doing’ might we discover our own theory’s broader significance. Here by ‘doing’ I don’t mean those practices which follow from theory, such as putting a plan into action, but, rather, the more intimate or pre-theoretical practice associated with constructing plans. 5 In opening this question (of truth and politics) we return to shakier ground. For if universal theory is our measure of rationality, if this is the only true value (or the resolution of the problem of political legitimacy), then the problem of politics as it arises in practice is solved only because practice disappears (except as method or what, in the end, is of mere academic, or idiosyncratic, interest – see Dowding 2016, 245).

Introduction

11

Returning to practice, and despite all the talk of research methods matching research questions, in the world of public or social policy the experimental method (and associated behavioralist social science) is king, simply because only it, so it is held, provides a definitive answer to the question of ‘what to do?’ It provides – so it is assumed – a ubiquitous or universal knowledge, with ample room left on the edges for political guidance. (As, in practice, those questions which cannot be answered definitively are, so it is held, matters for political debate, and such debates draw on ‘evidence’ not ‘theory’ to triumph over the opposition.) What is discovered in Canada might be applied in Australia, and this – so it is held – straightforwardly, by way of what might be easily manipulated (i.e., the independent variable). It makes sense that ‘nudging,’ based on behavioral economics, should be so popular. It draws not on arguments about the foundations of social science, but on ‘what works.’ Indeed, applied social science in general – psychology, sociology, economics, criminology – is popular, because it offers solutions. Here, the experimental method is the ‘gold standard’ simply because it would appear to offer a universal solution no matter the political context. And here the rise of ‘big data,’ for example, expands the scope of this logic, insofar as with it we gain the statistical ‘power’ to explore even the most peripheral of associations. 6 What is new, then, is that we have arrived at a deep problem regarding politics and truth, a problem which might be addressed or ignored. If ignored, the problem remains. If addressed theoretically, the problem is buried. This problem, I believe, calls out for a more comprehensive view; or, as I have been arguing, consideration of both practice and theory. In concrete terms, this is the point at which theory is put to work by those who provide political advice. My concern is not then with a philosophy of social science, nor with the methods of social science. I aim for comprehensiveness in theory and practice, in order, I hope, to bring ‘reach’ in line with ‘discernment.’ It should come as no surprise, then, that with regard to the failings of political science, my book stands on the shoulders of Bernard Crick (The American Science of Politics, 1959), David Ricci (The Tragedy of Political Science, 1984), and Alasdair MacIntyre (After Virtue, 1984). Crick and Ricci both offer fine surveys of the dangers of reducing political life to a positive science, such as behavioralism. Crick (1959; 1962) argues that we must be vigilant in our retention of the public realm, so as to leave open the possibility of fair and open debate. It is this we are in danger of losing with a science of politics, and in losing this we lay ourselves open to the threat of tyranny. Crick (1959, 111) errs on the side of safety, such that theory would be excluded from politics other than when ‘closed societies are found unworkable or intolerable.’ This is to make theory into another form of political practice, in other words, subsumed under the non-violent art of ruling divided societies (Crick 1959, 136). Like Aristotle, Crick separates politics

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from theory so as to conserve politics, or save it from its radicalization by truth. In a similar fashion, Ricci (1984) argues that the fitting art of politics is not science but statesmanship. Whereas political science is narrowly focused and overly technical, the art of statesmanship draws on the broad experience and judgments of the great thinkers of the Western political tradition. Ricci (1984, 317) puts it thus: ‘What must be sought, in the end, is a personal rather than collective understanding of politics, with due appreciation for the sense of mystery, glory, tragedy, leadership, courage, decency, and wickedness that goes under the name of wisdom.’ I concur. In Ricci’s terms, this book explores the tragedy of political wisdom. Since, as I conclude, this tragedy cannot be surpassed (it is our perennial problem) the only hope is to come to terms with the nature of it, and explore how we, as the subjects of this tragedy, might best accommodate ourselves to it. As MacIntyre (1984) sees it, the contemporary resolution to the problem of truth and politics arises in forgetfulness. MacIntyre (1984, 1–2) imagines a situation in which science – including its tools, techniques, and practices – had once a unified meaning. Following its erasure by a ‘no-nothing’ politics it re-emerges, but this time bringing with it scant details of what was once its significance. This, as MacIntyre points out, would result in the rise of irreconcilable viewpoints, mistaken by those who inhabit this world as the onetime reality of science. From this imagined world MacIntyre draws a parallel with the reality of our contemporary moral-political world. We have forgotten, or lost, the narrative unity of the virtues, a unity which would allow us to judge those disparate moral claims which appear to us, now, as incommensurable. This narrative unity was lost with the rise of social science. Coterminous with this rise was our forgetting. To save ourselves (from a radical relativism) we must recover what was lost, so argues MacIntyre. I agree with MacIntyre’s diagnosis of the contemporary situation, but I do not follow him in his recovery. The reason for this is that MacIntyre leaves untouched the question of truth (MacIntyre roots the virtues in practice and tradition), or the already problematic notion (from my perspective) of a virtuous unity. In my view, MacIntyre is too quick in passing over the tragedy of political life. One might argue that this is not surprising, considering that his concern is with virtue or practical wisdom, not theoretical wisdom. While that is true, it still does not address the essential problem, as I see it. For the resolution of this problem requires that we equate truth with a tradition. This might be politically prudent, but the tragedy is buried. The desire for truth remains. The tragedy is revealed only with some understanding of what is questionable about ourselves, as I hope to argue. Finding ourselves here, we must, it would seem, confront the works of Hannah Arendt, Leo Strauss, and Michel Foucault, amongst others. For each in their own way attempted a recovery of the surface and the depths of

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political things. Each, of course, offers very different accounts of what such a recovery would entail. I am unable to delve into the scope of their arguments in this book. All I can offer is somewhat of a promissory note: that with my conclusion – with our return to the surface and depth of the everyday – we will be in a better position to begin to assess the relative merits of each, insofar as we might both save the phenomena of the everyday and allow also for some distinction between true and false accounts of it. This, I hold, is a mark of comprehensiveness. Having set the academic scene, as it were, I turn now to the ‘political advisor’ which, as a character of both theory and practice, would offer us a ready point of entry into the problem of truth and politics. Since the political advisor stands mid-way between the truth-teller and the politician, my introduction to the political advisor will involve some discussion of what is regarded, now, as politically authoritative truth-telling, as well as the dilemmas this throws up in practice. Tying in to what I presented above, I will argue that the reach of the political advisor is exemplified in our age as impartiality. However, since impartiality (which epitomises discernment) is politically contested, I show that political relevance presents itself as a ready means of judging the worth of impartial political advice. In sum, as I hope to show, relevance tempered with some claim to truth (or impartiality) is the ideal of the political advisor in our day. THE POLITICAL ADVISOR The political advisor could well claim the title ‘world’s oldest profession.’ In the Iliad, for example, Homer has Achilles call on the seer (or prophet) Calchus to tell him why his men are suffering under Apollo’s rage. Calchus is described by Homer as knowing ‘all things that are, all things that are past and all that are to come . . . with the second sight that god Apollo gave him’ (1.81–84). Insofar as he knows the gods, the seer would have attained political wisdom; a wisdom which transcends partial politics. 7 Thucydides, by contrast, calls the seers for what they are: professional salesmen. 8 Politics, by Thucydides’s account, is best left in the hands of those who act, for it is only they who can grasp what is truly at stake in any political decision. Advice begins and ends with the counsel of one general or commander to another. 9 Little has changed. The nature of political or policy advice is still debatable. For, as with the ancients, we desire that political judgment be realistic, or sensitive to subtle political distinctions, as well as not blinded by political ambition, or simply unaware of the significance of political action itself. We still desire what is promised by the seer and what only the general would know. Indeed, how could it not be otherwise? For political judgment is more than merely the opinion of one person among many. Political judgment, as

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we must hold it to account, strives to realise what is good for us. And what is good for us is a question of, more fundamentally, what is worth striving for. These are not equivalent. For what is worth striving for is not simply transparent. If it were, political judgment might be replaced by political action. Moreover, even the distinction between what one person holds as worthy, and what is held by another, does not appear to us plainly and simply. Is the difference merely one of a different outlook, a mere quirk of character, or is it rooted in something deeper? Is political judgment merely the decree of a strong and powerful character? If some reform is possible, if political judgment might also benefit from some distinction between what is truly worthy and what not, how is such a distinction to appear to us? For this is itself entangled in the political question, or the question of character. Indeed, in leaving behind politics, or rising above it, as it were, we are subject to the further problems of what would follow, politically, from this truth. Without the immersion in the everyday life of politics how to distinguish what is good for us from what not? In what way could we claim to have attained a politically relevant understanding, without also being infected in some way with the political desire which propels others? Would this not entail some ignorance of ourselves? And with our presumed transcendence, don’t we misunderstand the very people for whom we would presume to guide, if only indirectly? Reflecting for a moment on the difference between the ancients and ourselves we can see that, conventionally, our political solutions differ to theirs. Although little has changed, insofar as the desire for sound political judgment is part and parcel of political life – as I mentioned above – we can discern a difference in the political landscape. Consider the fact that the seers of ancient times might only have offered a true account with the backing of the Olympian gods. For the city-states of ancient times were held together by divine sanction. The foibles of political men – so the conventional argument went – might be set right only by those most familiar with the edicts of the Olympians. Our age is different. With the Olympians long gone, and citystates dissolved, we live in a time of different political authorities. To distinguish oneself from the politician, or from political desire, one must stand on one’s own feet as it were. Whereas one may have deferred in the past to divine signs or omens, these days one must argue that the authority of one’s own interpretation is either its own authority, or argue that one answers to no other authority than what is impartial in itself. In the latter case, the defense falls to the authority of the means, such as modern scientific methods and techniques (be they positive, interpretive, hermeneutic, etc.). In the former case, the authority is defended with deference to one’s own understanding. In this case, any defense is entangled with who or what one is. An impartial defense of this is a defense which must defer to what is universally true of all people. Common to each is reference to the authority of impartiality, or an

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authority independent of all political partiality. In this way, it both follows and diverges from ancient political conventions. Where it diverges, it diverges on liberal grounds. Since the freedoms which are now exercised by us were themselves won by way of political desire, or our own desire to liberate ourselves from the politically partial (e.g., tradition), we might say that we are never truly free of our own prejudices. Indeed, our freedom is built on the presupposition that the foundation of this freedom is, if anything, always up for question. If impartiality is limited to our transcendence by way of some method or technique, or by way of our immersion in the universal nature of humanity, then we can see that our search for impartiality is never-ending. For methods and techniques are esteemed by some and not others. And, once proclaimed, the characteristics of the universal nature of humanity cease to be universal. In our modern age, then, impartiality is the very thing contested, because impartiality is our political authority as well as the means of its attainment. Rescuing ourselves from this endless task, the question of relevance is pushed to the forefront. For in answering this question (the question of relevance), we might well presume that we could distinguish legitimate from illegitimate claims to impartiality. With regard to this, consider Gunnell’s (2006, 780) point that ‘[t]he question of exactly why the claims of academic political theorists should be heeded, particularly in a democratic society, is seldom confronted.’ The fundamental answer is obvious: these theorists must distinguish truth from political partiality; for if no distinction can be made between these, then political theory, political science, or any other social science, it might be added, cannot return on its own promise. The second answer – concerning their political relevance – muddies the waters. As Gunnell (2006, 781) continues: ‘The paradox of normative political theory is simply that the “knowledge” it professes is not knowledge about anything unless that knowledge is practically manifested or acknowledged’ [italics in original]. The problem is, though, that in acknowledging political theory, in attesting to its political relevance, we would necessarily judge not according to the distinction between truth and partiality but, rather, with reference only to the latter. 10 Only with the settling of the prior claim – that of truth and partiality – might then the question of relevance be answered in terms which do not simply reduce theory to politics, and politics to self-interest. Putting this more prosaically, we could say that without a concern for truth, but concerned still with practice, political advice would offer nothing more than what can be achieved by a partial politics, coupled with an efficient and diligent administration – merely offering advice on how to get things done . . . akin to a bureaucrat, but without the political accountability. And yet, disconnected from partial or political interests, political advisors would be in no position to separate the important political questions from the trivial. In sum, policy or political advice, if it is to claim itself as politically

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legitimate, or both true and relevant, must show itself as that art, technique, or know-how which would improve – and not merely describe – political communities. 11 Yet more prosaically, or returning to the mundane politics of our day, it is under this assumption (of legitimacy) that psychologists, criminologists, sociologists and a whole host of other specialized research academics work directly with the state to fashion public policy, and indirectly through the dissemination of research studies targeted specifically at problems already state identified. 12 The fact that the state is willing to work hand-in-hand with social scientists is not enough, of course, to sanctify this union; and thus critiques by those who would describe the relationship as politically stultifying, whilst seeking the true place of social science in politics. In casting a wide net, we can see that the important question is not whether a particular social science is or is not politically relevant. For relevance is presupposed by all, with the reformation of politics itself. The prior and more fundamental question is what we must understand of politics if, ultimately, this is where legitimacy shows itself. As I wish to explore: if by the lights of social science politics might only be understood as a crude partiality, or as self-interest bluntly understood, and if it is the case that only politically do the social sciences 13 attain their legitimacy, then this puts them in a difficult position. This difficulty is further compounded if we move from what social scientists do, to what they find meaningful in this endeavor. For if, by their own estimation, what social scientists could find truly meaningful might only be realized as practicing social scientists, then the problem gets a whole lot deeper. This self-perpetuation of meaning-seeking and legitimacy-pursuing we might describe as a ‘perfect storm’ of impartial political activism. THE EMERGING PROBLEM This form of activism is progressively shaping contemporary Western politics. For the executive arm of government is increasingly setting the tone, not by what it would execute, but through the political kudos gained from being able to execute. A pragmatic politics, or a politics which gets things done for the good of all, is what would seem to unite both sides of politics (the right and the left). In this political climate the social sciences come into their own. For the aspiring positive social sciences would seem to offer the means to get things done, in a way which would transcend partial political interests, whilst ostensibly offering more than mere administrative advice. Indeed, it is with this aspiring political relevance that the social sciences would seem to have finally realised their potential, for they would not just describe our social world, but would change it for the good of all, halting, as it were, the futility

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of endless political debate. And so governments of the day turn to the social sciences for advice, and social scientists sell their services to government under the banner of independence. Such is the allure of the latest incarnation of this political fashion that recent acolytes come across as proselytisers of a new religion, a religion founded on belief in the omniscience of data and the prophetical laws of statistical interpretation. As Harari (2016) puts it: Just as divine authority was legitimised by religious mythologies, and human authority was legitimised by humanist ideologies, so high-tech gurus and Silicon Valley prophets are creating a new universal narrative that legitimises the authority of algorithms and Big Data. This novel creed may be called ‘Dataism.’ In its extreme form, proponents of the Dataist worldview perceive the entire universe as a flow of data, see organisms as little more than biochemical algorithms and believe that humanity’s cosmic vocation is to create an allencompassing data-processing system – and then merge into it.

This collusion of academia, private interest, and the state, and its culmination in the ‘big data revolution,’ seeks more than a reasonable influence on government administration – as, for example, a modest and technical assessment of the administration of public health services. This ‘revolution’ is a call to encompass politics more broadly. And the excitement is palpable. Jonathon Shaw (2014, 30) from Harvard Magazine quotes a renowned academic in this area: ‘There is a movement of quantification rumbling across fields in academia and science, industry and government and nonprofits,’ says King, who directs Harvard’s Institute for Quantitative Social Science (IQSS), a hub of expertise for interdisciplinary projects aimed at solving problems in human society. Among faculty colleagues, he reports, ‘Half the members of the government department are doing some type of data analysis, along with much of the sociology department and a good fraction of economics, more than half of the School of Public Health, and a lot in the Medical School.’ Even law has been seized by the movement to empirical research – ‘which is social science,’ he says. ‘It is hard to find an area that hasn’t been affected.’ . . . Whenever sufficient information can be quantified, modern statistical methods will outperform an individual or small group of people every time.

It is not without justification, therefore, that the positive social sciences have been seen not only as incongruent with the realities of politics (and so they must seek their place in the political landscape, or argue their own worth), but also as a threat to political debate. This from social scientists themselves, who see that in bowing to a positive or instrumentally rational science they would blindly disregard their own political or partial position, in so doing ignoring the interests of others. Psychological (as statistically ‘con-

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firmed’) theories which inform a particular public policy in child-rearing for example, in defining the criteria for assessing the well-being of children and offering suggestions for a practical agenda, fallaciously present themselves as independent. For politically, this rationally derived, law-like understanding of a flourishing childhood is no more or less worthy, by its own account, than others (from different traditions, for example). The problem is how we resolve this. It is fair to say that in following social science we must favor a third-person perspective over a first-person. We turn away from ourselves, in other words. And in putting this into action we turn toward impartial or apolitical practice. To state it briefly, the social scientist acts meaningfully – from his or her perspective – only when transforming the messy and ambiguous world of everyday politics into a knowable object. This unity of transformation and objectivity does not engulf the social scientist in tautology, because it is only by way of this transformation that absurdity is distinguished from reality, or self-interest from truth. Encountering absurdity, the obvious response is to dig deeper, using tools held already to be fit for purpose. 14 The tautology is saved or redeemed by social scientific practice, in other words. Meaning is for the social scientist bound by the practice of social science, and this practice is propelled, as it were, by a theory of knowledge (in which, so it goes, the third-person perspective must be favored over the first). As a consequence, and as viewed from a broader perspective, the threat arises of a politics bureaucratically enacted. This threat is, to be sure, already visible in everyday political life. It is visible as the growing political dissatisfaction and disillusionment amongst citizens, along with the rising public expectation that something be done (see Flinders 2009). To put it another way, this is the cycle of hope and cynicism characteristic of a politics in which the height of public expectations is met by the promises of the political class, and yet, still, because of the nature of these expectations (and associated promises), politics arises as deeply dissatisfying. Considering that our expectation of political or state intervention has not abated, I would say that the bureaucratic threat is not merely a hiccup on the way to some greater political good. Indeed, the ensuing dissatisfaction of citizens with the state, if remedied also according to this logic of applied social science, simply exacerbates the emerging rift, while, at the same time, engendering the misplaced hope in a politically salutary union. Mindful of this rift between state and citizen, it is understandable that some have claimed we live in a ‘post-truth’ age, and that politics has become a dirty game of truth fabrication (see McIntyre 2018). This has its roots in the commonplace observation that politicians craft their image and policies according to ever-shifting results of opinion-polls and data-derived patterns of possible voting behavior; that, when in opposition, the governing policies of the day are refuted, and, when in power, these same policies are embraced;

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and that political debate is angled toward defiling the opposition, to win, no matter the cost. Politics has – following this insight – become a dirty game, farcical, or no different to frivolous play. 15 In describing politics as such, we hold the flippancy or trivial quality of play up against the shared good of forthright and well-mannered debate. Playing politics is to pretend to treat seriously, to treat merely politically, what one does not fully stand behind. And yet, behind the scenes we discover what appears to be the obverse of political fabrication: the sober technician or ‘scientific’ expert. I say ‘appears,’ because, just as with the political ‘play-maker,’ the technician, by the terms of his science, tends toward an understanding of politics as mere personal preference (think here of ‘value-free’ social scientific research). Despite being in the same camp, however, the differences between these two are not insignificant. Whereas the ‘play-maker’ would hide behind the seriousness of what we take to be the shared good of politics, or what we hold to be the worthy end of political debate, the expert – if to rule – must seek to dispense with it. The shared good must, in principle, be jettisoned, because it arises amongst people who cannot all be judged according to the limited (and, in this case, a priori) knowledge of the expert. Indeed, expertise, if to rule, must do so absolutely; this, by rising above the eccentricities of human desire. Jettisoning the shared political good, and so the possibility of its phantasm or false creation, we can see that the sobriety of the expert’s competence – if it is to rule – suggests, at least, a lack of pretense. It is clean. Is it any wonder, then, that we would turn from the play-makers to the more sober men and women of sturdy competence? But is this cleanliness satisfying? Indeed, how could it be? For although the game has been exposed, as it were, what we gain in sterility we lose in vitality. There is an absence of gravitas, as well as, indeed, an absence of political playfulness (and here I do not mean the play of politics, as when one is acting out a pretense of politics, or merely ‘playing’ politics). A politics without gravitas (or play) is distancing, cold, and mechanical. It risks political disengagement. It might even be said that political disengagement is presupposed by expert knowledge. In any case, if we desire more, then we must turn to a more serious politics, or a politics enacted by those who do not count neutrality as their primary concern. Under a more serious politics, neutrality is subordinate to broader political matters, such as expressing who one is, what one represents, and convincing others of the ‘right’ way. And so we find ourselves, now, in what’s widely been described as a ‘post-fact’ or ‘post-truth’ political cosmos. The ‘post-fact’ moniker is, I believe, in some sense correct; its equation with ‘post-truth’ somewhat misleading. There is some truth to the claim, for example, that in classifying any political climate as ‘post-fact’ we acknowledge that facts have themselves come to be seen, politically, for what they are – which is, politically, not neutral, and so up for grabs in the dirty game

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of politics. For truth, we might hold, reveals itself by way of political things: those who reduce politics to facts misunderstand both themselves and their audience (they naively believe in the possibility of a political vacuum). As a claim from the ‘post-truth’ position, by contrast, we equate truth with fact: whatever holds for facts holds also for truth. We leave behind the truth when we do not pay the highest respect to facts. This is to take our bearings by a sober, or even a trivial, politics, as it were. For, with the equation of truth with fact, we would hope to save ourselves from the potential madness (or playfulness) of the ‘seriously’ political. And yet, considering that the facts are treated playfully, as it were, in the dirty politics of those who would live up to the moniker ‘post-fact’ – those who take their politics seriously – we must reflect on the fact, that for them, the facts are still worth playing with. In pretending to take seriously the sobriety of facts, political legitimacy is sought on the same turf on which stand the upright and the sober. What distinguishes each is their judgment of the final authority of facts, if not the legitimacy which these facts would confer. In sum, what we might find problematic about proclamations that we live in a ‘post-truth’ or ‘post-fact’ world is that they point to an authority – the world of facts, data, social science, and so forth – which (1) would not seem to be the final authority, and yet (2) would be that authority to which we must defer so as to separate a dirty from a clean or reputable politics. This entanglement of truth and politics would seem to be shared by both sides, insofar as each holds to the same understanding of what counts as authoritatively impartial. Understandable, then, is that no return to the world of ‘facts’ will save us. The deeper crisis, it appears, is that of authority. We might more accurately describe our politics, then, as ‘post-authority,’ since our only means of securing authority is by way of facts which are themselves both brought to life and tainted by the seriousness of politics. At the end of it all, we must conclude that the facts could only ever be a politically trivial substitute for such authority. This crisis is more broadly, then, of the more serious relation of truth to politics. As a serious pursuit, our desire for good politics presupposes that politics might somehow be reformed by the authority of truth. This relation throws up questions of varying depth and comprehensiveness, as well as the possibility of answers addressing these. As I am suggesting, we might only encounter the depth and comprehensiveness of these questions by turning back to ourselves. Here, we move into the realm of meaning broadly understood, or what we could understand (if at all) of what we are doing. This is itself a broadly political question, insofar as the meaningfulness of our quest presupposes others who may or may not value the same things as ourselves. I am thinking here of a question such as: ‘Is what I’m doing worthwhile?’ This question might encompass more than what is political, however, or more than what is, no matter how broadly understood, self-interested. For this question involves also something of the

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distinction between the absurd and the truly meaningful, and so, more broadly, calls out for the most comprehensive understanding of what it is to be human. This understanding is, to put it crudely, existential, and so cannot in the final analysis be settled by anyone other than ourselves. Here we return to ourselves, pre-theoretically as it were. Here we begin already as the unity of theory and practice – we act according to how we already understand the world. This holds for social scientists as much as for anyone else. At this more intimate level, theory and practice are united as discernment; thereby making way for the possibility that we might judge our discernment. In seeking out this possibility we must move to ever more comprehensive perspectives, without imagining that we might take a direct short cut by way of a third-person perspective. Given the dangers, then, of turning away from ourselves, it is clear that they can only be averted by political actors themselves. For it is only to political actors themselves that political action is meaningful in situ. Only political actors are in a position to grasp the full significance of what they are doing, because only they can understand their desire as more than merely self-interest. Why? Because only by ‘doing’ does the distinction between true and false present itself to us as of utmost significance. Only by ‘doing’ are we privy to the profound difference between fantasy and reality. It follows that only political actors could possibly seek out the truth of what, as a political judgment, is meaningful. Considering this more broadly, and with reference to the aim of this book, it should come as no shock to conclude that the state executive is the site wherein some awareness of this problematic union is most needed. With this shift from the third-person perspective to the first-person one enters directly the problem of truth and politics, with the hope of coming to some understanding of the possibility and limits of their reconciliation. STRUCTURE OF THE BOOK My discussion shall proceed as follows. Having exposed the problem of the collusion of social science and the state in executive action, as rooted in the denial or disregard of the perennial problem of truth and politics (as from the first-person perspective), I move on to Harold Lasswell. I take up Lasswell because, firstly, he is regarded as the founder of the policy sciences, and one of the founding fathers of modern practical political science (or politically applied social science), and secondly, because Lasswell attempts to ground political science in the whole of political experience. Lasswell moves under the shadow of the perennial problem, in other words. He seeks a more comprehensive perspective; this in order to reconcile the problem of truth and politics. This is a step-up from modern day practical political and social

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science, insofar as he recognises the need for a broader defense; for without this, political science simply mirrors the ongoing fragmentation of modern political experience. Lasswell recognizes the need for a unity not itself subject to the vagaries of self-interest. Even if moving under the shadow of the perennial problem, however, Lasswell does not move beyond its contemporary resolution. Lasswell, we might say, rises to the problem in defense, but given the very fact that it is a defense, he does not address the problem directly. Indeed, we may well argue that he can’t. For Lasswell treats political experience as knowable only under construction. Beyond this we remain unself-conscious, or naively conventional. To rise above our naivety, following Lasswell, we must fabricate for ourselves a political whole, or the space wherein we might become conscious of ourselves, and so recognise why we do what we do. Our political constructions, along with any true political experience, are especially precarious, then. Politics and science are united as consciousness, or the true creativity which transcends convention; and yet this consciousness is constructed empirically, from the conventional. Lasswell makes a compromise, therefore, between the creativity – or the irrationality – of the political character, and its realization as modern science (with reference to the empirical method and a mathematical rationalism). This compromise is, for Lasswell, the whole of political experience, understood as symbolic, and as enacted by the policy scientist – the master technician, as it were. The political whole is for Lasswell, then, rightly understood as the union of productive self-interest and modern scientific rational and empirical thought. It is a construction from the perspective of the contemporary resolution, in other words. Or, it is still yet a denial of the depths of the problem. And so I turn to John Dewey. Dewey is a forerunner of Lasswell, and popularly associated with the ‘pragmatic’ branch of philosophy. I turn to Dewey because, firstly, he breathes life back into everyday experience, and secondly, he attempts to transform political life under the ethos of social science. In breathing life back into everyday experience, we might contrast him with Lasswell, for whom everyday experience is revealed truly as symbolic. Lasswell concludes that political wisdom arises, thereby, with the technical-rational reformation of the irrational. The human whole, in a similar fashion, emerges as a technical construction. By contrast, Dewey is more comprehensive: the psyche is never for him simply polymorphous. The psyche, like nature, or as natural, arises with a view to its ends (understood by Dewey as interaction). And so he has no need to construct the whole of human political experience. Rather, Dewey sees that our common everyday experience is inescapable, but it is not without foundation. Indeed, the foundation of everyday experience – its truth – is exposed in natural biological life. Biological life is a deeper unity than Lasswell’s symbolic synthesis, as it contains already within itself truth fashioned not just according to our own

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political desires, or self-interest (or what, for Lasswell, is no different to irrationality). The true political potential of the social sciences arises with the fact of this natural foundation to political life. And so Dewey draws together, in the form of craftsmanship, the political potential of the social sciences and the natural (i.e., biological) truth, which this would emulate. This is possible since, for Dewey, science is, as it were, a verb rather than a noun. As a project of doing or making, Dewey solves the perennial problem of truth and politics in human fabrication, as sanctified in nature. As is discovered, though, we strike a problem of both coordination and realization. The citizen as amateur social scientist, as craftsman of his own ends, would desire what could only be realized in active coordination with others. Just as in the natural world, the truth arises in interaction. Absent this, though, absent the coordination found in nature, it would seem that the state (and statecraft) must bring to fruition what is desired by citizens. Given that the state is in no position to realize this – as statecraft is not the same as citizen craftsmanship – the unity cannot hold. We would find, as in our contemporary situation, frustration, arising with an unrealisable desire on one side (citizen fabrication), and the inadequacy of statecraft on the other. Plumbing further this problem of meaning and truth, and the part played by social science, I take up the thoughts of Max Weber. Weber is important to my book in a number of respects. Firstly, he understood full-well the problem faced by someone such as Dewey. A meaningful life cannot be realized as merely a pragmatic pursuit. Meaning, and so too politics, is much deeper than this. Secondly, he saw the problem posed by modern social science. If democratized, if playing a part in active political life, social science would tend to dissolve meaning and give rise to the ‘iron cage’ of bureaucracy, or the liberalization of state executive action. Weber’s solution to the perennial problem is to dissociate politics from truth, bringing them together only in the form of a personal ethic – that is, the politician with a serious character and a measured outlook. This much, so I argue, is fine. The problem is that this personal construction of Weber’s is such that the social scientist’s truth can play no part (and this, as we know from policy science, will inevitably be violated). With the separation by Weber of these two realms we run into all sorts of difficulties, both practical and theoretical. Practically, we find that state executive actors are bound by Weber to rational action, in their capacity as administrators. The ends of their action are, however, irrevocably tied to the meaning bequeathed by their political masters. Problematically, political masters may well be good or evil (for an example relevant to Weber we need only consider the Third Reich). Theoretically, we discover that these problems are deeply hermeneutical, insofar as they are concerned with the broad question of meaning (or politics) and truth. Indeed, we run into these difficulties almost immediately: following Weber’s understanding of political life to the letter, we ourselves are precluded from

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understanding Weber. In claiming that we have understood Weber as Weber (and not merely as an historical character), we transgress Weber’s own laws on politics (meaning) and rationality (or truth). For by separating politics and truth to address the perennial problem, Weber leaves no room for the meaningful and truthful reality of everyday life. In seeking to reconcile truth with politics, Dewey by way of craftsmanship, and Weber by way of political personality, each would resolve the perennial problem according to how the scientist stands politically. For Dewey, the community of citizen-scientists are themselves the producers of political communities. For Weber, the scientist as scientist destroys political communities. In either case, Dewey and Weber are separated from the everyday political world in which you and I arise; if this is a world in which truth is to count as something meaningful (as worth pursuing relative to other pursuits), and meaning is not dissolved by truth (what is meaningful is not merely a fantasy). This intimacy of truth and meaning is denied by Dewey and Weber according to their science. For Dewey, truth is wholly political or public – just as with nature, there is no private end which would trump others. What is meaningful is the fabrication of ‘what works.’ Weber is more conservative: truth is revealed as rationality, and should be distinguished from what emerges for us (historically) as meaningful. We, by contrast, are left nonplussed. Although the perennial problem has not been disregarded, as with the policy scientists, it has been resolved in a way which would deny from the start any hope that we could disclose the truth of what we’re doing. Put differently: with the collapse of truth into fabrication, or with the separation of politics and truth, we are hamstrung, caught in the nether worlds of either endless production or a knowing inactivity (or non-knowing activity). What is called for is a return to ourselves (whoever we may be), in a way which confronts head-on the perennial problem. Such a return must honor the fact that what we take to be doing now, we take to be both meaningful and true. Such a confrontation is necessary if we are at all to come to terms with ourselves. Without this, we would always be playing the role of the political advisor, unaware of the real significance of our own actions; either following dogmatically the prescriptions of others, or seeking truth in the denial of (or irrespective of) the most comprehensive problems. Such a return to ourselves has been undertaken, and in the most comprehensive fashion, by Georg Hegel. Hegel, we might say, prepares the way for the resolution of politics (what we deem valuable) and truth (what is) in self-knowledge. Self-knowledge is key, as it is only now, in this modern age, that we can confidently say that we are in a position to understand as false the byways of the past. Self-knowledge is also rational. And so only now are we in a position to truly act impartially. Indeed, Hegel shows why, now, in this modern age (with the absence of a tradition), we must make this claim to self-knowledge, and, given where we’ve found ourselves, how we must make this claim. In this

Introduction

25

respect, Hegel would rescue from self-ignorance the thought of a Dewey or Weber. He also solves or terminates the circular arguments of the policy scientists: only with a rationally realized self-knowledge can we be said to be truly acting with impartiality. But what in the world had to die for Hegel’s rational life to emerge? What must be paid in return for this audacious attempt of Hegel’s to realize human wisdom, in an age in which wisdom is everywhere contested? In considering Hegel’s enterprise, as he puts it, to ‘think God’s thoughts before creation’ we can see what challenges Hegel sets before himself. Hegel must understand our own genesis if he is to deliver on his promise. For Hegel must show that he has, now, encompassed all possible positions and counter-positions. In having exhausted them, as described by his dialectical and speculative logic, and as revealed phenomenologically by Hegel in his understanding of spirit or Geist, only now might we know our own ignorance. Indeed, in surpassing Socrates (who only claimed to know two things: his ignorance and Eros), Hegel would say that our ignorance has been transformed into wisdom. The price we must pay for knowing that we’ve realized this rational self-knowledge is, then, our acceptance of Hegel’s logic, a logic which would claim to account for all possibilities, including its own. This liberation, though, may strike us already as a restriction. The restriction is metaphysical, and so more broadly philosophical, as it were. Why wouldn’t we jettison this metaphysics (even if only understood as logic), while still holding on to what it promises – that is, a rational self-determination? And so we return to Dewey and the possibility of policy science, or to Weber and the impossibility of political wisdom (but the preservation of politics). But giving up Hegel’s logic has profound consequences for what we could understand of the universal estate or the civil service. For the state is essential to the realization ‘in time’ of Hegel’s philosophical understanding. Jettisoning Hegel’s dialectical and speculative logic, while retaining what it promises, would, as I argue, dissolve the state’s institutional bonds. This is because any conservative understanding of the state – that is, the limits which must define the state – is by Hegel’s account, and without his logic, merely historical; it is not derived from what the state is. It has no natural or necessary founding, in other words. Hegel’s logic gives it a necessary founding. In giving up on Hegel’s logic, therefore, we would come to see the state as unfairly limited. We might claim that the state is an oppressor, for example. So it follows that liberty would be understood as, ironically, affording all people the opportunity to realize what was traditionally the state’s prerogative – a rational self-determination. This (as I show in my critique of the policy science debates) is where we have found ourselves (by way of Dewey and Lasswell, and as unsuccessfully arrested by Weber).

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In the penultimate chapter I approach a resolution to these problems. I argue that we must return to the everyday in order that we might understand ourselves, and thereby approach what Hegel desired. I begin first with a critique of Steven Pinker’s position. Pinker assumes that we are already realizing what Hegel promised, and without his metaphysical baggage. Indeed, without it we have realized our better selves (as he puts it). What we are, and the superiority of who we have become, is self-evident. His position, as I show, is untenable. I argue that we must return to our own understanding, comprehensive in a Hegelian sense if it is to account for the political, but not perversely scientific as was his. Which is to say that any comprehensive return must start where it ends – at the beginning – and should take neither the rational and retrograde step of returning to the beginning of all beginnings (as with Hegel), nor the myopic path of empiricism (as does Pinker). This is to approach the perennial problem of politics and truth from the most comprehensive of perspectives, so I have been arguing. Following a brief critique of two possible paths back to the everyday, that of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s and Hilary Putnam’s, I suggest that to return to the everyday we must move further into it. It is the everyday which will reveal the truth to us, in other words, and so it is only in the everyday that we might, as Stanley Rosen puts it, come to some extraordinary understanding of it, thereby enabling us to distinguish one theoretical perspective from another. In the final chapter I show that in pursuing this we come to appreciate the comprehensiveness of ordinary experience, and come to see what would or could regulate its realization. With this, the perennial problem of politics and truth is revealed as being of utmost importance, if also irresolvable. The reconciliation of politics and truth, as the perennial problem, must remain just that. As such, state executive action is no fitting substitute. With an awareness of this, state executive action becomes the province of state executive actors, aware of the limits of their own actions. The education of these actors would not be modeled on the political advisor (by way of social science), so it follows, but would begin with a serious philosophical study of the everyday. I conclude this book with a discussion of the implications of this for public policy. NOTES 1. At times I will refer to the social sciences in the singular – as ‘social science.’ Here I am referring to what unifies the social sciences, or allows us to distinguish them from other pursuits, such as, for example, literary criticism or natural science. 2. As Mannheim (1960, 152, 255–56) puts it: ‘This is the task of sociology in so far as it is the science of the political. It accepts no theoretical contention as absolutely valid in itself, but reconstructs the original standpoints, viewed from which the world appeared thus and such, and tries to understand the whole of the views derived from the various perspectives through the whole of the process. . . . A fully developed sociology of knowledge . . . follows a deliberate

Introduction

27

method. . . . The orientation towards certain meanings and values which inheres in a given social position (the outlook and attitude conditioned by the collective purposes of a group), and the concrete reasons for the different perspectives which the same situation presents to the different positions in it thus become even more determinable, intelligible, and subject to methodical study through the perfection of the sociology of knowledge.’ 3. See for example Friston et al. (2013, 2) who state that their ‘basic idea is that behavior can be cast as inference: in other words, action, and perception are integral parts of the same inferential process and one only makes sense in light of the other. . . . This idea has been formalized recently as minimizing a variational free energy bound on Bayesian model evidence – to provide a seamless link between occupying a limited number of attracting states and Bayesian inference about the causes of sensory input. . . . In the context of behavior, we suppose that inference underlies a sense of agency. A corollary of this perspective is that agents must perform some form of active Bayesian inference. Bayesian inference can be approximate or exact, where exact inference is rendered tractable by making plausible assumptions about the approximate form of probabilistic representations – representations that are used to predict responses to changes in the sensorium’ [italics in original]. 4. Dowding (2016, 214) says that ‘I think it would be unfortunate if political science departments were to abandon political philosophy to the philosophy departments, because I think moral theory without political nous [i.e., political science] tends towards the irrelevant, and political science should remain normatively and philosophically inclined even as it becomes more technical and empirical.’ 5. This distinction between facts and values – to put it crudely – Dowding (2016, 250) describes by way of the difference between political science and political philosophy. This is a distinction which does not, then, for Dowding, move beyond the theoretical. 6. As an alternative we might cite the work associated with ‘developmental economics’; for example, the work of Martha Nussbaum and Amartya Sen (see Nussbaum 2011). Hasn’t this been taken up by the state as much as the more behavioralist oriented social sciences? This is true to a point. For certainly the general spirit of Nussbaum and Sen’s capability approach aligns already with the underlying ethos of much liberal public policy (not surprisingly their work has found traction in those countries without a liberal tradition – India, for example). This is left behind in practice, though. For translating the broad ‘Aristotelian’ approach of theirs into practice brings us back to what the sociologists describe already as ‘well-being.’ And this comes with its own practical research agenda, replete with empirically oriented ‘indicators’ and methods of measurement. 7. Agamemnon following Calchus’s prophecy accuses him of being a ‘Seer of misery!’ and ‘Never a word that works to my advantage!’ (1.124). 8. For example: ‘Do not do what so many others do under pressure: human means can still save them, but when visible hopes recede they turn to the invisible – divination, oracles and other such sources of disastrous optimism’ (5.103.7–9). 9. This is not to say that Thucydides merely describes political works. As Orwin (1994, 4) says: ‘We cannot . . . deny . . . that Thucydides intended [his] work to be of use to statesmen. Clear understanding does not confer mastery over (human or nonhuman) nature, but it does imply an awareness of both the means and the bounds of political accomplishment – and is useful to statesmen on both accounts.’ 10. C.f., Wickham who, following in the footsteps of Hobbes (see Wickham 2010, 168; see also Wickham 2008), says that ‘[t]he problem for me is that too many of these sociologists – those who think the best route to public policy relevance is via ‘critique’ – are equipped with entirely the wrong understanding of the public sphere, one that serves only to lead them away from the possibility of public policy relevance. . . . They do not seem to comprehend that the Habermas–Kant understanding can only ever be of peripheral, extra-curricular interest to those doing the actual governing, those charged with maintaining civil peace as an instrumental end (not as an ideological, religious, or moral end)’ (170–71). 11. C.f., Gunnell (2010, 676, 678) on the relevance of political theory; and Gunnell (1993, 266–67) on the policy sciences. 12. See for example Haynes, Service, Goldacre, and Torgerson (2013) – ‘Test, Learn, Adapt: Developing Public Policy with Randomised Controlled Trials’ – published by the U.K.

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Cabinet Office. Related to this is the establishment by the U.K. Government of a ‘Behavioural Insights Team’ who, according to them, ‘translate the best of behavioural science into policy and practice’ (see https://www.bi.team/about-us; accessed 27 March, 2019). For a worldwide overview see OECD (2017). 13. Here I do not include the health-related (social) sciences, such as clinical psychology, for example. 14. As Horkheimer and Adorno (2002, 19) point out, with regard to the more radical variants of the enlightenment, ‘[m]athematical procedure became a kind of ritual of thought. Despite its axiomatic self-limitation, it installed itself as necessary and objective: mathematics made thought into a thing – a tool, to use its own term.’ 15. When did politics become a dirty word? According to one source (Merriam Webster Dictionary), the phrase ‘play politics’ made an early appearance with Wendell Phillips’ 1853 anti-slavery speech, delivered in Boston, Massachusetts. Phillips here makes reference to ‘play politics’ in order to bolster the seriousness of his own assertions (that his anti-slavery crusade is no mere jest). As a point of reference, consider that such bolstering does not arise with tyrants and despots – they might cite ‘play politics’ as a veiled threat, but never as an appeal that they be taken seriously. Political despotism is always personal, seriously so. Only with what we hold to be the necessary distance between a speaker and his or her audience must we appeal to seriousness. And so the allusion to the detachment of political speech (that with which we might play) as well as to the intensely personal nature of politics itself. ‘Playing politics’ has, in this sense, the ring of both a shared intimacy (and struggle) and its pretence.

Chapter Two

Truth, Politics, and Public Policy

In this chapter I plumb relevant debates in the academic public policy literature. The combatants in these debates, despite their differences, each fall into the political genre of ‘modern political advisor.’ This genre is defined by the impartiality of the judge, and the prescience of the law-giver. It is exemplified by those social sciences which would find their legitimacy in impartial political decisions. I take up these public policy debates with an initial assessment of those who favor the rationality of political advice, and move on to those who would reform this position, but always under the guise of impartiality. I show that these debates necessarily oscillate between the poles of theory and local political practice, each animated and united by rationality. They are, when all is said and done, interminable. ACCORDING TO THE EVIDENCE Amongst politicians and policy makers it is no revelation to state that evidence-based policy is the current fashion (see e.g., Haynes, Service, Goldacre, and Torgerson 2013). Under evidence-based policy, social science works hand-in-hand with the state, to get things done, impartially, and for the good of all, so it is presumed. As a union of theory and practice, evidence-based policy follows what was already underway with the practice of general medical practitioners (see Goodman 2003). Medical practitioners, it was proposed, could make better judgments if they were to follow more closely the results of medical experimental studies. As with the experimental method itself, the aim was to replace opinion with knowledge (even if regarded as provisional). The art or technique of doctoring would consist less in judging unique human beings, and more in the specialized or methodical technique of matching symptom to condition. The subsequent rule would then be applied 29

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or followed; such a rule being more comprehensive than the initial judgment, as it is the common condition rather the individual human being which would provide the limit or foundation to knowledge. It is this universal rule which evidence-based policy seeks. So it follows that the experimental method arises as the standard of judgment (see Welsh, Braga, and Bruinsma 2013, on criminal justice research and policy). Even if not always executable in practice, the logic of the experimental method is held aloft. Indeed, this logic – that of separating causes, effects, and their interactions, from chance – is not limited to fabricated or hypothetical situations, but might also encompass complex human communities, such as cities (see Sampson 2013). Although at this broader level experimentation has given way to observation, the intent remains the same: to unearth causes or patterns according to specified conditions. In fact, with the linking of huge private and public administrative datasets, the aim of experimentation might even be realized without any physical manipulation. Here, the independent variable is defined according to what could be manipulated (be that criminal sentencing regimes, classroom sizes, urban design, regulation of alcohol and other drugs, etc.), either in practice (in a quasi-experimental design, for example), or ‘in theory’ (using statistical techniques such as multiple regression and structural equation modeling). Insofar as this union holds, the promised alliance 1 of social science and politics would seem to have been realized, especially if more tangible aspects of contemporary government life are considered, such as: (1) the ongoing professionalization of the workforce, a professionalization in which policy officers are trained in the areas of sociology, psychology, and numerous other applied social scientific ‘fields,’ (2) computing power and software sophistication enabling quick and easy calculations of multiple series of inferential statistical algorithms, and (3) large administrative datasets (making way for the so-called ‘big data revolution’ – see United States Government 2014). The partnership between the state and social science is, though, not all that it appears. One reason for this, as can be seen from the difference between evidence-based medicine and evidence-based policy, is that, in contrast to the former, the latter seeks to realize in practice what has only been promised by the relevant ‘science’ (see Macintyre 1972, 22–23). With regard to the former example, consider that since the practice of evidencebased medicine might be fashioned directly from the laws uncovered by empirical research, this practice has shown itself to be a success in the past, and that it will continue to be so in the future. Evidence-based policy, by contrast, is based on research (and associated theoretical constructions) rooted in particular times and places. Since times and places differ (in a much more radical way than that exhibited across physical bodies), research must be applied. This application requires interpretation and discretion. To make

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good on its promise, the social scientist must know more, and do more, than what he has learnt by way of his science. The social scientist requires some alliance with political power, and the requisite political knowledge which accompanies this (see Gunnell 1993, 122). In a way not exhibited by medical research – as medical research is not brought to fruition and so not mandated by general practitioners – social scientists are dependent on their political masters (see e.g., Stoker 2010, 80). 2 This dependency requires an appeal to the political master’s interests. And so we find, for example, social science advocates, such as McDermott (2002, 33–34) and Stoker (2010a, 314–15), appealing to what appeals to the state executive: that is, the impartiality of social science research. In this way social scientists would secure their place at the political table. With such an appeal, social scientists would see themselves legitimated, even if they cannot find philosophical support in the natural sciences (c.f., Crick 1959, 217–21); for the social sciences attain legitimacy with their usefulness (see Easton 1969; c.f., Rorty 1981). It is no sign of inadequacy, then, if the proposed causes and their effects show themselves to be merely local or temporary; more important is the promise of impartial political decisions. Considering these differences (between the natural and the social sciences), it is plain that the social sciences are realized politically in a way which the natural sciences are not. Sure, natural scientists must convince nay-sayers, and secure for themselves public funding, but over the political decision itself they hold no sway. Social scientists, by contrast, are concerned with political decisions themselves. Social scientists appeal directly to the decision-makers, or to those who must also in some way be elevated. For the value of the social sciences resides as much in this elevation, as it does in the promised results. Indeed, what matters is the impartiality of the political decision, which for the natural sciences is of no interest (the natural scientist cares only for the result). It is possible to see this when looking to the nature of the problems which would concern each. The problems addressed by natural science are technical – such as the science of transferring data via physical networks. This is so even with a scientifically contentious issue: climate change, for example. In addressing climate change, climate science would reveal the facts, and climate scientists argue for the validity of their methods. The nay-sayers are either convinced by the addition of a hitherto missing scientific fact . . . or not at all. Simply, the methods of climate science are either accepted as exhausting the political – or even the scientific – debate, or not. No further argument from the scientists will change the mind of those who do not regard these methods (and the ‘facts’) as the final word – nor, indeed, those who point to what would seem to be disregarded by the climate scientists themselves: empirical science discounts implausible hypotheses, it does not offer proofs. The debate moves either into broader concerns about the scientific

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method and the nature of proof, or the broader political territories of national interest, economic stability, and the just distribution of resources, and so forth. Since it is unlikely that proof will ever be proof-enough 3 the political debate will continue to kick on. For even with proof-enough, extra-scientific problems remain. These are problems, broadly, in which this natural science plays no part. These broader political problems require arbitration. The foundation to this is our impartial political institutions, or the realm wherein people might come together in the mixed-spirit of persuasion and impartiality: to hear the concerns of others, to convince others of the value of their own position, and, if possible, to attain an amicable compromise. In stepping into this political realm, the social sciences enter this mixed-spirit arena of persuasion and impartiality. In emulating the natural sciences they would present themselves as absent persuasion, or as the epitome of impartiality. It is here that they find some concord with state executive government agencies. These agencies also value impartiality; persuasion taking the form of a technique or rational prescription. The state executive steps to the fore under these conditions. When it is a question of, for example, school education, the arguments of social scientists are taken up by the executive, as a substitute for political debate – simply because the executive seeks to end such debate. The state executive, if seeking anything of the social sciences, seeks to argue as per the social sciences; by this it would direct its political masters – that is, elected representatives. The union of social science and the executive is shown up in their political aspirations, therefore, as expressed in the appeals by each to impartiality. Social scientists and the state executive hold mutual political interests, because each aspires to transcend self-interest. Take, for example, biochemical research. Our biochemist works in the scientific area of water bacteria. This is of obvious interest to the Department of Environment; as it is to both major political parties, and to their constituents. Her research has been funded under a federal grant, and has attracted much interest from departmental officials. Studies of hers have shown that under conditions of high algal infestation the addition of a particular chloride compound removes dangerous bacteria, and reduces the risk of harm to humans when drinking the water. Further, she has shown that the treatment is reliable, defining those conditions under which the effects of the chloride compound are weakened. Opposition to her research has come from the Treasury Department. It is expensive. Cost-benefit analyses have determined, however, that it would be viable, but only in those areas currently immune to other treatment regimes. As our second example I introduce a sociologist. He is a specialist in the area of ‘well-being.’ Studies by him have shown that according to the ‘already accepted’ definition – a compilation of ‘indicators’ across education, health, employment, and other relevant ‘areas’ – well-being is most closely

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associated with variations in school practices. Using a quasi-experimental research design, he has found that as schools tie their lessons into the career aspirations of students, there is a corresponding decrease in the risk to wellbeing as posed by other ‘factors.’ Tying education to career aspirations makes students more ‘resilient,’ in other words. As with the natural science example, the end is generally accepted as good. In contrast to the natural science example, the end has been constructed from what might be realized given the means available. Indeed, the end is significant only in terms of these means. For the end – well-being so defined – is, along with being accepted as a good, constructed in a way which would dissociate it from deeper political questions, without altogether leaving them behind. Any questions about well-being, so it is presumed, have already been answered. All we are awaiting are the actions associated with the answer. These actions, too, are desired by the executive; that is, the transformation of (what from its perspective are) self-interested political questions into tractable and seemingly impartial answers. The appeal of this social science to the executive is that ‘well-being’ might well be attained, therefore, along with the possibility that it was shown to have been done so (i.e., it is ‘scientifically’ defensible). Ends are exposed in the means, and vice versa. The decision, previously counted as political, is instead amenable to a technical or impartial resolution (and might be shown to have been resolved or realized as such), insofar as the executive might itself argue as per social science. In this realization – or at least in the acknowledgment by the executive of its importance – the end is sanctified or legitimated. Without this, ‘wellbeing’ remains merely an historical description (and, in this respect, quite different to the discoveries of natural science); still only a possibility, or an ‘as-if,’ bound to the hypothetical reality from which it arose. The sociologist who rests content with such a description cannot obviously place himself as high as the sociologist who helps with its birth into reality. A description of a possible political reality is not yet as valid as the description of an actual political reality, according to a scientific understanding. This is no worry for the natural scientist; for the biochemist can rest assured that, even if not taken-up politically, the associations which she has discovered hold for all time (or close enough to it). In summary, then, it is no stretch to say that the social sciences and the executive are closer now than ever before. This relationship is based on a union – an appeal to impartiality – indicative of social science’s lack of actuality, and the state executive’s need to transcend political partiality. For even if the state executive is already an impartial institution, as an active institution, it seeks to realize itself according to its own interests. The social sciences, in a similar fashion, would seek to activate or draw on these interests to actualize themselves.

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But this comes with its own problems, given the need for the social sciences to overcome their own political partiality. For the social sciences do not themselves represent all political positions. The social sciences, it could be argued, are still politically partial. It is this dilemma which drives the public policy (or policy science) academic debates to which I am about to turn. Considered under the lights of social science, the social sciences are themselves only legitimated when, finally, they themselves become the political masters (of impartiality). This path, as I show below, moves through levels of political comprehensiveness, from the recognition of the various ends of rationality – or multiple rationalities – to a social scientific crafting of politics, then to the recognition of the interpretive nature of political perspectives, and finally to the politicization of rationality itself. These arguments all seek to redress the political partiality, or political obliviousness, of the straight-down-the-line positive social sciences, such as those which class the experimental method as the ideal method of discovery. The ‘multiple rationalities’ thesis looks to what the social sciences share with other political positions, arguing that the social sciences might rationally reconstruct institutional political decisions in light of this. The intermediate positions – the social scientific crafting of politics and the interpretive understanding – attempt to rationally account for the different contexts in which political things arise as meaningful. The final position, or the most comprehensive, attempts to overcome rationality itself, for the sake of impartiality. In the end, as I show, in seeking their political legitimacy the applied social sciences would undermine it. This is only retrieved, on their terms, with active bureaucratic practice, or the transformation of all citizens into quasi-social scientists. If pursued with some vigor by the executive, it would dissolve politics (i.e., what could be meaningful) in order that it may more easily (i.e., administratively) account for the ‘political’ positions of all. From here, a return to a ‘rational’ social science would be required (whether positive or otherwise) to arbitrate or decide between impartial political decisions. And so the arguments continue, each around a common desire to attain an impartial political position, as distinguished from the broadly self-interested positions of everyday political actors. The circularity of the arguments, combined with the need to actualize social science, means that they move forward at increasing speed, not toward a resolution, but toward political and theoretical dissolution. OVERCOMING SELF-INTEREST OR POLITICS I discuss first the multiple rationalities thesis. Under this thesis, it is reasonably assumed that not only the social scientist honors rationality. Whereas positive social science would disregard what others find rational in their

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everyday practices, if there is some rationality shared by all, then it could be argued that the social scientist’s rationality is, along with being impartial, not also politically blind. In taking account of the rationality of others, a more comprehensive impartiality is attained. What is problematic about this, as I will argue, is that the very thing which makes it partial or tyrannical (as with the positive social sciences) is what would elevate us above self-interest. The truth as disclosed by rationality is a double-edged sword of liberation and bondage, in other words. As a response to the potentially tyrannical nature of rationality, while holding still to its promise of liberation (from political partiality), the approach of Kay’s (2006; 2011) is representative. Kay proposes multiple rationalities (see also Andrews 2007; Behagal and Arts 2014; Thurmaier and Willoughby 2015), in order to reconcile the truth as realized impartially (i.e., rationally) with its significance as esteemed from within the partial perspectives of political life. With this, he would hope to expand the usefulness (see Kay 2011, 239) of rationality; to encompass also the political sphere of ends or values. Acknowledging multiple rationalities, as Kay (2011, 243) puts it, ‘means that there is no one superior rationality, but rather alternative arguments can be put forward as a consequence of different assumptions, values and criteria.’ What concerns me here is the most comprehensive – or most political – of these rationalities. This, as Kay (2011, 242) points out, is raised above the others by its power to judge reasonably, for it would – as Kay states – replicate in some sense Aristotle’s understanding of phronēsis. Saving it from self-interest (as merely one opinion among many) and from hegemony (limiting it to one among many) is its rationality. Following Kay, rationality both reveals and denies the truth of any judgment, in other words. 4 Rationality, to put it another way, reveals the truth of any judgment, insofar as it is the standard by which we distinguish the meaningful from the absurd; and rationality denies the truth of any particular judgment, since it is evoked in support of all judgments (for in persuading others, no one appeals to irrationality). In playing this double role, however, rationality is being called upon to adjudicate in a way which must assume that it is divided within itself. As divided, though, how in the end do we judge what is rational and what is not? To judge rationally between one opinion and another would, rather, seem to require a unified not a divided rationality. Consider this: we all hold opinions, and in holding opinions we are all rational creatures. Based on this we might conclude that all opinions are equally rational, insofar as any or all opinions might be rationally defended. But we must also concede, then, that this conclusion of ours – about rationality and about persons – is rational not merely because we hold an opinion. This is a rationality which strives for the truth. Indeed, we might well argue that the opinions which others hold are themselves a result, or not, of striving for the truth. The distinction amongst

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opinions comes down to the truth, then, and the truth does not merely reflect the fact that all of us hold opinions (given that in holding and defending an opinion we are all, equally, rational creatures). And so a rationality internally divided, which would give equal weight to the truth and to the fact that a striving for the truth is shared by all, cannot hold. As divided, it is not sufficient to ground judgment in an Aristotelian sense (i.e., habitual deliberation following some awareness of natural ends – see Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, 1140b4–30). The discriminatory power of phronēsis is lacking. As a rule of thumb, it pays, I believe, to commandeer Aristotle only as support for arguments which he himself broached. Straying from Aristotle, phronēsis is apt to be stretched beyond recognition. 5 Indeed, attempting to make rationality universally diverse, while holding it up as the criterion for distinguishing between what is true and false, tends to dissolve its own foundations (c.f., Ricci 1984, 17, 185). At the core of this problem is that the addition of one rationality to another, or the division of rationality according to the interminable ends which it might serve, is no different to an unlimited division or addition. As unlimited, any division or addition cannot be distinguished by a more comprehensive rationality, as this rationality does not exist. To put it another way: there is no unity to rationality if it is merely formal, for unity in this case extends only so far as internal self-consistency – what is rational for one person is not rational for another. Insofar as each present as an internally consistent account, they are equally rational. Rationality is unified only by way of what is internal to a way of life, in other words. Without a rationality unified across ways of life, the distinction between rationalities is not itself rational. The distinction is, rather, best described as wholly contingent. And so, if taken all the way to the end, it follows that the search for a universally diverse rationality leads to the thesis that the rational is irrational. In this respect, neither those who fashion public policy, nor their academic advisors, are immune; unless they were to hold a privileged position according to rationality. And in this we can see its allure, for the work of academic advisors, or policy scientists, is meaningful only to themselves and others if their rationality is not one among many, but an overarching rationality, as it were. If nothing substantial would separate this rationality from any others, though, then the meaningfulness of the whole enterprise becomes questionable (if not absurd). It is not surprising, therefore, that the arguments are broached not by business leaders or others of this ilk, but by those who might find legitimacy in contemporary ‘universal’ institutions – the university and the civil service. But these institutions are themselves historical, and so any support which they might provide is merely accidental: the argument must support itself, otherwise it is circular. Delving further, the problem is, more broadly, that because any arguments like these must detach rationality from truth (and so rationality is

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understood as merely useful or ‘multiple’), all the while appealing to rationality as the means of attaining truth, they are bound to fail in the quest to bring truth (whether called reason or rationality) to politics or practice. Following this path to the end, there is no way to determine whether truth is merely political, or the political is wholly irrelevant to truth (e.g., Steinberger 2015, 761–62). And thus rationality cannot be but either irrelevant, or defenseless against, or simply no different to self-interest. The stage is thereby set for those who would argue that rationality itself must be overcome, for the sake of impartiality more generally. LIMITING RATIONALITY I will now consider three possible kinds of argument critiquing rationality, each which maintains in some respects the distinction between truth and selfinterest, as vouchsafed by rationality itself. The first kind – which I call ‘normative judgment’ – includes arguments about the rational prescriptions of social scientists, insofar as they do not match the reality of policy work. These are not arguments against rationality itself, but about its redundancy if detached from, or not wholly rooted in, the empiric. The second kind – what I have called ‘rational interpretation’ – encompass also the political aspirations of the public, and make the case that there is an inherent discord between this and what rationalists find meaningful – differently situated as they are. This discord would invite a more comprehensive social scientific understanding, of which rationality narrowly understood is merely one of many ways to understand political things. The third kind delve deeper, and include arguments against rationalism per se. These arguments follow the split within modern science itself. On the surface, they rally against the mathematical or self-certifying side, in which everyday reality is made axiomatic. No argument is made against the sceptical side, or against the scientific method itself. Rather, in denouncing rationalism, they would appear to be favoring methodical craft over theory, and the empirical over the universal. With this, as I will argue, impartiality is moved from the realm of theory into the realm of technical or bureaucratic practice. NORMATIVE JUDGMENT Following from the argument in support of multiple rationalities, as detailed above, we might broaden our scope. For public policy is not made in a rational vacuum, as it were. As a first step, it could be argued, for example, that instrumental rationality is too narrow to fit the different ‘contexts’ in which public policy is fashioned. Rather, as Majone (1989, 43) points out, the normative or conventional context should be the final arbiter of truth: ‘if there is no demon-

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strative certainty for the conclusions of science, their “truth,” or at any rate their acceptability as scientific results, can only be established by convention.’ And further: ‘Craft knowledge – less general and explicit than theoretical knowledge, but not as idiosyncratic as pure intuition – is essential in any kind of disciplined intellectual enquiry or professional activity. It is especially important in policy analysis’ (Majone 1989, 44). Sanderson (2006, 126) draws out the consequences of this normative or conventional approach, and proposes in place of a bare rationality what he calls ‘practice wisdom’ – its end is the resolution of ambiguity, and its means the ‘craft’ of professional practice. ‘Practice wisdom’ is attained by way of the common experience made available by public institutions (what Sanderson refers to as the normative and organizational context) (Sanderson 2004, 370). 6 We can see that practice wisdom shares something with the multiple rationality thesis introduced previously, since reconciliation is the aim. It is broader, though, insofar as it attempts to account for the norms of its own practice. Norms, let us say, would provide some context and guidance to deliberation. With this brief overview, though, we see that it is not also unproblematic. For, by this account, if ‘practice wisdom’ is merely a normative or professional way of doing things, then it is, in the end, no more comprehensive a truth than the more limited practice of instrumental rationality. Only as a conscious orientation – or as Sanderson (2006, 122) describes it (following Giddens): ‘reflexive monitoring of action’ – would it distinguish itself from instrumental rationality. ‘Practice wisdom’ could, in this respect, be described as an awareness of, and so as allowing a certain control over, those conditions responsible for its own existence – it arises from and would seek to return to what is institutionally acceptable. And with this, none could distinguish, by the ends which they seek, the craft of ‘practice wisdom’ from the craft of instrumental rationality. For both, ends are unlimited. These differ only insofar as instrumental rationality seeks its truth in theory (as a mathematical coherence and associated correspondence with the empirical) and ‘practice wisdom’ exhibits its truth – becomes ‘wise’ – when practice corresponds with institutional or social norms, and institutional norms, in turn, are made universal (or, as Sanderson (2004, 370–71) puts it, rendered unambiguous). Despite his argument otherwise, the ‘craft’ to which Sanderson refers is mere technique: the means are wholly impartial, and could potentially realize unlimited ends. Essentially the craft is that of self-conscious bureaucratic practice. On this point, Sanderson makes reference to Aristotle (Sanderson 2004, 370) 7 but misleadingly; for in reality he follows Dewey (see Sanderson 2004, 376). 8 There is in the end only pragmatics – what works. Professional practice is the foundation of practical judgment, and so too wisdom is equivalent to institutional practice. This is to say nothing more than that bureau-

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cratic practice (coupled with everyday human actions such as speaking and arguing, etc. – see Sanderson 2004, 376) is the realm of wise or ‘intelligent policy making’ (Sanderson 2009, 715). The subsequent ends are empty, and thus there is no way to distinguish between what is better and what is worse. Indeed, Sanderson (2009, 710) states that truth is equated with success. Reason is thereby reduced to the apolitical or technical mediation and amelioration of self-interested political factions. Although there is some value in acknowledging that it is experience, and not just a bare rationality, which would deliver a well-considered public policy, in deriving wisdom from convention the argument cannot be saved from a more radical critique of rationality, in which the ideal of ‘practice wisdom’ would be embroiled. For ‘practice wisdom,’ here, is equated with nothing more than what has already transpired. As simply given, as transparent, this ‘wisdom’ cannot be distinguished from belief, tradition, or, more crudely, any politically partial position. This leads me to the second kind of argument (and my third in this chapter), in which good public policy is sought by way of an ‘interpretive’ social science, or a deeper exploration of what people already understand. RATIONAL INTERPRETATIONS Having realized that a wholly rational science is not meaningful in the same way for all people, better public policy, so the argument goes, can be had with a more inclusive definition of ‘evidence’ (see Majone 1989; Stone 2002; Yanow 2000). This definition of ‘evidence’ encloses rationality within a more comprehensive, but strictly empirical, understanding of knowledge (e.g., Torgerson 2013, 452; Wilkinson 2011). Following this empirical approach, knowledge is reduced to meaning. As Yanow (2000, 5) 9 explains: Interpretive methods are based on the presupposition that we live in a social world characterized by the possibilities of multiple interpretations. In this world there are no ‘brute data’ whose meaning is beyond dispute. Dispassionate, rigorous science is possible – but not the neutral, objective science stipulated by traditional analytic methods (as represented by the scientific method). As living requires sensemaking, and sensemaking entails interpretation, so too does policy analysis.

To this we might not take umbrage, simply because it describes a world of which we are all familiar, a world in which we understand ourselves as akin to some and unlike others. Where I hesitate is the equation by Yanow, in the last sentence, of policy analysis with living! Could there be something to living which might well be reconstructed for the purposes of policy analysis?

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How does one equate a natural or organic capacity with a technical ability? Why not just say that we must understand what it is to be human, before we can undertake well-considered policy analysis? – that is, people hold varying opinions, some better, some worse, not all the same. To say this, though, does not require a technical competency. Rather, it must be that for Yanow there is some concordance between the technical activity of policy analysis and the activity of living, as interpreting beings. Somehow, in living and interpreting, we must also be undertaking what is akin to a technical activity. Only with this might living equate with policy analysis. Indeed, this is what we find; for Yanow (2000, 90) argues further that the phenomenological and hermeneutic philosophies that underpin interpretive approaches . . . assume a situated knower: an analyst whose interpretation is shaped by prior education and training, family and communal background, societal position, and experience, whose knowledge constitutes a frame itself. Neither this person nor the knowledge he possesses is or can be objective: there is no point of view outside the matter being studied from which to observe it; following Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle in physics, acts of observation themselves affect that which is being observed. In this sense, analysis – although made dispassionately, with reason and logic – is not and cannot be value-free. It is not adequate to say, along the lines of one response of policy analysis to this critique, I’ll make my values or bias explicit up front and then proceed with objective, dispassionate analysis . . . this is philosophically and logically not possible.

Rather, as Yanow continues, the interpretive researcher ‘can be seen as a translator, bringing other interpretive communities’ stories to her employing policymaker, agency, or community group, helping each to understand the stories of the others’ (Yanow 2000, 90). Let’s take a moment to reflect on what all this could mean for us. This can be reduced to a few relevant points. Firstly, the main argument is that we all make sense or interpret the world in some way. This is a basic point in my opinion. If reality is not somehow meaningful to us, if it is meaningful to others for example, and only to them, then this reality is not ours to discover. The only argument against it – that we do not interpret the world, or that interpretations are essentially irrelevant – would, of course, need to prove that this holds in all cases; that what we find meaningful is merely accidental, and that underneath it all is a necessity which holds no matter. This is to deny how we, as opposed to others, make our way in the world. It is naive. But even if we cannot hold to this argument regarding necessity and meaningfulness, it does not follow that reality is, simply, an interpretation. And so Yanow’s reference to Heisenberg is misguided: for if all is interpretation, then the last person one should call on for support is a follower of mathematical physics – a follower who’s in the game, what is more, to discover the necessary

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truth (expressed probabilistically or otherwise). It is misguided because it draws a parallel between the theoretical indeterminacy of the subatomic world (in which the uncertainty of measurement has no bearing on our relation to everyday objects) and the relation of ourselves to others and the shared world we inhabit. If we take this at the level of metaphor, it is not only saying that we interpret reality. It is saying that interpretation goes all the way down (to the metaphorical subatomic level), so far indeed that any distinction between interpretations must itself be an interpretation. But how can we then hold up as exemplary the virtues of the technician – dispassion and rigor? What is there to be dispassionate and rigorous about? For if our interpretation of the world is no truer than that which might otherwise be provided by those who we are interpreting, then there is no ‘about’ about. With this lack of an ‘about,’ I might add, we can make sense of Yanow’s equation of living with the technical activity of policy analysis (and so too her reference to Heisenberg). Consider that in everyday life there is always an ‘about,’ and so always a desire to act. Leaving behind the question of ‘about,’ we fall back on technique, or those means by which desire is suspended. On a similar note, if interpretation is a technical enterprise, we can put it to use for any or all ‘abouts.’ Thought of in this way, it is easy to imagine that interpretation (technically understood) is itself equivalent to understanding, simply because it might be considered independently of the ‘about,’ or the thing which might be known. And with this question of the ‘about’ we get to the bottom of Yanow’s concern. For analysis – ‘dispassionately, with reason and logic’ – is somehow the bridge which would link the interpreted to those who desire such an interpretation: the social scientist acts as translator between the public and those political authorities which instigate policy. But: a translator of what? Thinking for a moment about what the translator does – which is to render the speech of one language, in another language, as close to the original as possible – we see that it is different to what the interpreter does. Translation is different to interpretation, as interpretation begins with the assumption that what is being interpreted is not fully disclosed on the surface. This equivocation by Yanow is telling. For here emerges the crux of the matter: how does one make sense of what the ‘employing policymaker’ desires? This needs no interpreting, following Yanow. Rather, what is being interpreted, or transformed into a technical language, is the understanding of the everyday man and woman. Herein lies the political agenda, for the social scientist understands directly the edicts of her employer, but must interpret (for whose benefit?) the desires, practices, thoughts, of the public. Even if Yanow would present her program as one of merely ‘getting in touch’ with the concerns of everyday people (and so there is some disconnect between her philosophical underpinnings and political motivations), this requires by her estimation not merely the organic variety of interpretation (what we do in living), but its

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technical equivalent. If we count this as an improvement on the blinkered perspective of the positive social sciences – and I do – it is still, like them, the circumvention of politics, and its substitution with a technical understanding. That this technical practice is not also a relativistic enterprise must be defended on theoretical grounds, if we are to count technically gained knowledge as essentially truer than mere opinion. For if interpretivism is merely a technical practice, as with Yanow’s, it is a politically subordinate practice, and so can play no part in the distinction between true and false, better and worse. The most it can claim is to provide a technical advantage over what bureaucrats already do (if these bureaucrats are following the advice of the positive social scientists). For this reason, it is not surprising to find that attempts have been made to rescue interpretive practice from an inferior relativism, thereby enabling it to stand on its own feet (i.e., not just as subordinate to a partial political position). As Bevir and Rhodes (2005, 182) complain: ‘Arguably the most prevalent misconception about an interpretive approach is that it is inherently relativist.’ This is unwarranted, according to them, for it ‘ignores the many efforts of proponents of an interpretive approach to state their epistemological position’ (see also Bevir and Rhodes 2006; 2016). This must mean that an interpretivist epistemology, or a theory of knowledge as derived from interpretation, would be enough to save it from relativism. Which is to say that if anything is going to save an interpretivist approach, it will be a theoretical account of knowing interpretively (and not merely an epistemology, or a theory of what we can know – there are plenty of epistemological positions which support the case for relativism). As I understand it, however, Bevir and Rhodes are unsuccessful in rescuing an interpretive approach from relativism, despite (or, indeed, because of) the fact that they would present an interpretive-focused theory (or an internally consistent account) of knowing. In honor of theory, Bevir and Rhodes (2005, 183) begin from the brute facts of everyday experience and build up from there: Everyday experiences incorporate a wide range of realist assumptions, including: objects exist independently of our seeing them, objects persist over time, other people can see them, and they sometimes act causally on one another. To insist on the role of prior categories in perception is not to argue that categories determine experiences. No doubt objects can force sensations on people. It is to argue only that categories influence how people experience sensations. People use prior categories to make sense of the sensations that objects force on them.

This is clearly an attempt to rebut relativism from the ground up, as it were. For it is an attempt to distinguish the facts of everyday lives from any unorthodox interpretation or construction of them – ‘Objectivity arises from using agreed facts to criticise and compare rival interpretations. A fact is a

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statement, typically about a piece of evidence, which nearly everyone in the given community would accept as true’ (Bevir and Rhodes 2005, 183). This theory of knowing may well be internally coherent. But it also stipulates that what we have come to know over and above the brute facts of everyday existence (on which most of us agree) – what is meaningful to us, and to others, precisely because it is contested – is what we ourselves have constructed (whether communally or otherwise): Because we can rely on the broad content of our perceptions, we have good reason to assume that the facts on which we agree are reliable, for facts are simply exemplary perceptions. Finally, because we have good reason to assume that accepted facts are broadly reliable, the best available narratives based on these facts are secure. In sum, we can relate objective narratives to truth because our ability to find our way around in the world vouches for the basic accuracy of our perceptions. (Bevir and Rhodes 2005, 185)

Just as we might hold a generic map for the construction of buildings, in which the identification of objects for construction are readily identified by us – choose a rock not a tree, collect gravel not water, and so forth – this map gives us free reign to construct whatever edifice counts for us as a building. What counts for us as a building is what we recognize of buildings according to their purpose. If we construct something more suitable for being walked on than for being inhabited, then we’ve clearly not constructed a building. In constructing a building, though, we might well construct a monastery, or a slaughterhouse. Here we come back to meaningful practices, which are the bedrock for Bevir and Rhodes (2005, 183) of what would make a thing the thing that it is: ‘The nature of a perception depends on the prior web of beliefs of the perceiver. . . . Perceptions always incorporate prior categories.’ The objectivity of this web of beliefs is determined by the basic facts out of which it has been constructed (Bevir and Rhodes 2005, 184). And yet, as they point out, pretty much all meaningful practice arises from facts rooted in an inherited criterion of reasonableness (Bevir and Rhodes 2005, 173). Knowledge is thereby defined as internal to meaningful practices, simply because what things are (e.g., this monastery, that slaughterhouse) must have been built up from brute facts not themselves constructed by us; they’re either agreed-upon by all, or they’re what we’ve inherited. In constructing a slaughterhouse I may well use the same bricks and mortar as in constructing a monastery. Indeed, in constructing each I am fabricating a building which, in each case, is distinguished by all from a footpath. But as an ‘interpretation of interpretations,’ as Bevir and Rhodes (2005, 170) describe the interpretive approach they are defending, any appeal to brute facts does not address the real question. For it is not the ‘building’ question which is being interpreted; rather, it is the question of what this building means, insofar as it is tied into meaningful practices more broadly.

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This is a different question to the ‘epistemological’ question, which takes its bearings by things internal to meaningful practices (wherein what’s sought are the simple ‘agreed upon’ facts prior to any construction – what might be known despite construction). The meaning of a slaughterhouse is miles away from that of a monastery. And if these are simply reduced to categories of meaningful practice or ‘webs of belief’ then we’ve found ourselves stuck in relativism. One man’s slaughterhouse is no different to another’s monastery, insofar as each might be constructed meaningfully or authentically; each according to their respective traditions. This remains the same with the recognition that we (the interpreter) and they (the believer and the butcher) are each able to distinguish rocks from trees: that is, objectivity at the brute level of agreed upon fact does not equate to objectivity at the level of deeper meaning. This is obvious if, for example, an interpretive social scientist were to take up an argument with a builder of monasteries – the religious believer. This could not be settled on the level of agreed upon facts – of rocks and trees, for example. The argument would, in fact, be problematic for the social scientist, especially since, as Bevir and Rhodes (2005, 184) state, their position rests on a mere preference for facts transparently understood. Possibly less problematic would be engagement with a builder of slaughterhouses – the butcher. In any respect, to rescue ourselves from relativism (to attain some objectivity) we must address this higher level, not merely the construction process itself. This is the ‘about’ of which I referred to above – the desire to seek out some things and not others, and so act in this way and not that, and so forth. In the following, I address those who push the interpretivist wheelbarrow even farther by bringing theory wholly back to practice. No one interpretation is better than another, so it is argued. What is best, though, is the concordance of theory with practice. No theoretical account will rescue an interpretive approach from relativism; rather, theory is only redeemed with the transformation of research subjects (or political actors) themselves into rational meaning-seekers. In so doing, it follows, as I will argue, that for those who work in the executive, for those who would fashion public policy, truth would come to be associated with the administration of rationality. OVERCOMING RATIONALITY What is merely implied with the previous arguments is openly stated in this final attempt to make social science politically relevant. The aim here is to transcend political self-interest – even the theoretician’s own – and so realize social science as truly and politically legitimate. We’ll see that since even theory – or the perspective of science – is equated with self-interest, it is only

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by way of political practice that truth is realized. The impartiality of this practice, moreover, might only be realized technically, or with the politically active transformation of all into technical replicas. In the end, what emerges is an enterprise torn asunder by its overwhelming allegiance to theory, insofar as a theoretical account of theory shows itself as politically subservient or compromised. In a paper which lays the foundations for this (public policy) enterprise, Fischer states that the ‘social sciences, as empirical sciences of society, have largely failed’ (Fischer 1998, 129). 10 Following Kuhn (1996), he argues that we should look to ‘what social scientists already do’ (Fischer 1998, 131) 11 rather than what they aspire to know, in order to address the ‘quality of policy argumentation in public deliberation’ (Fischer 1998, 130), and thereby improve public policy more generally (Fischer 1998, 131). It is hard not to wonder, though: why change anything? Why change anything if social scientific practice is currently regarded as the foundation of good public policy? Why change what from this perspective is already appropriate? It comes down to what Fischer sees as ‘an epistemological misunderstanding of the relation of politics to knowledge’ (Fischer 1998, 130). 12 And thus Fischer sets out to bring social scientific knowledge within the fold of politics, in order to clear the way for a more comprehensive theoretical understanding (he seeks a coherent epistemology – see also Fischer 2007, 100). It is this theoretical understanding, coupled with his desire to banish theory, which lies at the heart of Fischer’s enterprise, an enterprise in which politics or practice (which includes their symbolic expression – see Fischer 2003, 56–57) 13 is approached under the lens of both science and the sociology of science (Fischer 1998, 133). 14 Fischer understands politics as the ground of science, and social science (sociology) as the only means by which politics might be understood. Given this, the social scientist shares something with the natural scientist, but is also raised above him insofar as he might well understand politics. Following this distinction, Fischer would see his ‘post-positivist’ enterprise as an improvement over positivism (and neo-positivism), insofar as it does not follow the ‘rigorous separation of facts and values’ (Fischer 1998, 132). 15 This separation has arisen, according to Fischer, because the ‘social’ has been inadequately understood (Fischer 1998, 133). 16 And so Fischer would make the understanding of the ‘social’ a prerequisite to any further theoretical understanding. And thus it would seem that social science might provide a truer account of the natural world than even natural science, insofar as social science can explain more than what natural scientists themselves understand of their own enterprise. For by not privileging any one perspective or understanding of the world (Fischer 1998, 142) the social scientist lays bare the various interpretations of reality (see Fischer 2007, 102). In this

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sense, Fischer argues that it is in fact more ‘rigorous’ than the formal logic of usual scientific practice, which in any case would misrepresent how scientists actually go about their work (Fischer 1998, 144). 17 On more prosaic matters, Fischer argues that a so-called Aristotelian ‘practical reason’ would bind together, or encompass, the mélange of personal interpretations, while conforming to what is ‘already exhibited in realworld policy analysis and implementation’ (Fischer 1998, 146). 18 And ‘practical judgement’ would provide ‘the mechanism for not only identifying the incompetent charlatan, but investigating the more subtle errors in our sophisticated approximations of reality . . . and probing the much neglected contextual dependence of most forms of argumentation’ (Fischer 1998, 147). 19 This is not relativistic, according to Fischer, because the ‘process is typically initiated by external stimuli in the object-oriented world . . . [which] work to limit the number of plausible interpretations’ (Fischer 1998, 148). 20 And yet, since science is really about persuasion rather than truth, our conclusions are best thought of as ‘arguments,’ not proofs (Fischer 1998, 149). Those conditions which have brought about ‘knowledge’ must be laid bare – the more comprehensive this exposure, the better the conclusions (Fischer 1998, 150). Ultimately, this will make public policy more democratic, as the expert serves as a facilitator ‘to assist citizens in their efforts to examine their own interests and make their own decisions . . . [as well as] bringing together the analytical perspectives of social science and the competing normative arguments of the relevant participant’ (Fischer 1998, 154). 21 Fischer, it seems, would like to have it both ways: he provides arguments about reality which follow from a mathematical physics (e.g., Fischer 1998, 130), but which he then uses to buttress the argument that natural science is merely an interpretation of the world (Fischer 1998, 132). 22 This latter argument he takes to be supported by the sociology of science. Not only this, he treats natural science as if it were a cultural artifact (e.g., Fischer 1998, 135); and in uncovering the true nature of this as ‘scientific practice,’ social science would show its legitimacy (Fischer 1998, 141, 156). 23 In effect, the practice of natural science might only reveal the truth to those who look to its social or political foundations. Theory is unintelligible as theory, in other words, but is made intelligible by the scientist who studies the ‘social.’ But as it stands, the intelligibility of the ‘social’ is subject to the same conditions under which the scientific enterprise is understood to be merely an interpretation. Therefore, the social scientist’s account of the social world, following Fischer’s understanding of science itself, must be circular, or an interpretation of an interpretation ad infinitum (see Fischer 1998, 137). 24 Fischer, as he appears to me, suffers from his attempt to apply Foucault, or to render Foucault directly and politically relevant. For Foucault, and his critique of rational-political power, is at the heart of Fischer’s practically oriented enterprise. Whether or not these problems appear in Foucault’s own

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work is beyond the scope of this book to plumb. However, it is telling that Foucault could so easily be recast as a ‘discourse analyst,’ as do Fischer and others (see Fischer 2003), to be put to work as both the means and the end of liberation. Such a soft revolution is an attempt to hold to Foucault’s critical political program, while making him useful, or directly relevant to the politics of the day. To remain useful, Foucault must be re-thought in terms of the everyday facts of the policy analyst. As Fischer (2003, 229) puts it, ‘[w]hereas the Foucauldians emphasize the large historical questions, they have neglected the normative questions of agency in the life-world. . . . The task ahead for critical planners and policy analysts is to develop a theory of agency that is appropriately situated in the larger macro political contexts in which they take place.’ I would describe this as the technical equivalent of Foucault’s own turn, later in life, to an aesthetic of the self. As a technical equivalent, though, it simply reproduces the object of Foucault’s earlier political-genealogical critique. There is clearly something amiss here, and it is followed through into the conclusions which Fischer draws for public policy more generally. The policy scientist has no more access to the reality of things than anyone else, and so must follow the natural scientist in relying on what Fischer calls ‘argument’ (see also Fischer 2007a), but which can only be described as persuasion given the absence of any other way of showing what is and is not the case (Fischer 1998, 149). Fischer imagines that the practice of the policy scientist would come to the rescue, as this is about ‘connecting theory and techniques to concrete cases’ (Fischer 1998, 147), and so, we might presume, would also distinguish a true from a false understanding of reality. However, given that by Fischer’s account there is no theory separable from an everchanging social reality, and that the various interpretations of reality cannot be separated by any rational or universal account, deference to the practice of those who do this very thing is empty. The only support which Fischer might provide for this argument is ‘philosophical’; that somehow he would have transcended the fact-value distinction of positivism by including also the political realm within the theoretical. And thus we should take our theoretical bearings by practice or politics rather than by any rational account of how things are. But with this, the argument is split into two incoherent halves. For if his aim is to give a wholly theoretical account (as he states, for he sets out to offer a more coherent epistemology), then he must follow on one hand the paradigm of mathematical physics, which is a positivistic understanding of the way things are, and on the other take just as seriously what by this account is other than rational – that is, a political understanding. And since this is what he is compelled to do, Fischer’s argument vacillates between these two sides, variously bringing politics under the realm of theory by way of sociology – all is fact – and at other times following the opposite side already defined by a mathematical

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account of reality. In this latter side, all that is not rational is deemed wholly political or relative, which, given that we are political and not just material beings, must include any or all rational accounts. This second account is supported by the first only insofar as the social scientist is removed from the reality under study, insofar as his or her practice is technical or objective, and insofar as this practice would ostensibly transcend the relative political positions of others. And thus from this perspective all that can be known is relative and equivalent (as knowledge is wholly political); but the realization of this requires a technical practice, in which politics is replaced by the impartiality of the scientist. And so what natural scientists have been doing is more important, because more universal, than what they have come to know (see Fischer 2003, 54, 130). Since, by this account, the separation of science and politics occurs only in the realm of practice (it is what social scientists do which matters), policy scientists and those who fashion public policy, if they are to act truly, must act as technicians (the ‘political’ equivalent to the social scientist’s practice). The aim of these technicians would be to transform citizens into a copy of themselves (as per the social scientist’s understanding – see Fischer 2003, 216–17). 25 Following what has been described above, this would culminate in the dissolution of political understanding (or the significance for us of ends of our desires). In an unsurprising twist, politics would be replaced by the unlimited false interpretations of the lapsed irrationalist, saved or redeemed through rational, technical production. In the end (or its absence!) it is a circular endeavor: a pious libation to rationality, offered in recompense for the sin of rationality. It is this which Fischer would call democracy (Fischer 1998, 154). 26 Fischer is not alone in making arguments such as these. Parsons (2002), for example, argues along similar lines. Following Rorty’s idiosyncratic understanding of Dewey’s pragmatism (see Festenstein 2001, 730), Parsons describes policy making as a muddling through (see Rorty 1980, 39). According to Parsons (2002, 49), ‘Government cannot fix things because things are never fixed: all is flux and uncertainty . . . [and] [t]he shift to communicative modes of policy making involves the recognition that although we cannot know, we can learn and the role of government is to facilitate private and public learning.’ But learning what? Since, in fact, there is nothing to learn. He suggests that an Aristotelian phronimos is required (see Parsons 2002, 55). But as he describes the world according to (the textbook understanding of) Heraclitus on one hand, and modern political theories of communication on the other (see Parsons 2002, 49), there can be no difference between those who act well and those who don’t, and so no possibility of phronēsis, except by way of what is a human construction – which is to say institutional or bureaucratic practice.

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Frieberg and Carson (2010) offer a similar formula, but substitute emotion for what Fischer calls practice. This is with a view to not only attaining a more coherent epistemology (see Frieberg and Carson 2010, 157), but also to enhance the rhetorical force of public policy (see also Gottweis 2007). But, as with Fischer’s, the arguments against rationality are incoherent, insofar as they also presuppose its pre-eminence: rationality is problematic because it does not accord with policy practice; it is relative because defined by power (Frieberg and Carson 2010, 156). And yet, the ‘policy process,’ following good technocratic practice, should be modeled (i.e., replicated rationally) to include emotions (Frieberg and Carson 2010, 159). This would suggest that the emotions are of mere rhetorical utility, and play no essential part in the fashioning of public policy. But it is also argued that the emotions of ‘policymakers themselves must be examined in order to understand how they are influenced by the evidence’ (Frieberg and Carson 2010, 159). Emotions are also tied up with perspective therefore: they have a natural place in political thought, but possibly a corrupting influence, and so should be studied and ameliorated. They are both separable from, and also constitutive of, any possible understanding. Following this reasoning, it makes sense that the social scientist – the rationalist – is to examine those who imagine that they are rationalists (those who fashion public policy) in order to understand why they are not! What distinguishes social scientists from the political lot of others, therefore, is that through their practice they have transcended emotion (for empirical evidence must be scientifically rigorous, as Frieberg and Carson (2010, 160) argue). In the end, a technical practice separates science from politics. A unified rationality is discounted, except as the rational practice of the social scientist. It follows that the same problems which beset Fischer’s thesis are encountered here also. It is not necessary to provide more examples, as my contention is that any attempt to rationally overcome rationality, so as to attain political legitimacy, must trade coherence for thoroughness. Moreover, to argue that rationality is merely another form of self-interest – that it is merely political – while holding fast to the understanding by which this separation was made in the first place (i.e., between rationality and self-interest), cannot but help reduce theory to interpretation, and render practice wholly technical. Attempts to save this, by extending rationality into politics, cannot be sustained, because by doing this, rationality is transformed into irrationality. And if a return to the naivety of the simple rationalist – the positive social scientist, for example – for whom the political body is equivalent to the material is out of the question (other than in those circumstances wherein we can legitimately claim to recognize its limits), then neither can there be a resolution on these terms. In bringing to the partiality of political action the insights of a theoretical or contemplative perspective, in which rationality is the epitome of truth, the

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final resolution of truth and politics can only legitimately end in the transformation of all political actors into technicians. The executive, in coming to realize itself, would seek to realize all as itself, in other words. This purely formal solution to the problem of politics and truth would seem to have no end. And, if pursued with some vigor by the executive, it would enforce its own administration of political renewal – which is to say, it would dissolve politics in order that it might more easily (i.e., administratively) account for the ‘political’ positions of all. This ‘administration of justice’ – in which some distinction must be made amongst essentially equal political positions – would quite likely see a return to the rational judgment and prescriptions of the positive social scientists. CONCLUDING COMMENT In the academic public policy debates I identified four attempts to more fully integrate the social sciences into institutional political life: (1) the partial nature of politics can be overcome with multiple rationalities; (2) rationality does not accord with the empirical reality of politics and so a normative, disinterested judgment is required; (3) impartial political positions can be understood empirically as the culmination of subjective rationalities (or interpretations), and this knowledge used for political purposes; and (4) rationality, understood rationally, is political or no different to self-interest broadly understood, and so social science is legitimate only as a liberating practice, so administered. But having come to an impartial practice by way of a critique of rationality as self-interest, we must wonder how this practice is to be judged? For this practice, by its own terms, cannot be distinguished from self-interest or partiality, however broadly or democratically understood. And yet the realization of this is the final culmination of a rational understanding of politics. For with this rational understanding, in which we would have abstracted ourselves from everything, even from what we esteem most highly (i.e., rationality), any estimation of political ends is always merely partial. In the end, we would need return to a rational social science (whether positive or otherwise) to arbitrate or provide impartial political decisions. And so the argument continues, each around a common desire to attain an impartial political position, as distinguished from the broadly self-interested positions of everyday political actors. The center around which this argument moves is an expanding awareness of the political legitimacy of rationality, but this awareness is itself driven by the rational desire to transcend all political positions. With this triple necessity – (1) to encompass politics in order to (2) transcend it, and (3) thereby return to it as the impartial judge – the social sciences would find their

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legitimacy. The movement therefore presupposes rationality in its attempt to overcome it, all the while seeking some return to politics in the form of politics transcended. What this means is that the expansion of the political legitimacy of the social sciences (by encompassing all political positions) is accompanied by an ever decreasing separation from politics (since politics and its transcendence are, according to science, politically equivalent), and vice versa. In seeking their legitimacy, the social sciences would undermine it. I suggest, therefore, that the debates in which social science must find its legitimacy in politics are interminable. Although in these positions a progression of comprehensiveness is evident, the common denominator is clear. Following the progression to the end, it must be presupposed that rationality (as the mathematical, or purely formal, mode of thinking) is equivalent to truth, even as it is equated with selfinterest. The reason for this is that the emptiness of rationality equates to both impartiality and an infinite variety of political or self-interested perspectives. Rationality, when itself viewed from the perspective of rationality, is wholly formal or empty, and so along with being infinitely diverse is, at the same time, and for this reason (for it is self-referential), distinguished from selfinterest. With this, it would both judge the truth of any perspective and present as the form of any or all perspectives. And so it would define, on one hand, what truth is, and, on the other, serve to liberate it. It is thus, by these terms, that the path out of the relativism of liberal politics would lead straight back into it, in the form of rational or bureaucratic practice. The only way out of this regress, the only way that truth can show itself as politically legitimate, while distinguishing itself from a mere diligent and efficient public service, is with the possibility that what we can know is more than what rationality would either limit or liberate. In this, the overriding desire to seek the legitimacy of social science in politics (see Easton 1969) is rendered questionable. As an initial suggestion on how we might proceed, I can offer at this stage only thoughts on what we should not do. What is not required are more of those techniques in which the legitimacy of social science is sought. So where does that leave us? On one hand, it might be claimed that only social science can distinguish truth from opinion; that technique might allow a theoretical perspective, insofar as the political body is the same as the natural body. On the other hand, in keeping with social science, but recognizing that in practice it is part of a greater political whole, technique or method might itself be understood as true political practice. The vicious circle which is engendered with these two positions can only be broken, I argue, with a deeper consideration of politics, and our desire to understand. For if understanding is only legitimated or realized in creation, fabrication, or production, then it is bound always to be subsumed by politics. Given that we cannot understand the difference between knowledge and ignorance by way

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of production, this distinction must be regulated somehow else. Technique cannot fulfill this role, as it is the means of production, not its end: the desire for technique would end not in truth or humanity, but altogether different productions. This desire might only be reformed, I argue, with the possibility of a truth which is neither mathematical (which, in practice, is nothing but endless production) nor transcendent (in which practice is impossible). This comes down to the question of whether theory – or a truly comprehensive perspective – within practice is possible. My argument (as I will explore in greater length in the final chapters of this book), in contrast to the empirical understanding, is that there is something uncommon or extraordinary about truth. Indeed, if truth were merely what is common, or what everybody agrees upon, then the disputable theoretical perspective of ‘interpretivism,’ or any other theoretical perspective which is founded similarly, is by its own definition merely a prejudice. Of the moderns, it could be argued that it was Hegel who pursued this question the farthest. For him, theory within practice is possible, as Hegelian science or wisdom, and as realized in practice by the universal state – but theory is for Hegel ultimately another species of history (as I will argue in chapter 6). However, if with this question we answer that either only theory or only practice, but not both, then we are on our way to dissolving the realm within which this question might reasonably be posed; for surely, the question is significant insofar as we value understanding over ignorance, not only for itself but so that we might live well. This, in a nutshell, is the possibility of self-knowledge, of knowing what we are doing. Although we must begin in self-interest, in desiring to understand self-interest we already encompass and so move beyond our origin. If, by contrast, we claim with dogmatic authority that self-knowledge (broadly understood) is, in principle, impossible, then we must also hold that all is self-determined (as knowing is no different to doing), or that self-delusion is itself an illusion, or cannot be distinguished from self-interest. It is this impossibility of self-knowledge which rationality enforces as a matter of principle. For in abstracting from self-interest, and thereby conceiving as disinterested what began first as the self-interest of truth-seeking, the meaning of our quest is rendered absurd. And, on the flip side, in conceiving of politics as nothing but self-interest, we are denied in principle the place from where we might begin to understand the structure of our everyday existence, and the fundamental questions which this imposes on us. Consideration of these questions is doubly important for those whose job it is to develop public policy, as it is within the executive arm of the state that a mathematically inspired rationality would most tempt one into believing that it is equivalent to truth, and, on the flip-side of this, that politics would offer nothing more than a reflection of our own self-interest.

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To properly consider the terms of these arguments, I believe that a return to, and critical appraisal of, the writings of Harold Lasswell (the founder of policy science) is required. For those who would bring politics – more specifically, democratic politics – back into the fold of political science, Lasswell is seen as a guiding light (see e.g., Durose and Richardson 2016, 3, 23, 199–200, 203; Parsons 2002). Indeed, the Policy Sciences journal has as its primary aim the resurrection of Lasswell’s thought. 27 According to Lasswell, the reformation of democracy (see Lasswell 1977, 37) is possible only by way of the productive nature of social science. The measure by which any production might be judged is political experience as a whole, understood scientifically. It is this conflict – modern science as both liberation and bondage – that Lasswell sought to resolve. And it is this understanding, and its attendant deficiencies, which must be considered more deeply in order to address the concerns raised here. For we must first come to understand what politics is, in order that we might traverse it safely. NOTES 1. See Gunnell (1993, 264); Ricci (1984, 232–35). 2. See also Stoker and John (2009, 369–70). 3. On the scientific method, one could say that, on face-value, the debate could only be settled with an authentic scientific experiment, which would require control conditions and the possibility of replication. At the cosmic level this is simply not possible. 4. As ‘reasonableness’ would save any policy decision from ‘relativism’ (see Kay 2011, 243). 5. Such a transformation could be described following Garver (2011, 3), insofar as it arrives at practical wisdom from the perspective of modern constitutional thought: it ‘looks for a single correct framework that will let people pursue a variety of good lives, [however] Aristotle’s thought is just the reverse: there is a single best life, but a variety of correct institutions.’ 6. See also Sanderson (2006, 126–27); Norgaard (1996). 7. See also Sanderson (2006, 125). 8. See also Sanderson (2009). 9. Yanow (2000, 7) goes on to explain that ‘[t]hese ideas became increasingly known in the United States when many of their proponents arrived as refugees from the Nazis. Here, their ideas intersected at times with the work of John Dewey and George Herbert Mead, contributing to the development of symbolic interactionism and ethnomethodology. These ideas began to enter the realm of the policy sciences in the 1970s and 1980s, through the work of Murray Edelman, Martin Rein and Donald Schon, John Dryzek, Frank Fischer, Bruce Jennings, David Paris and James Reynolds, Douglas Torgerson, Mary Hawkesworth, and Deborah Stone . . . as Torgerson (1985) notes, some of these ideas can be traced to the work of Harold Lasswell.’ 10. See also Fischer (2003, 117–18); Fischer, Torgerson, Durnová, and Orsini (2015). 11. See also Fischer (2003, 117). 12. See also Fischer (2003, 11). 13. See also Fischer and Gottweis (2013, 429). 14. See also Dunlop and Radaelli (2013, 614). 15. See also Fischer (2007, 100). 16. See also Fischer (2007, 100). 17. See also Fischer (2003, 132). 18. See also Fischer (2003, 133).

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19. See also Fischer (2003, 134). 20. See also Fischer (2003, 135). 21. See also Fischer (2003, 216–17); Fischer and Gottweis (2013, 426). 22. See also Fischer (2003, 50–51). 23. See also Fischer (2003, 54). 24. And thus Fischer’s contradictory statements: on the one hand, objects are real but cannot be known except as an interpretation (Fischer 1998, 141–42), and, on the other, that scientific theories are held back from revealing the truth by convention (Fischer 1998, 138), or what might itself be described as interpretation. Ultimately, interpretations made by social scientists themselves can only be saved from an infinite regress by the very thing which was proposed by Fischer to be the source of their circularity and which thereby results in a reality reified – that is, socially constructed perspectives misunderstood as facts (Fischer’s ‘external stimuli in the object oriented world’ – Fischer 1998, 149). 25. See also Fischer and Gottweis (2013, 430). 26. See also Fischer (2007, 102–6). 27. The subtitle of the journal is: Integrating Knowledge and Practice to Advance Human Dignity.

Chapter Three

Harold Lasswell and the Possibility of Political Science

In this chapter I interrogate the thought of Harold Lasswell, the founder of the policy sciences, and a founding father of contemporary practical political and social science. Lasswell is important to my book in a number of ways. Firstly, he remains the guiding light for many, insofar as the political and social sciences might make a difference, might show themselves as directly relevant to the world of politics. This is an important and necessary achievement for these social sciences. For if the subject of political or social sciences is real-world political phenomena, and if these sciences do not attain some real-world political significance, they’d be much like a medical science with no direct applicability to human bodies – trivial, in other words. Secondly, Lasswell strives to capture the whole of political experience, conceived by him under a ‘contextual orientation,’ or as theoretical and practical knowledge. As Torgerson (1985, 245, 249, 252) says: The project of contextual orientation conceived by Lasswell is highly ambitious because it seeks a knowledge of the whole. . . . Through the ongoing interplay of knowledge of and knowledge in the policy process, moreover, the analyst attains a creative orientation which renders him a self-conscious actor . . . the whole prospect of policy analysis as a collective rational enterprise depends upon the establishment of procedures and institutions advancing the project of contextual orientation. Consequently, anyone committed to policy analysis is in principle also committed to creating and maintaining certain social and political conditions necessary for collective rationality [italics in original].

And thirdly, Lasswell brings us back from the sub-specialties of various applied social sciences to the shadow of the perennial problem: the problem 55

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posed by truth to politics (i.e., the problem of ‘what to do?’ given our understanding of ‘what is’): Fragmentation is a more complex matter than differentiation. It implies that those who contribute to the knowledge process lose their vision of the whole and concern themselves almost exclusively with their specialty. They evolve ever more complex skills for coping with their immediate problems. They give little attention to the social consequences or the policy implications of what they do. (Lasswell 1971, 440)

This is a step-up from modern day practical political and social science, insofar as Lasswell recognizes the need for a broader defense; for without this, political science is merely a reflection of the fragmented or increasingly specialized outlook of modern-day political experience. Plumbing first Lasswell’s understanding of political science, I show that he understands it as the perfection of all previous political thought. Whereas previous political thought was mesmerized by metaphysics, modern political thought is unduly limited in its reach. Each remains unconscious of its own potential. Policy science, or practical political and social science, by contrast, emerges as a fully realized capacity to make things happen – it is political in the decisive respect. It emerges with a clear understanding of the distinction between human nature – the realm of the political – and nature more generally. Guiding this politically aware, or self-conscious action, is – following modern science – what might be uncovered empirically. As guided by the empirical, however, Lasswell’s political science would, as I argue, tend to find itself split between the absolute originality of making things happen and the eternal unoriginality of the already happened. Obviously, what’s needed is some third element to bind these together. Performing this function is, for Lasswell, the psychic realm of human symbols. As I argue, though, this realm is beset with its own internal divisions, in much the same way as his political science is itself split between original creation and its end. Lasswell, despite a valiant attempt, is unable to overcome these deep divisions. More importantly, though, in presuming that he has, the division is overlaid with (and so hidden under) the promised impartiality of a politics which bows to social scientific practice. Given what I have argued above, it is no stretch to say that Lasswell would provide us a peek behind the scenes, as it were. Here we are provided a peek into the foundation of the political realization of the social and political sciences. We’re provided not only the reason for why such a realization is now possible, but also what we must understand of humanity (defined as a symbol-manipulator, for example) given this possibility.

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INTRODUCING LASSWELL Lasswell, along with being the founder of what he and others have coined the ‘policy sciences,’ was a leading figure in the founding of contemporary political science (see Farr et al. 2006; 2008). Bucking the trend toward specialization, Lasswell sought to return political science to its pre-eminence (see Lasswell 1956, 961). He sought to crown it once again ‘master science’ just as it had been by Aristotle. 1 Such a return was deemed by him necessary because of the fragmentation of political experience, as wrought by modern science. 2 As a follower himself of modern science, and in particular modern social science, though, Lasswell was attuned to its liberating and progressive political agenda. And yet, given its rejection of natural teleology, he was also aware of its political limits – that is, that political ends remain always beyond its intellectual reach. With these, it might be considered that never the twain shall meet. No return to a ‘master science’ is possible on terms dictated by modern natural or social science. Politics and science are fundamentally different. We may well disagree, though, counting this as a misunderstanding of politics, or an understanding in which we’ve not yet grasped the full political potential of the sciences. For the political limits of science might well be surpassed – legitimately so – if politics itself were to become a science. The intellectual reach of the sciences we might consider limited only by their reach, in other words. What is needed is the reorientation of scientists, from mere contemplators of natural or political reality, to active participants in political life. It’s this line of thought which Lasswell pursues. Such an enquiry remains important in this age of hyper-specialization, and associated indifference to broader questions about the usefulness or value of political and social science research. 3 For if the political and social sciences are not to be counted as mere trivia, then the knowledge which they seek must include or presuppose some awareness of their political implications (c.f., Dryzek 1992; Farr et al. 2008, 29–30; see Gerring and Yesnowitz 2006, 102–14). These implications are tantamount to what we must judge as desirable and undesirable political consequences. As what is implied by any science, if it is to count itself as a political science, is that it would in some way, whether directly or indirectly, improve political communities (c.f., Easton 1950, 451, 461, 476–77; Mansbridge 2014). This means that what is implied must be more than just an assumption, therefore. For if it were to remain merely an assumption, political or social science would be indistinguishable from secular prophecy: it may well hold or be true to its own conventions, yet still unaware or unconcerned with its own implications. Political or social science must recognize or know itself in some way; it must be able to explicate its own foundations for it to be more than just wishful thinking, in other words. Since this foundation is, broadly speaking, equiva-

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lent to the fabrication of political communities (what Plato described in his Statesman as weaving, 279a7–283b3), a political science which has some awareness of itself must know what it is producing. This, so it follows, means that any political or social science worthy of its name would be master of its own productions. Indeed, Lasswell (1970, 11) outlines what this entails, for the policy sciences would cover in systematic fashion the following: One is the clarification of goal, or the formulation of the value postulates to be pursued in policy analysis. By tradition this has been the concern of metaphysicians, theologians, and ethicists. . . . Another dimension is oriented toward trend, toward the succession and distribution of past and present events. By tradition this is the historian’s province. A third intellectual task is scientific. Its scope is explanatory. The fourth task is the projection of future possibilities and probabilities of value institution change, especially in reference to postulated goal patterns (such as widespread rather than narrow sharing of values). In modern academic tradition there have been few specialists on the prophetic or forecasting role. . . . Finally, we come to the invention, evaluation, and selection of alternative objectives and strategies. Obviously this is the principal frame of reference of a policy scientist, whether his concern is with an instrumental change in the domain, range, and scope of outcomes, or with revolutionary transformation of systems [italics in original].

And so what Lasswell shows, with his science of politics, is a political science which would know itself. It is an example of political science becoming genuine, or of a science in which political understanding, or theory, is reconciled with careful observation, or empiricism, as well as action. 4 POLICY SCIENCES The founding of the policy sciences, as described by Lasswell, was made possible by the unrealized potential of the social and natural sciences. With the reorientation of the natural and social sciences, this potential, so he thought, would be realized as the policy sciences. This orientation would point toward the future; a future as worthy of investigation as the past. With this orientation, the social sciences would finally have come of age, because social scientists would realise the ‘social consequences and policy implications of knowledge’ (Lasswell 1971, xiii). This ‘coming of age’ takes us back to questions of the impetus to, or of the motivation behind, the policy sciences. It takes us back to their birth place. And to unearth the birth place of the policy sciences would seem to take us as far back as at least the modern revolution in political philosophy, as initiated by Hobbes and Machiavelli amongst others (see Strauss 1988, 40–49). This revolution could very roughly be sketched as the emancipation of politics from metaphysics (and theology) by way of human fabrication and

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associated arts. With these arts, and with a newfound awareness, the comfort and safety of humanity might be advanced, and republics reign with impunity both human and divine. The birth of the policy sciences, by this reckoning, would be coeval with these particular political desires (for the ‘low’ ends of humanity, rather than the ‘all-too-lofty’ ends of philosophy and religion), and the arts which accompany them. Policy sciences, in other words, would be tied into this modern revolutionary re-determination of ends. By contrast, the ends of politics could be understood as more closely aligned with our own capacities. In this we would understand political distinctions as distinguished by our abilities to realize what we desire, rather than by a variance in the ends of this desire. In this case, modern revolutionary political thought we would class as no different to the political conservatism of the ancients, insofar as each is a species of political desire in general. The only difference between these is one of execution or capacity. The moderns are simply carrying out what the ancients would have done, if they could have. Considered in this way, the birth place of the policy sciences (and, similarly, political science) might be sought at least as far back as the beginning of political philosophy itself. It would be necessary to return to the dawn of the Western tradition, to Plato or indeed to Socrates – who ‘first called philosophy down from heaven, and gave it a place in cities, and introduced it even into men’s homes, and forced it to make inquiry into life and morals, and things good and evil’ (according to Cicero 1886, 257). And if all political thought no matter its expression is rooted in the same desire, then any contemporary political science would be distinguished from opinions past not by what it seeks, but by how well it is sought. Political science would find its perfection, then, in (1) technical achievement, and (2) comprehensive awareness. These brief reflections are important, I believe, because they allow us to consider the implications of any justification of political science as a science. If not merely with an appeal to technique, political science might only justify itself with support of what is understood as true – by way of what we’ve come to know, in other words. What, by consequence, comes to count as true is what we’ve technical mastery over, combined with a broad awareness of what would guide this mastery. These are obviously related affairs, and in the deepest sense they come together in the insight that we know only what we make. So too, at this depth, arises the profound problem of distinguishing between the things made by us, and what exist otherwise; or the problem of distinguishing between one made-product and another. This distinguishing, we might claim, is not a matter of making. For if it were, all distinctions, insofar as they are merely a matter of making, deny the insight itself – namely, that we know only what we make. Indeed, if we do know only what we make, then we give still some credence to knowing. Put differently, knowing is distinguished from making only if we make so as to know (we do not, for example, create scientific methods merely for their own sake). But

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what could we know of that which hasn’t been made by us? With this question we move into broader territory (e.g., the political or historical territory of things not made by us, but made by others, as it were). Nevertheless, we do not simply find our initial question of making and knowing side-lined, for we return to the original predicament: that of distinguishing between one madeproduct and another – not as a matter of making, but of knowing (revealed, though, only as what has been made). Any solution to these problems would need present itself as both a measure and the true means of production – each falling under the original insight (that we know only what we make). Which is to say any solution would need to show that it could (1) make what needs to be known, (2) know what needs to be made, and (3) distinguish between one made-product and another. Any solution, we can see, would tend to collapse the distinction between knowing and making, and, conversely, hold that these are mutually exclusive. In collapsing the distinction between knowing and making, we bow to unlimited production; in maintaining their distinction we bow to objective measure. But any such measure cannot save us, because it is, in the end, no different to our own partial perspective. The problem has been resolved too hastily, let us say. Such a resolution, as I hope to show, is central to the justification of the policy sciences. POLITICS AND NON-POLITICS That Lasswell writes about politics there would seem to be no argument. One need only turn to the titles of his books: Psychopathology and Politics; Politics: Who gets What, When, How; World Politics and Personal Insecurity; Power and Personality; Power and Society; Pre-View of Policy Sciences; and more. To understand what Lasswell writes about politics, however, requires us firstly to understand what it is that Lasswell understands of politics. And for this more than a passing reference to the titles of his books is required. For this we must turn to his writings, and delve into the intricacies of his argument. It is with this that the broader and unrecognized implications of Lasswell’s own arguments might be uncovered. The political thinkers of the past, according to Lasswell, desired or sought the same things as the policy scientist, and yet they were unable to attain what it is that they desired. That Lasswell can recognize in the founding fathers of the Western tradition both the beginning of political thought, and, by this fact, the pinnacle of comprehensiveness (see Lasswell and Kaplan 1950, xiii, 1, 11), 5 and also an ignorance of their own enterprise (see Lasswell 1971, 10), is revealing for the present enquiry. The political thinkers of the past, exemplified by Plato (see Lasswell 1951, 468), might be distinguished from the common lot by their desire to understand so as to act,

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following Lasswell’s analysis (see Lasswell 1951, 472). The understanding which these political thinkers sought, given this fact, was that of humanity’s place within the whole. Politically, this is the city (see Lasswell 1951, 465), and naturally, the cosmos (see Lasswell 1971, 11). What distinguished political thought was, therefore, the desire to know the human things, and not just the natural things more generally. Against those who believe that Plato was ‘indifferent to the descriptive facts of human relations’ Lasswell states that ‘we do not need to believe that Plato was uninstructed by, or unintrigued by, human appearances’ (Lasswell 1951, 470). Drawing this out, we can see that what unified political and the natural philosophers, at least in this past age, is that they sought knowledge of the whole. What separated them is that the natural philosophers, if they did desire to know, sought not to know what is human, but only what is more broadly cosmic. Plato himself would seem by Lasswell’s description to have stood on the cusp of the political and the natural insofar as he could easily be mistaken for just another metaphysician unconcerned with human affairs. But as it stands, Plato, and those following him, such as Aristotle, were, according to Lasswell, concerned with understanding human things, and so might rightly be classed as political thinkers (see Lasswell 1936, 384). According to this account of Lasswell’s, therefore, political thought must have arisen from common opinion in two stages. The first stage, in which humans reflected on the nature of cosmos, made it possible for the second stage to occur – the political – in which humans might reflect on their place in the cosmos, and on themselves more generally. The first stage is indispensable to the second, insofar as political thought must begin with reflection so as to emerge from tradition. The second stage emerges from the first but does not thereby transcend it. And thus Plato’s understanding of the soul is for Lasswell (1951, 469) a pinnacle of political thought, if still limited by his predilection for metaphysics (as were others of the time – see Lasswell 1971, 12). So, even though the political philosopher would long not only to understand himself and others, his longing – like the natural philosopher’s – remains bound to something other than itself. For both the political and the natural philosopher the true context remains hidden or unconscious. It is for this reason that the politically oriented philosopher’s desire to see beyond himself, rather than into his own time and place, ties him to convention. As Lasswell and Kaplan (1950, xi, xxi) explain: Many of the most influential political writings – those of Plato, Locke, Rousseau, the Federalist and others – have not been concerned with political enquiry at all, but with the justification of existent or proposed political structures. We say such works formulate political doctrine rather than propositions of political science . . . generalizations of social theory, to be of service in the continuing process of social research, must be restricted to specified social conditions. . . . To omit this context is not to universalize the proposition, but

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Philosophical desire frustrates political desire, therefore, because in reaching for the cosmos it forgets the ground upon which it stands. The psychic cosmology of Plato’s is thus politically enlightened and conventionally ignorant. As politically enlightened, it exemplifies the desire for a practical wisdom; as conventionally ignorant it remains too philosophical or nature-orientated. The same holds for the common person, who cannot see past his or her own self-interest. The understanding of the common person and the political philosophers is thereby limited to the same thing, but in a different way: one is myopic, and the other hyperopic. The former does not desire to even begin to think politically, while the latter almost passes right over the top of it. But in passing over the top of it the political thinker nonetheless desires what is underneath, so says Lasswell. For political philosophers, from Plato on, have desired ‘the connection between knowledge and choice’ – as, indeed, does the policy scientist (Lasswell 1951, 472). The reason why they didn’t achieve this, we might surmise, is because they were unable to grasp, or fully understand, how to enact what they desired. Although equivalent to the desires of the policy scientist, which ‘is symbolic of the same concern for the making of decisions which, in our case, are intended to implement human dignity’ (Lasswell 1951, 472), their ability was nonetheless insufficient in some crucial respect. To attain the wisdom of the policy scientist, to overcome this insufficiency, desire must have found its appropriate realization in the growing awareness or knowledge of human things, and the techniques which would support it (as I will discuss in the next section). According to Lasswell, this realization is equivalent to power, as fortified through science, and with a view to the politics of the day (Lasswell 1948, 9). Further, following Lasswell (1948, 22, 94, 118, 125–26), politics would only seem to arise when purified of what remains unconscious; which, in other words, is what’s essentially conventional, and what, thereby, we would mistake for nature. Only in seeking the whole which is wholly human is the political realized, in other words. Hence, we can argue that from Lasswell’s perspective, the beginning of the political tradition was the high-point of political thought, insofar as it was still concerned with the whole (Lasswell 1951, 468–70), but was a delusion insofar as the whole was understood as transcendent. In sum, to understand the whole rightly must be to understand human things: ‘The policy sciences as we see them today cut across the traditional division of intellectual labour. . . . At the core is the theory of human behavior, the theory of society, which includes a systematic account of the factors controlling personality and culture’ (Lasswell 1948, 124). This ‘core,’ as Lasswell puts it, is comprised of any science which might contrib-

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ute to the ‘decision-making process.’ Psychology is an obvious candidate, so too are sociology, anthropology, and social history (Lasswell 1948, 125). Purged of all that is not strictly human, however, what we desire would seem to be endless, insofar as it would mirror human desire itself. And thus, for Lasswell, the end of politics must be also the perfection of convention, or what is esteemed by people of a particular time and place. This, in Lasswell’s terms, is ‘the integration of values realized by and embodied in interpersonal relations’ (Lasswell and Kaplan 1950, xii). What makes this intrusion of convention less than surprising, given what I have already argued above, is that any reliable understanding of the ends of politics, by Lasswell’s account, cannot be philosophical (i.e., an understanding of nature). Rather, political ends must be limited to an empirical understanding of the whole. As exposed empirically, the conventional understanding is the only end remaining after the partiality of philosophical perspectives has been resolved. Consequently, although the policy scientist’s desire is the same as that of the philosophers’, insofar as the philosophers would seek also to master or guide their own communities, he or she is able to perfect convention because he or she is not bound to unconsciously follow it. Having thereby stepped into Lasswell’s arguments, we have discovered that what was presumed to be an inquiry wholly restricted to the facts (see Lasswell and Kaplan 1950, xiii), rests now, implicitly at least, on an understanding of ends. It is by this understanding that any approach to political problems, or problems which would involve reforming the common lot or the non-philosophers, is defined. As an understanding of ends it is, though, also a philosophical enterprise along the same lines as those which have sought to distinguish the natural from the conventional. But since this is not acknowledged – indeed, it is denied (Lasswell 1936, 295) 6 – we may wonder whether nature has been misunderstood by Lasswell in his very attempt to overcome it. In returning to chapter 2, it can be seen that Lasswell’s approach to the problem of truth and politics, as distinguished by him from earlier thinkers, involves a reduction of politics to mastery, and the equation of truth with those ends revealed as what we ourselves might fabricate. These ends are no different to the dawning awareness of what might be fabricated, as seen under the scientific gaze of what’s already been fabricated (i.e., conventional ends). Only if there is some essential difference between pre-fabrication (what to do?) and post-fabrication (what’s been done) do we strike a conflict. Indeed, only if there is some such thing as ‘pre-fabrication’ are we caught out following Lasswell. If, for example, we hold that our judgment of ends cannot follow simply from our fabrication of them, then we cannot answer the question of their worth by deferring to what’s already been fabricated. What is best to do might differ in some essential respect to what has already been done (or what’s been fabricated). By contrast, in holding that it is we who fashion ends, we vouchsafe already for what we might know of them.

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And, what’s more, in knowing something of these ends through fabrication, we might – somewhat paradoxically – claim to have overcome self-interest, or claim that we are putting into practice more than what we ourselves esteem. Think of the difference between a magnificent dream building, and the accolades awaiting it upon construction. Upon construction, the building invites public, not merely private, recognition. This overcoming in practice of what could well be tautological in theory (i.e., to make and to know are equivalent) is, indeed, the foundation of Lasswell’s political program. Consider Lasswell’s (1971, 1) ‘knowledge of and in’ unique to the policy sciences, in which what scientists know is both what they have discovered methodologically and what they would help to create practically. At the deepest level, then, Lasswell’s future orientation of the social sciences saves them from the charge of tautology, or self-ignorance. TECHNIQUE There is another side to the story which extends further back than Plato, or the desires of the political thinkers. For the emergence of the policy sciences is equated by Lasswell with self-awareness and systematic organization (see Lasswell 1971, 11). The political is distinguished by reasoned administration and specialized knowledge, combined with a comprehensive awareness of what is to be done – the rise of ‘professionalism’ to use Lasswell’s word (Lasswell 1971, 12). Following this story, the distinction between past political thought and modern day policy science turns – along with an awareness of human things – on our capacity or ability to bring about what we desire, as fortified through technology. As Lasswell argues (in Simon et al. 1950, 423): ‘Aristotle would look with warm approval at many of the methods and findings of modern research into political personality and perspective. His broad experience in empirical enquiry would probably render him peculiarly alert to advances in procedures of observation, no less than findings.’ The modern advantage is that techniques of discovery are intimately tied into techniques of implementation. Such progression brings a more detailed understanding, and an enhanced capacity, enabling us to grasp ‘what works’ in political affairs. Following Lasswell: The early thinkers were believed by themselves and others to possess a cognitive map of the ego in reference to the universal configuration of events. They were perceived as having skills at their disposal appropriate to the task of influencing the trans-empirical realm . . . [by contrast] anyone who has undergone a long experience of research, critical analysis, and imaginative activity has acquired a highly differentiated cognitive map. (Lasswell 1974, 174, 180)

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Technique derives its power from the fact that it has come to be intimately equated with knowledge itself. Technique and knowledge, it could be said, are only fully realized when each support – or would find their substitute in – the other. Rather than being rooted in an understanding of the ‘trans-empirical’ (see Lasswell above) in which we might, for example, claim to know the orthodox techniques by which the gods would be appeased, our modern-day techniques point towards a ‘cognitive map,’ which is itself constituted through technique. The crafts or techniques of a profession take on a special significance, then, not because they are sanctified by trans-human entities, but because they might show what has been promised before it has been delivered. And so the differentiation of the ‘cognitive map,’ in the sense described by Lasswell above, follows the differentiation brought about by technique itself. Thus the techniques of policy and administration would bring on the satisfaction of political desire, because its end has been, or may well be, actually realized. Further, as history unfolds, the means of production come to supplant the desire for the natural whole, as it is these means which would fabricate the whole (i.e., as the ‘cognitive map’) into existence. It follows that as technique – both scientific and practical – improved, so too did, on one hand, the political separation of technicians (or the fabricators of the whole) from their research subjects, and, on the other, the integration of technicians with their subjects, by way of the technical exposé of what subjects value (understood symbolically). A few quotes from Lasswell draw this together in his own words: The emerging policy scientist in our civilization is not only a professional in the sense that he combines skill with enlightened concern for the aggregate processes and consequences of decision. He belongs among the systematic contextualists who are also empirical. It is the steady rise of the empirical, or scientific, component that separates the fully developed policy scientist from the appliers of dogmatic theology or metaphysics. (Lasswell 1971, 12) If there is unimpeded access to progressively more comprehensive data banks, the process of ‘universalization’ may go forward, each participant can be supplied with a map of the whole world and local community contexts in which he functions. Hence he can consider the preferential significance of cognitive expectations, discern common interests on an inclusive scale, and identify himself with those who participate in public and civic order. (Lasswell 1971, 445)

Let us sum up by saying that philosophers and policy scientists are united against everyday folk by their desire for the whole. Policy scientists are united against the philosophers because only they – policy scientists – are fully conscious of political things. The end of political things is not natural,

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but what might be humanly fabricated. This is supported by the mastery of those techniques – following the empirical method – which would absolve the natural whole of its pre-eminence, and, thereby, allow its recreation following a technical understanding of what is conventionally valued. TRUTH AND CONVENTION The above discussion of the satisfaction or realization of political desire, and its fortification through technique, must be considered along with more general questions about the distinction between truth and convention. Such a consideration is important; for given what was considered above concerning the distinction between the political and the natural things, we would conclude that the political is distinguished by Lasswell because it is a true understanding of humanity, and not merely a result of our desire for mastery. Recall that, in the previous section, I had suggested that what we fabricate (given what we come to know by way of fabricating) may be taken to reflect more than a crude self-interest. Still and all, the problem of truth remains; or the problem surrounding the measure by which we might distinguish one made-product from another. As such a measure, truth must be equated with more than merely a political understanding. Here we find ourselves in the strange predicament of having to justify politics according to mastery on one hand, and some correspondence with an already existent reality on the other. Politics would tend, thereby, to find itself split between the poles of the unconventional or absolute originality of fabrication (in which, for instance, we create what is valuable) and what we take to be true simply (what, for example, has been chosen by us because valuable – our ‘values’). We might say that this is no problem; for this is merely a description of the political fabrication of what we already hold to be worth fabricating. There is no divide, in other words, as it is akin to the union of doing and reflecting. But the union is, we might say, especially precarious. For, ultimately, there can be no union (as, really, it is an equivalence), unless there is some tension or some common term which transcends each. For otherwise political judgment, we can see, has nothing to grasp, other than what it has left behind. It has no way of knowing itself. Or, put another way, it finds its truth or measure only in what it counts as false – that is, either nature, or the past. Without being a part of some greater whole, this becomes an unself-conscious politics, as per Lasswell’s (interpretation of the) ancient political thinkers. Truth and politics must arise in some higher or fully reconciled (with itself) consciousness, therefore. Lasswell would overcome this divide with his understanding of symbolism, which for him would unify democratic politics, human dignity, and the human whole. I will argue, however, that instead of overcoming the divide, it

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pushes it into another realm – that of the philosophical (c.f., Easton 1950, 455). This is a problem for Lasswell who, as I argued above, must have (or would presumed to have) settled all philosophical questions before setting out on his own endeavor. Without the settling of these philosophical questions, in other words, political science cannot in all good faith proceed. And if it does, ignorant of its own foundations, it would be forever unaware of the collapsing ground beneath itself. Any cracks in the structure would be misdiagnosed, and remedied accordingly, with the result a hastening construction of its own destruction. Before moving to a discussion of symbolism, I would like to delve a little more into Lasswell’s understanding of science, and its relation to rationality and convention. This consideration is important, as it shows why symbolism (as a psychic construction) would be taken up by Lasswell in order to reconcile political fabrication and truth. Consider that Lasswell (1930, 14) says, ‘science cannot be science and limit itself to the conventional.’ The scientific understanding is for Lasswell an understanding of what is more than conventional. What is conventional still reeks of the human, given that the perspective of humanity is on the whole merely a partial perspective. A conventional perspective is one wherein humanity is unable, through ignorance or a lack of appropriate techniques, to rise above itself, and survey what is real. The beginnings of science appeared when humanity attempted to describe the natural world. Such a description, though, was still only partial, and thereby a conventional understanding – such as the perspective from the city or of the gods anthropomorphized (see e.g., Lasswell 1971, 12). As with Auguste Comte, Lasswell imagines that with the culmination of a universal perspective (see Lasswell 1971, 445), humanity would have finally matured, and moved beyond earlier childlike stages. Humanity would finally have become rational. Such rationality is only completed once it has been put into action – analogous in this way to Aristotle’s understanding of political science as the master science. In Lasswell’s (1971, 120) words: The contemporary policy scientist perceives himself as an integrator of knowledge and action, hence as a specialist in eliciting and giving effect to all the rationality of which individuals and groups are capable at any given time. He is a mediator between those who specialize in specific areas of knowledge and those who make the commitments in public and private life.

From the vantage point above action, though, we can see that this is problematic, as indeed Lasswell recognizes. An empirical understanding of modern scientific rationality shows that it is not itself universal – it arose in history and only in certain places (Lasswell 1935, 268). So it follows that only by surpassing this narrow definition of rationality might truth emerge from convention. This indeed is the only rational response to the convention-

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ality of rationality, because it is the only response in which truth is rescued from the clutches of history. From Lasswell’s writings we cannot tell whether science or rationality is a conventional phenomenon or not. 7 It’s this ambivalence which, we are led to surmise, drove Lasswell to settle on neither. He defers instead to the psyche, wherein convention (patterns of thought) and human nature (as revealed symbolically) converge, or, more precisely, where the difference between convention and human nature is irrelevant to political desire. With psychic creation we are liberated from the bondage of scientific routine, therefore. In slightly different terms, psychic creation, in perpetually overcoming what were its own limits, exposes its own significance as the whole (Lasswell 1935, 271). The psyche would, in sum, liberate us from the constraints of convention, or unconscious habits of thought and action: Logical thinking is but one of the special methods of using the mind, and cannot itself achieve an adequate inspection of reality because it is unable to achieve self-knowledge without the aid of other forms of thinking. . . . Good intentions are not enough to widen the sphere of self-mastery. There must be a special technique for the sake of exposing the hidden meanings which operate to bind and cripple the processes of logical thought. (Lasswell 1930, 32, 36)

Still, it is important to consider that even if rationality is conventional, in the sense that it has become a matter of habit, 8 it also reflects what underlies convention, because, as with mathematics, it would – following Lasswell – mirror the ongoing structure of material and social reality. As both true and conventional, then, the only apparent non-conventional or external touchstone for the psyche is a rationality as confirmed empirically, for here it encounters its other. The empirical and any associated techniques derived from this must be the foundation to science, therefore. Indeed, for Lasswell (1971, 1), empirical observation is the distinction between science and nonscience. He says that, ‘[t]he whole aim of the scientific study of society is to make the obvious unescapable. . . . The task is to bring into the center of rational attention the movements which are critically significant in determining our judgement of subjective events, and to discover the essential antecedents of those patterns of subjectivity and of movement’ (Lasswell 1930, 250). If we distinguish science from non-science by way of empiricism, then so too must any theoretical account of the psyche answer to the empirical. Since the psyche is subordinated to what is empirical it is also open to technical manipulation. The psyche is revealed as true only under its aspects relevant to human fabrication or technique, in other words. In the end, as we find, since the political is equivalent to the true, both are defined in opposition to convention, but since fabrication is unlimited, each is identified historically or conventionally; each is tamed, as it were, by way of technique. And so the

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problem rests, ultimately, with a deeper unification of politics and science; a problem in which Lasswell would attempt to overcome with his understanding of the symbolic. SYMBOLS Lasswell, as I will explain below, reconciles politics and science in the symbolic productions of the psyche. At first blush, this makes sense. Only because humanity is able to survey itself in speech could Lasswell refer to the symbolic as exemplifying humanity’s significance, or what he regards as its ‘dignity’ (see Lasswell 1957, 3–7). And given that symbolizing is essential to human nature (and would link the inner world with the outer – see Lasswell 1951, 494) it also makes possible its contrary – tyranny or the denial of dignity. Following Lasswell’s understanding, the symbolic arises with a consciousness of what would otherwise have been unconscious. It is, given my previous discussion, the realm of the political therefore. It is also a maturity of thought, in much the same way as Comte’s positive philosophy. It could be described, thereby, as the realm in which humanity finally comes to realize itself. For without access to the psychic whole by way of the appropriate symbols people become anxious and political in the narrow sense of the term (Lasswell 1935, 271). Only with a proper understanding of the symbolic might people once again be integrated into the psychic whole (Lasswell 1930, 23, 219–20). Since policy scientists would understand this realm, they are best placed to manipulate symbols for the dignity of humanity. Such a manipulation would best honor dignity when it is democratic (Lasswell 1951, 473), as it is ‘characterised by wide rather than narrow participation in the shaping and sharing of values’ (Lasswell 1951, 474), and is ‘incompatible with any form of authoritarianism, regardless of the benefits accruing from such concentration of responsibility’ (Lasswell and Kaplan 1950, 234). Symbol specialists in a democracy are most likely to engage in discussion rather than any form of violence, therefore: ‘Any form of rule where the elite consists of symbol specialists we designate as an ideocracy . . . of the many meanings of “democracy,” those which characterize it by the important role in the political process played by discussion call attention to its aspects as an ideocracy’ (Lasswell and Kaplan 1950, 212). 9 Why is democracy accorded such pre-eminence? It would seem to come down to what Lasswell views as the respect accorded symbols under a democracy; the recognition under this regime that the symbolic is the epitome of human dignity. The weight accorded the symbolic, since it is somehow representative of the dignity or essence of humanity, is what separates a democracy from a tyranny (see Lasswell 1951, 471, n.14). In democratic

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regimes, symbols are respected for what they are; whereas in tyrannies, they are manipulated or abused. Symbols are what link humanity to the whole, and so any politics which severs these from the whole is not based on political wisdom, thereby. 10 Pausing here for a moment, it is possible to see a rift emerging, akin to the distinction between the communal or conventional whole and the psyche. What I mean to say is that there is an important difference between the communal whole and the psyche; indeed, a difference as reflected in the distinction between politics and truth. As a creative (and destructive) activity, psychic activity would tend to dissolve community or conventional ways. With the dissolution of the communal whole irrational forces are set free. According to Lasswell, without convention, without a place in the world, anxieties are released and politics degenerates into self-interest. Indeed, Lasswell (1935, 268) argues that the rise of science in the West was conterminous with ‘the tendency toward the externalization of fantasy which has characterized our society since the later Middle Ages’ [italics in original]. The symbolic would, for Lasswell, encompass and so reinstate the distinction (according to dignity) between a self-interested politics and a politics rooted in truth. We might best understand it under three aspects. Firstly, by way of mathematics (see Lasswell 1935, 269). Mathematics is the universal language of the symbolic; it also speaks a truth which would transcend mere appearance. For the mathematically symbolic, we could say, is the human appropriation of what in nature would otherwise be oblivious to our desires. Using symbols we make something ours, and, thereby, bring it under our power. Secondly, symbols are what connect us to that whole of which we are a part – they are psychic in the broadest sense, and so would be the realm wherein human dignity is realised. And thirdly, they are political, insofar as the political whole would mirror the psychic whole, and so require the same reforms, according to the distinction between what is dignified and what not. In the latter two cases, the symbolic would bring to the surface all that is irrational, so that it might be symbolized or made rational, and in this way so too encourage an emotional unity, bond, or cohesive political community. In Lasswell’s (1930, 184–85) words: ‘politics is the process by which the irrational bases of society are brought out into the open . . . politics is the transition between one unchallenged consensus and the next . . . the solution is not the “rationally best” solution, but the emotionally satisfactory one.’ Only with the first aspect, only with a natural physics based on mathematics, would the symbolic find its truth in some stability beyond itself, or beyond human fabrication (remembering that symbols are themselves a human appropriation). 11 And this is what defines the symbolic as more than just fantasy. For the symbolic equations of mathematics accord with objects (Lasswell 1935, 269) – not just subjects. In transcending the object, though, mathematical symbols become potentially productive, politically. Both of

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these we could say make up the symbolic and distinguish it from fantasy. Mathematics thereby defines the symbolic. But in this it is also deficient when it comes to Lasswell’s understanding of politics. For mathematics is constrained by what makes it true – it is rooted in nature. 12 Lasswell, so it follows, must draw on the productive potential of the symbol, without transcending what would make mathematics by analogy the universal language of the symbolic. This is the basis to what Lasswell describes as the art of the comprehensive ‘symbol specialist’ or professional policy maker. In Lasswell’s own words, ‘[t]he emerging class of educated men were the ‘symbol specialists’ of society. We are particularly interested in those members of the class who achieved a relatively comprehensive view of public policy’ (Lasswell 1971, 11). And, ‘[i]n contemporary terms those who combine skill with enlightenment are professionals . . . the true professional can manipulate an armory of skills with awareness of aggregate consequences in mind’ [italics in original] (Lasswell 1971, 12). It is the professional who would be productive, and it’s the professional who would take up what was initially made available by mathematics. The policy scientist, in other words, would manipulate reality under the guidance of what is ‘true.’ Since the truth is rooted not in nature but in convention, we might think that, by consequence, it has transcended mathematics. On a second pass, though, we see that this is not the case. For Lasswell’s symbols are symbols of symbols, as it were. The symbolic, understood as convention, is what has come to sanctify itself as true. This is akin to a cultural or social understanding of mathematics, with the added twist that society and culture are themselves taken to be mathematical constructs. Politics, following Lasswell, is, though, concerned also with fashioning the community, so as to promote the psychic wholeness of its citizens. This is, as Lasswell (1951, 482–83) puts it, the ‘self-system of the person,’ and the unity of ‘character’ which would arise when we have ‘sufficient command of the resources of the whole personality.’ This is where some stability would be found, as opposed to the creative essence of the psyche. This is the psyche tamed by convention, or realized as a symbolic unity. The psyche is tamed by the symbol specialist, following the truth uncovered by the scientific observer, or someone who is not themselves bound to reveal themselves in the activity of discovery. This is the scientific view of politics, in which the symbolic is now itself merely an object for empirical investigation. From this perspective, the symbol is not a symbol of anything more than its function within the psychic whole. It has become a means. The end of politics, or the end of production, is a psychic or communal wholeness, achieved by bringing to consciousness, through the appropriate techniques, that which was previously hidden or unconscious. From here the symbol specialist would recreate the political fabric. 13

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This, however, is a far cry from the common perspective. For the common world is only possible according to Lasswell if, from this perspective, the whole is concrete rather than productive (see Lasswell 1930, 184). The distinction emerges when we consider the symbol specialist’s legitimacy, which is tied up with his capacity to transform a concrete unity into the symbolic (or the mathematical or rational). Pursuing this further, we see that discord is introduced with the scientific or symbolic perspective, as the symbolic would always tend to point beyond itself: it is always in the process of self-dissolution. In sum, a unity between the psyche and the whole is possible only when the common lot do not understand the whole as symbolic (their political understanding is emotional more so than logical – Lasswell 1930, 185). As a consequence, the symbol specialist is condemned to follow what is commonly understood, despite their essential differences. The only distinction between the symbol specialist and everyday folk is, therefore, their ‘awareness.’ The awareness of the former is naïve or untrue (values are ‘hidden,’ for example); the awareness of the latter is wholly self-conscious, and, for this reason, true. It is here that technique would seem to come into its own, given that anxiety, as symptomatic of a fractured psychic whole, is for Lasswell political corruption exemplified (at least in the modern age). For the technician, it might be said, has transcended or been liberated from anxiety by the promise of what might be created, particularly the symbolic, in which reality would come to fruition (see Lasswell 1960; 1970; 1972). Lasswell (1935, 285) says that ‘[c]learly, insofar as politics is the management of symbols and practices related to the shape and composition of the value patterns of society, politics can assume no static certainty; it can strive for dynamic techniques of navigating the tides of insecurity generated within the nature of man in culture.’ The technician is, thereby, the epitome of a secure and productive rationality. This for Lasswell is the true nature of freedom (Lasswell 1951, 524), or absence of tyranny. It is, as I have been arguing though, a Pyrrhic victory. Since the mathematically derived symbol separates the subject from the object, and so makes possible the distinction between truth and fantasy, and combines them, making possible political action, the technician is condemned to oscillate between both: taking up one would necessarily deny the other. The social scientist in political action, for example, acts under the faith that truth is on his side, while in returning – in theory – to confirm this, the whole disappears, reappearing as the symbolic. This is no problem if we simply give up on the whole, as do most politically inclined social scientists; for the whole is accepted already as whatever passes for conventional wisdom. In fact, this is where social scientists would find some accord with the political authorities of the day. If we are to count this as more than merely the tyranny of a majority, though, then it requires further backing than prejudiced acceptance. Lasswell’s return to the nature of the psychic whole pro-

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vides this. My point is that it does not exceed what is merely accepted without question by most social scientists; or if it does, it cannot return on its promise of a scientific politics, in which dignity is rescued from tyranny. For without returning on this promise the political remains without the scientific, and vice versa. These are by themselves, and by the terms of the debate, tyrannical (which is to say wholly arbitrary), as neither can reconcile creation or fabrication with the psychic whole. Only with their reconciliation is freedom attained, and so too the psychic whole realized. But since such freedom, as we saw above, is bound to convention, the dignity of the whole is realized only with the symbolic. And so the oscillation of resolution and dissolution continues, not towards a synthesis, but toward further separation. CONCLUSION Returning to the original question of this book, we can see that Lasswell attempts to resolve the problem of truth and politics in a union which partially transcends each. The problem is that this union is only stabilized with technique grounded in the symbolic. This highest theoretical stage cannot overcome the split engendered by the equation of truth with politics. And so the conscientious social scientist who would seek to provide more than merely a political grounding to his social scientific practice is faced with the interminable task of reconciling politics with truth in the technical practice of manipulating symbols. Indeed, this remains the practice of contemporary social scientists, who would seek to realize their theories politically. The psychologist who strives to increase participation in political decision-making, for example, approaches politics as if the technical act of connecting people to symbols already in public ‘circulation’ would, without question, improve the politics of the day. This perpetuates our understanding of politics as merely symbolic, or as ripe for manipulation, given that each and every symbol (other than the symbolic understanding of politics, as held by the social scientist) is equivalent under the light of truth. What remains is for this truth to be realized politically. Such a compulsion to realize or actualize these social scientific ‘theories’ finds its theoretical, and so, thereby, practical resolution, in the thought of someone such as Lasswell. But with this resolution, politics is prematurely moved from the realm of the philosophical to the technical. And hence, according to Lasswell (1930, 203), ‘[t]he achievement of the ideal of preventative politics depends less upon changes in social organization than upon improving the methods and education of social administrators and social scientists.’ This education in technique as outlined by Lasswell (1971) would resolve or would have assumed to resolve the political problems in which the philosophers of the past were entangled (as Lasswell sees it). However, as I argued above, this is not

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only untrue; for in seeking to overcome the separation between politics and science it would seem to have simply exacerbated it. This problem, as I will argue in the next chapter, finds a deeper resolution in John Dewey’s philosophical ‘pragmatism.’ 14 For Dewey breathes life back into everyday experience, as it were. And in so doing he makes way for a more profound union of politics and truth, or the transformation of political life under the ethos of social science. We might contrast him with Lasswell, in this respect, for whom the symbolic is key, enabling thereby psychic manipulation by way of technique. In overcoming the irrational, the technician exemplifies a true and productive rationality. Political wisdom arises, thereby, with the technical-rational reformation of the irrational. The human whole, in a similar fashion, emerges as a technical construction. Dewey, as I will show, is more comprehensive. What passes for Lasswell as the formlessness of the psyche, and its technical rectification, does instead, for Dewey, show itself as those ends which arise in interaction. And so, as I will argue, Dewey has no need to construct the whole of human political experience, as does Lasswell. Our common everyday experience is inescapable, by Dewey’s estimation. It’s not without foundation, though. Indeed, the foundation of everyday experience – its truth – is exposed in natural biological life. Biological life shows a deeper unity than Lasswell’s symbolic synthesis. Moreover, its political equivalent – craftsmanship – is without the problems which beset Lasswell’s technical endeavor, as it contains already within itself truth fashioned not just according to our own political desires, or self-interest (or what, for Lasswell, is no different to irrationality). Despite offering a deeper defence of the collusion of politics and truth in political action, however, I will argue that problems arise in execution (as it were). NOTES 1. See his Nicomachean Ethics (1094a20–b10) and Politics (1282b14–16). 2. ‘The modern approach . . . often fails to grasp the wholeness of the intellectual enterprise of dealing with human affairs, and thereby neglects to perceive the wisdom of keeping the scientific part of the endeavour properly related to the total context’ (Lasswell 1951, 470). 3. Brunner (2008, 4, 14–15) brings up a similar point, but for a wholly different line of enquiry than I am presenting here. 4. As called for by Gunnell (1988, 86) and Thompson (2008, 516). 5. See also (Lasswell 1971); c.f., Easton (1950, 452). 6. See also Lasswell and Kaplan (1950, xiii). 7. However, since he argues that ‘speculative fantasy turns again and again to symbols which stand for routines in externality.’ (Lasswell 1935, 269) we might assume that rationality arises from convention. And yet he also says that ‘[t]he direct disciple of Nature may request the rearranger of very abstract symbols to direct him where to look, as when the modern experimentalist comes to the mathematical physicist for “tips”’ (Lasswell 1935, 269). This would suggest that rationality is rooted in nature. Still further, though, ‘[t]he prestige of the analytical pattern of thought is due to the receptivities which have been developed for any expedient which could furnish “leads” for the discovery of routines in nature which might be presently utilized in partially remodelling the environment’ (Lasswell 1935, 269–70). We have

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returned to convention (with its prestige), but at the level of the psychological and of routine, both of which could very well be natural. 8. And is thereby a technique following the breakdown of meaning in the later Middle Ages (Lasswell 1935, 268). 9. See also Dryzek (1989, 111–12). 10. And thus we find that the ‘analytic pattern,’ because it is disconnected from the whole, dissolves the unity of the psyche. Without the unification of holistic symbols, underlying insecurities emerge (Lasswell 1930, 271; 1933, 93), and the psyche is corrupted: ‘It is the recurring surge of insecurity that, however initiated, places a premium upon incessant innovation of detail, both in keeping and taking power. Boredom with one symbol signifies the importance of another symbol’ (Lasswell 1936, 446). The psychic whole is restored only when the hidden conflicts are settled (Lasswell 1930, 25). And hence the political art; which is necessary because of the chaos or conflict from which all things would emerge. The political art would stabilize what is at bottom all-consuming: ‘The stable is a special case of the unstable, to put the ultimate paradox’ (Lasswell 1930, 260). 11. This is a disputed notion in contemporary philosophy of mathematics, wherein camps are broadly divided into the constructivists and the realists (see Ernest 1998). As far as Lasswell understands it, mathematics would describe nature, and so he could be placed in the realist camp. 12. On the modern origins of this understanding of mathematics, and its pervasiveness in modern thought more generally, see Lachterman (1989). 13. With this we are reminded of Aristotle’s critique (in his Politics) of Plato’s Republic, insofar as the human psyche would be inappropriately equated by him with the polis (1261b7–15). Of course, the difference between the Platonic psyche and Lasswell’s is that Plato’s is divided philosophically rather than productively. Political discord is inherent so long as there is a difference in the psyche, and so in the political community, between eros (desire) and thumos (spiritedness). This is a natural distinction according to Plato and so cannot be fully overcome without perverting nature. But in Lasswell’s account politics is equated with a complete unity or accord, which is the psyche becoming whole. This fits with the perspective of the observer. And so from this perspective the difference between and within psyches could not be anything more, for to uncover more the observer must inquire into the psyche, and would cease thereby to be observing it. In the end, the equation of truth with impartiality is in keeping with the technical apparatus (be that psychoanalytic or otherwise) by which the psyche would be known. Such an apparatus would replace the natural or objective necessity which was displaced with the inversion of mathematics (of which the result was pure production). With this, the symbol would have been wholly liberated while being entirely contained. 14. Lasswell was a follower of Dewey, and formulated the policy sciences to overcome what he saw as the dangers of oligarchy and bureaucracy. Indeed, he says that ‘[t]he policy sciences are a contemporary adaptation of the general approach to public policy that was recommended by John Dewey and his colleagues in the development of American pragmatism’ (Lasswell 1971, xiii–xiv).

Chapter Four

John Dewey’s Politics of Poetic Craftsmanship

In this chapter I explore John Dewey’s pragmatic, productive understanding of social science. Dewey’s political program makes full use of the practical potential of the social sciences; the ends of which Dewey sanctifies in nature. Dewey provides a comprehensive philosophical defence of the political legitimacy of modern applied social science; indeed, such legitimacy is, by his terms, the epitome of politics rightly understood. For politics, by Dewey’s account, is a form of craftsmanship. With this account he surpasses Lasswell, who sidesteps the philosophical implications, building his argument up from what he already understands to be its conclusion (i.e., that the whole is rightly understood as a political construction). Despite Dewey’s altogether deeper understanding of the problem, I argue that he is unable to deliver on his promise. For his politics of craftsmanship would, as I show, tend to bifurcate, into imagination – or poetic desire – on one side, and statecraft – or bureaucratic process – on the other. This leads us back toward the problems we uncovered with Lasswell, and, finally, on to the interminable arguments of the policy scientists. These interminable arguments, as rooted in the challenge posed by truth to politics, find their finale in the desire to transform the public themselves into (amateur) social scientists. In this we saw the resolution of this challenge, as realized in state executive action (in cahoots with social science). The theme which concerns me here is the philosophical root of this. The questions relevant to this are: (1) what must we have understood of human nature in order to hold up applied social science as a political authority? and (2) why haven’t the social sciences delivered on their deepest promise (i.e., political wisdom), despite their ever closer working relationship with state executive agencies? The second question would obviously be debated by 77

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social scientists: surely the social sciences have delivered many good things. But it’s a moot point insofar as the real problem, I argue, is not one of realization; for the state and academia despite working closely do not, and cannot, follow each to the letter. The former acts in a politically contingent world; the latter is bound only hypothetically. Given this, given that there is an interest to work together – in theory one might say – but that in practice the two remain distinct, the deeper questions relate to the driving impetus to unite, despite the equally compelling reasons for not doing so. These questions appeared in the policy science debates, wherein we saw, on one hand, the desire of policy scientists to liberate people from the law-like edicts of positive social science (because these edicts are politically naive), and, on the other, the consequences of this, which, in the end, amounted to nothing more than the encouragement of bureaucratic practice. Dewey 1 gives the best answers to these questions I believe, and in these answers we come to see why in encouraging an applied and popularly appropriated social science, we end up not with a liberated citizenry, but with a tighter but more deeply frustrated union of the state and the general public. With these arguments, I am not making the historical claim that we might somehow trace back to Dewey the problems which we now face. Rather, my claim is that Dewey provides a deep and relevant reference point for making sense of why some understand politics in the way that they do, and in what way they might or could justify that understanding. Such a justification is, I believe, tied up, in turn, with how they address these political problems, and why they may just as easily discount as absurd alternative proposals. In support of this, we should consider the depth and breadth of Dewey’s thought, of which the fundamental example is, I believe, his understanding of human nature by way of our everyday experience. Insofar as we would consider him relevant to our concerns, we would point to his attempts to transform political life under the ethos of social science. As a deep and comprehensive thinker, Dewey realizes that there is no everyday political whole which we might construct in defense of political self-interest, no matter how broadly understood. Rather, Dewey sees that our common everyday experience is inescapable, but it is not without foundation. Indeed, the foundation of everyday experience – its truth – is exposed in natural biological life. The true political potential of the social sciences arises with the fact of this natural foundation to political life. Dewey draws together the political potential of the social sciences and the natural (i.e., biological) truth which this would emulate, in the form of craftsmanship. This is possible since, for Dewey, science is, as it were, a verb rather than a noun. As a project of doing or making, Dewey solves the perennial problem of truth and politics in human fabrication. With this solution, though, we strike another problem, a problem of coordination and realization. The citizen as amateur social scientist, as craftsman of his or her own ends, would desire what could only be

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realized in active coordination with others. Just as in the natural world, the truth arises in interaction. Absent this, though, absent the coordination which we find in nature, the state (and statecraft) would seem to be required to bring to fruition what is desired by citizens. Given that the state is in no position to realize this – as statecraft is not the same as citizen craftsmanship – the unity cannot hold. We would find, as in our contemporary situation, frustration, arising with an unrealisable desire on one side (citizen fabrication), and the inadequacy of statecraft on the other. This realization of politics as truth-infabrication (understood with reference to the natural world) cannot lead to what is truly – or existentially – meaningful, in other words. A PRAGMATIC APPROACH Dewey approaches politics according to his philosophy of pragmatism. We might, for this reason, call him the philosopher most at home in our times. For a pragmatic politics – a politics which gets things done – is the public face presented by players on both sides of the political fence. This political spirit mirrors public expectations; for the public expects solutions, and berates the government of the day when these are not forthcoming (see Flinders 2009; Taylor 2012). Even the counsel for this somewhat fractious marriage – as evidenced by the increasing ‘depoliticisation’ of modern society (see e.g., Fawcett and Marsh 2014) – follows in Dewey’s footsteps. What is required is a unification of the public and executive government, or the re-invigoration of the public’s own executive capacity – this through social inclusion, public deliberation, direct democracy, participatory democracy, deliberative democracy, policy co-design, and so forth (see Dewey 1920, 209, and for contemporary examples: Dryzek 2010; Durose and Richardson 2016; Elstub and McLaverty 2014; Hildreth 2012). These downstream policy responses find their source in Dewey, because it’s under a pragmatic spirit that problems are identified. Nevertheless, they depart from Dewey in important ways. For where Dewey had hoped for communities of intelligent citizen-scientists, the modern varieties take it for granted that a closer relationship between state and citizens is inevitable. This is a compromised solution following Dewey, and, as I will suggest below, it is a necessary modification of his position. Nonetheless, it finds its truth in Dewey. For the ideal is provided by Dewey. This ideal – the resolution of politics and truth in political fabrication – is rooted in, as we find with Dewey, a natural philosophy. This understanding of nature is for Dewey the ground of human political experience. Importantly, the resolution of the problem posed by truth to politics, as I argue, hinges for Dewey on the political realization of an analogue, in political life, of what we find in nature – a stable organization of coordinated

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activity. This political analogue Dewey calls the Great Community, which is, as he says, not just an association of individuals, but a unified public. Defined by Dewey as having its source in ‘the perception of consequences which are projected in important ways beyond the persons and associations directly concerned in them’ (1954, 39) – or a public with a self-defined and common purpose. This is a public which has ‘found itself,’ in the words of Dewey (1954, 216). Without this possibility (of being found), though, I propose that the art which properly belongs to the citizen-scientist – as promoted by Dewey – is taken up elsewhere, as an aspiration embraced by the commercial sector and the state, for example. The desires of the public remain, but the means to fulfill those desires are placed in the hands of others. As we find with the ‘compromised’ modern solution, this degeneration of the ideal of self-sufficient local communities into state-sanctioned techniques of social science bypasses the practical inadequacies of Dewey’s program, without giving up on the fundamental pragmatic aim of discovering ‘what works’ in public policy. Retained, then, is the pragmatic desire brought on by the popularization of social science. Left behind is the union of research practitioner and research subject. The social sciences are not put into practice by the public; rather, they are called upon to solve all manner of social and political ills. Political practitioners (i.e., the state) and the public are separated, then, insofar as the latter call on the former to deliver, and the former promise to do so, but in a way which could never satisfy the latter. In this we can see the root of the marital problems, and we can see also why the technician would come to be held in such high esteem (as the counselor, for only he has the necessary skills – so it is believed – to heal this political disunity) while remaining the cause of the fracture. Even if these problems could not have been foreseen by Dewey, they point to a lacuna in his philosophical position. This lacuna, as I’ll argue, emerges with Dewey’s problematic pairing of the imagination (which underlies the desire to solve political or social problems scientifically) with selfreliant, intelligent, local communities. Holding these together – and what is of decisive importance – is a constructed or fabricated unity of ‘ends-inview’ (Dewey’s term). The problem is that without the possibility of a solid or enduring construction, the consequences are perverse. And this, as I’ll argue, is the case. For Dewey’s poetic craftsmanship (my term) would tend to find itself divided: poetic fabrication 2 on one side and its realization in statecraft on the other. We see here, then, at a deeper level than the modern academic policy science debates, the resolution of politics and truth. But we also see what the root problem is: the lack of a meaningful politics, and its replacement by technique or social scientific practice.

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POETIC NATURE In order to disentangle our confusion over politics and truth, Dewey takes us back to the beginning. In the beginning, following Dewey, we find a misunderstanding, fashioned, according to Dewey, by the first philosophers, the metaphysicians. This misunderstanding – a metaphysical understanding – might be traced back to political privilege. This was the privileged position of those who produced nothing useful (Dewey 1929, 93). What they did produce was private, other-worldly, and, as it were, a resting place for thought (Dewey 1934, 22). In this inactivity, or leisured state, these first philosophers would distinguish themselves as do fine artists from artisans. Since fine artists, it might be said, contemplate reality, whereas artisans craft objects for use, the usefulness of the artisan and the utility of his crafted objects would present as somewhat cruder than the fine artist’s. In fact, following Dewey’s account, this is just how the metaphysicians understood it. For the metaphysicians encouraged this division, relegating artisans to little more than menial laborers (Dewey 1920, 13–15). Akin to fine artists, the metaphysicians understood craft under the light of a theoretical or contemplative knowledge, making this the most beautiful or noble thing of all. In Dewey’s own words: The counterpart of the conversion of esthetic objects into objects of science, into the one, true and good, was the conversion of operative and transitive objects into things which betray absence of full Being. This absence causes their changing instability which is, none the less, after the model of materials of the useful arts, potentially useful for ends beyond themselves. The social division into a laboring class and a leisure class, between industry and esthetic contemplation, became a metaphysical division into things which are mere means and things which are ends. (Dewey 1929, 124)

On top of this, the ancient philosophers plundered a mythical understanding of the cosmos from the dramatic artists (Dewey 1920, 7–9). 3 They couched the fruits of their labor in the grandiosity of dramatic myth, thereby sanctifying these fruits under the light of eternity. Think here of Pythagoras’ divine mathematical harmonics, or of Plato’s so-called eternal ideas. In any respect, these philosophers were in the end merely another species of the sophist. But it is sophistry at its most subtle or devious we might say, for these philosophers would present themselves as their opponents. They would misrepresent their own poetic, imaginative, or created fabrications, and disparage the dramatists for being mere storytellers. In only believing to have separated truth from poetry, the metaphysicians would confuse a natural with a private artistry. They would, in other words, confuse their own fabrications with the real thing. Again, put differently, they would create a stable or eternal thing known, and call this the true

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foundation of all known things. The problem as Dewey sees it, though, is that this act of contemplation separates the thinker from the flow of life, and the further act of rendering this contemplation stable fixes this separation, and, in so doing, comes to displace experience itself (Dewey 1929, 123–24). And so the object of art replaces life, because art has been abstracted from life. This goes as much for the so-called philosophers of flux, such as Heraclitus and Bergson, as it does for those of form, such as Plato and Aristotle (Dewey 1922, 74). 4 There are some similarities here with Lasswell (of the previous chapter), who thought of the metaphysicians as ensnared by received opinion. Dewey remains, however, more attuned to the political, and less to the technical, than Lasswell. This shows itself when considering Lasswell’s understanding of the ancients. For him they might be classed as modern rationalists in potential, as what they lacked were the tools or techniques to realize political wisdom. Lacking these they remained enamored by cosmology, confusing this with political insight. By Dewey’s account, in contrast, the ancients either knew exactly what they were doing – that is, holding to a false understanding of nature because politically expedient (for them) to do so – or were in the service of others who did. Dewey does not sever the link between nature and truth, whereas Lasswell substitutes this unity with technique. At the deepest level, humanity is for Dewey realized in creation. For Lasswell, we realize ourselves as a technical construction. So it makes sense that, according to Dewey, we misunderstand nature when we understand it in abstraction (Dewey 1929, 123–24). The right understanding of nature, we must conclude, is according to human experience itself. Just as we are by nature artistic or poetic creatures, so too nature is artistic or poetic (Dewey 1929, 76). 5 It follows, then, that the misunderstanding of the metaphysicians is equivalent to their separation of ‘truth’ from nature’s poetic or artistic essence. We should not be surprised to find, thereby, that from Dewey’s perspective Aristotle misunderstands poetry even as he divines something true about it. For poetry, following Dewey, is higher than history, as Aristotle claims; for it is more philosophical. Not, though, because it deals in ‘universals,’ but because only creation is genuine 6 (Dewey 1934, 284). As Dewey says: ‘philosophies that have been marked by bias in favour of universal natures and “characters” have always regarded only the eternal and unchanging as truly real. Yet no genuine work has ever been a repetition of anything that previously existed’ (Dewey 1934, 288). Dewey’s understanding of nature as artistic or poetic is, he believes, a truer understanding than previously proposed, because it is more objective, or less political. Philosophers of the past were still captured by their own self-interest. The metaphysicians, for example, transformed nature’s becoming into Being simply because it was in their own best interests to do so. Dewey, by contrast, goes back to the beginning, or to the genesis of experi-

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ence, to understand it (indeed, he follows Charles Darwin – see Dewey 1910). 7 By his account, the matrix through which human experience exhibits its ongoing structure is defined already by the beginning of organic life. As Dewey says, ‘[t]he distinction between physical, psycho-physical, and mental is thus one of levels of increasing complexity and intimacy of interaction among natural events. The idea that matter, life and mind represent separate kinds of Being is a doctrine that springs, as so many philosophic errors have sprung, from a substantiation of eventual functions’ (Dewey 1929, 261). Central to this, according to Dewey, is an interactive organization, in which the neediness of organisms results in the restoration of an equilibrium or harmony. Fundamentally, the organism is not organized a priori as it were, but only according to the natural end of neediness. Although the end of neediness would seem to denote a telos, this is not teleological; for the end is not of the organism, but arises with interaction (see Dewey 1934, 14, 15). Harmony, we might say, emerges only when an organism driven by its own sense of disequilibrium goes about reorganizing itself, and its surrounds, according to the universal desire to endure. The human being is no different to the simplest of organisms in this regard (Dewey 1922, 187). 8 It is merely more complex (Dewey 1929, 208). 9 What sanctifies a politics can only be an emulation of a natural harmony, therefore; which is the desire to create or produce those conditions which would fulfill the needs, universally understood, of an organism in disarray. What we know of these needs is not, thereby, social or political, but natural. For the political or social, as we’ve seen with the argument against the metaphysicians, cannot be relied upon as a judgment of harmony or of needs. To expose our needs we must emulate the artistry of nature, in order to rise above its solidifying past. We emulate nature only when we are not prey to it. As Dewey (1929, 358) says, art is ‘the complete culmination of nature, and that “science” is properly a handmaiden that conducts natural events to this happy issue.’ CRAFTSMANSHIP Tied up with any misunderstanding of nature is an understanding of human needs. Tied up with this is our appreciation of those arts and crafts – or the tools – by which these needs might be satisfied. Unable to understand human needs we could not, obviously, understand politics. And in not understanding politics we would act not in truth, but merely according to the desires of our class (Dewey 1929, 120). Delving deeper than class, and as a synopsis of what Dewey has to say, it is helpful to think of human arts and crafts under two aspects: the productive and the mimetic. The productive aspect appears in the guise of the craftsman, and attempts to make up for the deficiencies of

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nature. The mimetic aspect appears in the guise of the dramatist, and brings before us something of nature’s significance. Both are rooted in need (Dewey 1929, 64): the first as protection against nature’s capriciousness, and the second as a desire to understand her ways. Metaphysicians (in which we can include modern mathematicians), by Dewey’s account, deny or pass over the top of this first need to proclaim for themselves a world perfected, in such a way as to claim that the second has been realized (believing they have grasped Being) – see Dewey (1929, 123). In so doing, the essential capriciousness of nature – its artistry – is resolved, and, consequently, human ends are denied their power. Likewise, the transformation of myths and dramatic stories into theoretical accounts would make what is essentially an expression of neediness look like necessity. And a world defined only by necessity, as Dewey points out, ‘would just be. For in its being, nothing would be necessary for anything’ (Dewey 1929, 64). To honor nature, poetic fabrication must replace a metaphysical philosophy. With this, contra the metaphysicians, we remain within human experience. We remain in close proximity to our neediness, in other words. Indeed, with this we follow the open-endedness of nature itself. For in nature, we see that pre-political organisms do not move toward a fixed natural end, but reproduce themselves according to changing needs. They are driven to organize themselves in an ongoing state of unity and flux (see Dewey 1934, 25). 10 It is here that the artisan comes to the fore. It is here that the artisan honors both the productive and mimetic aspects of human artistry. This is for Dewey the truth and the beauty of craftsmanship. For craftsmanship is, by Dewey’s account, fabrication according to nature. It is the human fabrication of what nature would have provided human beings if it weren’t for the fact that they must create for themselves (see Dewey 1934, 25). With craftsmanship, humanity might fashion itself. This is not mere fancy though; for craftsmanship emulates what is the way of nature, according to its ends as well as its means (see Dewey 1929, 352). Craftsmanship is the natural-political culmination of our poetic desire (in emulation of nature as understood scientifically), by means of a pre-theoretical scientific art. Its exemplification is the artisan liberated: As the arts and crafts develop and become more elaborate, the body of positive and tested knowledge enlarges, and the sequences observed become more complex and of greater scope. Technologies of this kind give that commonsense knowledge of nature out of which science takes its origin. They provide not merely a collection of positive facts, but they give expertness in dealing with materials and tools, and promote the development of the experimental habit of mind, as soon as an art can be taken away from the rule of sheer custom. (Dewey 1920, 12)

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In the manual arts Dewey sees a prototype of communal craftsmanship, for the manual artisan crafts or brings into being some product, say shoes, according to an immediate or proximate need, and by way of a method (see Dewey 1929, 85). The artisan as laborer, though, is a pawn of his or her own non-productivity (see Dewey 1922, 71, 233–34). For the artisan laborer has not fully realized the nature of his or her craft, as this craft has been limited to the production of mere objects. The life of the craftsman has been produced by others, as it were. Only a fully liberated craftsmanship honors craftsmanship as such, but only a community of liberated craftsmen honors politics, and so too nature. This liberation highlights the difference between human beings and other creatures, insofar as human beings are free to pursue other than natural ends – as the metaphysicians in their ignorance show (see Dewey 2001, 100). The ends which human beings should pursue must, however, emulate the organic form of natural ends: Moral conceptions and processes grow naturally out of the very conditions of human life. . . . As soon as the power of thought develops, needs cease to be blind; thought looks ahead and foresees results. It forms purposes, plans, aims, ends-in-view. Out of these universal and inevitable facts of human nature there necessarily grow the moral conceptions of the Good, and of the value of the intellectual phase of character, which amid all the conflict of desires and aims strives for insight into the inclusive and enduring satisfaction: wisdom and prudence [italics in original]. (Dewey and Tufts 1932, 343)

Recognizing how our ‘moral’ sense emerges, and what we can understand of our ends or values thereby, distinguishes a true from a false artistry. As exemplified by the metaphysicians, a false artistry situates ends in the transcendent. A true artistry, by contrast, is organic or natural. The ends associated with this organic activity Dewey refers to as ‘ends-in-view.’ ENDS-IN-VIEW Ends-in-view are the emulation by human beings of equilibrium or organization as found in nature. Whereas in nature an organism organizes itself (becomes an organism, as it were) through an unconscious accommodation to changing circumstances, our consciousness is tied in with the fact that we must posit natural-like ends. These posited ends must be transitive, a consummation of desire, and attain equilibrium with organization (see Dewey 1929, 253, 352). Ends-in-view are not subjective, however. Since ends-in-view are ‘anticipated results’ they can be attained only with our own efforts to craft what already exists (Dewey 1922, 234). 11 The consummation of ends-in-view is

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not merely potential, therefore, but wholly actual; just as the equilibrium of the organism when brought into harmony with its environment is a natural occurrence. Ends-in-view are, thereby, a natural consummation of those existential possibilities which would satisfy our needs or desires (see Dewey 1929, 112). 12 They are, then, not merely constructed by us. For political communities are like natural environs insofar as the possibilities at this analogous level limit what might be truly created at subordinate levels. Members of subordinate levels – for example, individuals – cannot simply claim as their own those ends which must emerge at higher levels of organization, in other words. And yet, nature, by Dewey’s reckoning, is poetic. Ends-in-view, by consequence, are natural only insofar as they might themselves be overcome, such as when recognized as merely custom or memory (see Dewey 1922, 34). 13 With their consummation ends become a past achievement; they are natural only so long as they reside in the future (see Dewey 1934, 18). We desire ends-in-view to better ourselves (Dewey 1934, 18), while desires rooted in the past culminate in rationalizations (such as metaphysics) which maintain what could possibly be better (see Dewey 1929, 119). This better future, or natural harmony, is recognised by us through language, in an imagined organization of means and their consummation (see Dewey 1934, 286). Here, elaborated by Dewey (1929, 258): ‘As life is a character of events in a peculiar condition of organization, and “feeling” . . . so “mind” is an added property assumed by a feeling creature, when it reaches that organized interaction with other living creatures which is language, communication.’ Once again, it is on the question of art, following its ambiguity or ‘openendedness,’ that human beings are distinguished from other organisms. Organisms have no need to recognize what is the consummation of their ends, for it is a wholly natural process. Human beings, by contrast, must be able to recognize, and so distinguish, one desire from another, in order for them to act according to ends. It is only through art – the fashioning through language of what is organized – that these desires are both realized and recognized. Given this distinction between the artistry of human beings and that of other organisms, we are exposed to a danger of our own making; a danger not shared by other organisms. For the unity of our desires, as exemplified in Dewey’s terms by ‘organization,’ is in danger of being dissolved by the craft of fabrication. 14 This is not so for biological life. In nature, unity and fabrication are a-political, and so stand on an equal footing, insofar as one emerges from the other, and vice versa. The shellfish, plants, and other ocean creatures, form an ‘eco-system,’ for example. This is itself part of a larger living ‘system.’ The needs of each organism are satisfied in interaction with others, and change both individually and in unity. The ends are not fixed (but exist as unity), and neither, thereby, are needs. The unity of the ecosystem, likewise, arises from the needs of each organism, and so too the unity of each

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organism is a stable unity of subordinate needs. Disharmony arises from chance events, following which harmony is re-established. Chance events we might, then, count as part of this natural process, such as when ocean temperatures rise. Indeed, events are only regarded as ‘chance’ from within a subordinate unity: a rise in ocean temperatures is explainable from the perspective of a broader system, such as the climactic, but not from an oceanic, system, for example. Changes in the unity and thereby the needs of organisms are for this reason fully accounted for by nature, given that we can view them from different systems or level of organization. Humans, by contrast, might consciously alter their needs in a way which cannot be accounted for by a natural or systemic understanding. There is a difference of kind here (from the biological understanding), not just a difference of scope. The desires of humans are, obviously, artistic in a way not shared by pre-political biological life. We dream and imagine (as the example of the metaphysicians show), and in dreaming and imagining we seek to construct (or inhabit) our world accordingly. If our constructions are held together solely by our own dreaming, then it is a fragile unity, prone to disintegration by the prick of reality at any moment. This unity is preserved only if organization were to arise not from our own desires, but from what transcends any one of us. Only with this could we recognize what we desire as true, because our desires would present to us as a unity not of our own making. This, indeed, is the political analogue of what we find in nature. For in nature, the ends of organisms arise with, and are bound by, their environment. So too we come to recognize what we desire, only if what we hold dear we take to be more than merely a passing whim. Whatever we would build for ourselves, we must count as self-evidently worth building, in much the same way as the organism adapts in one contingent way, and only in one contingent way, to its environment. If not, what we construct is merely a selfindulgent fantasy – no different to the dreams of the metaphysicians. In the remainder of this chapter I examine this fragile construction of Dewey’s. I show that in encouraging the poetic root of applied social science, the public are motivated to transcend the past, in the desire to realize themselves in an imagined future. The fundamental resolution is, thereby, the possibility of this unified future – the natural or ‘Great Community.’ Without this community, political desire would be encouraged, while remaining frustrated. At this point it’s worthwhile, I believe, to return for a moment to contemporary times. For, as Dewey himself points out, the modern state, and (technical) industrial society, cannot realize freedom – it is a form of bondage (see e.g., Dewey 1920, 207). 15 The other side of this is, of course, that unification is itself a bond, and so the state (or statecraft) would, absent the Great Community, itself offer the unity which a Great Community could not; and – it should be pointed out – has not. In this promise of a unified future, but inability to deliver, the relationship between the public and the state would be

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founded not on security (as per Hobbes), but the insecurity of a desired, yet unrealisable, liberating future. GREAT COMMUNITY What saves Dewey’s project from collapse is his trust in the possibility of a ‘naturally-styled’ public community, a Great Community of common or communal experience, in which the good would arise through a mutual, intelligent craftsmanship (see Dewey 1929, 233; 1934a, 87). When Dewey wrote this, the Great Community did not yet exist, of course. But its realization, he thought, is our only hope to enable the public to recognize itself, and so come to liberate itself from its own bad habits (as brought about through industrialization, technological advancement, etc.). Only under a Great Community might the public come to recognize what its true needs are, and seek to satisfy these. Without the Great Community, we might suppose, little would have changed from Dewey’s time; namely, a public without ‘form,’ generally confused about its own needs, and how to realize them (the problem, according to Dewey (1954, 126), is that there are too many ‘publics’). Without the Great Community, it is also possible that – and this is what I am arguing – habits give way to needs rooted in the promise of technical mastery, but without the requisite and accompanying unity and coordination of activity (as provided by the Great Community). Without this, needs would remain unfulfilled, and without even a transitory end, the public would remain frustrated. In defending this point, I begin with the fact that the Great Community is, for Dewey, different to an association of individuals. As Dewey (1954, 151) describes it, ‘association itself is physical and organic, while communal life is moral, that is emotionally, intellectually, consciously sustained.’ What sustains communal life is common action, in which its consequences become an object of common desire (Dewey 1954, 151). It follows that only through humanity’s natural capacity as a maker of symbols – as a poet – is communal life at all possible: Symbols control sentiment and thought, and the new age has no symbols consonant with its activities. Intellectual instrumentalities for the formation of an organized public are more inadequate than its overt means. . . . We have the physical tools of communication as never before. . . . Without such communication the public will remain shadowy and formless, seeking spasmodically for itself, but seizing and holding its shadow rather than its substance. Till the Great Society is converted into the Great Community, the Public will remain in eclipse. Communication can alone create a great community. Our Babel is not one of tongues but of the signs and symbols without which shared experience is possible. (Dewey 1954, 142)

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The Great Community is, as deduced from what has been presented thus far, the natural and not the metaphysical end of humanity. 16 It must be created, fabricated, and encouraged to appear. It would arise in a unity which would equate human beings with, but also distinguish them from, other nonself-conscious organic associations. The natural end of this community, as shared by all, and as realized in a future-oriented common language, would arise thereby in mutual enquiry. Underscoring this Great Community, as Dewey puts it, is ‘a kind of knowledge and insight which does not yet exist’ (1954, 166). Such knowledge can only arise with a free and public exchange of ideas, since ‘[t]he problem of a democratically organized public is primarily and essentially an intellectual problem, in a degree to which the political affairs of prior ages offer no parallel’ (Dewey 1954, 126). On a related point, only applied science is knowledge (Dewey 1954, 174): ‘Science is converted into knowledge in its honorable and emphatic sense only in application. Otherwise it is truncated, blind, distorted.’ Pure science is akin to dreaming, in other words. Bringing these together, Dewey states that ‘[c]ommunication of the results of social inquiry is the same thing as the formation of public opinion. This marks one of the first ideas framed in the growth of political democracy as it will be one of the last to be fulfilled’ (1954, 176). Without this, as Dewey surmises, opinion will not be ‘truly’ public. The realization of a public is, for Dewey, a matter of identity and organization. This is the foundation of a Great Community. Since for Dewey the Great Community is more than merely an association of individuals, what is required is a unity of minds and hearts, as it were. Individuals must be able to recognize their interests in the interests of others, and thereby identify themselves not just as individuals, but in the communal – as a public. And thus Dewey (1954, 216): ‘Whatever the future may have in store, one thing is certain. Unless communal life can be restored, the public cannot adequately resolve its most urgent problem: to find and identify itself.’ That the public finds itself, and, in so doing, identifies itself, is necessary before any ends-inview can be manufactured, or at least before ends-in-view can be said to be representative of not just private interests (see Dewey 1954, 148–49). The Great Community is the final stage of the realization of ends-in-view. Without the Great Community, ends-in-view are indistinguishable from personal fantasy. Only as realized in interaction with others are ends-in-view shown to be natural, or a true reflection of the satisfaction of our needs, in other words. These needs are tied up with our natural potential, and remain misrecognized so long as we misunderstand ourselves. As a consequence, we would lack the means to become, politically, what, naturally, we are. As Dewey adds, with reference to the American Transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson: ‘We lie, as Emerson said, in the lap of an immense intelligence. But that intelligence is dormant and its communications are broken, inarticu-

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late and faint until it possesses the local community as its medium’ (Dewey 1954, 219). 17 This ‘immense intelligence’ to which Dewey refers is the natural intelligence of communal human interaction (which Dewey describes in shorthand as the Great Community). With this, the ends of human activity are sanctified in nature. Problematic is that these same ends, and so too the ideal of the Great Community, are unified under the model of craftsmanship. Under this model, and following nature, ends are poeticized. Desire – putting it poetically – is bound to be gratified only by its offspring. CRAFTSMANSHIP AND COMMUNITY The problem for us is in what way could a not yet Great Community realize itself? Two avenues are open to Dewey. Firstly, its realization might hinge on the possibility of an authoritative political science, which is the possibility of a scientific crafting of society (see also Kaufman-Osborn 1984, 1152–53). The second is more liberal, and hinges on desires liberated, and their subsequent unification in, and recognition by, the public (see e.g., Dewey 1934a, 43 on the unity of the imagination and its power to move us). The first is limited by nature, custom, and memory. As a technical art, it must wrestle with an historical and stubborn reality. The second is poetic; which is to say it is expressed as a theoretical construction, and not at all limited by craft (see Dewey 1934, 348). 18 It is limited only by what is not desirable, or what is, simply, impossible. And so we can see that while the first, the realization of a Great Community from without – as political science – requires a political revolution, the second requires merely the expansion of imagination (see Dewey 1891, 890–91). 19 As far as revolutions go, Dewey’s tends toward the latter (see e.g., Dewey 1920, 211). 20 The public cannot be molded into craftsmen as it were, but will, it is hoped by Dewey, in emulation, take up the tools and techniques crafted by experts (see Dewey 1939, 60–66). The preeminent science in this regard is social psychology. Social psychology is the cultural science par excellence, as it is a science of the active communal psyche (Dewey 1922, 323–24). 21 Social psychology would provide the method of, and the knowledge for, reforming desire; from the distractedness of private interest to the common focus of the public (Dewey 1929a, 737). It would establish the cultural or communal conditions under which desire would find its consummation in ends-in-view (Dewey 1939, 63). 22 Nevertheless, even if poetic or artistic desire is stimulated by social psychology, and legitimated by natural philosophy, it remains the case that the public would attain their ends-in-view by means of an experimental craftsmanship, using the tools and following the spirit of the natural and social sciences:

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a genuine social science would manifest its reality in the daily press, while learned books and articles supply and polish tools of enquiry. . . . Even if social sciences as a specialized apparatus of inquiry were more advanced than they are, they would be comparatively impotent in the office of directing opinion on matters of concern to the public as long as they are remote from application in the daily and unremitting assembly and interpretation of “news.” On the other hand, the tools of social enquiry will be clumsy as long as they are forged in places and under conditions remote from contemporary events. (Dewey 1954, 180–81)

It is important to consider, I think, that the ensuing constructions, even if rooted in contemporary events, would show themselves – if scientific – as not merely practical, but also as theoretical (insofar as these constructions hold in the future or across varying conditions). As theoretical constructions, especially if following the constructions of the experts (and their consideration of relevant contemporary practical concerns), the social sciences offer a promise to the public which, we could say, precedes (and exceeds) their reality. Put another way, the theoretical constructions of social science presuppose already their empirical realization, for if they did not then the laws or associations being uncovered would be wholly arbitrary (see Dewey 1939, 34–35, 42). (In this case, science would be no different to the poetry or false politics of the metaphysicians.) The formulation of hypotheses by social scientists for communal testing amounts to the same thing, insofar as the utility of the hypotheses are already presupposed in potential, even if the actual testing of the hypotheses would require the Great Community already established. 23 It is questionable, then, that the social sciences would or could stimulate the public to take up in amateur fashion the tools or (experimental) methods of the social sciences themselves. This is because there is no direct link in the mind of the public between the ends of social science – imagined as a theoretical construction – and the means to attain them. Or, I should say, there is no need to follow the social scientists in this regard. 24 What is most important for the social scientist is his or her method, as it would reveal what – by this method – counts as truth. For the public, the method plays second fiddle, insofar as the truth is already ‘known’ – it’s time now for action. It does not necessarily follow, then, that the experimental mindset of the social scientists will be followed. For example, the sociologist who develops a theory of community cohesion based on the regulation of working hours comes to this understanding following some variant of the empirical method. The resulting ‘theory,’ if popularly disseminated, takes the form of a statement of fact, such as ‘research shows that community cohesion could be increased if only . . .’ In the popular imagination the application of this requires not the method which led to its discovery, but, rather, some political capacity to bring about the conditions for its realization. What people imagine could

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happen is brought to fruition by the fact that it has already been shown to have happened, even if provisionally, as described by social scientists. The proclamations of social scientists lend any political fantasy a veneer of reality, in other words. This is a problem for Dewey if, on one hand, social psychology (and here we might think of modern political advertising and marketing techniques, etc.) is successful in encouraging people to look toward the political satisfaction of their needs, and, on the other, if the means to realize those needs are, in reality, absent, but imaginatively present. The take up of Dewey’s natural philosophy could only exacerbate the situation (c.f., Rorty 1981). Similarly, only if the Great Community is a natural and future possibility could we legitimately posit ends-in-view, and thereby liberate craftsmanship from custom or habit – making it a conscious and natural or true production, in other words. The Great Community finds itself in these future and posited ends, for in these it would see itself united. But only with a community organized already as a Great Community is the realization of these ends possible (c.f., Festenstein 2001, 746). 25 These two cannot be separated without, on one hand, separating Dewey’s ends-in-view from nature (as it is in their very possibility which for Dewey saves them from fantasy), and, on the other, reducing political communities to the means to realize someone else’s ends (e.g., government experts – see Kaufman-Osborn 1984, 1157–58). Considering these problems, what we can gather from the above arguments is that (1) the public’s emulation of social science would be mostly imaginative; not a precursor to the practice of methodical craft but rather a stimulant of poetic desire (c.f., Honneth 1998, 773–80), and (2) it is highly unlikely that the Great Community could be realized, and certainly not democratically as envisioned by Dewey. It is telling that 20 years after Dewey wrote The Public and its Problems (1954, 229) he lamented the fact that the scientific method had not taken hold with the public: We have also held that a considerable part of the remediable evils of present life are due to the state of imbalance of scientific method with respect to its application to physical facts on one side and to specifically human facts on the other side; and that the most direct and effective way out of these evils is steady and systematic effort to develop that effective intelligence named scientific method in the case of human transactions. Our theorizing on this point cannot be said to have had much effect.

This is a comment which still holds true. The same cannot be said for the hold it has on our imagination. Encouraged now, in the spirit of craftsmanship, I suggest that we turn to already fabricated political, universal institutions: the executive arm of the state, for example. Indeed, the state (and its associated statecraft) is the technical epitome of what Dewey describes as

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craftsmanship. As such, it promises by way of technique what for Dewey’s program would or could only be realized with the Great Community. The Great Community, so it follows, is an unnecessary final step, or a dream not in keeping with the needs of those who feed on (and serve up) the rhetoric of applied social science. WHAT REMAINS As I am arguing, absent the Great Community, or its possibility, it is not as if Dewey’s project is doomed absolutely. For there remain, as I have shown, aspects of Dewey’s program which could be popularly supported, despite whatever else Dewey may have proposed. The uptake by the public of these aspects, without the associated political supports, would, of course, be realized in ways unforeseen by him. Since the Great Community has obviously not come to pass, and yet, still, we dream that it might, the desires which underwrite it remain. Given that the state would (and, indeed, does) initiate or encourage those desires necessary to form a public (as Dewey understood it), and through the popularization of social scientific research offers hope for its realization, it is seen as being in the best position to deliver on this hope. In a limited sense, this perspective fortifies the state’s role as merely a coordinator of varying political desires (Dewey 1920, 204). 26 But, in a deeper sense, the state would come to replace the ideal of the Great Community; for already, as the coordinator, it would seem to be the obvious institution to unify multiplying desires, following their invigoration in hope (c.f., Festenstein 2001, 743; Honneth 1998a). In our times, we could say that the promotion of political needs (or the hope engendered by the promises of applied social science) has indeed been taken up by the state, by way of institutional self-interest as it were. For Dewey’s program pre-figures, or at least considers necessary, the union of the executive and universities; a union which today shows itself to be in the best institutional or limited interests of each. Combine this with another of Dewey’s plans, the universal communication of research results, and so forth, via journalism (Dewey 1954, 166), 27 and the union of the executive and our ‘contemplative’ institutions are sealed, driven by the popular desire for solutions to current ills. 28 So even if the popular expertise which Dewey sought in social science did not eventuate, the general spirit of a liberated or productive social intelligence has. The form this has taken is not, of course, what Dewey envisioned. For it is necessary that the state would always be held in check by an already formed public (Dewey 1954, 146). This, as we have seen, is problematic. Summing up, political desire would find itself directed, at least imaginatively, in state institutions. As the state is in no position to realize, satisfy, or

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even properly recognize the multiplicity of desires and their ends, it must default to the impartiality of technique (in so doing impose its own idea of the good), in order to craft what lies within its domain. In this, the public rather than being unified with the state is separated from it. This exacerbates public concern that the state is not doing nearly enough to live up to what it should be. And so the cycle deepens. CONCLUSION Returning to the question of this book, we see that the resolution of the perennial problem of truth and politics is resolved by Dewey in craftsmanship – or applied social science, as made possible by ends-in-view and the Great Community. The truth of this is revealed in pre-political nature, and specifically in aesthetic human experience. But without the Great Community, as I argued, this imagined fabrication would find its stability in those institutions wherein private interest might be united in political fabrication; for example, in the modern university or civil service (i.e., the state). The state would, and indeed must, assume the responsibility to execute what are the poetic ends of the populace. Unable to do this, yet all the while acting as if it might and could, the state would seek its own legitimacy in popular desire, while carrying on with the only craft of which it is capable (see Blaug 2002). This is, simultaneously, an affirmation and denial of state sovereignty. For the problem of desire cannot be resolved by state intervention, even as (or simply because) the state presents as the solution. It follows that sovereign legitimacy arises not with the resolution of some prior state (such as the state of nature, following Hobbes), but with the possibility of the future as executed. Since legitimacy arises by way of hope, the appropriate response to illegitimacy is not a denial of the ideal of sovereignty therefore, but a cynical attitude toward its execution: executive power is not representative of the public; it is incompetent; it is not transparent; or it has not fully understood how things must be done in order to enact what must be done (a common complaint of social scientists.) 29 Cynicism arises with the inflated hopes placed in executive power, and the subsequent failures of this power to fulfil them (see McLaverty 2009, 387). Following this trajectory there is no turning away. Our only hope is in the reformation of the executive. The executive must become what it promises, according to what we desire. And so the cycle of hope and cynicism continues. With regard to this, Flinders (2009, 337) notes that in our current political climate a ‘gap has emerged, and has been emerging for some time, between the governors and the governed in terms of levels of trust and engagement. And yet the existence of a gap should not be confused with a public decline in interest in politics per se.’

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In sum, as I have argued, Dewey offers a solid foundation to the practical application of social science to political problems. In this respect, it is to be noted, as do others (most notably, in the context of this book, Lasswell), that he is a grandfather of the policy sciences discipline. For in taking to task the philosophers of ‘form,’ such as the ancient (and modern) metaphysicians, Dewey describes our genesis with reference to (biological) nature, and exposes our desires by way of human experience, in order to reveal that it is only in an interactive, constructive activity that political life might be truly founded. There is, according to Dewey, an accord between biological and political life, as rooted in neediness, and resolved in poetic construction. Poetic construction, as sanctified under the Great Community, is what distinguishes a true from a false politics. If with this the state is unintentionally elevated by Dewey, it is for reasons to do with his over-confidence in communal craftsmanship. The problem for Dewey, as I argued, is that (1) this political enterprise lacks substantial meaning, and (2) it would arise only under conditions of a public formed already as a unified community of problem-solvers. Indeed, as I hope to have shown, without this, it’s inevitable that the state would present itself as the natural substitute for the coordinating and constructive activity of this absent community of unified citizen-scientists. Nonetheless, this understanding of politics, and the central position accorded a community of citizen-scientists is, as we saw, more comprehensive than Lasswell’s, and so goes further than his to resolve the perennial problem of truth (what is) and politics (broadly understood as what is for us meaningful). For Lasswell gives up on Dewey’s attempt to provide a natural and philosophical grounding to politics. Rather, he finds truth in a technically constructed human or political whole. What emerges, as I described, is a tighter union of citizens and experts (or rational technicians). It is the problematic union of truth and politics brought about by this which, further down the line, policy scientists continue to wrestle. But these policy scientists wrestle this problematic on these same terms, insofar as truth is sought by way of a social science which, in practice, is equivalent to technique, and, in theory, discovers nothing more than itself. Turning to Max Weber in the next chapter I present his critique of these positions, but a critique which remains within the arc of social science. Weber, as I’ll present, discerns the dangers of ‘rule by rational experts.’ He discerns this along with recognizing that this rationality (which underlies expertise) is what also allows us to distinguish truth from politics. The distinction between truth and politics is, then, for him – as is especially evident in modern rational societies – not to be collapsed in favor of rational construction, but nor can these simply remain separate affairs. Indeed, the social scientist is best placed to understand in what way politics might be reformed, simply because he epitomizes the political perils we face in modern times. As

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both savior and destroyer, the social scientist must enter politics conservatively, aware of the limits of his own rational understanding. NOTES 1. Dewey is a forerunner of Lasswell and popularly associated with the ‘pragmatic’ branch of philosophy. 2. Understood here as the bare activity of ‘making,’ following its original meaning (poiēsis). As will become clear, I cannot therefore agree with Bourne (1919, 131–34) who chastises Dewey for separating what Bourne calls ‘poetic vision’ from ‘instrumentalism.’ Bourne goes on to say that what is needed is such ‘vision’ or, mirroring Weber, ‘value-creators’ (135). This does not, however, surpass Dewey, as these are (i.e., poetics and instrumentalism), when thought through, two sides of the same coin. 3. See also Dewey (1929, 80–84). 4. See also Dewey (1929, 50). 5. See also Dewey (1929, 173–75, 282; 1934, 22). 6. As understood by the Greeks. But of course the typical Greek understanding of creation was different to that understanding typical of the Christian and post-Christian ages. 7. According to Dewey (1910, 8–9), ‘[t]he influence of Darwin upon philosophy resides in his having conquered the phenomena of life for the principle of transition, and thereby freed the new logic for application to mind and morals and life.’ And: ‘Intelligence after millions of years of errancy, has found itself as a method’ (Dewey 1963, 93). 8. See also Dewey (1929, 246). 9. See also Dewey (1929, 255, 258, 261, 295; 1920, 86). 10. See also Dewey (1922, 71). 11. See also Dewey (1939, 16; Dewey and Tufts 1932, 199). 12. See also Dewey (1929, 123, 351, 352; 1934, 25). 13. See also Dewey (1922, 193, 225, 232; 1929, 118, 120). 14. Compare this with the experience of the scientist (Dewey 1934, 324). 15. See also Dewey (1922, 144; 1934, 341); Dewey and Tufts (1932, 393, 422–25). 16. Not only does Dewey follow Rousseau in using the metaphor of the general will (Dewey 1954, 153), he also follows Rousseau in equating human being with community, as realized in mutual recognition of, and satisfaction in, desire. 17. Taken from Emerson’s essay on self-reliance, we find that the quote containing the reference to an immense intelligence is followed by this: ‘When we discern justice, we discern truth, we do nothing of ourselves, but allow a passage to its beams. If we ask whence this comes, if we seek to pry into the soul that causes – all metaphysics, all philosophy is at fault. Its presence or its absence is all we can affirm’ (Emerson 1908, 31). 18. C.f., Morris (1999, 613–15, 626). 19. See also Dewey (1934, 344; 1934a, 19). C.f., Fesmire (2003, 68). 20. See also Dewey (1922, 65–66); Dewey and Tufts (1932, 398–99, 405). 21. See also Dewey (1929, 238; 1929a, 719–20); Dewey and Tufts (1932, 192). 22. It would produce, according to Dewey, something akin to the religious spirit. Obviously, as we’ve seen above, the founding text would be Dewey’s natural philosophy. For the integration of emotion and ideas and ensuing wholeness or unity is achieved only when, as Dewey (1920, 210) puts it, his natural philosophy is accepted without question (c.f., Savage 2002, 107). This natural philosophy would thereby attain a religious significance, and move people accordingly (Dewey 1920, 210). Dewey’s natural philosophy would transcend science to find itself enacted as a revelation. This ‘revelation’ would, of course, not be delivered from without, but sustained by social scientists (Dewey 1922, 324) with the promise of organization, or personhood unified by desire with others (see Dewey 1920, 209; 1929, 303; 1934a, 26). Dewey’s natural philosophy would be revealed as the founding text of ‘revelation’ only in action with others, we might say, and in this action people would be unified by the ideals of the social group in which they have found themselves (see Dewey 1934a, 79).

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23. If social psychology would give rise to the desire in private citizens to form a public, then it is the state which would fulfill the role of expert and instigator (such a role we might imagine falling to the universities, while the role of coordination to that of the civil service – see Dewey 1920, 204). The manufactured desire would be satisfied by ‘communities of enquiry’ under the methodical work of craftsmanship. The citizen craftsmen would not be experts as such (experts would still conduct applied research studies), but social reformers according to their ends-in-view (c.f., Talisse 2011, 515). Their craft would be furthered and their desire invigorated by the public dissemination of the results of research undertaken by social scientific experts (Dewey 1929a, 737; c.f., Hildreth 2009, 797–98). 24. As indeed Dewey (1954, 163) notes: ‘The layman takes certain conclusions which get into circulation to be science. But the scientific enquirer knows that they constitute science only in connection with the methods by which they are reached.’ 25. Consider also Rousseau’s (1999, 78) argument on legislation: ‘In order that a people in the process of formation should be capable of appreciating the principles of sound policy and follow the fundamental rules of reasons of state, it would be necessary for the effect to become the cause; the spirit of community, which should be the result of the constitution, would have to have guided the constitution itself; before the existence of laws, men would have to be what the laws have made them. Thus the legislator is unable to employ either force or argument, and has to have recourse to another order of authority, which can compel without violence and win assent without arguing.’ 26. The civil service in its active role, post manufacture of desire, was only ever for Dewey about coordination, without ‘undue meddling’ (Dewey 1954, 59). 27. See also Dewey (1954, 177); Dewey and Tufts (1932, 398–99, 403). 28. C.f., Savage (2002, 27, 97, 101). 29. For an early account of this see Tolstoy’s War and Peace (1952, 365): Book 9, Chapter 11.

Chapter Five

Rationality in Action Max Weber’s Political Science

I will argue in this chapter that Max Weber is more cautious than Dewey. 1 In a nutshell, I hope to show that Weber is politically conservative when it comes to social science. This for the following reasons: (1) there is for Weber an intrinsic distinction between the self-conscious rationality of the social scientist and the vitality of everyday political life; (2) given this, what the social scientist can know of political things is limited; and yet (3) underscoring social scientific knowledge is what Weber recognizes as the limits of what can be known from within everyday life. Points (1) and (2) show why the social scientist must refrain from bringing his science directly to bear on politics, while point (3) suggests that there is some deeper perspective that social science may well engender – a perspective not yet visible from within the horizon of the everyday. This third point is especially pertinent to our age, wherein depth of understanding is in danger of being extinguished by an encroaching and enervating rationality. In exploring these points, I consider politics from two intertwined perspectives, as did Weber. The first, following Carl Schmitt (following Weber, who follows Nietzsche), could be called ‘the political.’ This is to understand politics from the first-person perspective, emerging as what we uphold as worth fighting for, or what we hold dear, given what we count as inherently meaningful. The second is from the third-person perspective, or a perspective which seeks an objective or impartial position, from which first-person perspectives might be reformed and then woven together to make good (whatever we understand of this) political communities. The former tends toward fanaticism, the latter, as craft, tends toward impersonal technique. Of course, these are not mutually exclusive, as the latter is always, no matter how 99

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impersonal, a subset of the former: it is we who act, in other words, no matter how ‘objectively.’ Indeed, Weber himself practices a science which he acknowledges is meaningful only to others of his ilk (i.e., inhabiting the same historical space, as it were) – his science is political in the former sense, in other words. So too, more generally, ‘the political’ is, according to Weber, a matter of meaning (either in the form of tradition, or, in modern times, as appearing in contrast to the mechanistic tendencies of a rational understanding). As a science of politically charged things, Weber is also saddled with the question of what the social scientist could or should do, politically. This is a question which falls under the latter category. This question, as we saw in the last chapter, was answered by Dewey with citizen craftsmanship. Weber answers it, according to his understanding of science, by way of ‘personality’ – so I will argue. What’s relevant to the central concern of this book is that the solution offered by Weber to the problem of politics and truth (given that truth, as Weber acknowledges, is what the social scientist seeks) is a compromise, or balances the political limits of social science with its politically salutary possibilities; this in an age when rationality is authoritative. It is a solution which draws on points (1), (2), and (3) as I described above. For personality is, in our age, the rational equivalent of what, in prior ages, was unified by way of faith or charismatic authority. Here the social scientist comes to the fore, if somewhat tragically (for the social scientist is, as recognized by Weber, both symptom and doctor). And so, as I will show, in holding to personality as a resolution of the problem posed by truth to politics, the social scientist – as social scientist – is precluded by Weber from re-entering everyday political life other than as an existential coach – ‘one must choose!’ – or in the form of a serious character (à la the social scientist). Indeed, it is necessary that social science enter politics in the form of this serious character – what Weber calls an ethic of responsibility (Verantwortungsethik) – for the other side of the social scientist’s entry – as the existential coach – is itself ground for political fanaticism (what Weber describes as an ethic of conviction – Gesinnungsethik). The measured outlook and political seriousness of the social scientist balances the mania – the struggle (Kampf) as Weber calls it – of politics. Weber’s (2004, 32–33) definition of modern-day politics as a sharing of power, and as exemplified by the state, provides the background to this, insofar as it may well encompass prudent liberal democratic leadership, as well as the dangers endemic to bureaucracy. Considering these things, I hope to show that Weber takes seriously the profundity (and so too the danger in this rational age) of the political, as well as the conditions under which we might claim to have attained a science of it. The problem with all this, as I argue, is that the misalignment of Weber’s science and the perspective of everyday actors leave open the possibility that Weber’s enterprise be taken up politically (contra Weber). For if the distinc-

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tion between these is inherently tenuous why not simply reconcile them? To move from Weber’s own conservative or cautious outlook to this reconciliation (of science and our everyday understanding) presupposes the collapse of an ‘objective’ history 2 (into our own interpretation), or the dissolution of the boundary between a self-conscious rationality and meaning (or as Weber also puts it, of science and faith). In collapsing or dissolving this boundary rationality is transformed, from the discloser of objectivity to a co-creator of meaning. This allows us to return to the everyday, in spirit reminiscent of Dewey’s active social science, and in practice as policy science. This collapse is made easy by Weber, I argue, because of his understanding of everyday life as essentially in flux, stabilized only with the precarious distinction between what is meaningful and what is true, as revealed by way of his hermeneutic method – his ‘ideal-types’ – and as unified by ‘personality.’ Given that this is how we might come to understand ourselves, why wouldn’t we construct politically what we have already constructed scientifically? WEBER, POLITICS, AND TRUTH Weber addresses the perennial problem of truth and politics in a way which takes account of meaning, which honors truth (as the transcendence of selfinterest), and which also shows an awareness of the dangers of these one to the other. With these in mind we can appreciate Lukács’ (1972, 398) insight that Weber ‘makes the passage between neo-Kantianism and existentialism for the first time.’ 3 Weber considers seriously the meaning of human action, in other words. Understandable too is Habermas’ (1988, 16) point that Weber could not go all the way, or did not explore the transcendental presuppositions of his value relations (i.e., the interdependence of social science and reality), because of his adherence to neo-Kantian positivism. Why he did not go all the way is important I think. Indeed, as I see it, this was a politically prudent decision of Weber’s. It follows, then, that what Lukács counts as Weber’s radicalism, and what Habermas his conservatism, are each rooted in the same concern of Weber’s for truth – both theoretical and political. I approach this concern of Weber’s with a discussion of contemporary debates on Weber’s ideal-types. 4 Ideal-types are the centre-piece of Weber’s social scientific hermeneutical methodology, insofar as they allow us to interpret and understand people of different times and places, according to what we and they regard as meaningful. The ideal-types allow us to understand others impartially. They could, as Weber says, be understood by people of any cultural background, even if such an understanding is not deemed by them significant (see Weber 1949, 58–59). Ideal-types are limited by the rationality which they would reveal. Indeed, insofar as we find ourselves lost in the disorder of everyday life, as Weber understands it, they also allow us

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to understand our own times. They function as an ‘as if,’ as the ideal of rationality. As Weber (1978, 6) says, ‘the construction of a purely rational course of action . . . serves the sociologist as a type (ideal-type) which has the merit of clear understandability and lack of ambiguity.’ Even irrational phenomena – such as ‘prophetic and mystic modes of action’ – can reveal their meaning to the social scientist, if interpreted using ideal-types (Weber 1978, 20). The bottom line is that these ideal-types abstract from reality in order to render it meaningful (i.e., what the social scientist finds meaningful). And, by meaningful, Weber means as rationally purposeful social action. In the social world of action – where meaning is entwined with the behavior of others – this is emulated when we understand someone to be rationally choosing means to accomplish some valued end. 5 This valued end falls under what Weber deems ‘value spheres.’ These are incommensurable (they are formed under struggle), and so are not revealed rationally. Ultimately, these spheres mark off the boundary of the social scientist’s intellectual reach. These must, in the end, appear as irrational to the social scientist. In considering this, we return to the concord, as it were, between the social scientist, the ideal-types, and what thereby the social scientist finds meaningful. What the social scientist finds meaningful is, quite obviously, what the ideal-types expose – that is, rationality. Since rationality is, according to Weber, liberation, insofar as when we choose rationally we are in control of our choices, or are fully conscious of them, this is where social science and the world meet. It is the converging point of what the social scientist finds meaningful and what he or she can understand of others’ action. Rationality is also what separates the social scientist from social actors, since these cannot understand the world from the bird’s-eye perspective of the social scientist. Since the social scientist (as social scientist) finds truth (or rationality) meaningful, and since as social scientist he cannot plum the real core of what is meaningful – that is, our fundamental values – he must refrain from imposing his values (and his rationality) on others. Weber, then, diverges from Dewey and Lasswell (not to mention those further downstream) insofar as for him, instrumental rationality, if understood as more than means, is the dissolution of politics, not its realization (no matter whether understood practically, as technical construction, or as in interaction – following Lasswell and Dewey respectively). For politics (in the deepest sense, as ‘the political’) is understood by Weber hermeneutically, or as what foregrounds our action, or what we take to be meaningful. By contrast, for Dewey, the ends of instrumental rationality are sanctified in interaction – as a form of poetry or making, as it were – and emulate in this way natural, biological life. Lasswell is more constructive than Dewey, so much so that the true ends of instrumental rationality would, following him, reveal themselves only as a technical fabri-

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cation. Weber stands in opposition. He is no applied social scientist, and is therefore averse to the mixing of social science and public policy. Rather, social scientists are not to act as law-givers, but as ethicists. This is because they themselves are best placed to deal with the political dangers of instrumental rationality, simply because they are closer to it, and so understand its political implications better than others. WEBER AND HIS METHOD I turn now to the ideal-types, and the debates surrounding them. These debates show us, on one hand, a Weber who constructs the ideal-types in order to guide the formation of hypotheses (see Weber 1949, 90). For, as Weber (1949, 92) says, ideal-types are a means not an end. And, on the other hand, they show us a Weber in closer relation to Heinrich Rickert’s (1986) ‘valuemetaphysics.’ Here it’s argued that Weber, in not fully departing from Rickert, holds still to his theory of concept formation, in which historical individuals are distinguished by the different meaning or value they ascribe to things. 6 Following this argument, ideal-types fall short. For they connect us back to a reality defined only by concepts. As such, the scientific value of ideal-types would be essentially worthless, for they would serve merely to elucidate what is essentially another species of ideal-type. Somewhere between the two is correct, as I will argue. For neither of these can meet Weber as Weber. I will take up these arguments following, on one hand, the writings of Drysdale, and, on the other hand, the thought of Oakes. These are worthwhile representatives of each side, considering that – as I will argue – the former takes seriously Weber’s ideal-types as he understood them methodologically; while the latter explores the theoretical coherence of the ideal-types, especially in relation to everyday understanding. I hope to show that the former, in adhering to the boundaries of Weber’s method, cannot encompass the question, and ensuing problem, of what Weber could understand of everyday reality. In encompassing this impossibility of understanding the everyday, though, I argue that the latter surpasses Weber’s own methodological intentions. Bringing these two perspectives together, I suggest that it is not the theoretical problem which concerns Weber, but the personal or political. Keeping this in mind, it is important to consider Weber’s apparent reticence to explore his own theoretical presuppositions (as hinted at by Habermas). First up is Drysdale (1996). Drysdale argues that Weber did indeed transcend Rickert by way of his ideal-types. For the ideal-types are judgment free, according to Drysdale. Weber used them as points of comparison only: an ideal-type ‘enables the process of investigation and exposition; it implies no stance toward the conceptual object which would inappropriately constrict

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the range of alternative hypotheses’ (Drysdale 1996, 85). The ideal-types are heuristic in this sense, for they provide us a starting point of reference. The ideal-types are almost arbitrary, then; they have been chosen only because they make sense to us. Other means of making sense may well be chosen by other people. Truth, by way of comparison, is, according to Drysdale, revealed, and only revealed, as an hypothesis, which ‘unlike the concept (e.g., capitalism) . . . serves to make a claim (empirical, historical) about reality which is subject to validation’ (Drysdale 1996, 80). Any concept, as Drysdale argues, is merely a starting point, unable to reveal the truth unless tied together with other concepts to form a testable hypothesis against history. 7 It would seem, then, that the ideal-type is something less akin to a word in a sentence, in which a word’s meaning is inexplicably tied to our intentions, and more like the component of a schematic diagram. But this is not how Drysdale sees words. In effect, for Drysdale, words are themselves akin to the components of a schematic diagram, and ideal-types likewise (1996, 80). 8 Considered this way – as akin to this understanding of words – the problem of the disconnection of ideal-types from reality is averted: ideal-types are connected to reality by way of the hypothetical proposition of which they are a part. The hypothesis, and what it seeks to explain, would save us from the problem of circularity (wherein the validation of ideal-types is based on a reality uncovered only by way of ideal-types). This problem (of circularity) is averted, though, only if we hold that there is no intention behind words, concepts, or ideal-types. Indeed, the strength of this claim dissipates if we consider that in order to speak we must intend to say something. And in intending to say something our words do not simply add up to a proposition which might be tested. Rather, words are inextricably bound to our intentions. If ideal-types are like words, so too must we consider the intentions behind them (i.e., they are ‘judgmental’). These are important considerations, and they’re considerations which Drysdale partially addresses. Or he addresses them within the already limited horizon of Weber’s science. For if we regard the ideal-types as value-free concepts (see Weber 1949, 98–99), 9 much the same as we might words by themselves, for example, we are staking our claim already on a judgment which limits words to their function within the self-enclosed whole of a proposition. The more fundamental question of whether reality is or is not a schema, or whether the truth of ideal-types might well be considered apart from the part they play in predication, cannot be answered following this path. This reflection brings Weber to the fore, then, insofar as we must ask ourselves ‘what did he understand of his own enterprise?’ In a couple of places Drysdale considers this question (as did Weber himself), but not, in my opinion, thoroughly. For example, Drysdale (1996, 78) mentions that the

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‘social scientist shares a common cultural status with the objects of study.’ This, as Drysdale puts it, brings in a degree of complexity not shared by the natural scientist. No mention is made of the deeper significance of this complexity, such that complexity – relative to simplicity – might well be the result of a false apprehension; following, for example, from what Weber understands of the everyday, that it is an infinite manifold. Elsewhere Drysdale (1996, 83) says that that which the scientist deems relevant or significant is subjective or relative, and even variable amongst scientists themselves. Subjectivity is rescued from a radical relativism, however, by ‘the fact that science is practiced within “scientific communities”. . . . The greater the agreement, the greater the constraints on individual variations or idiosyncratic value-interpretations’ (83–84). This takes us into deeper territory. If we are serious, wouldn’t we consider the truth of what is presented here as merely a socially sanctified form of group-think? Considered thus, we see that ‘agreement’ merely pushes the ‘radical relativism’ threat back a step; it does not preclude it. For agreement does not equate to truth. Or, to put it another way, how to agree on what is a true and what a false science? These questions are not taken up by Drysdale. Plumbing this further, we might say that, broadly, ideal-types must make sense to us given what we understand of everyday life (that it is, following Weber, an infinite manifold, for example). If we claim that the ideal-types are value-free (see Weber 1949, 98–99), for example, we must then stake our claim on the truth of everyday life, not merely our interpretation of it. Consider that the natural scientist explicitly claims that his description of the world is value-free (if not his political proclivities, for not all value modern science). Any heuristic which he might construct to represent the world, such as for example the Rutherford planetary model of the atom, is limited to what he believes might be understood, given the terms of his science. The planetary model is not thereby a comprehensive replica of the world. Rather, it makes appear to us, or renders meaningful, what would otherwise remain hidden (as this is, truly, mere matter). Only when judged along with the broader intentions of those who fabricated the heuristic do questions of value arise. Weber (1949, 74) puts it thus: Whereas in astronomy, the heavenly bodies are of interest to us only in their quantitative and exact aspects, the qualitative aspect of phenomena concerns us in the social sciences. To this should be added that in the social sciences we are concerned with psychological and intellectual phenomena the empathic understanding of which is naturally a problem of a specifically different type from those which the schemes of the exact natural sciences in general can or seek to solve [italics in original].

Here we might say that Weber finds himself embroiled. Contra the natural scientists, Weber cannot claim that his initial assumption – following the

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foundations of his science – is value-free, because making-sense or meaningfulness is at the very heart of his science. Of course, he might make the further claim that his perspective of meaningfulness is value-free (even if from a broader historical perspective it is not, for only at a certain time and place is scientific truth valued), in much the same way as the natural scientist’s. It is only a difference of subject matter – one is concerned with material bodies the other with social action and associated meaning (as Drysdale argues). But this means that if Weber is to hold strictly to the ideal-types as value-free (see Weber 1949, 98–99), he would be wholly excluded from his subject matter, insofar as it is value-oriented, and he is not. For the natural scientist this is no problem: material bodies move in the worlds of believers and non-believers alike, even if the significance of this for each differs. But for a practitioner of the human sciences, one is liable to put the cart before the horse, insofar as one’s theory carelessly limits everyday life, an everyday life which must be considered in its totality in order for us to grasp the significance of human intentions. Here I take up Oakes (1987), following Burger (1976). Oakes holds Weber to this broader account; but an account which, I think, unduly boxes in Weber as a theoretician. Oakes attempts to align Weber with Rickert’s neoKantianism. 10 Important for Oakes, then, is the following quote he draws from Weber (1949, 81): The transcendental supposition of every cultural science is not that we find a certain “culture,” or indeed any culture at all, valuable, but rather that we are cultural beings, endowed with the capacity and the will to take a conscious position toward the world and to ascribe a meaning to it. Regardless of what this meaning may be, it will lead to the fact that in life we will judge certain phenomena of human collective existence on its basis and take a position on them as being (positively or negatively) significant. Regardless of the content of this position, these phenomena have a cultural significance for us. Their scientific interest rests on this significance alone [italics in original; original translation slightly altered by Oakes].

Drawing on this quote, Oakes takes the position that in claiming to have attained a science of meaning, or a cultural science, Weber presupposes ‘an account of the conditions under which knowledge of historical individuals is possible’ (Oakes 1987, 117). This is where Weber is aligned with Rickert, according to Oakes. For each, the problem arises of how we come to know historical individuals. This, as Oakes points out, was not solved by Rickert; for knowledge of historical individuals is possible only conceptually. Deriving reality from concepts leaves us unable to ascribe significance to one thing over another. As such, Rickert’s ‘value metaphysics’ is without foundation. Weber is left in the same position, insofar as his ideal-types must be compared against a reality which he conceives of in the same spirit as Rickert:

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‘The Weberian conception of cultural science rests on explanations by means of ideal types, the explanatory validity of which is tested by comparisons with empirical reality itself. The Rickertian theory of concept formation and its doctrine of the intensive infinity of empirical reality entail that such a comparison is impossible’ (Oakes 1987, 152–53). 11 Certainly, if correct, this pulls the rug out from underneath Weber, as Weber is now a co-creator of meaning, rather than a discoverer of its rational structure. But is it correct? According to Oakes, Weber’s problem is epistemological. According to Drysdale, knowing (as hypothesis validation) is distinct from conceiving (as constructing ideal-types). Truth might, thereby, arise with the empirical verification of what can be known, according to what has been conceived (as a concept or ideal-type). For Drysdale, then, the problem of interpretation, which is the problem of an empathetic understanding and attending epistemological problems, is irrelevant. The ideal-types are interpretations of reality (Drysdale 1996, 80) but we need not understand them as being constitutive of reality, or assume that there is some essential concurrence between our value-free concepts and reality itself. 12 Rather, they allow us to get to the truth of reality (Drysdale 1996, 81), which is a truth of human history (see also Bruun 2001, 149). 13 For this reason, Drysdale is closer to Weber in my opinion, simply because Weber himself makes the distinction between everyday speech and the truth, a truth which might only be revealed by the sociological historian (see Weber 1949, 110). Oakes, following this line of reasoning, steps beyond Weber, but only because he takes his cue from Rickert, and the broader problem which this entails. This broader problem is hermeneutical, or the problem of the truth of what is meaningful. It is not merely an empirical problem, as identified by Drysdale. Which is to say, the problem is that of the possible or impossible distinction between politics (or meaning) and science (and truth), and not the subordinate distinction between historical necessity and contingency. Well and good? Not quite. For to deny that there is a problem, as does Drysdale, is to assume that empirical science is value neutral. This is possible, as I pointed out above, only if what is disclosed to us as meaningful by this science is itself value-free (even if this value-freedom emerged historically). Without this, we encounter the problem of disentangling ourselves from the ‘values’ which we have inherited. But in holding fast to this ‘objectivity’ we encounter a problem even more threatening: what to make of Weber himself, an historical character? Following Drysdale, it should be impossible to know Weber other than empirically. 14 But Drysdale does (i.e., he presents more than a Drysdalian reconstruction of Weber) 15 simply because he does not follow Weber to the letter; or, what amounts to the same thing, he assumes already the truth of what Weber has to say, and does not thereby question the impossibility of who is saying it. Drysdale does not

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consider Weber because he already accepts the coherence of Weber’s argument, in other words. Oakes, on the other hand, diverges from what Weber said (as Ringer and others have pointed out) in emphasizing the problematic character of what Weber could know if he must stand by his arguments with the dogmatic demeanor of an epistemologist. Both of these arguments draw out something of Weber, but each is deficient: neither can meet Weber as Weber. 16 The problem of Weber, and with all due respect to Weber, is, I suggest, as much personal as it is theoretical. 17 Indeed, as I have been arguing, under a purely ‘theoretical’ or scientific understanding of Weber we must extract Weber from his own understanding, or we must hold Weber to an epistemology of which he himself had little time for. The real problem for us lies with Weber’s intentions, not only as they might be limited according to a theory of knowledge, but as they stood according to the political, and, at bottom, existential problems of the modern world. 18 These problems, as I have been arguing, arise at the point at which the scientific meets the political. And so too, it is here that problems arise with Weber’s viewpoint as interpreted by us, considering how and why our interpretation must transcend what Weber discloses to us as the truth by way of his method. To sum up Weber’s political and scientific concerns we might say that the realm of meaning or value, as well as that of truth, is preserved if what is revealed to us historically does not itself constitute any one historical period. Which is to say, that our understanding arises with the possibility of what could be potentially understood (verstehen) by all, but does not, thereby, entail that it be understood in this way by those other than ourselves. Weber does, in this sense, attempt to rise above history, but using only the levitation provided by history itself. Such levitation is not an escape from history, however; for levitation is possible only because historical things have themselves lost their power to enchant us (see Aron 1964, 105–6). We find ourselves elevated because history has become a problem. This problem is revealed against the backdrop of ages past, ages in which history’s ‘reality’ was an unacknowledged and non-problematic background to lives as they were lived (and so the possibility now, for us, of verstehende). As a practical or personal means to a moderate and meaningful politics, as a non-foundational enterprise, there is much promise in what Weber proposes, especially given that we are at risk of, as Weber puts it, degenerating into ‘specialists without spirit, sensualists without heart’ (Weber 2003, 182). On a similar note, Weber presents his as a humble understanding, 19 not prone to the vanities of the philosophers, and certainly not to the vanity of Hegel’s wisdom. 20 On this score, we might contrast Weber’s conservatism, or caution, with the more radical thoughts of the philosophers, in which wisdom would arise as the unity of practice and theory. In contrast to the philosophers, Weberian theory is circumscribed by the scepticism of modern sci-

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ence. This circumscription is undertaken against the background of what Weber recognizes as also its political dangers. As these two are related by a common term of reference, so too the political is, for Weber, defined against the boundaries of what’s knowable scientifically. Weber’s political conservatism or caution (as social scientist) is, then, set against a somewhat radical understanding of politics (as struggle). The ideal-types are, for these reasons, emblematic of Weberian science, and his associated political understanding. They suggest a political conservatism, insofar as they presuppose a limit to what can be known of the political. And they presuppose an understanding of the political which is radical, insofar as there is no truth to political life, other than as unearthed retrospectively. Tying this together is an everyday which is understood as, ultimately, an illusion arising out of chaos. The heart of this is Weber’s historical understanding of human being (‘what we are’ can only be known after the fact, as revealed to us by way of the ideal-types). This begins with a problem as recognised by Weber. For as scientists or people who now value the truth, our desire for a rational account is a double-edged sword: rationality is both true and empty (e.g., consider the desolation of bureaucracy and the prescience of social science). Since for Weber there is no escape from history, only elevation through it, the problem demands that we rise above the everyday (to attain the truth), as well as find some way of regaining what was lost with this very demand (to recapture meaning). To the scientist, or to the contemplative person, everyday life offers nothing more than an ambiguous obscurity: ‘The use of the undifferentiated collective concepts of everyday speech is always a cloak for confusion of thought and action. . . . It is, in brief, always a means of obstructing the proper formulation of the problem’ (Weber 1949, 110). The problem of liberation begins with our immersion in everyday life, in other words: as a scientist, one must rise above it; as the politically prudent scientist one must repair the damage, as it were. Only after we have secured some distance from the present does the importance to us of political action, its consequences and its meaning, become apparent (see Weber 2004a, 26). It’s as if, having finally woken up, startled and disorientated, we must find some way to recover dreaming’s significance, but without closing our eyes. This is the problem of history, and the problem which defines for us its resolution. It is also the problem of politics and science, recognized by one with an incredible breadth of historical knowledge. And it is also a problem which, I argue, begins not with the most comprehensive understanding of the truth, but with a truth limited by what already has been circumscribed by modern science. For Weber takes as his point of departure the fact of everyday life’s incoherence, and the necessity of its recovery by way of history. 21 It could be argued that this fact (of the incoherence of everyday life) is built into the fabric of our age, as it were, insofar as everyday life has become a problem for us moderns in a way which it wasn’t for ages past. But this is

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saying too much. For everyday life has always been a problem (for us humans). How the problem is conceived, and what its remedy entails, is the important question. As a question of meaning, there is no small difference between coherence derived through historical or sociological study, and a coherence which is sought from within the phenomena of everyday life. IDEAL-TYPES AND THE SOCIAL SCIENTIST In this section I will explore what the ideal-types must mean to the social scientist. This is, as it were, the site wherein meaning and truth cohere. As the coherence of meaning and truth it presents its own dangers, insofar as these are not natural bedfellows. Indeed, we might say that they are, in essence, mutually exclusive. I don’t mean to say that we cannot find anything both true and meaningful. That would be absurd. Rather, truth would itself seem to propel us beyond what is meaningful, toward bare necessity. Which is to say that (as we find with Weber) truth propels us beyond description, into the realm of explanation. For if our aim is to provide the whole account of something, we must also attempt to show how it came to be. What’s more, if we cannot know a thing as it presents itself to us in everyday life, explaining how it came to be would seem to be the only true account. Insofar as this would dissolve meaning, there is an inherent discord between the truthseeker and the everyday person. Insofar as meaning is the political problem of the day, this discord is rendered ever more acute. And insofar as we would resolve this discord – as per a practical social science – we run the risk of collapsing one into the other, redeemed only through the impartiality of practice (as we saw in chapter 2). I have suggested above that ideal-types are indicative of Weber’s conservative or cautious response to the inscrutability of human beings. Ideal-types reflect both the scientific and political limits of interpretation. They follow the scepticism of modern science, but reflect also its broader political implications insofar as a self-conscious rationality is at odds with the vitality of meaning. What, then, do ideal-types mean? Firstly, consider that ideal-types mean something to someone, and that this someone is the social scientist. Consider also that ideal-types are heuristic, and so that what they mean to social scientists must be more than a mere symbol or random sign (c.f., Lasswell). We know too that the ideal-types emulate, even if only in a partial way, the meaningfulness to the historical actor of his or her own social action – they offer reasons for action which actors may well have offered, if they articulated these rationally and systematically. Insofar as action is meaningful to both the social actor and the interpreter, they are united by consciousness. Interpretations may well be wrong, and action may well be misguided, but in each case what is ‘meaningful’ denotes

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that the question ‘why pursue this action?’ might be answered: action is consciously directed, in other words. Insofar as social actors have not yet fully understood their action, rationality is asymmetrical: the interpreter attempts to complete the rationality of the social actor, as it were. This completion could not be undertaken by the social actor; for if it were, social action would be rendered meaningless. To put it another way, the genesis of what is meaningful is not, and cannot be, equivalent to what is actually meaningful, for the latter is akin to ‘value-rationality’ (to use Weber’s term), and the former, we might describe in a suitably ugly phrase, as an inter-subjective instrumental-rationality (and so the conflict I mentioned above between truth and meaning). This rationality must remain beyond the reach of the historical actor. There is then some freedom or consciousness available to the social scientist which is not available to the social or historical actor, but which, nonetheless, is rooted in a shared rationality. The ideal-types are heuristic insofar as they stand between both, connecting and separating the social scientist and the historical actor. As symbolic, or as an abstraction, they enable the social scientist’s liberation from an unconscious historical necessity, and as meaningful to the social scientist, they denote what he or she shares with the historical actor. They are, in short, heuristic insofar as they emulate the freedom and, thereby, the rationality of conscious human action (see Weber 2012, 85–86). 22 As Weber (1978, 8) says: Understanding may be of two kinds: the first is the direct observation of the subjective meaning of a given act as such, including verbal utterances. . . . Understanding may, however, be of another sort, namely explanatory understanding. Thus we understand in terms of motive the meaning an actor attaches to the proposition twice two equals four, when he states it or writes it down, in that we understand what makes him do this at precisely this moment and in these circumstances. . . . This is rational understanding of motivation, which consists in placing the act in an intelligible and more inclusive context of meaning [italics in original].

Taking this one step further, what makes the ideal-types more than mere random or absurd symbols is their meaningful appropriation by the social scientist: only if the reality of the social scientist is a confluence of rationality and freedom are the ideal-types heuristic, or meaningful to the social scientist. 23 Ideal-types thereby expose the potential freedom of the person, based on the presupposition that that freedom is actualized as the social scientist, who must be able, in some way, to exist beyond the limits equated with this potential. This boundary-limit is the significance to us of history (understood scientifically, not traditionally). On the one hand (relevant to the historical actor), it is only from within history that freedom is not separated from what is meaningful, and, on the other hand (relevant to the social

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scientist), it is only with our recognition that this same meaning is historical can we provide a (as close to possible) value-free perspective. Insofar as this holds, Weber’s understanding (as a social scientific understanding) cannot be attained by the acting historical subject (see Brubaker 1984, 36). But Weber – as he himself acknowledges – emerged from history. Only now is it possible for the two to converge, therefore. Emergence is not the same as reconciliation, though, for what the social scientist knows is distinct from what any one of us, as historical creatures, should be, even if what we can be is defined already by the confluence of science and meaning as characterized by our age, and as understood most clearly by the social scientist. In Weber’s words: ‘An empirical science cannot tell anyone what he should do – but rather what he can do – and under certain circumstances – what he wishes to do’ [italics in original] (Weber 1949, 54). The social scientist as social scientist, in other words, can play no part in judgment, other than pointing out the necessity for us to judge in a way which accords with the truth, as understood by him or her. 24 With this in mind, Weber’s description of the social scientist is prescient. In this, we can see that that which exemplifies the (ethical) social scientist is his or her disinclination to actively choose (see Portis 1986, 4–5); which is to say, the social scientist would exemplify a self-grounding rationality (c.f., Steinberger 2015, 761–62). This is achieved only when the scientist refrains from imposing his or her own perspective on those who are the subject of it (Weber 2004a, 26–27). Returning to the beginning of the previous section (on ideal-types) helps to explain why this is so. Firstly, if everyday life is understood as a phenomenal stream, or as nothing more than an ambiguous obscurity, then we only come to understand others, and indeed ourselves, historically: ‘the discursive nature of our knowledge, that is, the fact that we comprehend reality only through a chain of intellectual modifications postulates such a conceptual shorthand . . . social science in our sense is concerned with practical significance’ (Weber 1949, 94). Secondly, to give meaning its due, which is to limit the reach of what we can know, we must understand that what can be revealed to us historically does not itself constitute any one historical period. In sum, rationality cuts across all historical periods insofar as it is the structure of self-consciousness, and so the basis to what could be meaningful to us, without it thereby being meaningful in this way to all. These limits – scientifically grounded and politically realized – prevent the social scientist from acting in the world, as it were. They do not prevent social science from reforming the world, however. For, as I will argue below, Weber offers a solution to this problem of science and politics. The solution is ‘personality.’ This is, for Weber, the ‘unity’ which would make possible, in our modern rational age, the marriage of science and political action.

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PERSONALITY Consider Weber’s (2004a, 30) prophetic statement, that: ‘[o]ur age is characterized by rationalization and intellectualization, and above all, by the disenchantment of the world.’ Consider also that even if rationality is the problem of our age, it does not mean that it can play no part in the remedy. Indeed, as I mentioned above, the social scientist lays bare the necessity for ultimate choices to be made. Nevertheless, these choices are made by the individual, and as an individual in history, as an active or political person, the choices are made not under the banner of truth, but under the banner of meaning. 25 Here, Weber’s understanding of ‘personality’ comes to the fore. Indeed, Farris (2013, 44) argues that ‘within the Weberian methodological and theoretical framework, the idea of personality played a central role.’ Boucock (2000, 36) also points out that, ‘[h]uman action is distinguished from the causal order of the world in terms of its “meaningfulness,” “rationality,” and “autonomy” . . . these features of human conduct converge in Weber’s will-centred concept of “personality.”’ And so, too, Brubaker (1984, 62–63) states that ‘Weber’s elucidation of the concept of “personality” . . . is strikingly similar to his account of religious prophecy. Personality, for Weber, is constituted by that which every prophecy demands.’ 26 Brubaker (1984, 97) goes on to say that ‘only through vigilant awareness and active exertion can the individual progress from . . . a life governed by the chaotic impulses of his raw, unformed, given nature to one governed by the coherent values and meanings of his consciously formed personality.’ As I hope is becoming apparent, there is some relation between, on one hand, the unified perspective of science as defined against the ambiguity of everyday life, and, on the other, the unified activity of personality, as defined against unself-conscious habitual behavior. 27 Indeed, since personality is the modern political equivalent of what, in past ages, was set in motion by the prophet (the epitome of the political-type: see Weber 2004a, 12–17), it might be said that rationality must, now, play the part of divine law. This is the connection between the social scientist and the political actor, as it were, for as a ‘knower of rationality’ the social scientist stands to the personality as does the prophet to the believer. The difference is, of course, that rationality is only ever a means, it is no end. Rationality, contra divine law, offers no guide to action, no unified perspective on the meaning of the whole of life. Considering this, we see more clearly Weber’s distinction from both Dewey and Lasswell. Lasswell, as I described in chapter 3, resolves the problem of politics and truth with the technical construction of the human or political realms. Dewey, meanwhile, is deeper, as I presented in chapter 4. He reconciles truth and politics in emulation of (biological) nature. As a resolution of the perennial problem of truth and politics what Weber offers is, obviously, different to the contemporary solution (such as offered by Dewey

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and Lasswell). The problem is not resolved with the practice of social science, but with a solution built on the recognition of the dangers of this practice. Nonetheless, it is a solution which does not pass beyond what has been revealed by social science. Rational reconstruction – as a unified personality – is our only hope, even as rationality is our greatest political danger. In short: the unity of personality is a solution which arises out of, and does not move beyond, the revealed problem. This is quite clear if we come back to the broad level of Weber’s hermeneutical enterprise; for the unity of personality is a writ-small version of the rational unity of history as revealed to us by social science, but without rising to the ‘apex’ of history, as per social science. What the social scientist does (and can only) provide historical subjects of a rational epoch, as I have been arguing, is a prelude to action. In terms of what this means for the social scientist, and in what way he or she could act, Weber’s references to Tolstoy – in Weber’s ‘science as a vocation’ lecture – as well as his musings on progress, and the meaning of death, are apposite: the man caught up in the chain of progress always has a further step in front of him; no one about to die can reach the pinnacle, for that lies beyond him in infinity. . . . For this reason death is a meaningless event for him. And because death is meaningless, so, too, is civilized life, since its senseless ‘progressivity’ condemns death to meaninglessness . . . suppose that Tolstoy rises up in you once more and asks, ‘who if not science will answer the question: what then shall we do and how shall we organize our lives?’ . . . In that event, we must reply: only [by] a prophet or a savior. (Weber 2004a, 13, 27–28)

These are important quotes, because, reflecting for a moment on their significance – given what Weber understands of our modern age – it can be seen that although science cannot answer the ultimate questions (in an age without prophets and in an age where death is meaningless), it must, in some way, play the part of a ‘this-worldly’ savior. Science is our only hope, even as it is one of our greatest dangers. We might shed some light on this by quoting a few passages from Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina (the first quote is from the only titled chapter of the work – ‘death’): Levin knew his brother and the direction of his thoughts, knew that he had become a sceptic not because it was easier for him to live without faith, but because step by step modern scientific explanations of the phenomena of the universe had driven out his faith; he knew therefore that this return to the old faith was not legitimate, not a similar result of thought, but was only a temporary, selfish and irrational hope of recovery. . . . Levin involuntarily meditated on what was taking place within his brother at that moment, but, in spite of all the efforts of his mind to follow, he saw by the expression of that calm stern face and the play of the muscle above one eyebrow that something was becom-

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ing clear to the dying man which for Levin remained as dark as ever. . . . If he had any feeling left for him [i.e., his brother] it was more like envy of that knowledge which the dying man now possessed and which he might not share. . . . Scarcely had the unexplained mystery of death been enacted before his eyes when another mystery just as inexplicable presented itself, calling to love and life. The doctor confirmed their supposition about Kitty. Her illness was pregnancy. (1999, 495–501)

Following this, Levin would reorient himself: from the rationalist, to one who would derive significance from life itself: ‘I, and all other men, know only one thing firmly, clearly, and certainly, and this knowledge cannot be explained by reason: it is outside reason, has no cause, and can have no consequences’ (784). Prior to Levin’s realization, his political life revolved around the science of farming. His existence was utilitarian in other words, concerned with the truth only insofar as it would fill his belly. In making the ultimate choice, though, Levin’s life, or the fact that he exists, attained a significance in which all else was subordinated. For Levin this was to rescue death from chance, and thereby make possible the gift of life. And so, too, from within Tolstoy’s world, the social scientist would act his part as one uniquely aware of the meaninglessness of death, and, thereby, as one aware of the necessity in our age for its substitute. Death is unknowable, but in coming to realize ourselves as ‘personalities’ we find a ready surrogate: a this-worldly, active, or willful recreation of what could only exist eternally. In this mystery, our lives are rescued from the meaninglessness of our all-too-human reason. And ultimately, this is where, as Farris (2013, 107) states, ‘the true political man, insofar as his actions reflect a single core of values, a one and only cause, is a “personality” in the fullest sense of the word.’ Of relevance to our understanding of ‘personality’ is the fact that the acting historical subject, and indeed the social scientist in active political life, must make political distinctions. This political discernment, which is the distinction of what is meaningful from what is absurd, cannot itself be reduced to merely an existential choice. These distinctions must be more than merely historical or arbitrary, in order that any resolution reveals itself to us as something worth holding. We cannot resolve to live our lives according to the truth as disclosed historically, in other words. And so we must, by these terms, live them in faith. In this way we understand ourselves as in truth historical creations, and as in life denying this truth in our estimation of what is ultimately valuable. We must therefore act, and in this struggle with others who also act, political life is sustained (see Weber 1949, 57; 1978, 1414). It comes as no surprise, then, that the social scientist is never a ‘personality.’ In a prophet-less age, the truth-seeker, the social scientist who sees prophecy for what it is, must himself remain silent on the question of value: for ‘[s]cience . . . has no knowledge of “miracles” and “revelation.” . . . The

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religious believer has knowledge of both’ (Weber 2004a, 21). Having seen the tragedy at the heart of it all, the social scientist’s resolve is marked by a humble silence on things political. For politics is understood at a distance – or theoretically – by the social scientist. And yet, the impetus to a meaningful existence has, in this rational age, passed from the prophet to the social scientist: ‘If we understand the matter correctly (something that must be assumed here) we can compel a person, or at least help him, to render an account of the ultimate meaning of his own actions’ [italics in original] (Weber 2004a, 26). This is where what the social scientist knows and his or her political understanding are inseparable. This, as can be surmised, is what is meaningful to the social scientist: the return of what history has dissolved, from one best placed to understand the terms of this dissolution. Insofar as this translates into political action, or insofar as this is not merely the prelude to a choice, what’s left over for social science is the distance which it might afford us from ourselves, and from everyday life (see Aron 1964, 106). Since rationality is what the social scientist finds meaningful, and given the political problems which come with it, it must be treated with full awareness of its limits and political implications. Key to this is the distinction Weber makes between a ‘psychological’ understanding and a ‘logical.’ Whereas the psychological understanding is not dangerous politically, the logical understanding (which is what the social scientist finds meaningful) may well be. On the psychological, Weber (1949a, 14) says that: The real significance of a discussion of evaluations lies in its contribution to the understanding of what one’s opponent – or one’s self – really means. . . . An ‘ethical’ conviction which is dissolved by the psychological ‘understanding’ of other values is about as valuable as religious beliefs which are destroyed by scientific knowledge.

This psychological understanding Weber distinguishes from the historical and logical (which is not merely ‘scientific,’ but ‘cultural’ knowledge): ‘empirical-historical events occurring in men’s minds must be understood as primarily psychologically and not logically conditioned’ (Weber 1949, 96). The logical condition is different to the psychological, because the former explains how we have become who we are (using the ideal-types), while the latter merely lays out the internal structure of a ‘world-view’ – the causal relationship between the historically determinable idea which governs the conduct of men and those components of historical reality from which their corresponding ideal-type may be abstracted, can naturally take on a considerable number of different forms. The main point to be observed is that in principle they are both fundamentally different things. (Weber 1949, 95)

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The important point for us is that the logical historical understanding must not enter the political realm. Indeed, following Weber, politically, it might enter it only in the form of an ethic (combined with a unified and dominant personality). With this, we might prudentially counter the march of the bureaucratic state, which, with its victory, would be the empirical realization of historical logic; or the devolution of personality into instrumental rationality. In this, we can count Weber as a proto-critic of policy sciences, or of practical political or social science. As he says, ‘policy-making is not a technical affair, and hence not the business of the professional civil servant’ (Weber 1978, 1419), and ‘it can never be the task of an empirical science to provide binding norms and ideals from which directives for immediate practical activity can be derived’ (Weber 1949, 52). The reason for this – as I’m arguing – is that what the social scientist knows must remain distinct from what the political actor should do or be, even as each are united under the enervation which, in our modern, rational world, calls out for ‘personality.’ POLITICAL PERSONALITY What I have argued above must be considered along with the part social science might play in placating a fanatical politics. Fanaticism is, of course, not unwanted in this rational age. For, as Weber sees it, in an age of rationality, only the charismatic personality 28 would stand against the mechanical momentum of the administrative state. Indeed, the choice as understood by him, is either (1) ‘a democracy with a leader together with a “machine”’ or (2) ‘a leaderless democracy [or], in other words, the rule of the “professional politicians” who have no vocation and who lack the inner, charismatic qualities that turn a man into a leader’ (Weber 2004, 75). 29 Considering that option (1) is wholly preferable to option (2), we must face up to the dangers which come with it, in particular the danger of a blind fanaticism. This danger Weber describes as the vanity of ‘power politics,’ realized when the meaning of action is subsumed by the will (Weber 2004, 78). The politician comes himself to personally encompass the truth – free to create and unaware of the ‘tragedy of action’ (2004, 77–78). The ensuing self-intoxication renders him indifferent to the meaning of human action, so argues Weber (2004, 78–79). Alternatively, politicians might be engulfed in the meaning of their own actions, such as those who follow an ‘ethics of conviction.’ These, according to Weber, are ‘unable to tolerate the ethical irrationality of the world. [They are] cosmic, ethical “rationalist[s]”’ (Weber 2004, 85; see also Weber 1949a, 16). Their understanding of rationality as ‘cosmic’ is in contrast to the social scientist’s understanding; for the social scientist founds his rationality through history. The irrationality of the world,

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along with their misunderstanding of nature, would motivate these ‘convictionalists’ to force it right (see Satkunanandan 2014, 172). The ‘convictionalist’ therefore ends up much the same as the ‘power politician’ (see Turner 1992, 118), except self-intoxication is elevated, as it were. What unites these two is that neither understands force or power; for neither is conscious of action (Weber 2004, 89, 92). What’s required, then, are ‘personalities’ with an ‘ethic of responsibility.’ This is a man or woman with the decisive qualities of, as Weber puts it, ‘passion, a sense of responsibility, and a sense of proportion’ (Weber 2004, 76). As Weber (2004, 77) adds: It cannot make a politician of anyone, unless service to a ‘cause’ also means that a sense of responsibility toward that cause is made the decisive guiding light of action. And for that (and this is the crucial psychological characteristic of the politician) a sense of proportion is required, the ability to allow realities to impinge on you while maintaining and inner calm and composure. What is needed, in short, is a distance from people and things [italics in original].

This reminds us of the social scientist, insofar as the social scientist himself maintains a distance from people and things, and yet is passionate in heeding the call to his vocation (Weber 2004a, 8). In fact, it is only in this vocation, in this devotion to his subject, might we ascribe ‘personality’ to the scientist (Weber 2004a, 8). This vocation, as we recall, requires an elevated perspective, so that the social scientist might distinguish the politically important from the trivial. It is not surprising, then, to find that from this vantage point, any foray into the personal is, as Weber describes it, essentially an act of hubris or vanity (Weber 2004a, 25). Tellingly, it is not the initial desire to transcend history that is hubristic, but the subsequent lack of self-control wherein the scientist would either knowingly attempt to re-enter it, or wrongly suppose that he has left it behind. In either case, it is a lack of self-control which underlies each. In the former, the scientist betrays his method, and in the latter he lacks the fortitude to realize it. As Weber (1949, 97–98) says in regard to the danger surrounding ideal-types: They [i.e., ideal-types] regularly seek to be, or are unconsciously, ideal-types not only in the logical sense but also in the practical sense, i.e., they are model types which – in our illustration – contain what, from the point of view of the expositor, should be and what to him ‘essential’ in Christianity because it is enduringly valuable. If this is consciously or – as it is more frequently – unselfconsciously the case, they contain ideals to which the expositor evaluatively relates Christianity. . . . In contrast with this, the elementary duty of scientific self-control and the only way to avoid serious and foolish blunders requires a sharp, precise distinction between the logically comparative analy-

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sis of reality by ideal-types in the logical sense and the value-judgement of reality on the basis of ideals [italics in original].

As a conscious return to everyday life, as proselytiser, the social scientist is indeed claiming to know more than he can. He takes on the persona of an everyday actor, even as he holds to the mantle of science. He would mix, and thereby contaminate, the separate realms of science and faith. As Weber sees it: ‘Of all the types of prophecy, this “personally” tinted professorial type of prophecy is the only one which is altogether repugnant’ (Weber 1949a, 4). That he can do this, and the danger in so doing, arises from what Weber refers to as the fine-line which separates faith from science (Weber 1949, 110). In an age characterized by rationality it is an all too easy slide for the scientist to replace what could only be revealed in faith, or what might well be fostered by the prudent social scientist, aware of his distinction from, and so inability to understand, the most personal questions. Contrary to an ‘authentic prophecy,’ as Weber puts it, ‘academic prophecies can only ever produce fanatical sects, but never a genuine community’ (Weber 2004a, 30). Adding to this, we must presume that the fanaticism which follows in the wake of the academic prophet is a consequence of the attempt by him to render the superficial politically important: one defends vociferously what requires for its existence a strong defense. Rather than as a proselytiser, the social scientist should go about his political business keenly aware that his science rests on what he shares with the self-consciousness of political actors, and that, given this, for each arises a responsibility consonant with self-control. As the pre-eminent actor in this regard, the social scientist is under some responsibility vis-à-vis the political actor. In relation to this, Weber says that he is ‘tempted to’ say that the scientist is acting in the service of ethical forces (see quote below). This is, of course, not something which Weber could assert without qualification. Firstly, the scientist is denied knowledge of ethical matters, except his own, and secondly, the ethical position of the scientist is ambiguous, given that he plays a major part in what has become the disenchantment of our age. Rather, the best that the scientist can do is force or compel others to look at themselves dispassionately, from a distance, thereby enabling them to provide an account of themselves: If we understand the matter correctly (something that must be assumed here) we can compel a person, or at least help him, to render an account of the ultimate meaning of his own actions. This seems to me to be no small matter, and can be applied to questions concerning one’s own personal life. And if a teaching succeeds in this respect I would be tempted to say that he is acting in the service of “ethical” forces, that is to say, of the duty to foster clarity and a sense of responsibility. (Weber 2004a, 27)

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What the social scientist offers the political actor is not a logical but a psychological understanding. In compelling people to seek out the ultimate meaning of their own actions, not only are they compelled to choose, but in this act of reflection they are elevated. In this act of choosing, in which they become conscious of their own actions, so too arises a responsibility for their own choices. This is as far as what the political actor might share, ethically, with the social scientist. The deepest ethical ‘forces’ do not to the social scientist belong (Weber 1949, 57). Since the ethical is formed under struggle, the social scientist might promote an awareness of values, and foster, thereby, the self-control which this entails. It is important to note, I think, that the political actor is precluded from the possible hubris of the social scientist. Precisely because he has not attained the scientist’s knowledge, he must remain partial in the decisive respect. And so, contra the social scientist, the vanity of the politician is defined not according to his incongruous re-entry into political life, but by his inability – as with the social scientist – to distinguish the important from the trivial. The vanity of the social scientist, as I argued above, results from the mixing of the personal or political and the impartial. The vanity of the political actor arises wholly in action, as it were. It is not a mixing of the theoretical and political, for it is the vanity of someone who has yet to attain some distance from himself. As Weber says, ‘[t]he “strength” of a political “personality” means, primarily, the possession of these qualities. Thus the politician is faced daily and hourly with the task of overcoming in himself a very trivial, all-too-human enemy: common or garden vanity, the deadly enemy of all dedication to a cause and of all distance, in this case, the distance from oneself’ [italics in original] (Weber 2004, 77). I think it is fair to say, then, that self-control, or the responsibility which arises from self-consciousness, is the pre-eminent virtue in an age of rationality. Indeed, it is the virtue which arises with rationality. This is described by Weber as an inner sense of calm, attained by a sense of proportion. Reminiscent of the Epicureans: to calm our fears and release us from our convictions, impersonal forces would replace the gods in Weber’s cosmology (see Weber 2004a, 13). Summing up, it’s the ethical politician who would exemplify the character of social science 30 without exceeding its political or everyday limitations. 31 Indeed, the politician would not be satisfied with the truth, because he or she wills to create history, not to transcend it (Weber 2004, 77). The politician (as Weber presents it) realizes himself in faith, in other words. He does not and cannot understand himself theoretically (or logically). 32 Nonetheless, this description has some commonality with what might be predicated of the social scientist, insofar as the social scientist and the politician both will themselves into conscious existence; and so each are apt to fall prey to – if in different ways – that vice of personal self-indulgence: vanity.

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FALSE POLITICS Having worked our way through Weber’s social science, as it emerges in contradistinction to an historically uninformed hermeneutics, and as it ends in political life, we are faced with a puzzle. For this partial peace between science and politics, as exemplified in the persona of the acting or ethical political man or woman, culminates in a personal politics which is both true and false by Weber’s understanding. This fragile construction is upheld only if the social scientist does not, and cannot, act. With the entrance of the social scientist into politics (essentially and not merely accidentally – i.e., as a social scientist, and not simply as a social scientist who also happens to be politically active) the construction fails. The failure is along the fault lines of the personal, as it were. The political actor must remain ignorant of the truth which only Weber could know. For if the political actor seeks to realize himself truly, which is the realization of the truth as a rational self-determination, the unity of personhood dissolves – this for two related reasons: personhood is an illusion according to science, and, as an illusion, politics or meaningful action is impossible. Weber’s practical solution to this is the clear demarcation of the state executive functions from the political. What would make absolutely sure that the political actor does not engage in theory (or Weberian social science), though, is what would make Weber’s social science impossible: our complete subordination to history. With our possible liberation, however, we are forever at the mercy of a dissolving politics, and the ascendency of the merely personal. 33 This threat, which arises with the possibility of a social science, would be ameliorated following the inner connection between truth, self-consciousness, and personality. Only this connection saves us from vanity, for only with this do we unify and create what is truly meaningful. But if we are not as cautious as Weber, if we would bring the rational perspective of the social scientist into politics, then, following Weber’s understanding of truth (as rational and historical), our attempt to rise above vanity would tend to either recreate the personal as the rational, and so advance claims that the bureaucratic is itself the mark of personhood (c.f., Weber 1949a, 46–47), or instigate a search for the lost unity of the historical subject (c.f., Eden 1983, 214). Coming at this from a different angle: since vanity is the mark of the merely personal, what is required – in the name of science – is a recovery of what’s true to itself; hence, the vanity of rational fabrication is overcome when either (1) all that’s personal becomes selfconsciously rational, or (2) self-conscious rationality is reunited with faith, or its irrational foundations. In the former, the impetus is instrumental rationality; the outlook progressive and active. The impetus for the latter is meaningfulness; the stance archaeological and contemplative. Each share a common

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ancestry: the equation of truth with rationality, and human understanding with history. More pressingly, we see that similar problems arise in coming to understand Weber himself. Following Weber, we must surpass him to understand him. Indeed, this would seem to follow Weber’s understanding of everyday social action, insofar as only social scientists understand its true or logicalrational significance, over and above those who might offer subjective reasons for acting as they do. But here we are not following Weber, for here we must surpass Weber’s method to understand him. Ironically, we come back to the position of the naïve everyday actor. For the fact that we have understood Weber requires of us that we do not surpass Weber the man himself. What Weber meant to say, and how he saw the world, we cannot reduce to or explain away by an interpretation under a broader interpretive scheme. To do so would be to understand not Weber, but only an arbitrary understanding of his function in a causal or historical chain. Since we must assume that we can understand him, we must implicitly hold that there is something to truth not itself defined by the unknowability of others to us. We must assume that to understand an other’s understanding of the world as it is, a method will only send us in the wrong direction. If we do this, all the while clinging to the perspective that people are unknowable to us truly without some method – such as per the ideal-types – then we must confront the problem which follows: as everyday actors we remain unknown to ourselves except politically and/or as a scientific reconstruction. These problems, I argue, are resolved with Georg Hegel. For Hegel resolves the perennial problem of truth and politics. Indeed, Hegel also solves or terminates the circular arguments of the policy scientists: only with a rationally realized self-knowledge can we be said to be truly acting with impartiality. The price we must pay for knowing that we have realized this rational self-knowledge is, then, our acceptance of Hegel’s dialectical and speculative logic, a logic which would claim to account for all possibilities, including its own. This liberation, though, might strike us already as a restriction. Why wouldn’t we jettison this metaphysics (even if only understood as logic), while still holding on to what it promises – that is, a rational selfdetermination? And so we return to Dewey and the possibility of policy science, or to Weber and the impossibility of political wisdom (but the preservation of politics). NOTES 1. Weber was a towering figure in the intellectual life of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Ushering in modern sociology and wrestling still with the dissipating coherence of life’s significance, as initiated by modern science and so powerfully described by Nietzsche, Weber straddled the emerging separation of politics into practice and theory. He has

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been described as both the ‘greatest social scientist’ (Strauss 1965, 36), and the ‘last real classical political thinker’ (Hennis 2009, 241). 2. C.f., Gimbel (2016, 80): ‘Gadamer’s hermeneutics point the way toward a reconfigured understanding of interpretation that exceeds the boundaries of method, and that seeks objectivity in the notion of the fusion of horizons.’ 3. He adds that ‘Weber had driven irrationalism from methodology and the analysis of particular facts in order to make it . . . the metaphysical foundations of his world-view with a radicalism of which there had been no previous example in Germany’ (1972, 398). 4. Ideal-types are constructions making use of different classifications of rationality (which tie into broader social or historical practices, such as fall under Weber’s three ideal-types of authority: charismatic, traditional, and bureaucratic). Weber presents four orientations of social action (1978, 24–25): (1) instrumentally rational (zweckrational), in which the ‘“means” for the attainment of the actor’s own rationally pursued and calculated ends’ are pursued or a choice is made between conflicting ends; (2) value-rational (wertrational), in which action ‘is determined by a conscious belief in the value for its own sake’ or ends are chosen because they’re seen to be inherently valuable; (3) affectual; and (4) traditional. Weber (1978, 25) notes that the traditional and affectual orientations stand on the borderline of what we could class as meaningful, and often each go over the line into mere habit or uncontrolled reaction. When these do become conscious they arise in the realm of the first two forms of rationality. Consciousness is key, then, insofar as with this the meaning of our behavior is deemed by us as, in some way, rational. 5. This is the foundation of what for Weber defines sociology as deutend verstehen: ‘Sociology (in the sense in which this highly ambiguous word is used here) is a science concerning itself with the interpretive understanding of social action and thereby with a causal explanation of its course and consequences’ (Weber 1978, 4). 6. Indeed, it is in acknowledgment of these differences that Weber might be distinguished from someone such as Dilthey. For, contra Dilthey, Weber is sensitive to the political limits of his science. Weber departs from Dilthey, who would consider psychic phenomena to be the fundament of the human sciences, and embraces the thought of Rickert – a contemporary of much importance to Weber (see Bruun 2001). Against Dilthey, Rickert (1986) conceived of the human sciences not along psychic lines, but along conceptual. The world is meaningful to us insofar as we have a conceptual understanding of it. Weber does not diverge from Rickert’s understanding of everyday life (Aron 1964, 68–71; 1970, 194–95). Everyday life is, for Weber, at bottom an infinite manifold, a mess of meaning which makes sense only to those who have not contemplated it; it must be ‘constructed’ if it is to be understood truly. For, as he says, what we can understand of humanity – that is, culture – ‘is a finite segment of the meaningless infinity of the world process, a segment on which human beings confer meaning and significance’ (Weber 1949, 81 and see also 110). And so the human sciences are distinguished from the natural sciences by the special status they accord to history (and not just to the psyche, following Dilthey). Weber diverges from Rickert in bringing this back down to earth; he leaves behind what is essentially the ‘value metaphysics’ of Rickert (see Bruun 2001, 148). On this point it is worthwhile to consider that, according to Eliaeson (1990, 16–17), we can situate Weber’s methodology next to three controversies: the first, known as the Methodenstreit, was basically a debate over theory and history, between Carl Menger (an Austrian economist) and Gustav Schmoller (of the younger historical school). As a rough overview, Menger sought to ground economics in the methods of the natural sciences, allowing thereby the construction of general laws and conceptual models. Schmoller disagreed, arguing that without careful empirical study we would mistake historical for universal laws, and thereby misunderstand our object of study (see Beiser 2011). The second controversy related to the differentiation of the cultural sciences from positivism (or the natural sciences), and included Dilthey’s call for a separation distinguished by hermeneutics, and Rickert’s neo-Kantianism, in which any historical account must be founded on values universally understood (Bruun 2001, 147). The third, was the controversy over value-freedom, as it came to a head in the Vienna meetings of the Verein für Sozialpolitik. It was in the Verein that Weber – who supported a value neutral approach – debated those, such as Schmoller, who promoted an ethical or ‘normative’ social science.

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In deferring to a ‘value metaphysics,’ as Bruun (2001, 149) says, Weber viewed Rickert’s science as both limited in application and overreaching insofar as it would ‘interfere’ in, or render partial, the interpretation of the values of others. In moving beyond the need for shared cultural values, human historical science might become truly universal – more akin to a science per se, as it were. It may be taken up by anybody; and in so doing there would be less risk that it would do interpretive violence to its subjects. The limits of science are thereby set already by the reticence or, we might even call it, the humbleness of Weber. This for him is a limit to what he can know. It is, though, also the elevation of himself to an objectivity not yet attained by Rickert. Indeed, Weber’s humility is tied-up with this transcendence of himself – or, contra Rickert, some disassociation from what he himself values. In leaving himself behind, he approaches agents conservatively. This conservatism, or caution, plays out two ways, then: toward the social scientist himself, and away from his or her ‘research subjects.’ For this reason I agree with Ringer (1997, 95), who says that ‘[a]t no point did Weber suggest . . . that the identification of an agent’s “subjective” motive depends in any way upon the “subjectivity” of the interpreter.’ This indeed is what would distinguish him from Rickert, for with this Weber might remain value-neutral, insofar as the interpreter might (and indeed, must) separate him or herself from those interpreted. Further, and according to Ringer (1997, 51), ‘what is most noteworthy about Weber as a methodologist . . . is his determination to reconcile “subjectivity” in the delimitation of research problems with “objectivity” in the results obtained.’ If successful, this would allow Weber to surpass Rickert’s faults, in which he would understand no more than his own values, or must presuppose that his values are universal in order to encounter history in some objective sense. 7. See also Drysdale (1996, 76): ‘no concept can be regarded as anything more than a very partial, limited, and context-bound representation of any given “phenomenon” [and] [t]he relation between concept and reality is always problematic.’ 8. Drysdale (1996, 80) follows Christoph Sigwart (an influential logician of Weber’s time) to argue that ‘words, like concepts, cannot be judged true or false; only the proposition expressing a predicative judgement makes a truth claim . . . for Weber the judgement (thesis, hypothesis) is oriented to the cognitive goal of causal explanation. . . . The concept, on the other hand, even as it is a means toward the formation of hypotheses, represents a deliberate, constructive interpretation of reality’ [italics in original]. 9. ‘An “ideal type” in our sense, to repeat once more, has no connection at all with valuejudgements, and it has nothing to do with any type of perfection other than a purely logical one’ [italics in original] (Weber 1949, 98–99). 10. Such an assessment is, of course, fatal to Weber’s enterprise as a whole, according to Drysdale (1996, 74). 11. See also Rose (2009). 12. See also Schutz (1976, 275): ‘[Weber’s] terminology is unfortunate because the term “objective meaning” is obviously a misnomer, insofar as the so-called “objective” interpretations are, in turn, relative to the particular attitudes of the interpreters and, therefore, in a certain sense, “subjective.”’ 13. See also Sadri (1992, 7): ‘the ultimate criterion for the validity of the observer’s interpretations is not its agreement with the so-called native’s account. This, of course, goes against the conventional picture of Weber as the father of Verstehen sociology.’ And Ringer (1997, 69) on Weber’s probabilistic understanding. 14. See also Drysdale (1996, 75), following Weber: ‘even apart from the changing nature of both the “object” and “subject” of knowledge, the possibilities of conceptualisation of any given “slice of reality” at any given moment are manifold, perhaps logically infinite.’ 15. C.f., Drysdale (1996, 78): ‘One of the problems facing any interpreter of the “Objectivity” essay is that Weber expresses his ideas without regard for the construction of a comprehensive theory of concept formation. Therefore, anyone who attempts to “reconstruct” Weber’s “theory” must resort to a strategy of idealisation to cope with the incompleteness of his arguments. This strategy runs several risks, not the least of which is attributing to his theory a greater coherence than is justified. There is, however, no alternative within a reconstructive interpretation.’

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16. See also Aronovitch (2012), whose interpretation is similar to Drysdale’s: ‘An idealtype is in effect a theorist’s interpretation of the agents’ interpretation of experience. . . . But an ideal-type also involves evaluation as part of the theoretical explanation’ (365). And also: ‘the social theorist’s ideal-type must ultimately reveal whether and how the agents’ understanding of the situation has to be altered or amended to provide the needed explanation of it. An idealtype is only provisional (a “work in progress”) until this last stage is completed’ (Aronovitch 2012, 361). Klimova (2012) is also worth mentioning because he takes Weber to task for not accounting for the failure of meaningful action. But in so accounting, in coming thereby to understand that failure follows a misattribution of meaning, and is recovered only categorically (or culturally), we find ourselves entangled in historicism, rescued only with a return to Hegel and his notion of Sittlichkeit. We thereby re-enter the very problem – the problem of Hegelian wisdom – which Weber was attempting to surpass (see Weber 1978, xliv; 2012, 86; and Bruun 2007, 76) without being overcome by history. 17. ‘Weber’s position . . . should be construed as a self-conscious and deliberate attempt to have it both ways. He agrees with the Positivists that the social sciences are value-free and causal. But he denies that this agreement is incompatible with the view that there is nevertheless a difference of kind between the sciences of nature and the sciences of man. Or to look at it the other way around: he acknowledges the peculiarities of human social behaviour as a subject for science, but believes it possible to allow for them without compromising scientific method’ (Runciman 1972, 16). 18. Kim (2004) follows Jaspers’ (1989) estimation that Weber was political to the core – keeping in mind that, according to Jaspers (1989, 60), Weber ‘did not have the politician’s innate will for power, the wish to rule because this defines his life.’ According to Kim, Weber’s social science addresses the ‘distinctive ontology and genealogy of the modern self’ (2004, 27; see also 99). Despite my agreement with Kim on many points, he would tend to confound the prescience of Weber’s understanding with the results thereof. If Weber’s concern was indeed about coming to terms politically with the modern self (see also Symonds and Pudsey 2008) then it was also as much about understanding it. That Weber understood the self as essentially modern (or even only legitimately so) might well say less about the self than about Weber. And if so, Weber’s confrontation with the problem would also be tied up with how it was understood by him. Whether Weber could adequately understand the problem is, thereby, the fundamental question. I agree with Eden, however, who says that ‘Weber’s enterprise is an attempt to come to terms with the role of science in a world of individualists breaking passionately with morality in its traditional, authoritatively limiting forms, seeking to define themselves through self-assertion and expression’ (Eden 1983a, 375). 19. See Ringer (1997, 123): ‘In short, the constructs of the cultural and social sciences reflect the values of the investigators; they do not emerge from a passively observed reality. But if that is true, then the “objectivity” of these disciplines can only lie in the fact that their inquiries, though “oriented toward . . . value ideas,” do not and cannot “prove the validity” of the values involved. Our cultural concerns launch our investigations; but once at work on a set of phenomena, Weber argued, we should analyse our evidence for its own sake, without further regard for our value interests.’ 20. As Beiser (2011, 8) notes, ‘[s]ome of the most important historicist thinkers in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, viz., Humboldt, Ranke, Dilthey, Weber, were highly critical of the philosophy of history, fearing that any association with its metaphysics would contaminate or undermine the scientific status of history itself.’ 21. See Weber (2003, 20): ‘In all cases, rational or irrational, sociological analysis both abstracts from reality and at the same time helps us to understand it, in that it shows with what degree of approximation a concrete historical phenomenon can be subsumed under one or more of these concepts. For example, the same historical phenomenon may be in one aspect feudal, in another patrimonial, in another bureaucratic, and in still another charismatic. In order to give a precise meaning to these terms, it is necessary for the sociologist to formulate pure ideal types of the corresponding forms of action which in each case involve the highest possible degree of logical integration by virtue of their complete adequacy on the level of meaning.’ 22. We might also quote Aranovitch (2012, 362), for example, who draws from Weber’s study on the Protestant ethic and capitalism: ‘capitalist behaviour of the Puritans stood out in

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one way as irrational because of being so continually driven and also so disconnected from their fatalistic views, but in another way, when comprehended by Weber’s diagnosis, it was seen to be instrumentally rational because of how it mitigated existential anxiety.’ 23. See Weber (2012, 45): ‘But if there is a decrease in the “interpretability” (and, consequently, an increase in the “incalculability”) [of action], we usually assume that the acting person has, to that extent, less “freedom of the will,” in the sense of “freedom of action.” (This is where the [preceding] discussion is linked to our [general] problem.) In other words: already at this point it appears that, if there is any general relationship at all between “freedom” of “action” (however that concept may be defined) and the irrationality of historical events, this relationship is at any rate not one in which their reciprocal influence is such that when one is present or increases, this means that the other one will also increase; in fact (as will become ever clearer [in what follows]), exactly the opposite is the case.’ 24. And so the possibilities available to the historical subject in this age, and the choices which they must make in order to be realized as such, are defined by Weber (1949a, 17) as ‘an irreconcilable death-struggle, like that between “God” and the “Devil.”’ In this, the historical subject would share something with the hyperborean perspective of the scientist, insofar as life which is not itself subsumed by history is realized in the act of choosing – meaning is tied up with freedom, in other words. For as Weber (1949a, 18) goes on to state: ‘every single important activity and ultimately life as a whole, if it is not to be permitted to run on as an event in nature but is instead to be consciously guided, is a series of ultimate decisions through which the soul – as in Plato – chooses its own fate.’ This is a transcendental or Kantian interpretation of Plato’s myth of Er (Republic, 614b–621d), for Weber speaks here as if the myth, or its analogue, might in some way found our own lives (c.f., Satkunanandan 2014, 176). With this we are precluded a deeper or ‘impious’ understanding of Plato’s ostensibly pious or edifying myth of the afterlife (c.f., Philebus 22a–b and Phaedo 107d–114c). This act of choice can occur both within and at the bounds of history, as it were. For what Weber describes here is on one hand a choice defined by the significance to us of ‘God’ and the ‘Devil’ and on the other a wholly rational understanding; or an understanding in which what is exposed is not an end itself, nor another end, but the common-to-all, self-conscious choosing of ends. 25. Social science as an empirical discipline can offer nothing by way of which choice should be made, but everything according to the fact that a choice must be made (see Weber 1949, 54). 26. See also Brubaker (1984, 95) and Davis (1999, 47). 27. See Weber (2012, 85–86), who says that ‘the historian who “interprets,” “personality” is not an “enigma.” Quite on the contrary: it is the only element that can be made “understandable” by interpretation; nor are human action and [human] behavior at any point – especially where rational interpretation is no longer possible – more “irrational” (in the sense of “incalculable” or impervious to causal imputation) than any individual event as such. On the other hand, wherever rational “interpretation” is possible, [human action] rises far above the irrationality of the purely “natural.”’ 28. This as Weber describes it is a religious phenomenon, and in this age of rationality, it is irrevocably irrational: ‘Religion claims to offer an ultimate stand toward the world by virtue of a direct grasp of the world’s “meaning.” It does not claim to offer intellectual knowledge concerning what is or what should be. It claims to unlock the meaning of the world not by means of the intellect but by virtue of a charisma of illumination’ (Weber 1946, 352). 29. See Mommsen (1989, 19, 22): ‘In this way Weber hoped to assist a “leader democracy” to come to the fore in Germany, in which charismatically qualified politicians with a sense of foresight but also with a sense of proportion are at the helm, instead of a “leaderless democracy of professional politicians without a vocation.”’ See also Breuer and Maier (1982, 62). 30. C.f., Satkunanandan (2014) who addresses instrumental reason or calculation as a limit, but does not follow the link to social science broadly understood. I would argue that for Weber the politician is defined not by an ethics which keeps calculation in its place, but by that of the seriousness of the social scientist. For if, as Satkunanandan (2014, 179) says, the only role of calculation is to make possible an ‘equality before the law’ (Weber 1978, 975) then he is unable to explain why or how this equality is essential to the ethics of responsibility (see also Brubaker

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1984, 109; Bruun 2007, 255–56). As I’m arguing, only with the social scientist’s ‘serious’ distance can this equality (following an understanding of force) play a part in Weber’s ethics. 31. On the difference between science and politics Weber makes the distinction between teachers and leaders (see Weber 1949, 10–11; 1978, 445–46; 2004, 24–25). 32. As Warren (1998, 41) says: ‘Politics is the most demanding test of an ethics of responsibility, and at the same time it is the kind of activity through which personality is cultivated and manifested as the expression of responsibility. Insofar as politics has this potential within the human condition, it is valuable in itself. It is this morally significant sense of politics that guides and structures much of Weber’s thinking and no doubt accounts for much of his concern with the bureaucratic displacement of politics.’ 33. Consider also the arguments of Steinberger which would invite such a critique: ‘the tradition I have been looking at understands truth claims to be inherently provisional. They are the upshots of conceptual schemes, and insofar as such schemes evolve over time, as they are wont to do, our understandings of metaphysical and moral reality will change as well. But those understandings, however formulated, will always be thought to reflect, explicitly or otherwise, arguments of reason embedded in the particular discursive networks out of which they have emerged’ (2015, 762).

Chapter Six

Hegel’s Resolution

At the beginning of this book I spoke of the questions we face when putting theory into practice. In facing these questions, and in attempting to find our way, we submit to what we hold as authoritative. The depth of these questions, and our responses to them, illuminate what we understand of ourselves. In a nutshell, this is a question of self-knowledge. Here I do not mean knowledge of ourselves as individuals; as in an audited account of who we are personally, had been, or might be. Rather, it is the deepest understanding of what we are as human being. Wrapped up in this understanding, then, are questions of politics and epistemology, or questions which plumb the distinction between what we hold to be authoritative and what true, and their possible union. With this understanding, to put it another way, we submit ourselves to truth, all the while recognizing that it is we (and all that we entail) who submit. As I will argue, Georg Hegel’s understanding exceeds the accounts offered by Dewey and Weber (not to mention those further down the line, such as Lasswell and the policy scientists) insofar as it draws together history, politics, psychology, and logic. Recall that Dewey’s philosophical understanding is psychologically deficient: relying on a community of practitioners, meaningfulness is displaced by an interactive practice. In jettisoning a ‘metaphysical’ account of the world, in viewing it as a prejudice, the onus is on us (in the spirit of liberation) to fabricate what we count as true. Sanctified by natural biological life, though, this truth reveals itself in the future. This, following Dewey, would require of us to leave behind, or regard as an impediment, because it smacks of political prejudice, who or what we have become. Our practice, or the actualization of our science, would replace therefore, or increase in significance over and above, what might be constrained in theory (or what shows itself in the present). 129

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Weber, meanwhile, avoids mixing science with faith. He offers a rational account divided, as: (1) conscious political action subordinated to history, and (2) the wide-awake social scientist who reveals this subordination (and his own liberation). Weber attempts to retain a coherent politics safe from the enervating effects of modern rationality. Best for political actors to remain less than fully conscious of the truth. Indeed, if rationality infects the political – as indeed the social scientist is best placed to recognize – remedial action is required. This remedial action attempts to revitalize the political, but without encouraging monomania. Importantly, though, the political must remain false from the perspective of the truth-seeker, and vice versa. This unstable balance is likely to be breached, however, and the results as I argued are perverse. Both these leave Hegel’s ‘metaphysics’ behind while holding to other aspects of Hegel’s philosophy. Why each turned away from Hegel (given what they understood of his ‘metaphysics’) is of obvious importance. In consulting Dewey directly, we find two related reasons for such a turn. Firstly, Dewey understood Hegel to be a Christian metaphysical philosopher, and in this fashion understood him to be captured still by tradition, or what he had inherited from his country, and his predecessors: ‘To Hegel, for example, the substance of the doctrines of Protestant Christianity is identical with the truths of absolute philosophy except that in religion they are expressed in a form not adequate to their meaning, the form, namely, of imaginative thought in which most men live’ (Dewey 1915, 94). Secondly, and relatedly, the driving force behind Hegel’s metaphysics – and so too his political philosophy – was, as Dewey saw it, the overcoming of individuality, and then its culmination, politically, in the state. With this, Hegel imagined that (by Dewey’s reading) we would have finally merged with God: The State is God on earth. His depreciation of the individual as an individual appears in every theme of his Philosophy of Right and History. . . . A large part of the intellectual machinery by which Hegel overcame the remnants of individualism found in prior philosophy came from the idea of organic development which had been active in German, thought since the time of Herder (Dewey 1915, 111, 112).

Given this, and given the fact that American democracy was not the same as the Prussian state monarchy, Dewey turned to an ‘experimental philosophy of life.’ With this, he retained the credo of Hegel’s that philosophy is its time comprehended in thought, but gave up on the metaphysical or final realization of this comprehension. Rather, we must comprehend things via the future, not via an historical revelation. As Dewey (1915, 128, 129) explains,

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instead of confining intelligence to the technical means of realizing ends which are predetermined by the State (or by something called the historic Evolution of the Idea), intelligence must, with us, devote itself as well to construction of the ends to be acted upon. . . . America is too new to afford a foundation for an a priori philosophy; we have not the requisite background of law, institutions and achieved social organization. America is too new to render congenial to our imagination an evolutionary philosophy of the German type. For our history is too obviously future. . . . We must have system, constructive method, springing from a widely inventive imagination, a method checked up at each turn by results achieved [italics in original].

Relevant too is the rejection by Weber of Hegel. Weber considered Hegel’s philosophy to be a form of ‘emanationism’; as evidenced by Bruun (2007, 76), who quotes from a letter of Weber’s: ‘Two ways are open to us: Hegel or – our way of treating things’ [italics in original]. Enlightening is the following quote of Weber’s (2012, 86): If [the historian] wants to avoid falling victim to Hegelian emanationism, or to some variety of the modern anthropological occultism, the purpose of his inquiry cannot be to acquire knowledge of why [the acting person] necessarily (in the sense of a law of nature) had to act the way he did. This is because a human as well as non-human (‘living’ or ‘inanimate’) concrete entity, viewed as a (somehow limited) section of the totality of cosmic occurrences, can at no point within that totality be completely ‘defined’ in terms of purely ‘nomological’ knowledge, since [that entity] is always (and not only in the domain of the ‘personal’) an intensively infinite multiplicity – and every conceivable individual element [of that multiplicity] (which can only be taken as ‘given’ by science) may, from a logical point of view, come to be considered causally important within a [given] historical causal context.

The aversion of Weber to Hegel’s emanationism – his occultism – is also an aversion to treating the rationalization of the modern world as equivalent to political wisdom. As Aron (1964, 257) says, ‘Weber had recognized in advance that rationalization did not guarantee the triumph of what Hegelians call historical reason or what democrats of good will call liberal values.’ So it follows that the state, from this perspective, could only ever be defined by rationality narrowly understood, and not as the realization of a politically enlightened self-consciousness. As such, and as Kim (2004, 182) points out, [i]n part a subtle criticism of Hegel’s glorification of bureaucracy as the sole representative of universal interest, Weber’s point is that bureaucracy has a tendency to form a status group of its own, in fact striving to establish itself as the only ruling caste over other classes, and its seemingly neutral rule is motivated by a partial class interest thinly disguised as a universal interest.

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In sum, Dewey turned away from Hegel because the universal state had not truly come to pass; Weber did so because it may well do. These differences hinge not only on an understanding of Hegel, but on that of rationality. For Dewey, it might be put to use, or oriented toward the future. For Weber, it is a danger. Dewey, as Shook and Good (2010, 74) 1 acknowledge, historicized Hegel to overcome him. Hegel’s rationality – or political wisdom – equalled metaphysics, and metaphysics is at bottom a false, and so merely a political, understanding. Weber, meanwhile, separated self-conscious rationality from politics (or what, for us, is meaningful). This was necessary, as a universal rationality would spell the end of the political. In each case, it was some part of the equation by Hegel of history and metaphysics, and its culmination in the universal state, which Dewey and Weber rejected. Dewey rejected metaphysics as politics, and imagined that the universal end was, thereby, recoverable in a ‘natural’ or non-metaphysical mode (as, consequently, a Great Community liberated from the state). For Weber, rationality must itself be separated from the emanationism of Hegel’s; which amounts to his understanding that rationality is not the vital force of history, or the vital force of history (and so too the political) is not revealed as rationality. (Still and all, each remained strongly influenced by Hegel, as shown by Dewey’s organic take on political life, and Weber’s rational understanding of history.) The possible reconciliation of rationality with politics might be described as the crux which separates Dewey and Weber. Rationality is liberated by Dewey from history and put to work. This, as I presented in chapter 4, is unsatisfactorily resolved further downstream with the tighter (dis)unity of state and citizen. Weber, meanwhile, fears the nihilistic tendencies of rationality, and strives to keep it wedded to what would animate it. Again, since he must thereby separate, in truth, rationality and politics, Weber’s solution to the problem is unsatisfactory. And so I turn to Hegel. Hegel, one might say, resolves the problem satisfactorily; if we count as a satisfactory solution the reconciliation of politics and truth, in which what we hold dear is not jettisoned, and what remains open is the possibility that we, as political actors, might understand what we are doing. He resolves this, as I will argue, in part, by way of the state, insofar as it is the objective exemplification of the will, and insofar as the will is itself a mode of thinking, or is part and parcel with what over time – as history – we have come to know. By way of this, it is possible now, at this point in history, for us to know what we are: we might have attained selfknowledge. With this in mind, my focus will be on the modern institution of the state, and how this relates to Hegel’s philosophy, insofar as he might claim to have attained his science. As presented in Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, the state is the actualization of the objective structure of the will (whose ‘concept’ – i.e., what we might conceive of it – is freedom). Following from above, I will

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argue that if we understand the state without also taking on board Hegel’s Logic (I refer to Hegel’s logic in general as Logic, as well as making reference to his published work entitled the Science of Logic), then the will is liberated, as we find in Dewey (and his promotion of applied social science). And, in the same fashion, without the Logic, we find that the will cannot be adequately reformed by truth, as per Weber (given Weber’s equation of truth with rationality, and what arises, subsequently, as the danger of state hegemony). This liberation (from the Logic) follows Hegel’s ‘practical spirit’ (i.e., willing) set free from the ‘theoretical’ (i.e., thinking). The will seeks still its own objectivity; but this ends not in any science (as per Hegel’s Logic), but in the world as re-created. To counter what is at bottom this misunderstanding of the world (as outlined in the chapters on Dewey and Weber) we require, I conclude, some accounting for self-knowledge, but without the attendant problems which beset Hegel’s system (problems which, in part, led both Dewey and Weber to turn away from the ‘metaphysical’ interpretations of Hegel’s philosophy). Still, we might, protest, is not the turn back to Hegel, following the theoretical failures of Dewey and Weber, irrelevant to practice? Does this not enter at a level of abstraction which is of little concern to those on the ground? In answering ‘yes’ to this, though, aren’t we presuming already too sharp a distinction between theory and practice? For one, we have no way of deciding between Dewey and Weber with reference only to ‘practical’ criteria (absent a more fundamental reflection on theory). No empirical evidence will show us whether a progressive or a conservative social science is better politically. We must, first, have some understanding of where our understanding could go wrong, or some inkling of why the ends of one trump those of the other, or simply an idea of why one should differ from the other (essentially, and not merely accidentally). Secondly, we need only consider the depth of our own desires, as readers of this book, or as readers of the work of any of the authors cited herein. No matter whether it is of immediate concern to us, or whether it remains in the background, in desiring to act well politically we pay homage to the more fundamental problem posed by truth to politics. As Dewey presented it, and as we saw further downstream with Lasswell’s work, and even further down, with the policy sciences, truth is honored in attempts to reform political practice. The theoretical understanding of Dewey’s and the critique of Weber’s are thereby fundamental, insofar as they set the scene for less reflective social scientific practices and agendas, the ends or the value of which are taken to be simply self-evident. Any return to Hegel, and in what way we understand him is, then, of much practical importance.

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THE IMPORTANCE OF HEGEL Hegel is becoming a philosopher much talked about; and positively, what is more, even from those who would have been traditionally opposed to him. As Nuzzo (2010, 2) points out, ‘a new “Hegel-Renaissance” has begun to take place in the English-speaking world. . . . In addition, American pragmatism has taken important steps toward new appropriations of Hegel.’ The turn back to Hegel is not surprising, especially considering that it was, in part, a reaction to Hegel which instigated the division of philosophy into what has come to be known as the ‘analytical’ and the ‘continental’ traditions. For what if these initial reactions were somehow false, or what if it was a misunderstanding of Hegel which led to this reaction against him? These are the arguments of those who would take us back to the whole, prior to this ‘false’ split. Of immediate relevance to my book are those of the analytical tradition – such as Robert Brandom – who return to Hegel under a ‘pragmatic’ spirit. These are of obvious relevance, given that such a return deals with the themes initiated by Dewey, amongst others, while also re-appropriating a Hegel too quickly jettisoned. Explaining the enduring significance of pragmatic philosophy, Brandom makes reference to the new scientific perspective brought about by Darwinian biology, on the one hand, and statistical mathematics, on the other. In taking up these new discoveries, pragmatic philosophy might be thought of as a ‘movement of world historical significance’ (Brandom 2004, 2). And thus, as Brandom (2004, 3) elaborates, ‘[t]he pragmatists were naturalists, but they saw themselves confronting a new sort of nature, a nature that is fluid, stochastic, with regularities the statistical product of many particular contingent interactions between things and their ever-changing environments, hence emergent and potentially evanescent, floating statistically on a sea of chaos.’ If it was the new sciences which legitimated this return to lived experience, and the elevation of doing (and making) over finding, then it was also this turn to the new sciences which all too quickly allowed claims to be made that truth is simply revealed in consequences, as successful actions and behaviors. What the pragmatists failed to consider is the human foreground which provides for the very possibility that such a truth might be meaningful to us in this way. Without this, we would not, or could not, count the truth as revealed to us as true. It would be indistinguishable from any other belief, in other words. 2 Turning to this in more detail, Brandom points out four mistakes made by the pragmatists’ ‘instrumentalist’ program. Each of these mistakes, Brandom argues, relates to the problem for us of accounting for what is truly meaningful. Brandom points out that the pragmatists (1) ignore the context of our expressions in favor of consequences, (2) look only to behavior (and not

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other beliefs) as the realization of beliefs, (3) ignore broader, aims, desires, and norms, and (4) wrongly equate success of actions with the satisfaction of desires, which are then equated with true beliefs. For desires are not like this – they cannot be satisfied as if an itch put to rest by a scratch. Rather, they play a role in rationalizing actions, as do our beliefs (Brandom 2004, 13). Summing up, Brandom (2004, 13) says: ‘From our privileged vantage point a century or more later, then, we can see that the pragmatists’ instrumentalist semantic strategy for explaining credenda in terms of agenda, and so their theory of meaning and truth, is fundamentally flawed’ [italics in original]. So too Brandom rejects the Hegel of these crude metaphysical readings, and returns to him with new eyes (after the problems have emerged, following a too hasty rejection). In turning back to Hegel, in the spirit of pragmatism, but with a new appreciation of Hegel’s thought, he thereby addresses the theoretical problems of pragmatic philosophy. Hegel may be re-appropriated, because he is understood in a way different to how Dewey (and Weber) understood him. As a pragmatic enterprise, in honoring the new sciences over the old, this re-appropriation takes still our relationship with the world as a matter of rational doing or making. In addressing the problems of the instrumentalist doings of the pragmatists, it seeks to discover what could count for us as meaningful doings. This is a turn to the whole of human experience as it were, but without taking on board a bluntly metaphysical reading of Hegel. And, in this way, it would address the concerns of Weber as well (by correcting the faults of his conservative project, such as arise with his distinction between science and a meaningful politics). In returning to Hegel, Brandom is self-consciously selective (see Brandom 2009, 112–13), and, in this way, uses Hegel to justify what he can (or must) now know, given where, logically, he has found himself (following the mistakes of the earlier analytical philosophers, such as Russell and Frege). Brandom, in fact, surpasses Hegel, not because of any greater gift on his part (as he as much admits), but because of where he, and, indeed, potentially all of us, have found ourselves relative to Hegel. Firstly, we have found ourselves on the other side of the early pragmatists. It is possible now to identify and overcome their own misunderstandings; misunderstandings which, nonetheless, were at least heading in the right direction, for they must have (mis)understood Hegel in a way which supported their own progression beyond him, transitioning as they were from the old sciences to the new. From their perspective, Hegel’s metaphysics was the final death throes of the oldway of doing science; in its overcoming, in overcoming Hegel, and jettisoning any talk of metaphysics, the way was paved to enact the new sciences of liberation (taken up progressively and conservatively, by Dewey and Weber respectively). Secondly, that we are able, now, to claim that we understand our own doings better than those who’ve come before us, comes down to the

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advances made in the philosophy of mind and language. What has been revealed to us with these advances is not, then, merely of a technical nature – as if our discoveries might now be replicated – but our own essence, or the workings of rational self-consciousness. This is a revelation which takes time to emerge, for it emerges only once we have worked through those things which we’ve come to recognize as not now authoritative for us, because they do not ‘hold together’ or make sense anymore. In holding to the Hegelian notion that history is the revelation of rationality, Brandom is thereby justified in surpassing Hegel. Brandom’s political ideal is a full and universal self-consciousness, as disclosed rationally, insofar as our satisfaction is equated with the rationality and subsequent recognition of our convictions, or what we find meaningful (c.f., Weber, for whom meaning is political and so is in the final analysis irrational). If this is a more radical proposal than Hegel’s we should not be surprised. For the way in which Hegel is surpassed by Brandom historicises Hegel’s own enterprise. This is, once again, not a surprise, considering that an historical-rational understanding, taken to the letter, must, if it is to become conscious of itself, be made our own. Insofar as this is the case, insofar as there is no political resolution to this, future philosophers maintain their relevance. Brandom-styled philosophers remain occupied as doers or makers – this is, we might surmise, the prospective complement to his retrospective re-evaluation of history. As a doing – as with the reinterpretation of history – we honor truth only in rational construction. And so these philosophers would prepare the way for the rational realization of all other academic specialties (see Brandom 2009, 127–28). More broadly, the philosophers would ‘supply and deploy an expressive toolbox, filled with concepts that help us make explicit various aspects of rationality and normativity in general’ [italics in original] (125–26). But insofar as this is the case, how does Brandom himself know that what he is doing is worthy? This is the problem which Brandom doesn’t address (if I understand him correctly), but which is presumed by him to have been answered, insofar as he might advise all of the sciences, not just on technical issues, but on what they must understand of their enterprise. If his is merely a subordinate science, then on what grounds can he claim to give such advice? As we can see, this science oversteps its own limits, insofar as it would enable practitioners of the other sciences to truly understand what they are doing – to become conscious of themselves, to rise above themselves. This is a universal science, therefore, and would direct the other sciences accordingly, if not from above, but from within. That this is how things should be is sanctified by this universality. And in such a sanctification, the claim is made, if only implicitly, that the foundation of true practice is just this science. So, we end up with the situation of a self-knowledge, defined as ignorance of all things other than what we identify, in our understanding of

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concepts, as logically deficient. This deficiency we identify as contradiction. These contradictions propel us forward, or are progressively resolved, only because of our desire (if one can call it that) for what lies at the end – that is, self-mastery of our own language, or the recognition and overcoming of language’s own deceptions. But, once again, why? I don’t believe that this question can be meaningfully posed, or answered, in these terms. On the other side of the same coin is Terry Pinkard, who would approach Hegel also with a view to what we must count as authoritative. Pinkard is not as ‘analytical’ as Brandom; instead, he defers, more generally, to the social authority of reason giving, or of accounting for why we do what we do. In the words of Pinkard (1996, 5), this is ‘what kind of reasons for belief (or for action) can count as authoritative reasons . . . it must be able to show that the reasons it gives for counting those reasons as authoritative are themselves authoritative reasons’ [italics in original]. What is authoritative, is when ‘a form of life takes certain types of reason (or, to put it more generally, norms) as authoritative for itself and the ways in which it articulates to itself why it is legitimate for those reasons to count for it as authoritative, non-optional reasons’ (Pinkard 1996, 6). Legitimacy, by this understanding, is not, and cannot be, metaphysical. It might only be attained phenomenologically. Which is to say, that philosophy, or wisdom, can only ever be an explication of the phenomenological structure of history, with the proviso that this history is not itself an explication of eternity. What I mean by this is that Hegel’s ‘metaphysical’ understanding (as the Logic) comes to be reinterpreted by Pinkard instead as the authority for ‘forms of life,’ or that which would render the question of ‘forms of life’ significant. And so our understanding of what could count as authoritative arises when we expose those conditions which must be satisfied internal to that understanding itself. With this, we are in a position to understand what would make for an authoritative judgment, for authority would have exposed itself fully, in other words. In this fashion, these approaches would take seriously, and literally, Hegel’s proclamation that philosophy is its time understood in thought (see Philosophy of Right Preface). In the words of Pinkard (1996, 124): Understanding that being rational does not consist in expressing some natural property of oneself or adhering to some timeless, transcendent, impersonal standard but in acting in terms of the norms of one’s ‘social space’ is therefore to come to understand rationality itself as a form of ethical life (Sittlichkeit), as a way of acting and thinking in terms of the ‘way things are done’ understood as a background set of norms [italics in original].

For sure, as with Brandom’s, this is a welcome critique of those who would approach Hegel’s philosophy as if it merely describes the ineluctability of spirit, and our subordination to, and so subsumption in, all things metaphysical. But I cannot understand why explications of the possible au-

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thority of reason-giving would be of interest to us. Put differently: if Hegel is neither leading us to the truth, nor describing how we have been so led, but pointing out only what could count as reasonable speech in any given epoch, then why bother with Hegel? For it would seem unreasonable to seek out words of wisdom from Hegel, given Pinkard’s conclusion. The only way that we might count Hegel as himself some authority, given what he himself thought of his own discoveries, is to grant that he offers some absolute reason for all reason-giving. If this is so, then we would say that this absolute is the theoretical complement to its practical actualization as the state. This, in short, is Hegel’s Logic. Taking up Hegel’s Science of Logic along with the Philosophy of Right we entertain the question of metaphysics and politics. Following this line of thought, I don’t believe that we can discount either the phenomenological (or practical) or the logical (or theoretical) aspects of Hegel’s philosophy. Indeed, one must follow Hegel, who would claim that his Logic is the culmination of his thought, and that without it we are not entitled to claim that we have understood it (see Henrich 2003, 314). The Philosophy of Right (referenced hereafter as PR), 3 and so, too, the Phenomenology of Spirit (referenced hereafter as PS), can only be understood in light of the Science of Logic (referenced hereafter as SL), in other words (see Padui 2013). Only in this way can we understand freedom; for only in this way can we know ourselves to be free. Only then do we give a fair hearing to what Hegel has to say and why. 4 In calling for such a return in this book, I will argue that not only do we return to normativity (or what, now, we hold to be authoritative), but we must also, in honor of Hegel, return to what is revealed by his historical, dialectical, and speculative logic. In this return, we find a comprehensive scientific account which, at its core, is the disclosure of self-knowledge, or an understanding of how we have come to know what we are doing. This is an account which weaves together a dialectical logic with a phenomenological account of history, and the culmination of these as, or in, institutions of the modern world. What Hegel covers in making good on his claim to have attained a comprehensive science of humanity is, then, a resolution of the problem of politics and truth, which is the realization of a psychological understanding not reducible to mere fancy. This is an objective understanding of the psyche. THE PHILOSOPHY OF RIGHT If we want to understand Hegel’s political teaching, our first point of call would be his Philosophy of Right. In the Philosophy of Right, Hegel shows how the modern world has emerged, and in what way its emergence is tied into us coming to understand who we ourselves are. Hegel says that it is

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nothing other than the attempt to grasp and to exhibit the state as rational within itself. As a philosophical writing it must be at the furthest remove from any attempt to construct a state as it should be; the instruction that can lie within it cannot attempt to instruct the state in how it should be, but rather in how it, the ethical universe, should be known (PR Preface).

Hegel states that the ‘philosophical science of right has as its object the idea of right, the concept of right and its actualization’ (PR §1). He goes on to say that the ‘basis of right is, overall, the domain of spirit; its more precise and starting point is the will, which is free. Freedom thus constitutes the substance and determination of right, and the system of right is the realm of actualized freedom, the world that springs out of itself as a second nature’ (PR §4). The will, he says, ‘contains the element of pure indeterminacy or of the pure reflection of the I into itself, within which is dissolved every restriction, every determinate content, be the content immediately present through nature, need, desire, or drive, or be it given, no matter how’ (PR §5). Further, and likewise, ‘the I is the transition from distinctionless indeterminacy to the distinguishing, determining, and positing of a determinacy as a content and an object’ (PR §6). Finally, the ‘will is the unity of these two moments: it is particularity that is reflected into itself and thereby led back to universality. It is thus individuality, the selfdetermination of the I: it posits itself as the negative of itself, i.e., as determinate, restricted, but at the same time it remains at home with itself, i.e., within its identity with itself and universality’ (PR §7). There is a lot in this, and it deserves unpacking. Firstly, the science of right (Recht) – or of what is lawful, moral, and ethical – is the science which deals with freedom, as it has been actualized in the world. This actualization is as the concept of right, and begins with the will, insofar as its concept is freedom. The will is freedom, insofar as it contains within itself pure indeterminacy; it is the self-relation of the I to the I, or infinite self-determination, in other words. The actualization of this pure freedom, or its existence in time and place, is its realization from itself as a second nature. This is, literally, the emergence of self-conscious habits from the interminable number of possibilities which are presupposed by our humanity: these habits are not natural, but what we naturally do – the fact that our ethical, moral, and lawful doings have a hold on us as if natural, and we have a hold on them as if they were ours alone. We can see why, then, this actualization, or emergence as a second nature, is itself what constitutes the I, or brings it out from the indeterminacy of a pure self-relation. The second nature of freedom, or what is itself habitually free, is what is actualized, then, as who we are. We find our freedom, or our freedom is exercised by us, in what we take to be ours alone, not because it is ours, but because it is, in itself, right and true. But recognizing something as ours brings with it the possibility that we might take it in the diminutive sense, see it as merely a habit, or as just some

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eccentricity. We would, in effect, recognize our doings as bound by thoughts starved of what sustains them: their self-evident truth, or the fact that they reveal themselves as simply good. Having realized this, we would not yet have realized freedom (we recognize only its absence, as it were). In confirming for ourselves what we know, or in raising ourselves to what is more than merely ours, we must act: freedom only reveals itself to us thus – if not, it is merely the self-relation of the I, ultimately indistinguishable from what is only ours. Knowing that we are free, therefore, means, in some way, exercising this freedom. In so doing, the will shows itself as a unity of selfrelation, and a determination of itself as other. The will is both the absolute indeterminateness of the I as it relates to itself, as well as the determination or actualization of what it is not (because essentially a restriction), but which, nonetheless, is akin. Think of this in the same way as a second nature emerges from the first, or the difference between an indeterminate freedom, and the freedom realized when we actually do something. What makes this other than a contradiction (i.e., as in the union of other and akin) is that these are moments, or changes in time. There is some progression to this; but only as realised ex post facto, as it were. For the failings, or the insubstantiality of perspectives left behind, are revealed to us only once we have overcome them, and moved to some more comprehensive way of acting in the world. The realization of this second nature is not simply an achievement of individuals, then. For Hegel speaks also of a return to ‘universality,’ as mentioned in the quotes above. Consider that in willing, or committing ourselves to some course of action, we legislate for ourselves only what we take to be rational (see Pippin 2008, 78). This rationality is, of course, not merely ours alone. For if it were, how would we ourselves come to judge it as such, as rational? Rather, our judgment of rationality is, to state it broadly, a judgment from the perspective of the universal. The universal is what would mediate subjectivity, thereby rendering it objective in its return to itself (see PR §8). Think here of whatever would authorize the impartiality of our judgments, whether that be the incontrovertible norms of our social milieu, or, more universally, the rationality of modern institutions (see PR §24). As a progression, or from the perspective of where we are now, historically – that is, as inhabitants of this modern world – Hegel shows us retrospectively what has been overcome and why. Hegel shows us the failings of subordinate perspectives; failings visible only from our own perspective, a perspective which has emerged, phoenix-like, from the ashes of what we came to realize was unfulfilling in some essential way. The course of this progression, as Hegel presents it, moves from abstraction to ethicality. With this movement, it is revealed that the actualization of freedom becomes ever more personal as its (i.e., freedom’s) truth is revealed as universal. And so the personal comes to encompass more than merely its own subjectivity, or self-related understanding of right. There is no contradiction between what is

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personal and what is true, therefore, simply because one presupposes the other. For human beings are unlike non-self-conscious creatures, insofar as we must act to become ourselves. This is our freedom. This is what gives rise to politics; and, indeed, what renders political the endeavor of any science, since all sciences we deem important given what we might understand of freedom. If this were not the case, if the true and the personal were mutually exclusive, then science, in practice, would be no different to knowledge as revealed despite us – by instinct, for example. Under these circumstances ‘to know’ could only be a perversion of what is already known. This is fatal to any science. For such a science – as the ‘to know’ – we could not take at all seriously. Only by holding that the true and the personal are not distinct could science hold some authority for us then. The right of individual humans to be subjectively determined as free is fulfilled when they belong to an ethical actuality, because their certainty that they are free has its truth in such an objectivity; within the ethical they actually possess their own essence, their inner universality (PR §153). In this identity of the universal will with the particular will, right and duty are thus united, and within the ethical order human beings have rights insofar as they have duties, and duties insofar as they have rights (PR §155).

In coming to an awareness of ourselves as historical beings, we come to realize that the problem of our age must already be defined by what would have fully emerged, what would have allowed us this realization. Contra the problems of ages past, in which the will had not yet emerged as subjective (it was still equivalent to tradition), our age is defined by the fundamental problem it poses (see PR §139), which is the problem of rationality and freedom, or the reconciliation of subject and object (or universal). This is a political-philosophical problematic unlike in prior ages, because it is a problematic concerning what we know of ourselves; it is a problematic which at its core exemplifies the realization of who we are. All other problems are ancillary, as it were, not political in the deepest sense, but matters which either have no resolution, or are, as Kant (2006, 90) says, matters of organization – even a nation of devils could organize a state. In this problem, then, we find both our liberation and the terms by which it must be defined. 5 This sets the scene for us. I move now to describing the actualization of freedom. Hegel describes this as spirit, or the realization of self-knowledge in actuality (PR §157). As we have seen above, this is knowing what we are doing, because what we are doing we take to be rational, and what is rational is for us already predisposed to be so. Willing is the actualization of thinking, by way of what is objective and universal, in other words. This requires that we understand what we are doing as not just our own personal fabrication,

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and neither as a law nor rule that has been foisted upon us. Rather, what we do now we do because we ourselves understand that it is worthwhile. To this end, Hegel offers up three aspects of spirit: the family, civil society, and the state. These mirror in appropriate fashion spirit’s structure, or the different ways in which freedom is actualized as a second nature. Firstly, the family is the manifestation of spirit’s unity (PR §158). This is a subjective union of love. The second aspect is civil society, which Hegel describes as having the character of a universal family (PR §239). Herein we attain recognition and validity in the eyes of others, and so become, thereby, reciprocally dependant (PR §183). In this, authority is abstract, insofar as laws are merely posited (PR §212). As abstract, these laws must be policed. It is this authority (i.e., the policing) which, as Hegel says, ‘actualize[s] and maintain[s] the universal that is contained within the particularity of civil society’ (PR §249). The third aspect, the state – which is of primary concern to this book – is objective spirit, which contains, and thereby transcends, the subjectivity of the family (PR §166; §258). The state, as Hegel explains, is ‘the rational, in and as itself’ (PR §258). It is not to be confused with civil society, or the personal freedom which, as a system of rights, requires policing. Rather, the state is deeper than this, as it is here that ‘freedom attains its highest right’ (PR §258). This is the realm wherein humans are realized in truth (and not merely as free). As Hegel describes it, the ‘state is the actuality of the ethical idea – ethical spirit as manifest, substantial will that is distinct to itself, that thinks and knows itself, and that accomplishes what it knows, insofar as it knows it’ (PR §257). Only as members of the state do ‘individual humans themselves have objectivity, truth, and ethicality’ (PR §258). For it is here that rationality in the abstract becomes concrete rationality. As concrete rationality, the state ‘consists in action that is determined in accord with laws and axioms that are based in thought, i.e., universal’ (PR §258). As Hegel describes it, this is not an analysis of how real states came to be, or of how any particular state might come to be. For in understanding the state in this way we leave its immanent authority behind. Rather, the state exists in the realm of spirit, not that of phenomena. Which is to say that Hegel takes the appearances of things as subsidiary to what things are in themselves, what for us is true, and not merely what we must, after the fact, take to be contingent, accidental or merely extraneous to how we come to act in the world. Bluntly, as Hegel puts it: ‘This idea [i.e., thought as universal] is spirit’s eternal and necessary being in and as itself’ (PR §258). All else is merely historical. What we think, and our thought, is conceptual, insofar as it is concerned with, or internal to, forms of right, and what, thereby, we count as authoritative (PR §258). As Hegel explains, with regard to the objective will:

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[a]s opposed to the principle of the individual will [as in Rousseau’s general will – see (PR §258)], we must remember the fundamental concept: that the objective will is what is rational in itself within its concept, whether or not it be known or capriciously willed by individuals; that its opposite, i.e., the subjectivity of freedom, the knowing and willing that alone are held firm within that principle, contains only one of the moments of the idea of rational willing (a moment that is thus one-sided); and that the will is rational only in that it is not only as itself, but also in itself. (PR §258)

Taking this on board, we must understand, then, that the state is not merely a contract upheld by the willing (or the general will, as Rousseau understood it), but something essential to human being. The state is not abstract. Rather, it is the rationality of willing, actualized in its objectivity. To understand rationality, and so too the will then, we must come at it from the ‘side’ of the state as much as from the ‘side’ of subjectivity. And indeed, as Hegel says, this structure is true whether or not we understand it to be so. What is important is that the highest realization of the objective ‘side’ of this structure, insofar as it has been actualized, is exemplified as the state. Herein, right, freedom, and truth are reconciled in actuality. It makes sense, then, to say that what Hegel offers his readers is not advice on how to make states more universal, or some guidebook on our dealings with them, but on what, now, we might understand of ourselves, given their emergence – ‘The philosophical treatment of these topics is concerned only with what is internal to them – with the concept, which is thought’ (PR §258). This, as I described above, is what can be thought. This is not without some practical benefit though. For what we understand of ourselves cannot but be tied in to what we do. As a philosophical understanding of the state, we ourselves come to recognize, to become conscious of, who we are, and thereby comport ourselves in honor of this. As Maletz (1989, 39) puts it, ‘[t]heoretically, the goal is to observe in law, moral norms and social practices the essence and activity of free will. Practically, the aim is to reconstruct these spheres in accordance with an enhanced self-knowledge, so that an intelligent choice can be made as to what is essential and inessential in them.’ Following Maletz, the important question to be asked concerns the distinction between the essential and the inessential. This we should consider from Hegel’s perspective, insofar as what can be known is only what has emerged as the actualization of its own potential. What can be known is, as Hegel describes it, the self-explication of the concept (PS §89), or a coming to know ourselves from within what could possibly count as knowable. In this sense, we can only know, or only fully grasp, the significance of what has already transpired (and so Hegel’s famous statement about the owl of Minerva taking flight only at dusk – PR preface); for what we are realizing is nothing other than our own understanding, bequeathed to us by the past, but inescapable as the present.

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The will does, thereby, define for us, in part, what can be understood, because it is the source of our liberation. Houlgate (1995, 868) draws this out with reference to its theoretical aspect: What becomes apparent in Hegel’s account is that the will or practical spirit develops and gains in freedom as it is educated into being fully theoretical, that is, as it comes to understand better what freedom entails. The process whereby the will is fully liberated is thus, in Hegel’s view, ‘theoretical in nature’ (diese Befreiung ist theoretischer Natur). . . . Accordingly, as the will becomes explicitly theoretical, its conception of the modality of freedom is subtly changed. It understands that freedom is not just possibility, but is such possibility, is the actuality of possibility [italics in original].

Following Houlgate, we are led to consider the nature of the will; and of what, considering this, we may claim to know. Of immediate relevance is that Hegel understands the will as itself a mode of thinking. He says that ‘[t]hose who consider thinking to be a particular, peculiar faculty separate from willing (itself a peculiar faculty), and in addition even hold thinking to be disadvantageous to willing, particularly to good willing, thereby show from the outset that they know nothing at all of the nature of willing’ (PR §5). Considering this, we might say that the ‘objective side’ – and so too thinking or thought, or mind in the broadest sense – is either the culmination, politically, of what we have overcome in deed, and nothing more, or, it is, as well as this, the realization that at the end of it all, we now know all that could possibly be known (qua what can be known, or scientifically, as it were). The difference between these two is no small matter, insofar as the first would understand self-knowledge as a form of cultural competence, or the final stage of mutual self-recognition, and the second would require an emerging objectivity in order that we might claim that, indeed, we now know that what we do know is true. Since Hegel says that the will is itself a particular mode of thought, or its actualization – theoretical as much as practical – it makes sense to draw some connection between the will and rationality, as united in thought. On this point, Hegel says that thought is the ‘process whereby the particular is superseded and raised to the universal’ (PR §21). The actualization of thought is as the emergence of second nature, then, and this second nature is what for us is objective, or the realm of freedom. This second nature is also, as an emergence from itself, and as the actualization of thought, a consequence of the rationality of willing. To put it another way: will is emergence, and emergence is rational. This practical emergence is akin also to the emergence of what can be thought (i.e., theoretical spirit). Both these – the theoretical and the practical – are necessary for will to be counted as rational. It is of much importance what we take this rationality to be, then; and, in particular, what we could understand of its actualization as objectivity. Is

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rationality simply normative, or what is circumscribed by the authority of modern rational institutions or contemporary social mores? Or is it less an historical, and more a unified, realization, as it were? Of help here is the difference between Hegel’s dialectical and speculative logics: 6 Hegel says that the dialectical is the movement or passing of one thing into its opposite (EL §81) while ‘[t]he speculative . . . apprehends the unity of the determinations in their opposition’ [italics in original] (EL §82). This distinction between the movement of things toward their opposition (such as what is revealed when we consider that all existing things perish) and the unity of this opposition is realized in rational thought. This is the pinnacle of objectivity (as it encompasses both the unity of things as well as their opposition). If the will is mere emergence, and so too is revealed as dialectical, then it follows that the highest thought is the will’s never-ending movement (or emergence) to make rationality authoritative for itself. But if the highest thought is speculative, we must surpass the dialectical, and make room thereby for thought which need not be willed, or further actualized. Having spoken of the will as emergence, and having mentioned the eternal structure, as it were, of this emergence (that is, Hegel’s speculative logic, or the logical identification of unity and opposition), in the next section I focus on this speculative logic (or method), with a brief outline of his Science of Logic. In turning to this logic, it is important to keep in mind what Hegel mentions in his Philosophy of Right: right is ‘the existence of the absolute concept, or of self-conscious freedom’ and that ‘[o]nly the right of world spirit is absolute without restriction’ (PR §30). He makes mention also of the distinction between dialectical and speculative logic (as I introduced above). He says that – with regard to dialectic – the ‘method whereby, in science, the concept develops itself out of itself, is expounded in my Logic and is here presupposed . . . [and] [t]he concept’s moving principle . . . I call “dialectic”’ (PR §31). And with regard to the speculative he says that to ‘consider a thing rationally . . . means . . . to find that the object is rational as itself . . . [and so] [s]cience has the task only of bringing into consciousness this proper work of the subject matter’s own rationality’ (PR §31). These comments tie in to what I said previously about the will and its rationality, and what for us now is revealed as rational itself. For to approach the highest explication of rationality (and as made actual) we must turn to Hegel’s speculative logic, and only here could we understand what a will actualized – or having fully emerged – is in its objectivity. Here we see that the highest knowledge cannot be willed (for it is self-knowledge). These are profound philosophical considerations, and strike at the heart of the question which animates this book, that of the problem posed by truth to politics. Ultimately, as we find with Hegel, it is a question of self-knowledge. How we understand this has deep consequences. For the rationality which lies at the heart of state executive action, whether or not understood as the

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work of state executive actors, is now, more than ever before, taken to be the actualization of freedom, and is, thereby, pursued thus, in the name of truth – as I presented in chapter 2. In the following sections I turn to what Hegel could have meant by objectivity, including its relationship to his Philosophy of Right. With this under our belts, I show what we must take on board in honor of this, and the consequences of throwing it overboard. In a nutshell, I hope to show that we must (if we are to overcome the problems which beset Lasswell, Dewey, and Weber – not to mention those further downstream) follow Hegel in his pursuit of an account of self-knowledge. But also, firstly, we must be wary of following him too far, and secondly, we must be equally wary of the way in which we diverge from him. HEGEL’S SCIENCE OF LOGIC Consider the following quote of Hegel’s (EPM §377): The knowledge of mind is the most concrete knowledge, and thus the highest and most difficult. Know thyself. . . . The knowledge it commands is knowledge of man’s genuine reality, as well as of genuine reality in and for itself – of the very essence as mind [italics in original].

And also: The true shape in which truth exists can only be the scientific system of that truth. To participate in the collaborative effort at bringing philosophy nearer to the form of science – to bring it nearer to the goal where it can lay aside the title of ‘love of knowledge’ and be actual knowledge – is the task I have set for myself. The inner necessity that knowledge should be science lies in the nature of knowledge, and the satisfactory explanation for this inner necessity is solely the exposition of philosophy itself. (PS §5)

Next, consider more broadly that in the Science of Logic Hegel works through the logical stages of spirit, mind, or intellect’s emergence from itself, and then its return to itself, this time as self-knowing. This is, as Hegel says, a philosophical enquiry into the realm of thought, and its own immanent activity (SL 21.10). The beginning is of critical importance, then. As explained by Hegel, in an enquiry such as this, we must begin with what is most familiar to us. Indeed, those things most familiar to us, such as the language we speak, and the concepts through which the world is revealed to us, are so familiar that they operate unself-consciously, as it were. Their familiarity is what makes them to us unknowable. These unknowns are the foreground to any science, and knowing of them is described by Hegel as ‘the kind of general idea which is demanded of a science prior to the science itself’ (SL

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21.12). This also serves as the beginning of the Logic, insofar as the Logic would reveal to us the structure of the familiar, as the science of conceptual thought itself. For we cannot even begin, as Hegel says, if we understand science or logic in some abstract sense (as the rules by which we might judge the validity of thinking, for example). Rather, we must begin with the nature of thinking itself. As he says: The concept of logic has hitherto rested on a separation, presupposed once and for all in ordinary consciousness, of the content of knowledge and its form, or of truth and certainty. Presupposed from the start is that the material of knowledge is present in and for itself as a ready-made world outside thinking; that thinking is by itself empty, that it comes to this material as a form from outside, fills itself with it, and only then gains a content, thereby becoming real knowledge (SL 21.28).

Our search begins from the wrong place, by Hegel’s account, if we follow the ill-informed presuppositions of those who conceive of logic as somehow distinct from the things through which it comes to exhibit itself. Understood thus, logic is a form of thinking which is empty, insofar as it adds nothing to things, other than by situating them according to its own formal rules. In so doing, only after having situated things formally, might we claim ‘to know.’ But in so claiming, we can see that this logic cannot rise above its own subjectivity – it is not true in itself; more like a ruler (or rule), or measure, than the nature of measurement itself. We don’t get to the heart of the matter; in this sense, our understanding of logic is tautological, for we claim that it somehow is the truth. Rather, Hegel takes us to the core of the matter. We are able to recover this core insofar as we can know, at this present time in history, the ‘concept of pure science,’ or absolute knowledge (following its deduction in the Phenomenology of Spirit – SL 21.33). For over time, we have become conscious of ourselves, and, further, we have come to realize the truth – which is tantamount to our own freedom – of who we are. In this, the tautology of logic, in which it would – as truth and certainty – still stand separated from what it knows, is resolved. For the content of this knowing, as the Logic, as objective thinking is, as Hegel says, absolute truth (SL 21.34). To get to this point, to be able to think the form of thinking itself, Hegel leads us through his Objective Logic, which includes his Doctrine of Being (with subsections on quality, quantity, and measure) and his Doctrine of Essence (with subsections on reflection, appearance, and actuality) and then on to his Science of Subjective Logic (or Doctrine of the Concept). In the Subjective Logic section, he takes us through, on one side, the logic of Subjectivity, and, on the other, the logic of Objectivity. He presents these as resolved in the Idea, and then in Absolute Idea. 7 This, as Rosen (2014, 459) points out, is the final resolution of the conflict between subjectivity and objectivity, or thinking

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and being, insofar as it is the stage in which these are united in truth. In Hegel’s words, the ‘idea is the adequate concept, the objectively true, or the true as such. If anything has truth, it has it by virtue of its idea, or something has truth only in so far as it is idea’ [italics in original] (SL 12.173). The idea is, as Hegel adds, the unification of the concept with objectivity, or the true (SL 12.174). It is, for this reason, that which makes things actual: it is their substance; all other properties are merely accidental attributes. With the unification of concept and reality, in which being has attained its truth (see SL 12.175), we move from the world of abstractions – or to a merely conceptual understanding – to concrete description. As concrete, we describe what a thing is, since it has itself made an appearance to us. In revealing itself to us as it is, we ourselves are rightly implicated in this revelation. As against the earlier stages outlined by Hegel in his Logic, in which our relation to objects exposed still a misunderstanding of ourselves, when revealed under the idea, we can account wholly for what a thing is because we know now that that thing has revealed to us all that it possibly could; given that we know now what understanding is – that is, the unity of being and thinking, grasped conceptually. For having worked our way through the Logic, we know that we cannot be fooled into confusing appearance and reality: reality is what is revealed to us as rational, as described in its emergence by the Logic. This is not an abstract knowing, but a description of our encounter with things, or how we approach them, or even how we allow them to appear to us. Only if we ourselves are, do things show themselves to us truly, in other words. And so it is that Hegel describes the idea under three aspects: life, the true and the good, and lastly, absolute truth or the absolute knowledge of itself (SL 12.178). In sum, we could say that the Logic is the structure of a self-revealing circle (see SL 21.58), in which we begin with the familiar, and return with knowledge of familiarity. To return to the beginning is, thereby, to go beyond the emergence of the concept from itself (i.e., dialectic). It is to understand the emergence process itself, as the object of our understanding. As Hegel says near the end of the Science of Logic (SL 12.252–53): The idea is itself the pure concept that has itself as its subject matter and which, as it runs itself as subject matter through the totality of its determinations, builds itself up to the entirety of its reality, to the system of science, and concludes by apprehending this conceptual comprehension of itself, hence by sublating its position as content and subject matter and cognizing the concept of science.

As the subject and the object of the idea, we would know ourselves absolutely (SL 12.251). In this, Hegel solves the problematic relation of being and thinking, or the problem which beset Aristotle: that is, how do we come to know anything at all? For Aristotle, mind (or nous) becomes the

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form of the thing being thought (see his De Anima, 429a13–18). But this leaves still unanswered the question: how? How do things become mind? Moreover, how to answer this question without reducing the world to mind, or the mind to material? Indeed, without answering this question, we simply cannot tell whether the world is mind, or whether the mind is material, if, contra Aristotle, we are to offer a full and systematic account of the natural and political realms (broadly understood). This is a metaphysical question, or a question about what things (including mind) are, insofar as we know them. And it is a political question, insofar as now we would question, or are now in a position to question, the unity of human understanding at the highest and most problematic level. Hegel solves the problem of thinking and being by making metaphysics concord with thinking, in order to account for the way in which the truth of things might be thought by us. This metaphysics is not, then, of the preKantian variety. Rather, metaphysics is possible only as the Logic, or the structure of thinking, given the fact that this covers off on all that can be thought, and so is not merely a reduction of the world to a thinking subject. How does he do this? He does this by making already the collusion of being and thinking possible, by making, ultimately (or ‘metaphysically,’ one might say), pure being and pure nothing the same. For each is wholly indeterminate (pure nothingness is equal with itself, and pure being likewise) (SL 21.68–69). The truth is their unity as becoming, or the ‘passing over’ of being into nothing, and nothing into being (SL 21.69). Which is to say that, ultimately, we are not separated from the things being thought: being arises with thinking. Or, to put it another way, in our thoughtful acting, over time, what is revealed to us is the structure of thinking’s own possible revelations. The final revelation is the temporality of thinking itself, which, in its determinacy and progression, is revealed as truth. THE STATE AND SCIENCE In returning to ourselves, as beings who might now know the truth because of who we are, and what we know, we obviously come back to the political realm, broadly understood. Indeed, in the Science of Logic, Hegel mentions in passing the significance of this absolute self-knowledge – or lack thereof – to how we might, or could, understand political phenomena (e.g., he makes reference to government under the Mechanism section). Hegel also makes reference to the state in the section on the Idea, where he explains the unity, by way of the concept, of ourselves, and the way in which things appear to us. He says that: Wholes like the state and the church cease to exist in concreto when the unity of their concept and their reality is dissolved . . . this dead nature, then, if it is

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It obviously makes some difference to how we might follow Hegel in his understanding of the state, given what we understand of the Logic as a whole. We might take our bearings by Goodfield (2009), for example, who offers a hard-line metaphysical reading of the Science of Logic, arguing that the state serves the same purpose, politically, as the Logic, insofar as it would unite subjectivity with objectivity. Indeed, as he says, it unites the ‘political with the metaphysical’ (Goodfield 2009, 857). And so, as Goodfield (2009, 869) concludes, ‘the inner truth of the state as political will, of the Philosophy of Right, is none other than this procession of the logical and spiritual categories of dialectic given physical and historical form in the political sphere.’ By this reading, then, the state, as the exemplification of the will, is equivalent to the Logic, as the self-revelation of the concept, understood as, ultimately, the resolution of thinking with being. In this respect, and insofar as the philosopher is he who has thought through the Logic to end at the idea, we must conclude that the state is essential to this endeavor. Alternatively, we might follow someone such as Avineri (1974), who reads Hegel as if he were a philosophical anthropologist. History, not nature, is key for Avineri, who says that, for Hegel all discussion of political issues is immediately a discussion of history: not because of the quest for origins, for a secularized version of the legitimacy implied in the Book of Genesis, but because history, as change, is the key for meaning, and this meaning, as actualized in the world, is the hieroglyph of reason to be deciphered by the philosopher. (1974, x)

Consistent with this more historicist or conventional Hegel, Avineri (1974, 47, 49, 57, 85–86) argues that Hegel is, in pro-Napoleonic spirit, a liberal partisan. As Avineri (1974, 57) writes, ‘Prussia . . . is to Hegel the epitome of a mechanistic, hierarchical, authoritarian political structure. In Prussia everything is in the hands of the state, regulated and regimented by it; “sterility” reigns in the country and it is completely devoid of “scientific or artistic genius.”’ Given this, Avineri (1974, 42) argues that it is important to note that for Hegel, ‘[i]n Germany [the] universal does not exist, hence Germany is only a Gedankenstaat, a state which exists in thought and imagination alone, not in actuality.’ This ‘universal’ is, as Avineri (1974, 47) points out, not equivalent to the authority of the state as such, since the state is, following Hegel, a ‘highly sophisticated and differentiated pluralistic system, where the state authority is basic and necessary – but minimal.’ What this means, according to Avineri (1974, 101), is that the state is endowed by Hegel with a dual quality, consistent with the dialectical character of his enterprise more broadly. On the subjective level, the state acts as an instru-

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ment, or an efficient or convenient means to realize desired ends. It exists to alleviate those tensions, or contradictions, which arise in industrial society. On a level above this, though, the state is the embodiment of the universal nature of man, which Avineri (1974, 101) describes as the ‘immanent necessity . . . to transcend individualistic interests and reach a sphere which Hegel would later call “objective spirit.”’ Given this ambivalent status, Avineri argues that it allows Hegel to conceive of the realms of art, religion, and philosophy as transcending the state, while also functioning within it. Of this ‘objective spirit’ or the ‘universal’ nature of man, following Avineri’s historical and political explication of Hegel, one would be hardpressed to argue that it is anything more than the liberal ideal, or the perspective in which all perspectives may reside. For by this reading, the state is itself liberal, and so might accommodate even those perspectives which have transcended it, such as the ‘philosophical.’ Indeed, as Avineri (1974, 103) explains, objective spirit is really just the divinization of the political act of self-recognition by way of another. Universal self-recognition is equivalent to objective spirit, in other words. Absent reference to the truth, though, we are absent the beginning of Hegel’s philosophy (which I described earlier as what is most familiar), or absent the full revelation of his system. In fact, what Hegel might only reveal, following Avineri (1974, 129), is, along with any other ‘philosophy,’ his own time (understood in an abstract sense). If this time is none other than the triumph of liberalism, then the revelation is not philosophical, but anthropological. The state is essential not to philosophy, then; as philosophy does not exist. Rather, we might say that the ideal modern state, in honoring what is ‘universal,’ would honor also any science which reveals the nature of man other than by way of philosophy. Since Avineri leaves behind the question or the problem of nature, he finds the philosophical problem of multiple and divergent perspectives wholly resolvable in the political realm. This is right, in my opinion, only insofar as it would describe the exoteric end of Hegelian philosophy, and not the more fundamental problem as revealed by this end, that of the conflict between being and thinking. This is the difference between history and eternity, as it were; or the difference between the end understood as the culmination from some beginning and the end understood as also a revelation of the beginning. The Logic describes the latter – indeed, Hegel refers to philosophy as an ever expanding and self-disclosing circle (see PR §2; SL 12.251–52). In looking only to the end we beg the question, for we presuppose that Hegel’s philosophy could only find itself politically, as the universal mediator of conflicting opinions. But even on these terms, if we go back to the beginning, back to the Greeks as did Hegel, where decadence or the fall of tradition would seem to have provided fertile soil for the emergence of phi-

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losophy, still it was the case, as Hegel points out (PR §552), that philosophers necessarily saw themselves as more than children of the city; for by their own understanding they were separated from the city naturally, and not merely temporally (e.g., see Aristotle’s Politics, 1325a3). Theirs was a first, and because of this, misunderstood attempt at grasping necessity (what Hegel will in the future describe as spirit). This first attempt was not political, but arose, we might say, between politics and nature. Indeed, only if the political is the necessary, is Avineri right. If liberalism need not culminate in universal reason, then he is wrong. Since it cannot without (as Hegel is at pains to show) a logic which would transcend liberalism (i.e., as the truth) then we must also qualify in what sense he is right. It must be qualified, because only universal reason is philosophical, all other perspectives are partial, or merely strive to account for themselves. And in this philosophical age, the giving of accounts could only find its end in what must be recognized by all as the final account. On this score, I believe that it is right to steer a path between a hard-edged metaphysical interpretation such as Goodfield’s, and an a-philosophical interpretation such as Avineri’s. Offering up such an interpretation, in which both the Science of Logic and Philosophy of Right (as well as the Phenomenology of Spirit) are considered together, but not simply as equivalent, is Nuzzo. According to Nuzzo (2001, 165) the Philosophy of Right is opposed to the Science of Logic insofar as it shows the immanent development of both the concept of right as well as its actualization. These, as Nuzzo (2001, 165) explains, ‘do not relate to each other as two parallel series or orders but as intertwined and interdependent aspects of one and the same reality.’ Unifying these – that is, Hegel’s Logic and his Realphilosophie, or philosophy in actuality – is the problem with which Hegel wrestles. This, as Nuzzo (2001, 166) adds, is a problem of method. For, as she goes on, Hegel’s philosophical exposition must align concrete reality with the different moments of the concept (i.e., universality, particularity, and individuality). What this means, according to Nuzzo (2001, 166), is that ‘there simply is no given, factual reality that can provide the concepts with which the philosophical science of right has to occupy itself (or, to put it differently, what is there is not yet relevant as a content to the philosophical concept)’ [italics in original]. Rather, all that Hegel might reveal of these political phenomena is provided by the dialectical method of the Science of Logic. But, as Nuzzo (2001, 166) points out, given the nature of what is being presented in the Philosophy of Right, the dialectical method of the Logic cannot be simply a replication. On this point, Nuzzo (2001, 167) suggests that history, or time, is what ‘modifies’ the ‘pure speculative logic of the concept’ (or the logic of the Science of Logic). Nonetheless, as she (Nuzzo 2001, 168) makes clear, ‘the systematic succession of the determinations of the idea is necessarily identical with the temporal succession of the figures of its historical reality. The

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Germanic “Reich” as the last epoch of world-history is not only systematically but also historically later than respectively the Roman, the Greek, and the Oriental one’ [italics in original]. And so, as she argues, it is precisely this identity between logical and temporal determination of spirit that constitutes Hegel’s notion of history and that history ultimately plays a methodological (i.e., a necessary and not simply a contingent) role in shaping the meaning of Hegel’s notion of ‘right.’ The object ‘history’ is the highest – even ‘absolute’ – level of the determination of the concept of right, for it is only at the level of history as Weltgericht [final judgement] that a “tribunal” is established to assign the specific ‘right’ of all figures of particularity. Now history mirrors the situation of the Logic and yet reorders the whole succession of logical determinations on the ground of the temporal succession that now takes the lead. Consequently, history (dialectically understood), far from being, for Hegel, the opposite of logic, is rather its methodologically closest realm [italics in original]. (Nuzzo 2001, 168)

What can be drawn from Nuzzo’s analysis is that, simply put, the Philosophy of Right is an historical description, but only insofar as history is the unity of logic and concrete reality. As such, the notion of ‘right,’ and so too freedom (which is the concept of the will, actualized as the concept of right), arises in truth, even as this truth is itself historically conditioned. 8 And so, when Nuzzo says that history is the closest realm, methodologically, to the Logic, we must take her to mean that time, actualized in political life, follows the same structure, qualified according to contingency, as set out in the Logic. The end of each is the same, and, indeed, it is only at the end that the structure of history, as revealed in its pure form as the Logic, is revealed to us. Time is infused with logic, simply because we ourselves are compelled to overcome and make the abstract actual. In this way, history reveals itself as more than mere temporality. Nonetheless, even if the difference between eternity and time is equivalent to the difference between the Logic and its actualization, they are not, in the end, separate realms. Ultimately – or wholly speculatively – this is akin to the equivalence of being and nothing, or the ontology of temporal existence (i.e., the ‘first concepts or propositions of the logic,’ which are the moments of becoming – SL 21.19). Summing up: self-knowledge is made possible by the state, insofar as the state is the rationality of willing, actualized in its objectivity. Having now some idea of Hegel’s Science of Logic, we could add that the state is not merely a universal political institution, but is the actualization, in part, of who we are. And ‘who we are’ is itself the consequence of spirit’s logical revelation, in time, of itself to itself. Hence the will, as Henrich (2003, 327) puts it, ‘does not accept the state because it provides for the fulfilment of all the needs of the natural individual. Instead, the will accepts the state because

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only with reference to it can the self-reference of the will’s own structure be completed’ [italics in original]. WHAT MUST WE HOLD? In giving us an account of self-knowledge, and in holding that the state is fundamental to such an account, it pays us to think about what, with this, we must take on board; especially so, given what I have already mentioned of Dewey’s and Weber’s partial turning away from Hegel. My concern in this section is, then, to show my support for a turning away from Hegel, but for reasons other than those offered by Dewey and Weber (given what they understood of him). In short, I will argue that if we take seriously Hegel’s union of the Philosophy of Right and Science of Logic, as they would culminate in self-knowing, and even if we don’t take a hard-line metaphysical reading, we must hold still to certain outrageous claims, in order that we might claim to have realized what is promised by Hegel. Firstly, consider that any ultimate insight can only be thought, as it were – it is a job for the philosophers to think all thoughts, so it follows. Consider also that philosophy is only now truly possible; for the emergence of this thought is itself the consequence of a progression. History is never ending in one sense, then: the actual world of political phenomena will never align with the ‘end’ thoughts of the philosopher. But, in another sense, it ends with the philosopher, insofar as nothing more of truth can be thought. In both senses, things are revealed to us in time (as that which we come to know of familiarity). And so the importance of history, for Hegel, as the revelation of thinking. 9 In this sense, then, Hegel is a metaphysician; simply because he has solved the problem revealed by metaphysics, and accounted for how we can know anything at all. Or, we might say, that in solving Aristotle’s problem (since now he’s become aware of it), by transforming metaphysics into a dialectical and speculative logic, he understands that metaphysics is actual: comprehensible as the thought of all thoughts. This ultimate comprehension is of the temporal. To know anything at all, then, we must know all things as they have appeared to us. This holds as much for the philosopher as it does for the non-philosopher. For since the philosopher is merely the thinker of his own time, we might say that in their political practice even the non-philosophers of our modern age know more than what could have been known in ages past. Insofar as this is the case, we can see some purchase in the critiques of those who take Hegel to be a hard-edged metaphysician (if not for the reasons proposed by them). Indeed, as far as I can tell, the real problem is not that Hegel would understand history metaphysically (for it is we – not Being – who become what we are), but that thinking becomes its own object,

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saved from itself only if, somehow, we are thinking, as Hegel puts it, God’s thoughts before creation (SL 21.34). Hegel solves Aristotle’s problem by thinking the mind of God. In order to honor his promise, Hegel must know time as creation (and hence the Logic). This is Hegel’s account of history. And history is Hegel’s substitute for Aristotle’s ‘thought thinking itself,’ or the highest unity of being and thinking (see Metaphysics, 1072b20). Whereas for Aristotle this highest unity is an absent god, for Hegel we ourselves are implicated, insofar as we are the subjects and objects of history. On the one hand, to give up on these extraordinary claims of Hegel, and then to claim that, in so doing, this is the true interpretation, is to return to either a universal understanding of political authority (e.g., Pinkard and Avineri), or the universal logic of analytical philosophy (e.g., Brandom). This is a secular Hegel, but a universal Hegel nonetheless. 10 Which is to say, that it is not to think the mind of God along with Hegel, but to think the mind of Hegel as a product of those historico-logical forces as uncovered by him. It is to historicize what is metaphysical in the thought of Hegel, in other words. In so doing, Hegel might himself be surpassed (or reinterpreted), given that he is himself merely a moment, as revealed either politically or logically. On the other hand, in understanding him as a metaphysician, and taking issue with this, we would need to give up on even more than those who approach him as historicists; for we’d need to give up on what we understand his metaphysics to entail. In Dewey’s case, this meant giving up on the equation of science with politics (or meaning), while retaining some notion of his dialectical logic; in Weber’s case, it meant separating politics and rationality, while retaining rationality’s equation with truth, and politics with meaning. When we consider each of these readings, then, we are on our way to some idea of what, or how, we might conceive of the state if we give up on the Logic of Hegel’s, while retaining other aspects of the Hegelian philosophical system. As I have pointed out, and indeed as Dewey and Weber saw it, there is something absurdly hubristic in the Hegel who is justified by way of his metaphysics. And yet, it is only this which would complete the projects of Dewey and Weber, or render them coherent. Taking the more forgiving path of a Hegel without the Logic, though, is beset with its own problems, not the least the problem of how we might conceive of the state, as I will argue below. WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO GIVE UP THE LOGIC? The turn to a Hegel absent his Logic invariably gives us the notion of the state absent the objective structure of the will (as itself a moment in coming to know ourselves absolutely). In place of this, I suggest that we would pursue, or defer to, what we ourselves class as authoritative in Hegel. In

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following this, we find, firstly, a conservative political philosophy, or a politics with no reference to the state as it is, but merely to institutions inseparable from the authority of habit (as in Pinkard and Avineri). In this understanding of the civil service and other universal institutions, a modern professionalism would regulate intention and practice under the edict of reason shared socially (see PR §205–10). In a liberal society, such professionalism is shared by the other groups (or estates), such as the businessmen; except that these are bound to their particular sphere, and are universal only insofar as professionalism presupposes a certain universal understanding. Indeed, as Pippin (2001) 11 puts it, professionalism is the institutionalized boundary of a more general practical or social rationality: In Hegel’s view human subjects are, and are wholly and essentially, always already underway historically and socially, and even in their attempts to reason about what anyone, anytime ought to do, they do so from an institutional position. . . . The conventions of ethical life governing what sorts of reasons can be offered, in what context, and how much else one is committed to by offering them, are not, in other words, rules that one might invoke and challenge all at once; they are criteria for what will count as raising and challenging any claim (14–15). As noted throughout, Hegel is prepared to claim that some institutions can be said to embody the historical self-education of the human spirit. The account and justification of that claim to genuine education and so moral progress can be given, but only ‘at dusk,’ never in a way that legislates ‘what ought to be done’ and only for what he calls in the Philosophy of Religion lectures, the ‘sacred priesthood’ of philosophers [italics in original] (20).

Absent the Logic, the state is merely an historical construction, or an institution of liberal political universal interests, as acted out in accord with our second nature – our social rationality. Only by the ‘sacred priesthood’ of philosophers, to which Pippin refers, might the state be understood for what it is. Secondly, we find a progressive politics, built on logically enlightened social and human sciences. This is in line with the above, insofar as the state is understood as an historical construction – no different to communal habit (along with its own internal contradictions). What is seen to be lacking in this construction is, however, what might be constructed by the logician (e.g., Brandom). What is lacking is indeed what has enlightened habit thus far. Given that we have not yet reached the thought of all thoughts – that is, the Logic – there is the impetus to go beyond Hegel, to realize the end-state in practice. The reason for this is, as we might surmise, that if not realised as theoretical spirit, absolute knowing emerges only as practical spirit, in which

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the will must erase its own internal contradictions. 12 Freedom is realized in a politically subordinate logic, in other words. This turn to Hegel, such as by Brandom and Pinkard, makes up for the deficiencies of Weber and Dewey. Firstly, a conservative turn is an improvement on Weber, since it would make a more coherent argument for the place of truth in politics: the threat of rationality is averted, given that it is understood now as a more general social authority. Secondly, the pairing of logic with political norms makes up for the meaning-deficiency of Dewey’s overly progressive (because denuded of the political), pragmatic politics. But still, each of these returns doesn’t go far enough, as I hold. To be coherent, as I have argued, they must take on board the Logic, or account for the equivalence of being and thinking. Rejecting this equivalence, while holding still to the universal (whether that be sociality or logic), renders this universal unknown to itself. The universal remains politically partial, and so no more defensible than other political positions. However, taking on board the Logic means taking on board what this entails. In which case, if we are bothered by the hubris presupposed by this, then we find ourselves siding with Dewey and Weber, and their rejection of the ‘metaphysical’ Hegel; which, by their understanding of Hegel (as a hard-line metaphysician), must entail most of him. Herein, emerges a split, once again, between an overly progressive social science and a deficient conservative critique. In the former, true politics is distinguished from false by a nature-sanctified craftsmanship, or, as with Lasswell, distilled down to those techniques which would reveal the whole of political experience, as well as enabling its construction. Further down the line, social science continues to shape politics insofar as it would seek to actualize itself in state action. As I argued in chapter 2, this emerges from the DNA of the social sciences, as it were, insofar as these sciences must both transcend politics and return to it, in order to claim for themselves the mantel of impartial judge and law-giver. This, we might surmise, following Hegel, is an act of the will, seeking to free itself of contradiction. On these same terms, any argument against willful creation, keeping still the assumption that truth is equivalent to an apolitical rationality, calls out this progressive stance as the vanity of those lacking self-control (as does Weber). Yet, holding to the same ideal of truth – that is, a limited or wholly mathematical rationality – this conservatism amounts to no more than keeping separate, or in tension, these contradictory realms (from this perspective) of actual political life and mathematical rationality. In this, we are reminded of the Mechanism section of Hegel’s Science of Logic since, just like law, a mathematical rationality remains always an externality. Only Hegel’s Logic reconciles these two realms of external and internal, or objective and subjective. Insofar as this holds, we require what the Logic seeks – that is, the possibility of selfknowledge – but not what it delivers.

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In the next chapter I argue that only by returning to the everyday, returning home, as it were, to the most expansive and comprehensive residence, might we return to what we are. The everyday is obviously already what we inhabit (and what inhabits us), and so is also what would present as a unity of politics and truth, insofar as this unity is presupposed in our ordinary living – that is, we hold to be true what we consider worthy of our esteem. It is also, though, the place wherein the problematic relation of truth and politics emerges: what if that which we esteem is not truly worthy? In contemplating this we are propelled to discover what would truly count as worthy of our esteem. We are compelled to seek an extraordinary account, in other words. Such an account does, nonetheless, remain within the everyday, insofar as the everyday is what gives to any speech about ourselves the character of the extraordinary. The everyday does, in short, reveal what we might possibly be, and what thereby we should do. NOTES 1. I cannot agree with them that he read and so followed Hegel in this way; for the reasons cited above. 2. What’s more, as I showed in the chapter on Dewey, we can see that there is some paradox in staking one’s claim that ‘all is doing’ on a science purporting to have discovered what nature is. If we take the former claim seriously, then the focus of our science moves from natural to human phenomena, without giving up on the claim to objectivity. It is to this science which Brandom turns. We can see that such a move makes sense given that the pragmatists attained only a partial understanding of human making or doing. 3. Abbreviations of Hegel’s works cited (see reference list for full citations): PR Philosophy of Right PS Phenomenology of Spirit SL Science of Logic EL Encyclopaedia Logic EPM Philosophy of Mind (Part 3 of the Encyclopaedia of Philosophical Sciences – 3rd ed.) 4. See also Ferrarin’s (2004) insightful study of Hegel’s relationship to Aristotle. I agree with his judgment that ‘Hegel wants to integrate Kant with Aristotle; or, better, sublate both and all previous forms of metaphysics as one sided, proposing a completion of metaphysics through a new and final logic of it’ [italics in original] (79). 5. See EPM §539 on political freedom, or the transcendence, by way of the state, of mere personal preferences. 6. I follow here Stein (2014, 282). 7. A similar structure is employed by Hegel in the Science of Logic section of his Encyclopaedia. 8. Note also Pippin (2001, 1) who says: ‘First, according to Hegel, philosophy is not concerned with the mere concept of such freedom but with the concept and its “actuality” (Wirklichkeit). In his systematic language, this means that a philosophy of freedom is neither a rational analysis of the pure concept of freedom, nor some a priori formulation of an ideal, of what simply “ought to be.” It is notoriously difficult to know what this claim means. But at the very least this account of actualized and not merely ideal freedom means that freedom consists in participation in various, historically actual (and that means, ultimately, distinctly modern, European) institutions. Anything other than this is only an incomplete, partially realized freedom’ [italics in original].

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9. In stepping this out we can see that Hegel works with the following assumptions: (1) certain knowledge eludes us so long as nothing or non-being is indistinguishable from being (such that one appearance is the same as another qua knowledge); (2) history is not meaningless, rather as we become aware of the emergence of our own consciousness, the distinction between being and non-being is revealed to us in time, until, finally, we come to understand their equivalence as time. Then (3) it is only when history has revealed in time (the movement and dissolution of being into nothing into being, etc.) the distinctions without which it could not be understood for what it is (ultimately, the equivalence of being and nothing), can we reconcile being with nothing and so claim to know anything at all. Only at this moment would revelation (being) and determination (nothing) arise as the self-knowing will. But this, to state it again, only because the revelation is of time itself, as revealed in time. Only in our subordination to time are we able to overcome it therefore. 10. One might say that it is a return to Hegel by way of Nietzsche, for this is a Hegel as interpreted, or a Hegel following the death of God. 11. See also Church (2010; 2012), and Pippin (2008, 239–72). 12. C.f., Hegel: ‘The most common notion people have of freedom is that it is wilfulness. . . . If we hear it said that one is free when one can do what one wills, what one wants to do, such a notion can only be taken to reveal a total lack of the cultivation of thought, for it does not yet contain even an inkling of what the will that is free in and as itself might be, or of right, ethicality, and so forth . . . its subjective side still differs from its objective side, and the content of this self-determination remains purely and simply finite. Instead of being the will in its truth, wilfulness is the will as contradiction’ (PR §15).

Chapter Seven

Self-Knowledge and the Everyday

As I showed in the previous chapter, the possibility of self-knowledge, as explicated by Hegel, brings with it all sorts of grand claims about what is possible, now, to know. These grand claims require that we accept a logic which would reconcile being with thinking, and that we might now understand this logic, in full. I argued that this is to confuse ourselves with the gods. This leaves us, then, in need of an understanding in which we ourselves are accounted for, but without the support of a logical or metaphysical structure. One option is simply to give up on accounting for our own understanding, arguing instead that we are already wiser and better people (than those of the past). In this case, we’ve no need to account for ourselves. This is the position of Steven Pinker, to whom I will turn to next. Following a critique of his position, I argue that we must return to the everyday in order to understand ourselves. This I present by way of briefly considering the relevance to this endeavor the thoughts of Ludwig Wittgenstein and Hilary Putnam. I end with a brief introduction to the thoughts of Stanley Rosen. WHAT’S THE POINT? Why does self-knowledge matter? As the policy scientists might say. If one cares not for self-knowledge, what is the problem? Why, indeed, should we care about what we are in order to realize a practical or politically relevant social science? But consider this: doesn’t the very mention of ‘political’ give us a hint? For how could one not care for what one is, if one cares for human things? Put another way, what does it say for who or what one is, if one does not care for this? It says that we are not a problem, or that the problem that we are is irrelevant to what we must do. It says that what we know of what 161

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we are is sufficient: what we can know would substitute for what we may not. In this, self-knowledge may as well have been realized, precisely because it has become a question of no importance. As unimportant, it follows that the almost universal desire to know what we are doing must find its satisfaction elsewhere. If in seeking this knowledge we presuppose that we ourselves are wise (we know already what we are), or absolutely ignorant (no one can know what they are), then we must turn elsewhere. What is other than ourselves, by these terms, is what might be understood by us because we have discovered the means of its creation. Given that this creation must also benefit from our own wisdom, it is no stretch to label this, broadly, as politics. In this, our knowledge would be realized, and so sanctified. We would have realized Hegel’s dream, without the bother and tedium of his philosophical journey. WITHOUT SELF-KNOWLEDGE Is this a good thing or not? Can we even tell whether this is good or not? This liberation from ourselves we may well celebrate. But could we argue for the goodness of this liberation, and not merely proclaim that what we know is useful (or that the distinction between good and bad is just a matter of mastery)? Answering in the affirmative is Steven Pinker (2011). In his popular book, The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence has Declined, Pinker argues that we have been (and might continue to be) liberated; this, irrespective of the problem of what we are. In this, Pinker would align our true (our better) natures with modern rationality – a transcendence which has its grounding in biology (as uncovered by neuroscience) and its realization as history (i.e., evolution). This transcendence is conditioned by contemporary rational-historical institutions, and the people that we have become, given our predilection for modern science, and the way of thinking which underlies it. Specifically, Pinker’s thesis is that over the course of history we have become less violent. We have realized our ‘better natures.’ Pinker supports his thesis with a bunch of statistics, illustrating a decrease in violence from the pre-Christian era to the present day. He explains this reduction according to ‘evolutionary psychology.’ With the confluence of certain conditions, such as the state as a neutral mediator of conflict; the distance and impartiality which arises with scientific thinking; and the technologies which unify us, we have come to be different people (2011, 923). The potential for violence remains, and so would only arise given the absence of these conditions. Thus, from an ‘evolutionary psychological’ perspective, Pinker argues that we have realized our better natures because of the modern world. This modern world is characterized by him with reference to five ‘exogenous’ forces:

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(1) the state, (2) commerce and trade, (3) feminization, (4) cosmopolitanism, and (5) the escalation of reason or rationality (2011, 896–931). This change hasn’t been foisted upon us as such, but has been brought about historically. It is we who are enjoying its fruits. We might say that this reduction in violence has not come about violently (no matter how subtly, such as with ideological ‘brain-washing,’ etc.), but as a natural progression or enlightenment. This much has become self-evident. I hope to show that, following Pinker, if we argue that our liberation from ourselves is a natural necessity and so good, or that reason is good only in light of its consequences, we cannot yet account for either reason or the good, and so cannot yet account for ourselves, or the significance of the violence we may or may not suffer. This, Pinker might argue, is beside the point: the results (or historical consequences) speak for themselves. But if they do, then we’ve an argument confined to history, insofar as we have merely identified certain conditions and their possible consequences. Holding to this, we must deem that the significance of these conditions is of no consequence, or beside the point. What is of consequence is, simply, selfevident. Against this, I will argue that more than a self-evident significance is required; for without more we cannot understand why or how these conditions (and so consequences) would have arisen in the first place, and so we could not, thereby, understand how they should be pursued, and, if not, why not. In sum, the transcendence of ourselves excludes us from saying anything which might be of political importance. Indeed, the goodness of Pinker’s own thesis he may well regard as lying in this very fact: his is an impersonal defense. He need only point to the facts. No disciplining, no violence, no personal judgment is required. All that’s needed is someone willing to give up his or her prejudices, when confronted by the evidence. As an impersonal defense it need not get personal: truth is realized when those on both sides see what is self-evident. This may be well and good, and we may well agree that, yes, there is a coincidence of factors here – that is, with the rise of modern science, there has been an associated quantitative reduction in violence. But we may well disagree too (even if we acknowledge still the coincidence of factors). If so, Pinker must explain himself. That is, Pinker must convince us, or point to more than what everybody might see. Pinker, by the terms of his own argument, cannot, then, be wholly impartial. The prejudice of this argument remains hidden if it is an argument of an ‘objective’ social scientist, broached amongst an expanding community of social scientists (both amateur and professional). But this is to get ahead of myself. For, according to Pinker, it would seem that only the truth as disclosed by modern science could save us from our prejudices. Such a truth is in essence non-prejudicial, and is the epitome of what it means to be human; for in this truth we would transcend our brutishness. This is an inversion of Nietzsche’s (1997, 3, 82–83) credo that we only

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live well if we live according to our prejudices, our truths being the most powerful amongst these. Only our truths, according to Nietzsche, would save us from the nihilism of truth itself. Pinker’s argument is the flip-side of this: prejudice would reflect our baser natures. Against Nietzsche, for whom prejudice is the genesis of humanity, we are realized truly not in pursuing what is our own, but in overcoming it. But if Pinker’s understanding is a prejudice – or a partial account – is it any less valuable? I mean, the fact that it is a prejudice does not necessarily make it ‘prejudicial’ in practice. For this prejudice may well be enlightening, not as an all-encompassing truth, but by way of what it would make of us. 1 The important question becomes: is it a good prejudice? Or if we were to give up on this prejudice, what of us? Would we be better or worse for it? Is this ‘universal’ prejudice better for us than an ‘existential’ truth, which, when judged universally, is merely ‘prejudicial’? This is not what Pinker wholly understands of his position, of course, but it follows from his argument: an existential truth is beside the point for Pinker, whereas a universal perspective is not. Unable to surpass prejudice, he would in fact be following Nietzsche, not for reasons of glory, but for that of the comfort and safety of modern life more generally. Since for Pinker the goodness of this prejudice is merely an accident of the truth (i.e., contra Nietzsche, for whom it would amount to the truth, by Pinker’s terms we overcome ourselves in the act of denouncing personal truths), its value must be self-evident. Indeed, the goodness of Pinker’s prejudice is not that it is a truth, but that it transcends all distinctions. Comfort, or release from the threat of violence, is what we must all want (i.e., selfevident), in other words. This is distinct from glory or honor which, for example, following Nietzsche, must be won (i.e., it is a ‘truth’ which must be realized). But is pointing out the self-evidence of what we say sufficient to meet the question as to whether it is better for us to live by these prejudices? Conversely, is it the sign of a quarrelsome or perverse nature to argue that it is not enough? Indeed, for Pinker this must be a sign which points back to ourselves. For self-evidence is not and cannot be a-personal, but is only evident to those, by Pinker’s estimation, of good character (i.e., the modern rationalist). Following Pinker, though, this character is itself realized a-personally. For this, according to Pinker, is a character which has been formed over time (and not by us as such). Our good character is not then merely a quirk of our natures, but is the natural evolution and realization of our own potential. Since, for Pinker, what we believe is sanctified by the self-evidence of what we have become – more peaceable and so forth – we can automatically discount the self-indulgences of someone like Nietzsche. For the prejudices of modern science are obviously better. This is because we are naturally better people, and so, finally, can directly distinguish the better

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from the worse. The universal truth is the truth of our evolved biology (as disclosed by neuroscience and other psychological sciences – see 18); the political perspectives associated with this, its consequence. But if this is merely a general preference of peace to war, of reasonable debate to a good beating, of domestic negotiation to domestic violence, then we would be making nothing more than a quantitative distinction. With this, it could not be said that modern science is co-extensive with this self-evidence; rather, the most that could be said is that for more people, it would only seem to be self-evident. For, by these terms, what is understood as being self-evident has, for most people, become a common prejudice. Still, is not ‘seeming,’ in this case, all that’s required? For aren’t the ‘results’ the same, no matter if one has come to an understanding of something, or if one simply follows it conventionally? Or does such a way of thinking – a self-evident prejudice – not mean that we would necessarily misunderstand violence (because we could not understand ourselves)? And if so, does this not mean that even the scientist is caught in the divide between ‘seeming’ and ‘understanding,’ without so recognizing it? Indeed, the scientist, because he or she is the epitome of a transcending abstraction, would most suffer the consequences of this no-man’s perspective; a perspective in which our own demonic natures must be ignored. Necessarily ignored in fact, for it is in this ignorance that we are elevated to the dream-land of the innocents – to our ‘better natures,’ as Pinker puts it. On the other side of the coin, we might well wonder whether a return to ourselves would entail the violence of the ‘overman,’ as generally endorsed by Nietzsche? For without the innocence of angels we could, it seems, only lose ourselves in the chthonian depths of the beast. With only these two ways open to us – the way of either self-realization or self-abnegation – we can see that what each share is defined by how we understand what we are. ‘What we are’ is defined according to – depending on how one sees it – the liberating or enervating quality of transcendence. The path to ourselves and away from ourselves is, by these accounts, determined by, or in reaction to, the potential/impotence of a mathematical rationalism. Either we must create what would be denied by this rationalism, or we must immerse, and thereby lose ourselves, in it. Since, in either case, ‘desiring’ is distinct from ‘knowing’ – as knowing is here equated with rationality – each lack the possibility that we could understand ourselves. What we know is always a denial of who we are. This problem, the problem of self-knowledge, cannot merely be sidestepped by Pinker: as a partisan of the reasonable over the chthonian, he must rise to the challenge of his own arguments. To bring to light the self-indulgence of Nietzsche’s claim (while acknowledging, also, his subtlety) would thus seem to require an understanding of ourselves over and above that of a self-evident prejudice, redeemed quantitatively.

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I am not saying that we cannot tell whether the statement that we desire to live in peace (and not at war) is reasonable or not. Of course it is, and of course we do. It is evident to all those who have reflected on the difference between a decent and an impoverished life. But if we assume it to be selfevident in itself, then it is empty; which is to say that we do not and need not understand it. 2 In not needing to understand anything of ourselves, except what has transpired historically, we would concede that we need not understand what is political, for this (the political) is nothing more than an illusion which will inevitably fall to universal enlightenment. And yet, ironically, the truth realized in this way, could be nothing other than political. It would ‘transcend’ politics only insofar as it resolves the contradictions (i.e., absence of unity) within the political itself. Such a resolution – as the absolute political solution – is itself the dream, or the end, of political desire (no matter where one sits politically). The moderation of this political desire may well fall to science, but this science only remains a science if, with it, we can identify this dream of politics as it is. Unable to do this, such a science is itself subordinate to the dream. Pinker’s science cannot do this. For sure, Pinker’s science was made possible by the entry of philosophy (or the love of wisdom) into political life. But to equate our liberation with the demise of this mode of truth-seeking is, of course, saying nothing more than that philosophy is equivalent to ideology, or the not-yet-universal. What was introduced into political life was but merely a seed, which has now grown, and, along the way, rightfully (or naturally) relinquished the flesh around which it was sustained in the early years. Since there is no guarantee that the entry of philosophy into political life will not end in ideology, the safest or most cautious option is to ensure that the seed remains forever fleshless. The safest option is to jettison what could be politically partial, or personally tainted. With this jettisoned, the dream of politics is realized, since it has been transformed into science. With this in mind, we might wonder whether the universalization of people, to make them a ‘public,’ or to reconstruct the political as the scientific, is itself tantamount to the dissolution of violence. 3 This is a liberal argument, in which politics is understood as nothing other than violence. It follows that the expulsion of politics is liberation, insofar as liberation is equated with peace. The question of politics is, therefore, also the question of what we have become, of what we are now. We might then ask the question of ourselves: are we the ‘last men’ or the ‘first angels’ (following Nietzsche’s and Pinker’s terminology)? Did Nietzsche see us more clearly, or does Pinker? But – another possibility – aren’t we both? Could we not, then, describe the ‘angelic’ as the historical unfolding of philosophy, in which culminates the ‘last man’? The ‘last man’ arises when philosophy has been left behind, because realized universally. As the ‘last men,’ we exemplify something of the fear of the threat of violence – the fear that the emergence of philosophy

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in time is the appearance of ideology. And yet, in this desire for transcendence, we might be described as ‘angelic’ – followers of philosophy only when sanctified as science. This is our divine wisdom. Since, however, the ‘angelic’ and the ‘last men’ are both creatures of the eternal, and so are, thereby, an illusory realization of philosophy, neither can lay claim to describing who or what we are. Each is rooted in fear, one noble and the other base: the fear of our brutishness on one hand, and, on the other, the fear of ourselves. This fear is self-perpetuating. For with the continuing uptake by the people of a public-forming philosophy, philosophy (as still yet a private desire) is itself seen to be ever more threatening qua violence. This is fodder for the rise of the ‘last man’; for our noble reaction to the threat of violence is to extirpate it. The extirpation of philosophy in contemporary times is, therefore, a noble reaction which would tend to undermine its own nobility. The ‘last man’ is a consequence of this undermining, for with the extirpation of philosophy, we also extirpate ourselves. In sum, if science is seen to be the just political solution to our greatest fear, which is the fear of violence rooted in ignorance, then in misunderstanding ignorance we subsequently misunderstand violence, and so are unable to recognize that which we seek. The angels, it would seem, are blind. And yet: the fact that violence may have decreased with the emergence of philosophy is the other side of the coin. 4 In general, we have been placated with our liberation, with the rationality associated with philosophy. This surely is a good thing, but not of course unqualifiedly so (contra Pinker) – as if somehow with more of the same we will have perfected ourselves. For the other side of rationality is romance (see the writings of Marquis de Sade, for a dark example). Pinker himself is a romantic optimist. Pinker mistakes his prejudices for the truth, for Pinker confuses ourselves with rationality. But rationality is merely a part of our nature, or the part by which we are liberated from ourselves – the result being a placidity, but also an emptiness, and thereby a propensity for abstract and existential violence. 5 None of this is to say that we must give up on science, or the liberation from ourselves which it entails. What I am saying is that we need to understand it, which necessarily means a return to ourselves. Even if we argue that there is no need, the question remains: what of us? For in not having to understand who we are, we must already assume that our goodness is anterior to this understanding; as Pinker understands it to be – built into our nature, as it were. But this presupposes an understanding of who we are. For even if we argue that there is an innate goodness which arises with the transcendence of ourselves (as does Pinker), we must determine whether this is disclosed by or originates in revelation, biology, or philosophy. Wherever we end, this determination is co-extensive with what we understand of ourselves, and our own understanding.

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Since the biological understanding is unable to stand by itself, we would require either revelation or philosophy to uncover its meaning. If we discount revelation or theism, we are left with the accidental entry of philosophy into the world, and its transformation into modern science. It is not tied up with who we are, but is merely a part of our biological make-up, as realized historically – it happened despite us. And so we end where we began, simply because by this understanding (if we can call it that), we are distinct from what we could understand of ourselves. Indeed, to understand this ‘nothing that we are’ must be tantamount to revelation. We can see here that there is some parallel between the theistic account and the biological. The difference is a matter of comprehension – theism accounts for the whole of understanding, while the biological accounts for none of it. According to the biological account, the most we can say is that our diminishing desire for violence is merely an accident of some deeper biological desire, of which we could not understand without revelation. The self-evidence of what Pinker is saying is, thereby, akin to revelation without understanding, which is to say that it is revealed only to those who would have given up on understanding, simply because understanding could only ever be revelation. In equating revelation with understanding, Pinker must both deny it and hold fast to it, if he is to know what he is saying. What is revealed to Pinker is only what he has become in other words, and this he must find salutary. And here was can see that only Hegel understands what must be thought, in order to claim what Pinker does. There is no turning away from the task presupposed by philosophy, in other words. BACK TO THE BEGINNING We must return to our own understanding, comprehensive in a Hegelian sense, if it is to account for the political; keeping in mind the distinction between scientific system-building and the desire which underlies it. Which is to say that any comprehensive return must start where it ends – at the beginning – and should take neither the rational and retrograde step of returning to the beginning of all beginnings, nor the myopic path of empiricism. This, I take it, might only be realized with a return to the everyday. Only by this return can we understand what we are, and, in this way, reconcile politics and science according to their own limits. It is only in everyday life that the truth of what we are is disclosed. Under this comprehensive understanding, which is to understand the possibility of our own experience, we would come to see the proper place of universal and mathematical reason, and thereby come to understand the limits of the state. Our execution of the truth would be justly executed, in other words.

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This is to understand the state as a limited institution, because it does not exemplify what is true, and yet, still, we might justify its existence (i.e., as the institutionalized exemplification of self-interest partially transcended). As I am suggesting, this only makes sense if we come to understand truth by way of the everyday, which is to say, as disclosed not in the transcendence of politics, but from within it. In this, I will argue, we can understand the just distinction between our institutions of universal education and the state. We will also be provided some guidance to the education of the executive (and in particular those bureaucrats who would develop social policy), and, thereby, we’ll be in a better position to define what is its rightful political responsibilities. But first, I will have a little more to say about what it is to understand ourselves, and not just as political creations of our own making (as per social science and its reactionaries). This is not merely a pragmatic or useful understanding, but an understanding realized in its comprehensiveness. In this, we presuppose the goodness of understanding itself (i.e., not just as a condition for something else). Revealed to us, in this comprehensiveness, is the corruption of a liberating truth misrecognized. This corruption, as I have been arguing, has political consequences; in our times, most urgently, as the execution of truth. AN EVERYDAY RETURN Any call to return to the everyday cannot but bring to mind Ludwig Wittgenstein, and those of his followers, such as Stanley Cavell, who take up his cause in the name of ‘ordinary language philosophy.’ This understanding of the everyday might be distinguished from the work of someone such as Hilary Putnam, who approaches comprehensiveness under a more pragmatic spirit; that is, following what he sees as the incontrovertible union of facts and values. I will briefly discuss both of these approaches to the everyday, beginning with Wittgenstein and his followers. Wittgenstein (the later) begins with the problems which arise when we attempt to out-run, or depart from, our everyday or ordinary ways. Although this departure, to metaphysics or mathematics for example, might present itself as a refinement of the everyday, it is already rooted in confusion, according to Wittgenstein. For in departing from what we already understand of the world, we would sever or disconnect our means of understanding – that is, by way of language – from its roots in everyday life. So severed, our language dies, and from this corpse arises, phoenix-like, problems which we mistakenly attribute to the structure of everyday life itself: ‘The confusions which occupy us arise when language is like an engine idling, not when it is doing work’ (Wittgenstein 1997, 1.132).

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Bringing words back to life (re-embodying them, as it were), and in this way revealing the absurdities of those (such as the metaphysicians and analysts) who would depart from the everyday, Wittgenstein makes much use of ‘language games.’ Using these games, Wittgenstein shows that there is no substratum to which we might safely flee. No such thing exists, for substrata are meaningful only from the perspective of that by which they (claim to) support – that is, everyday life. The everyday shows up the nonsense of the analytical philosophers, because it is the everyday in which they are embroiled, even as they seek to flee it. They flee not into an everyday life purified, but into what has been abstracted from it, in other words. In so departing, the analysts and metaphysicians are akin to purveyors of private pleasures – decadents, in short. To show this, though, Wittgenstein must himself abstract from the everyday (hence the ‘language-games’); for it is not the everyday simpliciter which shows up the nonsense of the analytical philosophers, but the difference between the origins of the everyday as every day and those origins conceived of by the analysts. What I mean by this is that Wittgenstein seeks those origins of the everyday in which it must make sense. In this, the everyday is shown to be without nonsense, for even ‘nonsense’ is accounted for by its origins as the embodiment of some form of life. Whatsoever is meaningful is meaningful to at least someone, somewhere, somehow. Nonsense arises only when we depart from these origins. Philosophical problems are, thereby, a misunderstanding of what we ordinarily do. We can see here Wittgenstein’s transcendence of political life. For the everyday, if it is to serve as a standard against which we can identify problems which are inherently irresolvable, must itself be free of contradiction, when approached from the proper philosophical perspective. If not, then there would be some possibility of a philosophical resolution from within the everyday, thereby contradicting its ‘everydayness.’ This ‘proper’ philosophical perspective would, thereby, tend to idealize the everyday, even as it seeks to uncover it. What I mean is that it would transform the everyday into an artefact of the philosopher’s desire for completeness, which precludes even the necessity for philosophy (see Wittgenstein 1997, 1.133). The everyday would be philosophically justified, only when politically eviscerated, in other words. Which is to say that the everyday would be justified only when all political differences can be accounted for by the everyday. The ineffability of the everyday, combined with its thoroughgoing familiarity, or the disjunction and unity of surface and depth which gives rise to our varied theoretical (or otherwise) interpretations of it, and, thereby, both comprehensive and limited understandings of the everyday, must be counted, as at bottom, fabrications. Whether these fabrications are true or not is irrelevant, what counts is how well they serve us, how well they help us to get by, given our way of life. We lose our way when understanding our fabrications as more than this. For the

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everyday is, simply put, no problem as it is. Fundamentally unproblematic: this, I hold, is the ascetic philosopher’s version of the everyday. In sum, the everyday that Wittgenstein would return us to might resolve all philosophical problems, but in so doing it would transform life into the perfect ‘language game,’ as it were, playable only by eternal innocents. What I have been arguing is pertinent to any political appropriation of Wittgenstein’s understanding. As one follower of Wittgenstein puts it: ‘Taking my bearings from Wittgenstein, I assert that our allegiance to democratic values and institutions is not based on their superior rationality and that liberal democratic principles can be defended only as being constitutive of our form of life’ (Mouffe 2005, 121). According to this account, a ‘form of life’ is not merely some practice or activity (see Wittgenstein 1997, 1.23), but entails also a political commitment as realized historically. But this, according to Wittgenstein, would be saying too much. For the concept ‘forms of life’ is, in the end, empty, except for those who would play this game; and this is a game which would return us to the everyday. If we were to justify our commitments as a certain ‘form of life,’ as constitutive of our way of life, then our defense would not be philosophical, as per Wittgenstein’s, but merely political. We would be transcending the everyday, to justify our particular understanding of it – much as the metaphysicians attempted (see e.g., Wittgenstein 1997, 1.81). This is surely a misappropriation (but not wholesale) of Wittgenstein’s thought. For Mouffe (2005; see also 2000, 60–79) perverts Wittgenstein’s ‘forms of life’ in order that they might count for something; as ciphers in a hyper-democratic politics. In attempting to honor theory in the face of its dissolution by Wittgenstein (see e.g., Wittgenstein 1998, 1.723), the results are perverse. Hence, what remain are mere assertions (see the above quote), to be resolved politically. Mouffe disregards Wittgenstein’s separation of theory and politics and their resolution; for Wittgenstein would put things right (e.g., Wittgenstein 1998a, 1.44) and leave everything as is (see e.g., Wittgenstein 1993, 1.77). With this arises a disjunction between our understanding of the ‘form’ of the everyday and its significance as lived. This, as Wittgenstein points out, is only resolved with our return to it; if not with this return, the everyday is a utopia (see e.g., Wittgenstein 1998a, 7.26). His is, thereby, therapy for someone such as Mouffe, who remains stuck in the contradictions of someone like Lasswell (replacing Lasswell’s psychic whole with ‘forms of life’). For Wittgenstein (1998b) judges the life lived simply and honestly the best way of life: Our civilization is characterized by the word progress. Progress is its form, it is not one of its properties that it makes progress. Typically it constructs. Its activity is to construct a more and more complicated structure. And even clarity is only a means to this end and not an end in itself. For me on the

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Chapter 7 contrary clarity, transparency, is an end in itself. I am not interested in erecting a building but in having the foundations of possible buildings transparently before me. So I am aiming at something different than are the scientists and my thoughts move differently than do theirs . . . I might say: if the place I want to reach could only be climbed up to by a ladder, I would give up trying to get there. For the place to which I really have to go is one that I must actually be at already. Anything that can be reached with a ladder does not interest me. (9–10)

Nonetheless, we strike an ambiguity. For with the strict separation of philosophy (as either the flight to science or as the path of our return) and everyday political life, as Wittgenstein proposes, any understanding in which we ourselves figure is, on one hand, wholly arbitrary, and, on the other, simply a given – ‘intuition [is] an unnecessary shuffle’ (Wittgenstein 1997, 1.213). What we are is who we are; to seek out anything further (as truth) is a sign of decadence. The political consequence of this is that philosophy or truth might only play a part in everyday political life if it undercuts those who might imagine that their understanding could in some way transcend it. As Robinson (2011, 25) puts it: ‘If what might count as theory is a claim about the conventional and provisional nature of linguistic reality, then Wittgenstein has a theory and is a theorist.’ It might seem from this quote that Wittgenstein could be put to work as a political theorist. But Wittgenstein’s is, I think, a negative theology, as it were. Theory is what remains, after we see that it cannot exist. Theory is, and can only be, a return to the everyday, in other words. With such a return I am in sympathy, but not with what we would return to. As I have been describing, Wittgenstein’s understanding of the everyday strikes me as reactionary, because it is defined already by this lack of theory so understood. In throwing the baby out with the bath water, Wittgenstein cannot account for any philosophical desire from within the everyday. The upshot of this is that philosophy could not arise in the polis, except on the coattails of the decadent scientists and metaphysicians. The everyday to which philosophy would return us thereby presents itself as an inversion of this decadence – it would be philosophically ascetic, and, for this reason, could not account for the everyday. Wittgenstein cannot fully understand who we are, in other words, because he must find his way back into an everyday animated only by what was previously anesthetised by the scientific philosophers. This emaciated understanding of the everyday is exemplified in Robinson’s (2011) book Wittgenstein and Political Theory: In the language-game of theorizing, justice is a matter of casting out entrapments and traversing grounds around obstacles. It is to find the good and the beautiful in the ordinary; it is to countenance injustice on the plane in which it

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occurs and to remind others of its conventionality. Finally, it is to resist the impulse to turn inward or upward when faced with whatever ugliness and horrors exist in political life today. The immanent theorist’s response must be to look and describe. (41)

Translated into everyday language, what this means is that the academic political theorist should discard his or her political theories, set things right while convincing others of their confusion, and, as a ‘metaphysically-inclined therapeutic journalist,’ jot down what he or she has seen. This sounds very much like a Don Quixote hoodwinked not by his chivalrous desire, but by the possibilities of his science. He sees windmills not as giants, but as images of others’ confusion. This latter-day, self-conscious Quixote believes that all except him are tilting at windmills, for he sees the confusion on which they’re erected. Surely this is to enter the everyday in the wrong way. The academic political theorist – following Robinson – does not return to the everyday as an everyday person, but maintains the persona of the ‘political theorist’ – as intellectual liberator, informer, sage, and so forth. Which is to say that he remains who he is, even while this persona (following Wittgenstein) is shown to be based on a false understanding. This follows the ambiguity in Wittgenstein’s own position: philosophy is only legitimate as a correction to intellectual decadence – but how to distinguish between what in the everyday truly requires correction and what not? By turning a blind eye, this correction might thereby be extended to cover, potentially, any aspect of everyday life, and not just metaphysical abstractions. And so what is believed to be the just separation of politics and the everyday, is played out in arguments over whether Wittgenstein was a conservative or radical (see Robinson 2011, 87–114), whether he was seeking to change life or leave it as it is. If he is seen to be a radical, then his philosophical approach might be applied to everyday life, in order to transform it. Which is to say that the highest or best form of life is that of the antimetaphysician, in the guise of the political reformer. Such a position presupposes that all forms of life are potentially rooted in metaphysical abstraction. However, if only the decadent scientists follow the language game of metaphysics, then it is only they who would require reformation, and so it is only relative to them that this (anti-metaphysical) language game is best. Wittgenstein’s approach would apply only in these cases, in other words. It is only here that it would be authoritative. We see once again the ambiguity. For there is some broad ‘pre-assumed’ understanding to all forms of life, insofar as any form of life is not itself isolated, but is presupposed by what we esteem of it – the significance to us of our own conventional ways of acting cannot be simply reduced to these conventions, in other words (it just takes the right questions – as the Platonic dialogues make clear). This does not necessarily make them metaphysical abstractions, however; for in coming to

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defend a particular way of life, we betray something of what we must understand of the nature of human beings (and not metaphysics). How then to distinguish a metaphysical abstraction – following the analytical philosophers – from forms of life justified from within everyday life? The radical position would tend to view all such justifications as misrecognized conventions, and thereby place the anti-metaphysical theorist in the prime political position. In recognizing that Wittgenstein was a conservative, by contrast, we separate his approach from political life, because we agree with him that on questions beyond the purview of scientific or mathematical abstraction we are in no position to judge (qua anti-metaphysician). Rather, we return to the everyday, not in the guise of the anti-metaphysician, but simply as any other person (who speaks and acts). Since Wittgenstein sought to revolutionize philosophy in order to retain the everyday, he was at the same time both radical and conservative. His radicalism we see in his departure from and return to the everyday; his conservatism is reflected in his understanding of what must hold in order for the everyday to be. To favor one or the other is to pervert both his understanding of metaphysics and his understanding of the everyday. But to remain with Wittgenstein (as I have briefly been arguing) is to pass over the ambiguity which arises with his separation of philosophy and everyday political life. We can see the root of this ambiguity in the irony which must remain lost on those who debate his politics: why did they not simply apply his philosophical approach to resolve it? For this is how Wittgenstein himself should proceed given that this confusion is, ostensibly, rooted in the metalanguage of the everyday. But this is senseless, precisely because there is no convention or form of life to which we might defer. The reason that Wittgenstein’s own approach couldn’t be used to solve this dilemma is that it is a question of ‘what to be?’ It is a question which only Wittgenstein could resolve, according to his understanding of what we, as humans, are. This understanding is denied by Wittgenstein, however, for by his approach there is nothing to understand in this way: in acting, life continues (see e.g., Wittgenstein 1998: 1.875). Since we cannot rightly re-enter the everyday via Wittgenstein, without also having some understanding of what we are, we must surpass Wittgenstein (to realize what he desires). On the other side of the everyday is someone such as Hilary Putnam who, much as Dewey before him (see e.g., Putnam 2002, 9–11), would retain the everyday as a political creation (see Putnam 2002, 34, 45). Contra Wittgenstein, Putnam seeks the everyday in the future (and not by way of the past, as a return to the present). This is a radical understanding, which finds its limit in democracy. For the truth of our values (what Putnam means by overcoming the fact/value dichotomy) is sanctified by what we are capable of doing – ‘to investigate and discuss and try things out cooperatively, democratically, and above all fallibalistically’ (2002, 45; c.f., 91). Truth is practice, and

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theory is political, in other words. Radical is the mastery afforded us by theory; conservative the practical limitations of coordinated action. As with Wittgenstein, the everyday, according to Putnam (2002), is coherent from within; it needs no metaphysical support (see his critique of Rorty – 98–101). Given the comprehensiveness and self-sufficiency of the everyday, it is this to which Putnam defers in order to overcome the distinction between facts and values. He first approaches the everyday empirically, showing that we must have already distinguished, and decided upon, what is valuable, even as we imagine otherwise: The realization that so much of our descriptive language is a living counterexample to both (classical empiricist and logical positivist) pictures of the realm of ‘fact’ ought to shake the confidence of anyone who supposes that there is a notion of fact that contrasts neatly and absolutely with the notion of ‘value’ supposedly invoked in talk of the nature of all ‘value judgements’ [italics in original]. (Putnam 2002, 26; see also 31–32)

If the everyday is the ground of our values, then the truth of these arises pragmatically. The everyday is a fact, in other words, through which we can see that facts themselves are valued. However, we can also see that it is only in a certain sort of future that we might distinguish true from false values. For without some other ideal to which we could defer, which is to say the ideal of fallibility (and its associated conditions), we could not judge one value over another. To work toward realizing the truth of values is, thereby, also a political mandate to establish those conditions under which their truth might be realized (in the future). It is not the everyday in which the truth of values might be realized, therefore, but only some political construction of it. This political construction is itself only valued because of an empirical understanding of the everyday, an understanding in which values show themselves to be no more than facts. And hence their truth as values cannot be approached from within, but only from outside – they are relegated to the future. The political revelation of the truth of these values must, therefore, if it is to honor the factual as such, show that they remain unfalsified under the maximum number of conditions. What I mean is that the truth of these values would be equivalent to their utility, but only if realized democratically (Putnam 2002, 44). The political conditions under which this might be achieved is not itself counted as a value, therefore, but more like a fact of the everyday world of facts. What follows from this is that we are never in the everyday, for the everyday is either a fact of the past, or a value yet to be realized. Putnam cannot understand the everyday, therefore, except to resolve, on these same terms, the practical dilemma at the heart of the modern scientific misunderstanding. For politics is equated by him with the Petri dish of unlimited conditions, in which the value of modern science is realized in its universal

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applicability (see Putnam 2002, 110). At the end of it all, we remain homeless, except as political masterminds of a truth which can only exist with full agreement that it cannot, for otherwise the conditions under which it might arise would be lacking. Rather, truth arises only in replication, such that, we must conclude, it is only fully revealed when all moments, in repetition, are the same. The everyday is, thereby, in truth, an unreal construction. It is necessarily an everyday without us. And without us, it is an everyday lacking the present, for the present exists only if we inhabit it. And with this we return to the second chapter simply because there is no truth to the everyday, but merely a truth waiting to be constructed (and identified with universal agreement). This leads to Dewey, and to the state as Leviathan (see chapter 4). Indeed, it is to Dewey that Putnam returns (see Putnam 2002), and it is to Dewey, with his desire to retain the whole of experience, that we might return. This, though, as we’ve seen, is to return to an everyday from which we have already been abstracted. For the desire to return is not equivalent to the desire that led us beyond ordinary everyday experience. In returning, we encounter the demos, and so must, by necessity, fortify our philosophical position. For even if it was a private or embodied desire which led us beyond the ordinary, it is only by way of public desire (or permission) that we might return, without jettisoning altogether the distinction between philosophy and the public (in which philosophy must remain outside of the public). In this, we return in abstraction, or as the friend of all political positions (other than those which would undermine our own). And so the everyday cannot but be understood politically, for it is only as a political friend of all that philosophy might be eternally favored. But this is no victory; for with this, there is no possibility that the everyday could be understood. With a political understanding of the everyday, truth (as the means of our return) is radicalized, only to be realized, as itself, as true – in its execution. And this, as we’ve seen, would result in administration. For truth might only be thoroughly executed by its own rules: to execute truth requires that we ourselves do not desire it. In our return to the everyday, without thereby entering into it, the limits of an executed truth remain forever beyond us. We should not, thereby, consider a return to the everyday as re-entry, for in returning we realize that we have never left it. To return to the everyday we must move further into it, in other words. It is the everyday which will reveal the truth to us, and so it is only in the everyday that we might, as Stanley Rosen puts it, come to some extraordinary understanding of it. Only in the everyday, if anywhere, are politics and truth justly realized. According to Rosen (2002, 301–2), ‘we have lost touch with the everyday, and we are therefore compelled to laboriously reconstitute it by abstract methodologies that are intrinsically unsuited to the task. . . . We live in an age that is at once satiated by and starved for theory.’ With our ostensible

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transcendence of the everyday, and any return to it thwarted by the way of this transcendence, we seek what is forever slipping away. Our thirst for theory, and its oversupply, is a sign of its lack of nourishment. Theory lacks nourishment because it has been abstracted from the everyday. Only the everyday can provide this nourishment, because in it, as Rosen (2002, 260–61) argues, we see directly ‘the goodness of reason.’ Only from within the everyday is reason intelligible. For, according to Rosen (2002, 233), everyday experience provides us with the only reliable basis from which to begin our philosophical reflections. But it does so as the source of extraordinary or philosophical speech, not as a distinct and paradigmatic use of language. Our talk about the substances or things that occur within, or constitute, ordinary or everyday experience is therefore philosophical from the outset. Philosophy is accordingly the process of explaining how extraordinary modes of discourse are demanded for an adequate understanding of the ordinary.

Only from within the everyday, and with an understanding of the ordinary, can we come to judge with some insight the necessity of extraordinary speech. Only as extraordinary speech could we make a judgment of truth. Similarly, only with this would we find nourishment in theory. If it is with our extraordinary emergence from within the ordinary that we realise the goodness of theory, then it is by way of the everyday that we come to understand what we are. In this, as Rosen states, philosophy is already a part of our own experience: Ordinary experience includes the understanding of mistakes and limitations as well as of successes and powers. It provides us with fundamental ends, but not with an absolute ordering of those ends, and certainly not with a deductive demonstration of the completeness of any enumeration of those ends. Ordinary experience is not a first principle; it is just ourselves, that is to say, the speeches and deeds with which we exhibit the regularity that underlies and encompasses our pursuit of the ordinary. (1999, 223–24) I would never claim that only philosophers live the good life, or conversely, that in order to live the good life, one must be a philosopher in the full sense of the term. What I rather claim is that the good life always participates in philosophy. We are all philosophical by nature in the sense that we aspire to wisdom and need the love of wisdom in order to guide and regulate our desires. (1999, 232)

This return to the everyday is of utmost importance for the executive. As Rosen (2002, 220–21) says: The possibility of philosophy thus rests within the obscure region in which common sense and technē cooperate as distinguishable if not completely separate elements. The question is whether our primary sense of truth is more like

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Indeed, if the escape from ourselves is an escape to technē (as we saw in the chapter on Lasswell), and the executive would in this way exemplify this escape, then we would say that in seeking the truth, those who occupy these institutions would seek to exemplify the roles which occupy them (as presented in the chapter on Hegel). In returning to ourselves, therefore, we would not simply give up on this occupation, but come to see it for what it is. Theoretical desire, in other words, would not be inflamed by the lure of technē but by the lure of the ordinary, and what is extraordinarily revealed by it. Technical practice would come to be limited by what renders it significant, in other words. In the following chapter I consider the implications of this in practice, as well as the possible consequences for public policy, given the reorientation from a social scientific outlook to a philosophical understanding of the everyday. NOTES 1. And here the ‘subterranean’ connection with Nietzsche. 2. For example, when we say that it is good to eat food, we state what is self-evident. There is no need for us to ‘understand’ it any further. For we all, no matter what, eat food. ‘Understanding’ what we are doing (if, say, according to biology) makes no difference, as eating food is necessary. This is what makes it both self-evident and empty (we need only ask our stomach). 3. C.f., Schmitt (1985), who from the other side would agree: politics is substantiated in violence. 4. Assuming that Pinker’s statistics are generally correct. 5. Indeed, violence has become amorphous, random, and voyeuristic. It has become art, or representational. This is violence without discipline. And so depression is now pervasive; as is ‘mental illness,’ suicide, and so forth. Violence has become existential, or has been turned inward. Given the movement from the inter-personal to the intra-personal, all else being equal, the former will always exceed the latter in quantity. With our liberation, therefore, violence may well have reduced quantitatively, but possibly not otherwise. Still, this would be enough for Pinker to take it as being a good thing, for hate (or our thirst for blood) has been replaced with its dramatic shadow: we might still approve of the spectacle of violence, but we can only stomach it as an abstract spectacle – there is a big difference between a public lynching and the violence of computer games, for example.

Chapter Eight

Conclusion Theory in Practice

I argued at the beginning of this book that an aspiring-to-be apolitical activism is progressively shaping contemporary Western politics. Under this aspiration the social sciences step forth as a leading player; for their value lies in their utility. They would stand in stark contrast, by their own estimation, to political self-interest, and would, thereby, better define than political actors themselves what is a political problem. In transcending politics, in other words, they would attain their political usefulness. As I argued, though, if only politically do the social sciences attain legitimacy then this puts them in a difficult position. This difficulty is further compounded if we turn our attention from what social scientists do, to what they must find meaningful in this endeavor. For if, by their own estimation, what social scientists could find truly meaningful might only be realized as practicing social scientists, then the problem gets a whole lot deeper. As I held, this self-perpetuation of meaning-seeking and legitimacy-pursuing leads to the broad political problems we now face: a ‘perfect storm’ of impartial political activism, and the associated reactions to this. I turned to the debates (in the academic policy science discipline) over scientific and political legitimacy to uncover the terms of this problem. As I showed, what would drive these debates is the desire to expunge any unacknowledged partiality of our own understanding (be that theoretical or practical). Only with this, so it is assumed, might we overcome once and for all our own ignorance, and so speak with an enlightened and politically relevant authority. But with this reconciliation of politics and science their mutual disdain for each other is exposed. For a resolution is scientific only if politics is transformed into sociology, economics, psychology, or some other social 179

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science; and politically aware only if these are themselves seen as merely the partial perspectives of one among many. As I showed, if the social sciences are to be counted as legitimate because they transcend the partial political interests of the ignorant – that is, they are entitled to transcend these interests because of what they are (they are not just a more efficient means of satisfying any political position) – then any explication of their own legitimacy must be accompanied by an ever decreasing separation from politics. This is because politics and its transcendence are, according to science, politically equivalent (as any ‘group’ – scientific or non-scientific – might be reduced to the practices or ‘knowledge’ which precedes it). The expansion of science thereby illuminates the shadow of politics, and would, so it follows, expose the political impetus of all prior scientific understanding. In the end, this would hold for the social scientists themselves: whatever they could understand is always political, or inherently so. I argued that in seeking their political legitimacy the social sciences would undermine it. The only resolution to this dilemma, on these terms, is the encouragement of active bureaucratic practice, or the elevation of state executive action. The political infection of theory is cured with the salve of apolitical practice. Herein, science and politics are united. But the cure is merely another symptom of the disease – namely, a misunderstanding of theory and practice. As I suggested, this misunderstanding calls out for deeper consideration. Such a consideration might only be accomplished on more comprehensive terrain. In seeking this, as I argued, we move closer to what is the perennial problem posed by truth to politics. In moving closer to the perennial problem we delve into what could be understood of human political experience. I sought out this understanding, and its attendant difficulties, with an exploration of the writings of Harold Lasswell, John Dewey, Max Weber, and Georg Hegel. Drawing on what these thinkers had to say, and what I thought deficient, I argued that the perennial problem is resolved only in a comprehensive knowledge, a knowledge in which we ourselves are accounted for. This, as Hegel, argues is a rational self-knowledge. Only with such self-knowledge could we count ourselves as free, and thereby reconcile truth with the broadly political questions about what is good or valuable. The price, though, is our acceptance of Hegel’s dialectical and speculative logic, insofar as we might ‘think God’s thoughts before creation.’ I argued that if we are unwilling to follow Hegel all the way, and count also as unsatisfactory – with their reformations of Hegel – the cautionary edicts of Weber and the progressively technical solutions of Dewey and Lasswell, then we must return to the everyday in order that we might understand ourselves (as human beings) and thereby approach what Hegel desired. Any comprehensive return should, then, take neither the rational and retrograde step of returning to the beginning of all beginnings (as with Hegel), nor the myopic path of empiricism (as does Pinker). Following a brief critique of two

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possible paths back to the everyday, that of Wittgenstein’s and Putnam’s, I suggested that to return to the everyday we must move further into it. It is the everyday which will reveal the truth to us, in other words, and so it is only in the everyday that we might, as Stanley Rosen puts it, come to some extraordinary understanding of it. STATE EXECUTION With this return we are in a position to consider the limits of a mathematical rationality, under the auspices of public policy. This consideration follows neither from the perspective of the detached observer, nor from that of the political pawn, but from within everyday life, wherein the possibility of more than merely a political understanding is fundamental to its coherence. It is this coherence by which a partial perspective is distinguished from the impartial, and a more comprehensive understanding from that which is wholly local, or in other respects limited (see Meckstroth 2012, 651). And if coherence is not satisfied with the all too easy promises of a mathematical rationalism, nor the empty, relative perspectives of localized politics, and yet would share in each of these, then we can only fully grasp the significance of what we are doing with a reflection on their limits. Such truth-seeking stands in contrast to ‘epic political theory’ as outlined by Wolin (1969). It would not take the form of ‘a symbolic picture of an ordered whole . . . [in order] to change the world itself’ (Wolin 1969, 1080). For with this poetic ordering of the whole, everyday life is transformed, both actually and potentially, into a political production. Because theory cannot be distinguished from poetry, the everyday loses its coherence, and so too any extraordinary or theoretical interpretation of it (c.f., Gunnell 1993, 273–74). By contrast, as I’m arguing, the extraordinary speech of theory is only revealed as extraordinary if the ordinary is more than what has been produced or fabricated. This extraordinary understanding is, then, simply the desire to understand ordinary experience as it is. If ordinary experience is nothing other than production then the very attempt to understand it is absurd. 1 For the desire to understand ordinary experience presupposes already a perspective not itself a product of this experience. To include ourselves in this experience means that we cannot reveal this fundamental desire under the paradigm of mathematics (for with this we are fabricated). In coming to understand the comprehensiveness of ordinary experience (which would include what would make this understanding significant) we expose the deepest regulations of experience, as well as what, on the surface, shows itself to us as desirable. 2 In practice, and by this understanding, the executive arm of government would best act from everyday professional experience (following the insti-

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tuted desire to act impartially and diligently) as constrained by the coherence of everyday experience broadly understood. The broader political implications of this are clear: if insight cannot arise solely in fabrication, then neither can the political good arise in the executive’s attempt to simulate insight by way of what might be produced impartially. Similarly, social scientific studies must be assessed not only according to their utility. Those cases where theory is unable to simulate insight, such as with regard to regulation by the state of capital markets (under the rubric of economics), do not concern us here, simply because it is not to the ordinary (in its most comprehensive sense) that we could look to ‘verify’ them – these views are not extraordinary, and not, thereby, properly theoretical. They are fashioned for the purposes of tampering with some prior construction. That the ordinary might be evoked in these speeches as support, however, or that economic-styled speech, for example, may itself aim at an extraordinary account of the ordinary is, of course, another matter. Marx comes to mind in the latter case, and aspects of microeconomics in the former. Whereas Marxism wears its politics on its sleeve, microeconomics would, as it were, leave it in the closet. Of course, microeconomics need not prevent what we might, or could, understand more deeply of everyday life; such as is the case of the ‘world-view’ behind the superficial policy of raising taxes on soft-drink for example, or, following behavioral economics, of making soft-drink less accessible on supermarket shelves. But since the state is a blunt instrument, and people learn how to accommodate themselves to it (and, what is more, come to some realization of the state’s motivations), more subtle or sophisticated techniques are required to compete with those already used privately or commercially. 3 In this case, we are blinded to the dissolving divide between commonsensical state practices and paternalism; for commercial interests merely stimulate desires which already exist, whereas the state must somehow thwart these or create them anew. The tools of the state, to keep up, must necessarily become ever more radical qua desire, 4 and in becoming more radical the everyday is subsumed under theoretical apprehension. Consider the current state fad of ‘nudging’ citizens (see Thaler and Sunstein 2008). This follows the above example insofar as it adheres to an economic or strictly self-interested and rational understanding of the choices that we should make, and seeks to bring these about using techniques derived from behavioral psychology. ‘Nudging’ engages with our ‘choice architecture’ (as it has been labeled), or the particular ways in which we go about making decisions. In so doing it would seek to iron out – from its perspective – corrupting ‘unconscious biases,’ in order that we might make better decisions. Both the state and the citizen are reformed under this program. For where the state would previously have carried on its business of relating to the public guided by what it judges as bureaucratically expedient, it now becomes conscious of how it is seen (or related to) from the perspective of

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the citizen. The state, therefore, becomes conscious of its own activities in the same way, and at the same time, as it would seek to enable citizens to become conscious of theirs. For the state (in good Hegelian fashion) seeks to realize what it takes to be good for citizens, by attempting to make them think in the same way as it. Since the state regards itself as the pinnacle of rational thought, obviously, then, this ‘schooling’ of citizens it regards not as paternalistic. Ideally, the state is merely helping to clear away for us what we’re unaware of, given our bad habits, or our unconscious biases. It is merely doing what we ourselves would have done if only we were aware of it. This is the ideal scenario, of course. In practice it is more likely that what was unconscious previously, or done as a matter of habit, remains unconscious still. And so our choices are made for us, as it were. This brings about the desired outcome (by way of behavioral or psychological manipulation), but it suffers from the charge of paternalism. Only a blunt rationality, it seems, would get around this. This is to steer clear of any utilitarian psychology. For as I outlined above, with the uptake by the state of utilitarian psychology – such as behavioral economics – it is already assumed that the state (insofar as it does not act paternalistically) might guide citizens in how to think, by appealing to the most utilitarian of desires, in order to frame what might be thought. A blunt rationality would forgo the appeal to desire, and so stop short of reforming citizens according to state based interests, or so one might assume. In line with this, Hausman and Welch (2010) believe that ‘rational persuasion is the ideal way for government to influence the behavior of citizens . . . only rational persuasion fully respects the sovereignty of the individual over his or her own choices’ (135). Here, Hausman and Welch mean ‘facts and valid arguments’ (130). We might wonder, though, whether with this regression toward the mean of neutrality, in merely taking the first step along the path of ‘nudging,’ does more slowly what the ‘nudgers,’ with their uptake of behavioral psychology, would accomplish more efficiently. For favoring ‘valid arguments’ as a means of persuasion shows already a disposition to live life in a certain way, a way of life which is understood to be potentially acceptable to all. No argument, according to this understanding, could be offered in support of halting the push toward a greater efficiency, as promoted by the ‘nudgers.’ For such a push seeks to itself make rationality politically palatable, or to engage with more than merely the calculating aspect of human nature. And here we find ourselves back at the problem of rationality and legitimacy, as outlined in chapter 2, and which, as we saw, flowed all the way through to its resolution in Hegel. The problem for the rationalists is that as a limited understanding of humanity it cannot be the ‘ideal’ case. There must be some more comprehensive ‘choice’ between state-derived rational arguments and arguments tied more broadly into ordinary life. Constrained by what follows from some

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distinction between the realm of the extraordinary and mere calculation (such as I mentioned above) we might navigate safely. But if unable to recognize the limits of calculation we would be unable to recognize the lives of others. For we honor the lives of others according to our understanding of the way in which human things are revealed truly. That is, we can only distinguish between impinging on others’ reasonableness, or otherwise, if we have first distinguished this for ourselves. If this is by way of a mathematical rationalism then no distinction can be made, other than by what is self-evident. Beyond the self-evident (which applies to both the means and the ends) this crude understanding, as we saw with Pinker (in the previous chapter), may be closer to no understanding at all. If it is only in recognizing ourselves that we can recognize others then it is from here that we must start. This is a matter of enquiring into our own unified understanding, as well as the multiplicities of human experience. The first is a philosophical questioning of the everyday, and the second a literary achievement. The important question is, then: how far can we transform the second into a mathematical or universal understanding? 5 With this, we must ask how far can it become a problem which the state could meaningfully resolve; in which, essentially, a unity is derived from multiplicity? We certainly cannot give a mathematical or universal answer to this. Rather, we must return to ourselves, for any answer we give is necessarily tied up with this first and most important question. In this, we would see that there is some distinction between the body and the psyche according to truth. Which is to say, that we might come to understand the difference between the regulations of the body from within the everyday (by which we discover the reliability of our techniques), and the significant regulations of the everyday (e.g., the appearance and disappearance of things; the desire which leads us to uncover what appears; and, the nature of what shows itself) by which we come to understand ourselves. With the doubt that arises with this separation, the zeal to transform the psyche into the body, or, what amounts to the same thing, into the universal psyche amenable to techniques of the body (by way of social psychology, for example), is limited. We might, for instance, question by these terms the difference between the thought behind a state tax on soft-drink and that which would ‘model’ the effect of a certain sort of education on employment attainment. The first question is more amenable to bureaucratic or ‘universal’ thinking, because the effect of drinking soft-drink is clear, and the political implications of drinking it are minimal. In coming to make this simple declaration we first considered its philosophical significance. Only after this consideration might we move to the pragmatic. That is, first we begin with what the state could be, and then to what the state could achieve (considering the difference between everyday life and the abstract rules which follow from a universal or technical understanding). In short, the

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limits of state-understanding, and its everyday practical potential, might only be understood if we begin with ourselves. This is the foundation to what Kane and Patapan (2006) 6 argue is the virtue lost to public administration – prudence, or Aristotelian phronēsis (rightly understood): Prudence is the virtue of practical wisdom. A truly prudent person judges thoughtfully and acts decisively, reconciling the demands of the most important with those of the most pressing. . . . Practical wisdom [is] a matter of personal character – specifically, a character that [has] been habituated to virtue and tempered by long and wide experience. (711–13)

Conversely, a mathematical rationalism, in which the guiding political virtue is realized as liberation, and in which truth is revealed in production (as with Dewey and Putnam) would, as I have argued, encourage the state to manufacture those conditions under which it would be realized. How far should this manufacture extend? According to a mathematical rationalism we cannot even approach this question. As an example, consider the increasing employment of algorithms in public life. These are used to calculate the probability of ‘outcomes’ based on a set of finite parameters, and these probabilities used to construct decisions (e.g., judicial-related) otherwise made by humans. Given what I have been arguing, we must assess these algorithms not only on their own terms, on some continuum of ‘successful outcome’ for example, but also – and most importantly – according to the everyday, in the deepest sense. Indeed, these two assessments might well be inversely related, such that as the ‘success’ of an algorithm increases, its integrity, judged according to the fecundity of the everyday, decreases. In any respect, the final assessment must be made under what is most comprehensive. Here we see that algorithms are successful because they remove the need for us to think through the everyday. They are efficient over the long-run because thought has been reduced to calculation. Denuded of all else, thought – as replaced by routine – meets the everyday not as it is, but as what might be repeated within it. As a repetition, the everyday is substituted by those parts which we hold to be self-evident, and these are unified (by way of their self-evidence, or their shared transparency) as sequence. This maintains the veneer of the everyday, but depth (or unity) is replaced with statistical or mathematical inevitability. What’s lost is the need for thought; and so, in principle, absent is the possibility of an extraordinary understanding. Absent this, absent the everyday and its call to exercise thought, surely it would not be too far from the truth to describe the effect of these algorithms as a self-induced amnesia. Another word for it is madness. By contrast, a comprehensive understanding of reason should make us pause to consider the broader implications. Which is to say that, more

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broadly, we might only conserve the limits of the state, or come to realize what are the real boundaries of a technical understanding, under a truth disclosed as more than mere production or mathematical construction. For with this we preserve the distinction between the state as political and the truth which might inform but could never found it. The problem, as I am arguing, is not with state intervention per se, but the deeper problem of how we understand politics and truth. Without addressing this, we are bound to misunderstand what we are, and so misconstrue why we do what we do. If addressing this results in less ‘nudging,’ or in less crafting by the state of desire, or in a greater reticence to employ algorithms, or in diminished motivation to transform citizens into quasi-social scientists, then we might well wonder what will be lost. Won’t commercial interest rule? Here, I think, we must consider, once again, the distinction between what might be employed by the state to execute the truth, and what is essentially a non-theoretical function. We should consider in this regard that the state has available to it both direct and indirect means of influence. Taxation is relatively indirect insofar as it operates at a distance, as it were. Behavioral psychology is more direct, or more intimate. Within behavioral psychology itself, moreover, we encounter a similar continuum: from the platitudinous presented as academically sanctified (e.g., sending people reminder notices to pay their bills) to the more intimate, such as prescriptions which rely on the psychology of marketing (e.g., influencing the behavior of citizens with appeals to what they might/should value). The closer we come to direct influence the more we might label this an execution of the truth. For the intimacy of persuasion is distinguished from the bluntness of state regulation by its more subtle (mis)understanding of human psychology. So too we must be wary of the wholly indirect, which, as with algorithms, would deny the psyche altogether. Rather, the state has available to it means to counter the triumph of invidious commercialism, means which lie within the extremes of the direct and the indirect. These means may be less efficient (such as commercially applied regulation), but, they are, following the arguments I have presented here, less dangerous. For them to be recognized as such, we must at least be aware of the distinction between state and person, and this distinction hinges on our understanding of politics and truth. Following through with this would, of course, diminish our expectations of the state executive. It would also reorientate the relationship of the state to academia; a relationship that would be founded not on production, but on the shared irrelevance and unavoidable significance of practice in which the human sciences are, in the end, politically (and not merely technically) relevant only when rooted in what must precede production. To quote Rosen (2002, 297): ‘Ordinary experience is then not the solution any more than it is the problem: it is the medium within which problems and solutions arise, but it is also the standard against which we determine the plausibility of the

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interpretations put forward by one extraordinary thinker or another, interpretations of the problems as well as their presumed solutions.’ AN EDUCATIONAL REORIENTATION The fundamental problem is to understand the everyday, as I have argued. The pre-eminent philosopher of the everyday, I maintain, is Plato. This is true even relative to Aristotle. For Aristotle would distinguish theoretical from practical wisdom, thereby making possible the modern triumph of theory over practice (and what, subsequently, has become the problem of their reunification). In Plato we don’t find such a distinction. Plato reveals to us an extraordinary understanding (neither metaphysical nor anti-metaphysical) inclusive of the ordinary. With his help we might begin this journey of reorientation, but a journey in which we must always return, as Socrates is fond of saying, ‘once more, to the beginning.’ For only in the beginning, with an extraordinary understanding of everyday life, can we approach an understanding of what we are. We might, for example, look to Plato’s Theaetetus or his Sophist, and in a careful reading, aware of the dramatic irony presupposed by the dialogue form, come to some understanding of the impossibility of resolving the disjunction between making and knowing. We might come to see that this impossibility, through a reading of his Charmides or Phaedo for example, does not discount the difference between insight and ignorance. Still further, in reading his Statesman, we might come to question the possibility of a science of politics. So too, the Republic offers us a warning, if read closely and according to the drama of the action, about leaving behind the everyday world of pre-theoretical life, in satisfying our desire for wisdom. And in reading his Symposium, we come face-to-face with the question of eros, or human desire, and in so doing face ourselves as the object of this question. These questions are senseless if we ourselves are merely the by-product of an interminable series. Only in beginning at the beginning – in the everyday – do our questions cohere. Returning from the extraordinary to the ordinariness of everyday life, this would see – ideally – civil servants or bureaucrats occupying a role defined only by mathematical rationalism; which is to say, in recognition that their function is in essence administrative, and does not (and cannot), by this fact, encompass deeper questions of truth and meaning. This is more than the equation of truth with an ostensibly value-free rationalism, as per Weber, because there is some recognition that a neutral or mathematically derived rationality does not exhaust the question of truth. Neither is it to equate the universal state with the objective structure of the will, as did Hegel. For with this, since the state exemplifies the unity of politics and rationality, it is kept

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in check (or limited) only if this is a unity which might be thought absolutely. Without this, we seek to make good on this promise of absolutes, or we seek to enact what Weber feared. What was feared by Weber, however, might, for him, only be overcome with the absence of a fully self-conscious rationality. The vitality of meaning is sustained with what, in the end, amounts to the irrational (e.g., tradition, charisma, etc.). As I’m arguing, though, the reasonable limits of executive action cannot be based on Hegelian science, but nor must they remain hidden following the more restricted understanding of Weber. The limits must be more visible to reason than what Weber imagined, and so too less metaphysical than understood by Hegel. In bringing this about universities have a fundamental role. The training of bureaucrats, or those who would develop public policy, is currently a mix of the political and social sciences, along with a dash of law. 7 This is carried through to the relationship of universities and the state, in which bureaucrats regularly consult with academics on matters of public policy, and academics seek out state funding, and in so doing present themselves as useful to its interests. Although academics would ‘dumb-down’ their ‘results’ to match that of the bureaucrats’ needs, the advice provided is mostly impractical (because of the discord between abstract rules and embodied practice), or insubstantial (banal and platitudinous because of, once again, the discord between abstract rules and embodied practice). 8 Bureaucrats, meanwhile, would reach beyond their own instituted political limitations to realize what is promised by the social and political sciences. This promise is the complete fulfillment of the bureaucratic role, and would, thereby, encompass and so overcome this role’s political limitations. As I have argued throughout this book, this resolution is deleterious. It is deleterious to politics because it equates truth with its execution. To counter this, the social and political sciences – in both their critical and prescriptive guises – should be separated from the executive functions of the state. If this removes their raison d’être then well and good, for the education of future civil servants should begin with a serious (and philosophically playful) study of the everyday. By this, as I have been arguing, they might understand what they are (which is not merely universal political advisors), and thereby gain some protection from the quixotic desire to execute the truth. For our desire for truth is at bottom the desire to live well. Since it is a desire which cannot be wholly disentangled from politics, and cannot be substituted by it, we are bound to begin with what is not self-evident: ourselves. NOTES 1. C.f., Brown’s (2001) understanding of theory, in deference to Derrida: ‘He [Derrida] offers strategies for developing historical consciousness that rely neither on a progressive historiography nor on historical determinism more generally, strategies for conceiving our

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relation to past and future that coin responsibility and possibilities for action out of indeterminacy. It is a permanently contestable historiography, one that makes contestable histories an overt feature of our political life as it encourages us to struggle for and against particular conjurations of the past. It never claims to exhaust or settle historical questions. History becomes less what we dwell in, are propelled by, or are determined by than what we fight over, fight for, and aspire to honor in our practices of justice’ (155). 2. C.f., Rawls’ (2005, 44–46) description of comprehensiveness: ‘In political philosophy the work of abstraction is set in motion by deep political conflicts. . . . The work of abstraction, then, is not gratuitous: not abstraction for abstraction’s sake. Rather, it is a way of continuing public discussion when shared understandings of lesser generality have broken down. We should be prepared to find that the deeper the conflict, the higher the level of abstraction to which we must ascend to get a clear and uncluttered view of its roots.’ 3. And so the argument that the state is not overly paternalistic if it merely engages with already existing ‘choice architecture’ (see Thaler and Sunstein 2008) cannot hold in all cases. 4. For the former are more profitable – that is, require less work – than desires which must be crafted anew, as it were. 5. Which includes so-called ‘qualitative’ research, of which Weber is the forefather. 6. See also Uhr’s (2015) book on prudential leadership and public officials. 7. See the U.S. News and World Report’s second ranked (2019) Masters of Public Policy (http://grad-schools.usnews.rankingsandreviews.com/best-graduate-schools/top-public-affairs-schools/public-policy-analysis-rankings, accessed 27 March 2019) offered at the Goldman School of Public Policy at The University of California, Berkeley. According to their website (https://gspp.berkeley.edu/academics/masters-degree-mpp, accessed 27 March 2019) ‘the curriculum is designed to enable students to achieve the following: (1) Skill in written communication and in verbal reporting; (2) An understanding of political institutions and processes, strategies, and skills associated with policy creation and adoption; (3) Knowledge of the organizational and bureaucratic structures involved in program development and implementation; (4) Skill in application of economic analysis to questions of economic trade-off and policy choice and efficiency; (5) Familiarity with cost-benefit analysis and other applications of quantitative analysis and modeling, as well as the use of statistical software; (6) An understanding of social science methodologies for dealing with problems of data collection, analysis, and program evaluation; (7) The ability to apply legal analysis where appropriate to the creation and implementation of public policy and to recognize the role of courts and administrative law in program development and implementation.’ 8. The following statement from a paper titled Life Course Offending Pathways Across Gender and Race/Ethnicity is an example of the muddle in which social scientific researchers find themselves when aspiring to be both ‘theoretical’ and ‘practical,’ and misunderstanding each – ‘Addressing these questions [of race, gender and criminal trajectories] will advance our understanding of the influence of intersectionality on longitudinal offending patterns and facilitate the broader goal of testing and refining the theoretical mechanisms that might account for varied pathways within and across subgroups defined by the intersection of gender and race/ ethnicity’ (Broidy et al. 2015, 120).

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Index

academia, 1–2, 7, 10, 16, 17, 36, 78, 93, 94, 97n23, 119, 186–188 administration, 5, 15, 17, 44, 49, 64, 176, 185 algorithms, 5, 17, 30, 185–186 ancients, 13–15, 59, 60–62, 66, 81–82, 95 anthropology, 7, 8, 63 Arendt, Hannah, 12–13 Aristotle, 35–36, 53n5, 57, 61, 64, 75n13, 82, 148–149, 152, 154–155, 187 authority, 14–15, 17, 20, 77, 97n25, 100, 123n4, 137–138, 141, 142, 145, 150, 155–157, 179 behavioralism, 8, 11, 27n6, 27n12, 186 Bentham, Jeremy, 6 big data, 5, 11, 17, 30 bureaucracy. See state comprehensiveness, 2–4, 5–6, 8–10, 11, 12–13, 20–22, 24, 26, 34, 36, 37, 39, 45, 51, 52, 59, 60, 64, 71, 74, 77, 78, 95, 105, 109, 138, 139, 158, 168, 169, 175, 180–181, 183–184, 185–186, 189n2 Comte, Auguste, 6, 67, 69 convention, 14–15, 22, 37–39, 54n24, 57, 61–64, 66–69, 70, 71–73, 74n7, 134–135, 136, 137, 138, 140, 143, 144–145, 150, 156, 157, 165, 172, 173–174

Crick, Bernard, 11–12 criminology, 11, 16 Darwin, Charles. See evolution Dewey, John: and citizen-scientists, 23, 24, 77, 79–80, 90–93, 95; and craftsmanship, 23, 24, 74, 77, 78–79, 80, 83–85, 88, 90–93, 94, 95, 97n23, 100, 157; and ends-in-view, 85–90, 92, 94, 97n23; and the Great Community, 80, 87–95, 132; and Hegel, 25, 129–132, 133, 154, 155, 157, 158n1, 158n2; and imagination, 77, 80, 90, 91–92, 131; and poetic fabrication, 80, 81–83, 84, 86, 87, 88, 90, 91, 92, 94, 95, 96n2, 102; and statecraft, 23, 77, 78, 80, 87–88, 92–93 economics, 8, 11, 17, 27n6, 123n6, 179, 182; behavioural, 5, 8–9, 11, 182–184, 186 emotion, 49, 70, 72, 88, 96n22 eugenics, 6–7, 8 everyday, 4, 5–6, 13, 14, 18, 24, 26, 41–42, 53, 99, 100–102, 103, 105–107, 109–110, 112, 113, 116, 119, 120, 122, 123n6, 158, 168–178, 180–188; experience, 22, 42–44, 74, 78, 82–83, 84 evolution, 9, 83, 96n7, 131, 134, 162, 164

201

202

Index

Foucault, Michel, 12, 46–47 freedom, 7, 15, 72–73, 87, 111–112, 126n23, 126n24, 132, 138, 139–146, 147, 153, 157, 158n8, 159n12 Hegel, Georg: and logic, 25, 122, 129, 133, 137–138, 145–150, 151–157, 158n4, 161, 180; and right, 132, 138–146, 150, 152–154, 159n12; and spirit, 25, 133, 137, 138, 139, 141–142, 144, 145, 146, 147, 150, 151, 152, 153, 156–157 history, 8, 10, 52, 63, 65, 67–68, 82, 101, 104–107, 108–110, 111–113, 114, 116–118, 120, 121–122, 123n6, 125n16, 125n20, 126n24, 129, 130, 131, 132, 136, 137, 138, 147, 150–151, 152–153, 154–155, 159n9, 162–163, 188n1 Hobbes, Thomas, 58, 88, 94, 176 ideology, 166, 167 institutions, 25, 32, 33–34, 36–37, 38–39, 49, 50, 53n5, 55, 58, 92–94, 131, 132–133, 138, 140, 145, 153, 156, 158n8, 162, 169, 171, 178, 189n7 interpretation, 2, 3, 6, 9, 14, 30–31, 34, 37, 39–50, 52, 54n24, 101–102, 105, 107, 108, 110–111, 122, 123n2, 123n5, 123n6, 124n8, 124n12, 124n13, 124n15, 125n16, 126n23, 126n27, 170, 181, 186–187; hermeneutics, 14, 23, 40, 101, 102, 107, 114, 121, 123n2, 123n6 knowledge, 1, 8, 11, 15, 19, 29–31, 37, 50, 52, 55–56, 57, 58, 61, 62, 64, 65, 67, 81, 84, 89, 90, 99, 112, 115–117, 120, 124n14, 126n28, 129, 140–141, 145, 146, 147–148, 159n9, 162, 180; epistemology, or theory of, 3, 6, 9–10, 18, 26n2, 39–40, 42–44, 45, 47–48, 49, 107, 108, 129 Lasswell, Harold: and democracy, 53, 66, 69–70; and Dewey, 74, 75n14, 77, 82, 95, 96n1, 102, 113–114, 133, 146, 157; and dignity, 62, 66–67, 69–70, 73; and symbols, 22, 56, 62, 65, 66–67, 68, 69–74, 74n7, 75n10, 75n13 Leviathan. See Hobbes, Thomas

liberalism, 15, 27n6, 51, 90, 100, 131, 150–152, 156, 166, 171 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 58 MacIntyre, Alasdair, 11, 12 Marxism, 182 mathematics, 6, 22, 28n14, 37, 38, 40, 46, 48, 51–52, 53, 68, 70–72, 74n7, 75n11, 75n12, 75n13, 81, 84, 157, 165, 168, 169, 174, 181, 184, 185–186, 187; statistical, 6, 7, 11, 17–18, 30, 134, 162, 189n7 metaphysics, 9, 25, 26, 56, 58, 61, 65, 81–84, 85, 86, 87, 89, 91, 95, 96n17, 103, 106, 122, 123n3, 123n6, 125n20, 127n33, 129, 130–131, 132, 133, 135–138, 148–149, 150, 152, 154–155, 157, 158n4, 161, 169, 170–171, 172–174, 175, 187, 188 method, 2–4, 5–6, 9, 10–11, 14–15, 22, 26n2, 31–32, 37, 39, 52, 60, 64, 66, 73, 85, 90, 92, 96n7, 97n23, 97n24, 101, 103–110, 118, 122, 123n2, 123n3, 123n6, 125n17, 131, 145, 152, 153, 176, 189n7; experimental, 11, 29–30, 34, 53n3, 91 modernity, 1, 15, 24, 52, 53, 56, 57, 58–59, 68, 72, 108, 109, 114, 122n1, 125n18, 138, 140, 154, 162–163, 164, 168, 187 nature, 22–23, 24, 56, 61, 62, 63, 66, 70, 71, 74n7, 75n11, 75n13, 77, 79, 81–90, 92, 94, 95, 113, 134, 150, 151–152, 158n2 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 122n1, 159n10, 163–165, 166 norms. See convention nudging. See economics, behavioural objectivity, 4, 18, 28n14, 39–40, 42, 43–44, 47, 60, 75n13, 82, 99–101, 107, 123n2, 123n6, 124n12, 124n15, 125n19, 132–133, 138, 140, 141, 141–143, 144–146, 147–148, 150, 151, 153, 155, 157, 158n2, 159n12, 163, 187 philosophy, 6, 9–10, 11, 22, 27n4, 27n5, 58–59, 69, 75n11, 79, 84, 90, 92, 96n1, 96n7, 96n17, 96n22, 108, 125n20, 129,

Index 130–131, 134–137, 141, 143, 146, 150–152, 154, 156, 158n8, 162, 166–168, 169, 170–171, 172, 173–174, 176, 177–178, 184, 187, 188, 189n2 phronēsis, 35–36, 49, 185 Pinker, Steven, 26, 162–168, 178n5 Plato, 58, 60–62, 75n13, 81, 126n24, 173, 187 political: action, 4, 13–14, 18, 21, 23–24, 26, 27n3, 33, 49, 56, 67, 72, 74, 77, 101, 102–103, 109, 110–111, 112, 116, 117–120, 121–122, 123n4, 130, 145–146, 157, 180, 188; advisors, 5, 13, 13–16, 24, 29, 36, 188; (im)partiality, 4–5, 13–16, 17–18, 20, 24–25, 29, 31–35, 36, 37, 38–39, 42, 44, 47–48, 49, 50–51, 56, 60, 63, 67, 73, 75n13, 94, 99, 101, 110, 120, 122, 140, 152, 157, 162–163, 166, 169, 179–180, 181–182; judgement, 1–5, 13–15, 20–21, 30, 35, 36, 38, 46, 49–51, 63–64, 66, 104, 112, 130, 140, 177; self-interest, 15, 18, 20–21, 22–23, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 38, 44, 49–53, 62, 64, 66, 70, 78, 82, 93, 169, 179, 182 political science, 7, 9, 11–12, 15, 21–22, 27n4, 27n5, 53, 56, 57–58, 62, 67, 90, 188; policy sciences, 5, 21, 23, 25, 27n11, 34, 53, 53n9, 55, 56, 57, 58, 58–60, 62–63, 64, 75n14, 78, 80, 95, 101, 117, 122, 133, 179 power, 5, 6–7, 14, 31, 46, 49, 62, 70, 84, 94, 100, 108, 117–118, 125n18, 164, 177 practice, 2, 4–5, 9, 10–11, 11, 12, 13, 15, 18, 21, 27n6, 29–30, 34, 36, 37, 38, 42, 43, 44, 44–49, 50–52, 56, 64, 73, 78, 80, 95, 101, 108, 110, 122n1, 129, 133, 136, 141, 143, 154, 156, 164, 171, 174–175, 178, 180, 181–188 pragmatism, 5, 8, 16, 22, 23, 38, 48, 74, 75n14, 79–80, 96n1, 134–135, 157, 158n2, 169, 175 problem, politics, and truth: contemporary resolution of, 2–13, 18, 21, 21–26, 49, 63, 73–74, 77, 110, 113–114, 179–180; perennial nature of, 2–4, 5–13, 21–26, 55–56, 78, 94, 95, 100, 101, 107, 108, 113, 122, 132, 133, 138, 141, 145–146,

203

158, 180, 186 professionalism, 1, 13, 30, 38, 64, 65, 71, 117, 126n29, 156 psyche, 6, 8, 22, 56, 62, 67, 68–73, 74n7, 75n10, 75n13, 83, 105, 116–117, 120, 123n6, 138, 171, 184, 186 psychology, 6, 7, 8, 11, 16, 17–18, 30, 63, 73, 129, 179, 182–183, 186; evolutionary, 162, 165; social, 6, 8–9, 90, 92, 97n23, 184 public policy, 11, 13, 15–16, 18, 27n6, 27n10, 29–53, 80, 103, 117, 169, 178, 181–188, 189n7; evidence-based, 29–31 Putnam, Hilary, 169, 174–176, 185 rationality, 2, 29; instrumental, 9, 17–18, 32, 37, 38, 102–103, 111, 117, 121, 125n22; multiple, 34–36, 38, 50; and politics, 22, 23–24, 34, 39, 46–47, 48, 49, 50, 55, 70, 72, 74, 82, 95–96, 99, 100–101, 110–112, 113–118, 119, 126n24, 126n27, 126n28, 130, 131–132, 137, 138–146, 156, 157, 158n8, 171, 181, 182–184, 185, 187–188; and self-knowledge, 24–25, 52–53, 120, 121–122, 136, 145–146, 148, 153–154, 155, 164–165, 167, 168, 180; and truth, 10, 24, 37, 51, 67–68, 74n7, 101–102, 107, 109, 122, 123n4, 125n21, 133, 135, 162–163 relativism, 12, 42–44, 46, 51, 53n4, 105 relevance, 4, 6–9, 13, 15–17, 27n10, 27n11, 136, 186 Ricci, David, 11–12 Rickert, Heinrich, 103, 106–107, 123n6 Rosen, Stanley, 147, 176–178, 181, 186–187 science: natural, 2–3, 6, 7, 8, 12, 22–23, 30–33, 45, 46, 48, 55, 58, 67, 78, 82–87, 96n22, 105–106, 109, 123n6, 125n17, 158n2; sociology of, 45, 46, 48 self-consciousness, 22, 38, 55, 56, 66, 72, 89, 99, 101, 110, 112, 113, 119, 120, 121–122, 125n17, 126n24, 131, 132, 135–136, 139–141, 145, 146, 173, 188 self-knowledge, 5, 24–25, 52–53, 68, 122, 129, 133, 136–137, 138, 141–142, 143,

204

Index

144, 145–149, 153–158, 161–162, 165, 180. See also rationality, and selfknowledge social science: and actualisation, 33–34, 65, 73, 111, 129, 157; applied, 2, 5, 6–9, 11, 18, 21, 30–31, 34, 55, 77–78, 87, 89, 93, 94, 97n23, 103, 133; poststructuralism, 2; symbolic interactionism, 6, 53n9 sociology, 3, 8, 11, 17, 26n2, 30, 45, 46, 48, 63, 122n1, 123n5, 124n13, 179 Socrates, 25, 59, 187 state, 6, 16, 17, 18, 23, 25, 29, 30, 52, 77–79, 80, 87–88, 93–95, 97n23, 97n25, 100, 130–133, 138, 139, 141, 142–143, 149–154, 155–157, 158n5, 162–163, 168–169, 176; bureaucracy, or bureaucratic, 4, 15, 18, 23, 34, 37, 38, 42, 49, 51, 75n14, 77, 78, 100, 109, 117, 121, 123n4, 125n21, 127n32, 131, 169, 180, 182, 184, 187–188, 189n7; executive action, 4, 5, 21, 23, 26, 27n6, 31, 32–33, 53, 92, 121, 145–146, 180, 181–188 Strauss, Leo, 12, 122n1 technique, technical, or technē, 14–15, 16, 19, 22, 27n4, 29–30, 32–33, 38, 39, 41–42, 44, 46–49, 51–52, 59–60, 62, 64–69, 71, 72–74, 75n8, 75n13, 80, 82, 84, 88, 90, 92–93, 94, 95, 99, 102, 113, 117, 157, 177–178, 180, 182, 184, 186 theory, 1–2, 3–5, 6, 8–13, 15, 18, 21, 23–24, 26, 26n2, 27n4, 27n5, 27n11, 29, 30, 34, 37, 38, 42–48, 49, 52, 55, 58, 64, 72, 73, 81, 84, 90, 91, 95, 101,

103, 106, 108–109, 121, 122n1, 129, 133, 135, 138, 144, 156, 171–174, 176–178, 180, 181–188, 188n1, 189n8 Tolstoy, Leo, 114–115 tradition, 12, 15, 18, 24, 39, 43, 58, 59–62, 100, 123n4, 125n18, 130, 141, 151–152, 188. See also history truth: post-authority, 20; post-fact, 19–20; post-truth, 18–20. See also problem, politics, and truth tyranny, 11, 69–70, 72–73 universities. See academia utilitarian, 3, 6, 9, 115, 183 Vietnam War, 7 violence, 69, 97n25, 123n6, 162–168, 178n3, 178n5 Weber, Max: and ethics, 23, 100, 103, 112, 116, 117–120, 121, 123n6, 126n30, 127n32; and Hegel, 25, 122, 125n16, 129–132, 157; and ideal-types, 101–112, 116, 118–119, 122, 123n4; and personality, 24, 100, 101, 112–120, 121, 126n27, 127n32; and value, 101, 102, 103, 104–108, 109, 111, 112, 113, 115, 116, 119, 120, 123n4, 123n6, 124n9, 125n17, 125n19, 131 well-being, 18, 27n6, 32–33 will, 96n16, 106, 113, 117–118, 120, 125n18, 126n23, 132–133, 139–145, 150, 153–154, 155–157, 159n9, 159n12, 187 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 169–175

About the Author

Stuart Weierter has been employed for over fifteen years in government as a public policy analyst and advisor, social researcher, and statistician. Currently, he is employed by the Queensland Government as a senior statistician. He is also an adjunct researcher in the Department of Law, University of Tasmania. He holds PhDs in social science and philosophy and is about to submit a PhD thesis in politics.

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