Worldly Ethics: Democratic Politics and Care for the World 9780822398035

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W orldly Eth ics

W orldly Eth ics ​––​​ —

Democratic Politics and Care for the World

E l l a MyE r s

Duke​university​Press Durham​anD​LonDon 2013

©​2013​Duke​University​Press All​rights​reserved Printed​in​the​United​States​of​America​on​acid-​free​paper​♾ Designed​by​Heather​Hensley Typeset​in​Whitman​by​Tseng​Information​Systems,​Inc. Library​of​Congress​Cataloging-​in-​Publication​Data​appear​​ on​the​last​printed​page​of​this​book.

For​mark –​ ​— –​

Contents –​ ​— –​

aCknowLeDgments  ix introDuCtion Tracing​the​Ethical​Turn 1 ChaPter​one Crafting​a​Democratic​Subject?​​ The​Foucauldian​Ethics​of​Self-​Care 21 ChaPter​two Levinasian​Ethics,​Charity,​and​Democracy 53 ChaPter​three The​Democratic​Ethics​of​Care​for​Worldly​Things 85 ChaPter​Four Partisanship​for​the​World:​Tending​to​the​World​​ as​Home​and​In-​Between 111 ePiLogue Self/Other/World:​Forging​Connections​and​​ Fostering​Democratic​Care 139 notes  153 BiBLiograPhy  195 inDex  207

aCknowLeDgments –​ ​— –​

Though​writing​can​often​feel​like​a​solitary​pursuit,​I​am​quite​ aware​that​I​did​not​create​this​book​on​my​own.​I​am​deeply​ grateful​for​the​institutional​support,​intellectual​stimulation,​ and​plain​old​encouragement​I​have​received​along​the​way. ​ I​ most​ likely​ would​ never​ have​ found​ my​ way​ to​ political​ theory​ or​ discovered​ its​ many​ pleasures​ and​ challenges​ were​it​not​for​the​tremendous​good​fortune​of​crossing​paths​ with​Peter​Euben​and​Wendy​Brown​early​in​my​undergraduate​studies​at​the​University​of​California,​Santa​Cruz.​I​can​ still​recall​the​excitement​I​felt​every​time​I​attended​Euben’s​ legendary,​manic​“Political​Freedom”​class​and​the​inquisitiveness​ and​ ambition​ that​ Brown’s​ demanding​ seminars​ awakened​in​me.​I​am​grateful​to​both​of​them​for​showing​me​what​ engaged​scholarship​and​teaching​look​like​and​for​encouraging​me​to​see​graduate​school​and​an​academic​career​as​real​ possibilities​in​my​life. ​ I​began​this​project​at​Northwestern​University,​as​a​member​of​a​lively​and​growing​political​theory​community​there.​ Linda​ Zerilli​ was​ an​ invaluable​ interlocutor​ and​ critic,​ tirelessly​reading​and​discussing​many​drafts​of​this​project​in​its​ early​ stages.​ Her​ rigorous​ intellectual​ engagement​ with​ my​ ideas​ was​ invigorating,​ flattering,​ and​ exhausting.​ My​ work​ today​is​better​for​it.​Bonnie​Honig​also​provided​sharp​commentary​and​expert​guidance.​Her​original,​incisive​readings​ of​texts​and​events​always​push​me​to​consider​things​anew.​I​ am​especially​appreciative​of​Bonnie’s​ongoing​interest​in​my​ work​and​her​willingness​to​offer​practical​advice​in​addition​ to​sharp​conceptual​insights. ​ I​am​lucky​to​be​a​faculty​member​of​the​Political​Science​

Department​and​Gender​Studies​program​at​the​University​of​Utah,​where​ I​am​surrounded​by​talented​and​interesting​colleagues​and​students.​I​am​ especially​indebted​to​Mark​Button,​who​read​the​complete​manuscript​ and​offered​characteristically​probing​and​careful​comments.​I​am​grateful​for​our​many​conversations​over​the​past​several​years​and​for​the​reassuring​words​he​has​offered​at​crucial​moments.​Steve​Johnston,​a​more​ recent​arrival​to​our​department,​has​brought​great​energy​with​him,​and​ I​look​forward​to​our​exchanges​in​the​future.​Many​other​colleagues​from​ across​campus​have​also​become​good​friends.​Matt​Basso,​Beth​Clement,​ Ben​Cohen,​Kellie​Custen,​Gretchen​Dietrich,​Nadja​Durbach,​Edmund​ Fong,​Lela​Graybill,​Monty​Paret,​Richard​Preiss,​Paisley​Rekdal,​Angela​ Smith,​Kathryn​Stockton,​and​Jessica​Straley​have​all​helped​make​Salt​ Lake​feel​like​home,​providing​not​only​intellectual​companionship​but​ warm​ meals,​ laughter,​ and​ commiseration.​ Finally,​ my​ students​ have​ helped​ me​ think​ differently​ and​ better​ about​ the​ questions​ pursued​ in​ this​book,​and​they​have​reliably​kept​me​on​my​toes. ​ Many​other​people​have​played​an​important​role​in​helping​this​book​ see​the​light​of​day.​In​addition​to​those​I’ve​already​mentioned,​I​want​to​ acknowledge​Paul​Apostolidis,​Crina​Archer,​Jason​Frank,​Michael​Hanchard,​and​Patchen​Markell—all​of​whom​have​read​and​commented​on​ parts​of​the​project​at​various​points,​posing​tough​questions​and​offering​ fruitful​suggestions.​Thanks​also​to​two​anonymous​readers​who​provided​ astute,​provocative,​and​very​helpful​comments​on​the​manuscript.​My​ work​has​been​shaped​in​ways​big​and​small​by​discussions​over​the​years​ with​ Cristina​ Beltrán,​ Michaele​ Ferguson,​ Kristy​ King,​ Jill​ Locke,​ Lida​ Maxwell,​Sara​Monoson,​Jeanne​Morefield,​Chris​Skeaff,​Matt​Voorhees,​ and​Lena​Zuckerwise.​Demetra​Kasimis​deserves​special​mention​for​the​ many​hours​she​has​spent​discussing​this​project​and​for​providing​good​ cheer​when​most​needed. ​ Earlier​versions​of​some​of​this​book’s​arguments​were​presented​at​the​ American​Political​Science​Association​meetings​in​2007​and​2009​and​at​ the​Western​Political​Science​Association​meetings​in​2009​and​2011.​Part​ of​chapter​1​was​published​as​“Resisting​Foucauldian​Ethics:​Associative​ Politics​and​the​Limits​of​the​Care​of​the​Self”​in​Contemporary Political Theory​7,​no.​2​(2008),​and​I​am​grateful​for​permission​to​use​this​material​here.​I​am​thankful​for​critical​financial​support​I​received​from​the​ University​of​Utah.​A​semester’s​leave​allowed​me​to​complete​the​first​full​ draft​of​the​manuscript,​and​a​Faculty​Fellow​Award​from​the​University​ Acknowledgments

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Research​Committee​at​precisely​the​right​moment​allowed​me​to​revise​ and​polish​the​final​version.​Thanks​also​to​Duke​University​Press,​especially​to​my​editor,​Courtney​Berger,​who​has​been​supportive,​responsive,​ and​wise. ​ As​I​have​worked​on​this​project​I​have​been​sustained​by​extraordinary​friends​whose​intelligence,​humor,​and​care​have​seen​me​through.​ I​especially​thank​Paul​Adelstein,​Tony​Bianchi,​Mike​Bosia,​Phil​Dracht​ and​Heather​Huffman-​Dracht,​Jason​Given,​Roshen​Hendrickson,​Martine​ Hyland,​ Demetra​ Kasimis,​ Nick​ Markos,​ Jon​ McCoy,​ Paul​ North,​ Christine​Pirrone,​Laura​Scott,​Mike​and​Heather​Simons,​David​Singer,​ Friese​Undine,​Liza​Weil,​and​Eva​Yusa.​Thanks​also​to​my​sister,​Brooke​ Myers-​Awalt,​for​listening,​understanding,​and​being​hilarious.​I​want​to​ thank​my​parents,​Robyn​Wagner​and​Tom​Myers,​for​their​love​and​support​and​for​fostering​in​me​a​sense​of​curiosity,​a​love​of​books,​and​a​ desire​to​keep​learning.​And​to​Solomon,​who​arrived​as​this​project​was​ coming​to​completion:​my​gratitude​for​your​smile,​your​sweet​curiosity,​ and​all​the​surprises​to​come. ​ Finally,​I​owe​the​most​to​Mark​Schwarz.​I​dedicate​this​book​to​him​ in​ appreciation​ of​ the​ wit,​ patience,​ and​ warmth​ he​ brings​ to​ our​ life​ together.​He​has​always​believed​unwaveringly​in​this​project​and,​even​ more​important,​in​me,​with​or​without​a​book.​His​distinctive​voice​and​ vision​make​the​world​more​intriguing​and​my​place​in​it​more​sure.

Acknowledgments

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introDuCtion –​ ​— –​

traci ng th E Eth ical tu rn

The​ category​ of​ ethics​ is​ ascendant​ in​ recent​ democratic​ thought—that​much​is​clear.​Even​a​brief​review​of​contemporary​political​theory​reveals​a​development​notable​enough​ to​have​garnered​a​name:​the​“turn​to​ethics.”1​This​phrase,​ though​helpful,​is​also​misleading​since​it​suggests​a​unified​ phenomenon,​an​implication​belied​by​the​multiple,​competing​understandings​of​ethics​and​ethos​that​shape​the​current​ conversation.​The​prevalence​of​an​ethical​vocabulary​is​undeniable,​but​this​signals​less​the​pursuit​of​a​common​purpose​ than​a​struggle​over​signification. ​ Still,​ one​ feature​ of​ contemporary​ democratic​ theory’s​ multivalent​obsession​with​ethics​is​striking.​Again​and​again,​ across​work​taking​inspiration​from​highly​disparate​sources,​ ethics​emerges​as​an​indispensable​treatment​for​a​crippled​ democratic​politics.2​That​is,​despite​divergent​ conceptions,​ ethics​is​cast​as​a​response​to​(sometimes​ill-​specified)​problems​plaguing​democracy​today.​Ethics​is​figured​repeatedly​ as​an​animating​supplement​to​politics,​supplying​democracy​ with​something​it​cannot​give​itself​but​urgently​requires.​Indeed,​perhaps​the​only​belief​uniting​the​diverse​work​identified​with​the​turn​to​ethics​is​the​conviction​that​ethics​constitutes​that​missing​something​that​can​help​cure​what​ails​ democratic​life.​This​conviction​increasingly​circulates​in​non-

academic​circles​as​well—ethos​figures​prominently​in​mainstream​diagnoses​of​the​ills​afflicting​liberal​democracies.3 ​ This​ book​ provides​ a​ sympathetic​ critique​ of​ the​ quest​ for​ a​ democratic​ ethos,​ cautioning​ against​ the​ directions​ this​ search​ often​ takes,​ while​ seeking​ to​ forge​ a​ different​ path.​ I​ affirm​ the​ significance​ of​ the​ democratic​ ethos​ question,​ yet​ I​ argue​ that​ prominent​ efforts​ to​ specify​an​ethics​suited​to​democracy​are,​in​the​end,​not​especially​democratic.​ Formulations​ of​ ethics​ inspired​ by​ the​ work​ of​ Michel​ Foucault​ and​Emmanuel​Levinas,​I​show,​are​inclined​to​undermine,​rather​than​ enhance,​citizens’​democratic​activity.​These​therapeutic​and​charitable​ modes​of​ethics,​which​center​on​care​for​the​self​and​care​for​the​Other,​ respectively,​may​be​admirable​in​their​own​right,​but,​despite​claims​to​ the​contrary,​they​are​ill-​equipped​to​nourish​associative​democratic​politics.​The​dyadic​relations​that​are​labeled​ethical​in​both​of​these​cases​ narrow​attention​to​the​figures​of​self​and​Other​and​obscure​the​worldly​ contexts​that​are​the​actual​sites​and​objects​of​democratic​action. ​ I​elaborate​and​defend​here​an​alternative​ethos,​one​which​focuses​not​ on​an​individual’s​practice​of​care​for​the​self​or​care​for​the​Other,​but​on​ contentious​and​collaborative​care​for​the​world,​an​idea​I​develop​with​ and​ against​ Hannah​ Arendt’s​ political​ theory.​ The​ worldly​ ethics​ advocated​here​rests,​first,​on​an​account​of​democratic​relations​that​highlights​the​sense​in​which​citizens’​joint​action​concerns​something​in​the​ world,​a​simultaneously​common​and​contested​object​that​is​the​focus​of​ mutual​attention,​advocacy,​and​debate.​A​viable​democratic​ethics​honors​this​dynamic,​recognizing​that​democratic​relations​are​never​simply​ intersubjective​but​involve​relations​between​multiple​actors​and​specific​ features​of​the​world​they​struggle​to​shape.​A​world-​centered​democratic​ ethos​aims​to​incite​and​sustain​collective​care​for​conditions,​care​that​is​ expressed​in​associative​efforts​to​affect​particular​“worldly​things.”​Moreover,​this​ethos​is​tied​to​an​explicitly​normative​conception​of​world​as​ both​a​shared​human​home​and​mediating​political​space.​Thus​care​for​ the​world,​which​lies​at​the​heart​of​democratic​ethos,​is​expressed​not​ only​by​associative​action​that​tends​to​conditions​but​also​by​action​that​ pursues​particular​substantive​ends. ​ We​must​first​ask,​however,​what​gives​rise​to​the​turn​to​ethics​in​recent​democratic​thought?​If,​as​I​argue,​this​move​often​falters,​it​is​nonetheless​prompted​by​genuine​concerns​of​the​present.​Two​broad​conditions​are​especially​significant,​in​my​view,​providing​the​context​in​which​ Introduction

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the​question​of​democratic​ethos​has​been​posed:​widespread​citizen​disengagement​within​the​U.S.​polity​and​the​so-​called​fact​of​pluralism.​The​ first,​well-​documented​situation​is​characterized​by​Americans’​low​levels​ of​ participation​ across​ multiple​ sites​ and​ forms​ of​ citizen​ activity.​ The​ growing​disaffection​of​many​and​the​seeming​withdrawal​of​large​segments​of​the​population​from​public​life​throw​into​question​the​basic​ premise​of​self-​government.​It​also​creates​a​vacuum​that​tends​to​be​filled​ by​the​most​extreme​and​dogmatic​voices,​which​threaten​to​monopolize​ or​at​least​greatly​distort​public​discourse.​In​light​of​these​circumstances,​ the​concept​of​democratic​ethos​emerges​as​a​way​of​thinking​about​what​ can​inspire​or​motivate​ordinary​citizens’​participation​in​democratic​politics.​Efforts​to​define​an​ethics​for​democracy​are​usually​concerned​with​ elaborating​sensibilities​or​orientations​that,​if​fostered,​might​draw​more​ people​into​democratic​activity.​The​challenge​is,​furthermore,​to​develop​ orientations​ that​ can​ encourage​ impassioned​ participation​ in​ the​ difficult,​frustrating​labor​of​democratic​politics​while​avoiding​the​vitriol​and​ demonization​that​characterize​so​much​political​debate​today. ​ The​belief​that​ethics​of​one​kind​or​another​can​inspire​and​nourish​ democratic​politics​relies​upon​an​implicit​understanding​of​politics​as​irreducible​to​the​formal​features​of​government—a​regime’s​institutions,​ laws,​ and​procedures.​ Indeed,​ the​inquiry​ into​ ethos​ asks​ one​to​think​ about​the​spirit​of​democracy,​that​is,​the​constellation​of​dispositions,​ habits​of​feeling,​and​qualities​of​character​that​serve​to​animate​and​sustain​practices​of​self-​government.​If​this​spirit​is​in​some​sense​weakened​ or​even​missing​today,​how​might​it​be​cultivated?4​What​affects​or​sensibilities​does​it​call​for?​And​can​such​qualities​be​fostered​among​a​varied​ citizenry​in​ways​that​respect​diversity​and​liberty?​The​search​for​ethics​ is​at​least​partly​a​response​to​a​nominally​democratic​order​characterized​ by​only​minimal​democratic​activity. ​ The​second​important​context​for​understanding​the​proliferation​of​ ethics​talk​is​what​Max​Weber​referred​to​at​the​beginning​of​the​twentieth​century​as​our​“inescapable​condition,”​or​what​today​often​goes​by​ the​name​“the​fact​of​pluralism.”​Growing​recognition​of​the​competing​ and​irreconcilable​goods,​faiths,​and​ways​of​life​that​characterize​human​ existence​has​thrown​into​question​the​idea​of​a​single​morality​that​would​ ground​political​life.​In​light​of​this​development,​the​topic​of​ethics​has​ assumed​new​importance.​If​politics​can​no​longer​be​imagined​as​the​ instantiation​of​a​universal​Good​in​a​world​marked​by​multiple,​incomTracing the Ethical Turn

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patible​comprehensive​views,​the​ideas​of​ethics​and​ethos​seem​to​open​ up​ways​of​thinking​about​the​normative​dimensions​of​politics​in​nonabsolutist​ways.​The​foray​into​ethics​signals​an​attempt​to​wrestle​with​ questions​of​value,​character,​and​commitment​in​a​pluralist​age. ​ But​if​the​inquiry​into​ethics​is​partly​in​response​to​the​fact​of​pluralism,​now​widely​accepted​as​the​starting​point​for​political​theorizing,​this​ investigation​should​be​distinguished​from​the​influential​work​of​Jürgen​ Habermas​and​John​Rawls​and​their​intellectual​heirs,​which​also​presents​ pluralism​as​the​starting​point.​Although​both​Habermas​and​Rawls​treat​ the​existence​of​multiple,​irreconcilable​comprehensive​doctrines​or​conceptions​of​the​good​life​as​a​given,​each​responds​to​this​condition​in​ ways​that​the​turn​to​ethics​challenges. ​ On​the​one​hand,​Habermas​acknowledges​that​no​single​answer​to​the​ question​of​the​good​life​is​possible;​answers​to​that​question​are​rooted​ in​particular​traditions​and​cultures​that​diverge​and​conflict​without​the​ promise​of​reconciliation.​Yet​he​also​claims​that​a​moral​point​of​view​ can​ be​ attained​ through​ fidelity​ to​ a​ special​ procedure​ of​ justification.​ This​moral​point​of​view​is​rational​and​universal,​irreducible​to​concrete​ forms​of​Sittlichkeit,​or​ethical​life.5​Habermas​acknowledges​a​multiplicity​ of​ethical​values​and​corresponding​ways​of​life​as​the​lot​of​modernity,​yet​ this​ethical​plurality​is​qualified​and​limited​by​a​proceduralist​morality​ that​retains​for​liberal-​democratic​politics​a​form​of​universal​normativity.​ Rawls,​on​the​other​hand,​famously​endeavors​in​his​later​work​to​provide​ a​political,​rather​than​moral,​justification​for​his​conception​of​justice,​ one​which​remains​neutral​between​competing​moral​outlooks.​The​fact​ of​pluralism​itself​leads​Rawls​to​alter​his​theory​of​justice​in​such​a​way​ that​its​justification​is​held​to​be​independent​of​any​comprehensive​moral​ ideal.​Justice​as​fairness​does​not​aspire​to​universality​but​is​instead,​according​to​Rawls,​self-​consciously​rooted​in​a​particular​historical​context,​that​of​modern​constitutional​democracy.​But​while​Rawls​seeks​to​ avoid​the​moral​universalism​that​Habermas​retains,​his​nonmetaphysical​account​of​justice​includes​a​defense​of​“public​reason”​that​strictly​ limits​the​expression​of​pluralism​in​political​life.​Although​the​nuances​ of​Rawlsian​public​reason​continue​to​be​heavily​debated,​its​function​is​ clear:​it​specifies​the​kind​of​reason​giving​and​argumentation​that​Rawls​ holds​should​and​should​not​characterize​public​debate​in​a​diverse,​liberal​society.6​Under​conditions​of​pluralism,​Rawls​writes,​“there​are​many​ nonpublic​reasons​but​only​one​public​reason.”7 Introduction

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​ The​turn​to​ethics​in​postfoundational​democratic​theory​takes​pluralism​as​a​point​of​departure,​then,​but​its​orientation​toward​this​fact​is​ distinctive​from​both​Habermasian​and​Rawlsian​approaches​in​two​primary​ ways.8​ First,​ when​ ethics​ of​ one​ kind​ or​ another​ is​ offered​ up​ as​ nourishment​for​democratic​life,​the​gesture​usually​disavows​more​conventional​forms​of​morality.​Work​that​draws​on​Foucault​and​Levinas,​ for​example,​presents​ethics​as​an​explicit​challenge​to​morality,​however​ formal​or​procedural.​Indeed,​ethics​in​this​vein​is​sometimes​called​post-​ moral​in​recognition​of​its​departure​from​familiar​moral​traditions​that​ are​thought​to​deny​or​do​violence​to​the​plurality​of​values,​goods,​and​ faiths.​Speaking​very​schematically,​ethics​is​understood​to​be​more​particular​and​affective​than​universal,​reason-​governed​models​of​morality.​ While​conventional​moralities​tend​to​aspire​to​the​status​of​law,​ethics​ privileges​the​cultivation​of​dispositions​over​rule-​following,​suggesting​a​ way​of​being​in​the​world​that​cannot​be​formulated​in​codified,​universal​terms.9​Second,​the​pursuit​of​post-​moral​ethics​is​usually​understood​ as​an​effort​to​expand,​rather​than​contain,​the​expression​of​pluralism​in​ public​life.​For​thinkers​like​William​Connolly,​Judith​Butler,​and​Simon​ Critchley,​for​example,​who​draw​on​Foucauldian​and​Levinasian​ethics​ in​support​of​radicalized​democracy​(and​whose​work​I​address​in​the​following​chapters),​the​task​is​not​primarily​understood​to​be​one​of​limiting​the​presence​of​pluralism​in​political​debate​and​decision​making.10​ Instead,​the​aim​is​to​conceptualize​and​develop​the​qualities​of​character​and​habits​of​feeling​that​might​enable​lively​and​respectful​exchange​ across​deep​difference,​fostering​even​further​pluralization​of​collective​ life.​What​virtues,​they​ask,​might​guide​and​animate​citizen​action​in​a​ liberal-​democratic​polity​marked​by​competing​and​irreconcilable​comprehensive​views,​which​are​not​and​cannot​be​left​at​the​door?11 ​ If​the​search​for​a​democratic​ethos​is​motivated​largely​by​these​distinctive​problems​of​the​present,​we​can​see​that​it​also​revives​some​very​ old​ concerns​ within​ political​ theory.​ Although​ the​ history​ of​ political​ thought​does​not​offer​any​simple​consensus​on​the​matter,​it​reveals​a​ persistent​preoccupation​with​the​question​of​how​ethics​might​be​connected​to​politics,​a​preoccupation​that​spans​time​and​competing​intellectual​traditions.​Several​important​strands​of​that​lineage,​including​ancient,​civic​republican,​and​liberal,​constitute​the​backdrop​against​which​ the​latest​inquiry​into​ethos​is​taking​place. ​ Most​ notably,​ the​ recent​ reappearance​ of​ the​ term​ ethos​ in​political​ Tracing the Ethical Turn

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theory​points​to​its​original​ancient​Greek​context,​in​which​ethos,​“the​ characteristic​spirit,​prevalent​tone​of​sentiment,​of​a​people​or​a​community,”​was​understood​to​be​a​crucial​complement​to​nomos.12​Together,​ they​were​thought​to​constitute​a​“universalizing​pair”​in​which​the​principles​ of​ order,​ written​ and​ unwritten,​ were​ joined​ with​ a​ particular,​ shared​sensibility.13​The​Greeks’​defining​belief​in​a​mutually​influential​ relationship​ between​ city​ and​ soul,​ elegantly​ captured​ in​ Plato’s​ references​to​“the​politeia​of​the​soul,”​was​informed​by​the​conviction​that​the​ soul,​though​belonging​to​an​individual,​was​shaped​and​directed​by​the​ surrounding​political​order,​consisting​of​both​official​institutions​and​a​ communal​spirit​or​character,​nomos​and​ethos,​which​together​served​ as​a​source​of​moral​education​for​its​members.​“Soulcraft”​was​closely​ bound​ up​ with​ the​ organization​ of​ collective​ life,​ in​ both​ its​ legal​ and​ extralegal​ dimensions.​ Ethos​ in​ this​ context​ referred​ neither​ to​ a​ code​ of​rules​nor​to​an​attribute​of​the​individual,​but​to​a​distinctive,​shared​ way​of​being​that​complemented​but​was​irreducible​to​the​government’s​ formal​structure.​In​the​work​of​Plato,​Aristotle,​and​other​thinkers​of​the​ period,​ethos​connotes​disposition,​character,​and​bearing,​understood​in​ collective​rather​than​strictly​personal​terms​and​held​to​be​susceptible​to​ purposeful​shaping​and​cultivation.14​The​ethos​of​a​city​or​constitution​ was​its​“moral​ambience,”​coloring​a​whole​way​of​life​and​exerting​an​important​influence​on​the​children​reared​there.15 ​ The​ belief​ that​ political​ life​ is​ inevitably​ inhabited​ by​ an​ ethos​ also​ characterizes​the​civic​republican​tradition,​which​approaches​the​topic​ largely​ through​ the​ conceptual​ vocabulary​ of​ civic​ virtue.​ Republican​ thinkers​regard​such​virtue​as​fundamental​to​sound​citizenship,​insisting​that​a​healthy​republic​depends​not​only​on​well-​designed​institutions​ capable​of​upholding​the​rule​of​law,​but​also​on​citizens’​qualities​of​character,​which​orient​them​toward​pursuit​of​the​public​good.​While​the​tradition​ranging​from​Cicero​to​Machiavelli​to​Tocqueville​is​far​from​unified,​the​attention​devoted​to​the​question​of​citizens’​“habits​of​the​heart”​ is​one​of​its​defining​features.16​Inspired​by​classical​thought​and​practice,​ republicans​understand​the​formation​of​subjects​to​be​a​central​problem​ for​politics.​According​to​Tocqueville,​for​example,​American​institutions​ of​self-​government​both​cultivated​and​required​citizens​who​shared​certain​dispositions​and​orientations,​such​as​a​felt​sense​of​collective​responsibility​and​a​spirit​of​continual​improvement.​From​the​civic​republican​ vantage​point​politics​and​ethics​are​distinguishable,​with​politics​referIntroduction

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ring​to​a​community’s​institutional​ arrangements​ and​ethics​to​its​citizens’​character​and​sensibilities,​but​they​are​necessarily​bound​up​with​ one​another​in​a​relation​of​reciprocal​influence​and​together​constitute​a​ society’s​political​culture. ​ Finally,​ although​ not​ always​ as​ readily​ recognized,​ liberal​ thought​ through​the​ages​has​focused​attention​on​those​qualities​of​character​or​ ethical​preconditions​thought​to​make​a​successful​liberal​order​possible​ and​investigated​how​these​might​be​encouraged.​An​anemic​account​of​ liberalism,​according​to​which​liberals​are​entirely​unconcerned​with​the​ good​life​and​seek​only​an​impartial​umpire​in​government,​still​circulates,​despite​the​difficulty​of​finding​any​liberal​thinker,​past​or​present,​ who​actually​articulates​such​a​position.​Yet​many​contemporary​liberals​ affirm​the​significance​of​citizen​virtue​to​present-​day​liberal​orders​and​ have​brought​to​light​the​extent​to​which​canonical​liberal​political​theory​ has​been​concerned​with​its​own​version​of​civic​virtue​from​the​start.17​ Peter​Berkowitz,​for​example,​has​shown​that​the​achievement​of​a​liberal​way​of​life​for​Hobbes,​Locke,​Kant,​and​Mill,​among​others,​depends​ upon​certain​virtues​which​are​not​automatically​generated​by​liberalism’s​ central​institutions​and​which​are​sometimes​even​discouraged​by​them.18​ Similarly,​Mark​Button​has​convincingly​argued​that​the​social​contract,​ so​central​to​liberal​thought​from​its​inception​to​today,​is​more​than​a​device​for​conceptualizing​legitimacy​(as​is​usually​assumed).​It​also​serves​ to​theorize​a​“transformative​ethos”​that​can​foster​in​citizens​the​“civic​ character”​and​“ethical​sensibility”​that​a​liberal​order​requires.19​What​ Berkowitz,​Button,​and​others​help​identify​is​less​a​unified​account​of​ liberal​virtues​across​thinkers​than​a​shared​conviction​that​there​are​such​ virtues,​quite​variously​defined,​and​that​their​cultivation​is​a​difficult​but​ pressing​question​for​liberals.​The​abiding​interest​in​an​ethics​that​animates​liberal​politics​is​complicated,​however,​by​liberalism’s​core​commitment​to​individual​liberty​and​skepticism​toward​government​intrusion.​Liberal​thought​is​characterized​by​simultaneous​enthusiasm​for​and​ aversion​to​virtue.20​Without​discounting​this​ambivalence,​it​is​important​ to​acknowledge​that​enthusiasm​for​virtue,​sometimes​overlooked,​is​a​ prominent​feature​of​liberal​political​theory.​The​inquiry​into​ethos​and​ its​role​in​political​life​is​integral,​then,​not​only​to​classical​and​civic​republican​thought​but​also​to​liberal​philosophy. ​ When​thinkers​today​turn​to​ethics​or​ethos​(usually​used​interchangeably)​to​address​contemporary​democracy,​they​tap​into​these​traditions.​ Tracing the Ethical Turn

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They​draw​on​ancient​Greek​insights,​for​example,​even​as​they​put​them​ in​the​service​of​visions​of​political​life​that​bear​little​resemblance​to​the​ classical​polis.​Most​significant,​they​take​their​bearings​from​the​ancient​ conviction​that​character​and​disposition​matter​politically,​that​is,​by​the​ belief​that​a​polity​is​irreducible​to​its​formal​features.​From​this​perspective,​every​political​community​is​shaped,​for​good​or​ill,​by​its​collective​ spirit​no​less​than​by​its​laws.​Many​contemporary​democratic​theorists,​ explicitly​or​not,​are​returning​to​an​ancient​concern​and​affirming​the​ Greek​notion​that​“just​as​the​ethe​and​the​nomoi​of​a​city​are​closely​connected,​so​too​the​study​of​‘ethics’​is​itself​a​part​of​‘politics.’”21 ​ Likewise,​the​quest​for​a​democratic​ethos​revives​a​central​feature​of​ republican​thought​by​asking​after​the​habits​of​the​heart​that​could​enable​more​robust,​respectful​forms​of​participation​by​a​broader​range​of​ citizens​in​a​diversifying​American​polity.​Contemporary​thinkers​seeking​an​ethics​for​democracy​are​reimagining​civic​virtue​for​the​present,​ exploring​which​sensibilities​and​orientations​can​prepare​citizens​for​coaction​with​one​another​and​how​these​virtues,​which​seem​to​be​in​rather​ short​supply,​might​be​promoted​under​current​conditions.​At​the​same​ time,​proponents​of​the​turn​to​ethics,​though​focused​on​the​question​of​ cultivation,​evince​some​of​liberalism’s​ambivalence,​remaining​alert​to​ the​danger​of​paternalism​that​attends​any​effort​to​shape​citizens’​character.​Theorists​of​democratic​ethos​strive​to​conceptualize​a​kind​of​moral​ education​ that​ avoids​ normalization​ and,​ further,​ actually​ aids​ pluralization. ​ Given​the​extent​to​which​contemporary​democratic​theory​builds​on​ these​prior​strands​of​political​thought,​it​is​tempting​to​label​the​turn​ to​ethics​a​return​to​ethics.​Yet​while​ancient​and​modern​influences​are​ undeniable,​recent​inquiries​into​ethics​are​not​simply​continuous​with​ earlier​modes​of​thought.​Most​important,​ancient​and​civic​republican​ sources​connected​ethos​and​civic​virtue,​respectively,​to​fairly​homogeneous​and​self-​contained​political​communities,​characterized​largely​by​ face-​to-​face​relations​within​relatively​small​territories.22​The​question​of​ ethos​today​takes​its​bearings​from​a​very​different​set​of​conditions,​as​ the​previous​discussion​of​pluralism​noted,​and​asks​whether​the​idea​of​ citizen​virtue​can​be​adapted​and​reimagined​for​a​diverse,​mobile,​and​ expansive​society.​Are​there​certain​habits​of​the​heart​uniquely​suited​to​ the​practice​of​democratic​politics​among​a​vast,​heterogeneous,​increas-

Introduction

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ingly​globalized​citizenry?23​And​can​desirable​dispositions​be​nurtured​in​ ways​that​protect​and​extend​plurality​rather​than​seek​monistic​unity? ​ While​proponents​of​the​ethical​turn​answer​these​questions​affirmatively,​today’s​search​for​a​democratic​ethos​is​not​without​its​critics.​I​ want​to​clarify​the​nature​of​these​objections​and​explain​why​my​project​ critically​participates​in,​rather​than​rejects​outright,​the​ethical​turn. ​ A​major​charge​leveled​by​skeptics​at​those​seeking​an​ethics​for​democracy​is​that​such​efforts​are​poorly​disguised​exercises​in​moral​absolutism.​That​is,​while​ethics​is​usually​presented​as​a​less​rigid​alternative​ to​conventional​forms​of​morality,​some​critics​of​the​ethical​turn​allege​ that​the​attempt​to​locate​an​ethics​for​democracy​expresses​the​desire​to​ ground​democracy​in​an​extrapolitical​foundation.24​For​example,​Ernesto​ Laclau​argues​that​“ethicization”​reverts​to​a​discourse​of​“first​philosophy.”​To​seek​an​ethics​for​democracy​is​to​seek​an​ultimate​authority​beyond​political​practice;​it​is​an​attempt​to​evade​politics’​“radical​contingency.”25​Chantal​Mouffe​voices​a​similar​concern​when​she​claims​that​ the​tendency​among​contemporary​democratic​theorists​to​adopt​an​ethical​vocabulary​is​driven​by​the​fantasy​of​a​“final​guarantee”​that​authorizes​political​arrangements.​The​hunt​for​ethics,​she​avers,​is​the​hunt​for​ a​“more​profound​or​more​solid”​ground​than​“the​practices,​the​language​ games​that​are​constitutive​of​[a]​particular​form​of​life.”26 ​ The​worry​is​not​just​that​proponents​of​the​ethical​turn​posit​a​ground​ where​ there​ is​ none,​ but​ that​ the​ preoccupation​ with​ the​ category​ of​ ethics,​however​soothing,​signals​a​very​real​“contraction​of​political​ambitions.”27​Wendy​Brown,​for​example,​warns​against​the​temptation​to​ embrace​a​moralizing​imperative​that​substitutes​for​engagement​in​the​ messy,​frustrating​work​of​struggling​for​power,​with​and​against​others,​ in​the​field​of​politics.28​Like​Mouffe,​who​labels​the​turn​to​ethics​“a​retreat​from​the​political,”​George​Shulman​argues​that​part​of​the​allure​ of​ethics​is​its​apparent​promise​of​a​truth​that​precedes​or​is​external​to​ political​contestation—a​truth​that​would​seem​to​relieve​citizens​of​the​ difficult​work​of​organizing​together​to​make​public​demands​and​mobilizing​others​on​behalf​of​the​demands​they​advocate.29​He​notes​further​ that​the​obsession​with​ethics​is​a​symptom​of​despair​over​the​prospects​ for​such​collective​action​today.​Perhaps​there​is​comfort​in​the​thought​ that​one’s​task​consists​in​affirming​the​right​ethical​outlook,​from​which​ desirable​political​consequences​will​hopefully​follow.​When​“action​in​

Tracing the Ethical Turn

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concert”​appears​to​be​rare​or​unlikely,30​we​may​be​attracted​to​the​notion​ that​democracy​can​be​rescued​by​something​other​than​itself,​namely,​the​ discovery​of​the​proper​ethics.31 ​ Although​these​claims​are​compelling,​it​is​a​mistake​to​dismiss​the​ turn​to​ethics​as​a​dead​end.​Rather​than​eschew​the​category​of​ethics​ in​the​name​of​the​autonomy​of​the​political​or​insist​upon​the​primacy​ of​politics,​this​project​interrogates,​but​also​contributes​to,​democratic​ theory’s​investigation​of​ethos.​The​critics​cited​earlier​are​partly​correct:​ the​turn​to​ethics​can​assume​absolutist​forms​and​at​times​does​signal​an​ attempt​to​evade​the​realities​of​democratic​struggle,​points​I​have​insisted​ upon​elsewhere.32​But​this​is​not​necessarily​so;​ethics​is​not​a​monolith.​ There​are​many​competing​conceptions​of​ethics,​just​as​there​are​of​politics.​Some​versions​of​ethics​are​likely​to​discourage​rather​than​inspire​ collective​action​by​democratic​citizens.​Two​of​my​chapters,​in​fact,​focus​ on​the​problems​posed​by​ethical​models​that​center​on​dyadic​relations​ of​care—a​serious​limitation​largely​overlooked,​even​by​those​who​are​ otherwise​skeptical​of​the​ethical​turn​in​democratic​thought.​Yet​it​is​also​ possible​to​conceptualize​and​defend​an​ethos​that​is​uniquely​suited​to​ the​challenges​of​associative​democracy,​as​this​book’s​account​of​worldly​ ethics​will​show. ​ Ethics,​ I​ believe,​ remains​ a​ valuable​ idiom​ for​ thinking​ and​ talking​ about​the​normative​and​affective​orientations​and​sensibilities​that​are​ inevitably​part​of​political​life.​It​is​not​a​matter​of​whether​we​want​to​ bring​ethics​into​politics;​the​phenomena​that​tend​to​travel​under​these​ names​are​already​combined,​for​better​or​worse.​Indeed,​the​language​of​ ethics​and​politics​renders​as​separate​dimensions​of​cultural​existence​ that​are​actually​quite​difficult​to​pull​apart.​Nonetheless,​ethics​continues​ to​provide​a​useful,​albeit​imperfect,​conceptual​vocabulary​for​investigating​those​elements​of​democratic​life​that​are​left​out​of​strictly​institutional​and​rationalist​accounts.​More​specifically,​my​book​deploys​an​ ethical​vocabulary​in​order​to​consider​the​spirit​that​already​inhabits​associative​democratic​action—which​I​name​care​for​the​world—and​to​argue​for​its​importance​and​purposeful​cultivation.​In​doing​so,​I​resist​the​ tendency​to​cast​ethics​per​se​as​unworldly​in​opposition​to​the​worldly​ character​of​politics.​Bonnie​Honig,​for​example,​rightly​insists,​following​ Arendt,​that​politics​is​both​in​and​about​the​world​and​that​the​romance​ with​ethics​may​serve​as​an​escape​from​the​“exposure”​worldly​engagement​entails.33​But​if​politics​is​not​confined​to​formal​procedures​and​ Introduction

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institutions,​what​dispositions​and​sensibilities​are​at​work​when​citizens​ undertake​the​demanding,​uncertain,​but​also​often​pleasurable​work​of​ world-​centered​democratic​action?​Certainly,​as​I​will​show,​some​forms​ of​ethics—which​I​conceptualize​as​therapeutic​and​charitable​in​character—can​aptly​be​characterized​as​unworldly​and​therefore​as​generally​ unsupportive​ of​ democratic​ activity.​ But​ it​ is​ a​ mistake​ to​ declare​ that​ ethics​as​such​is​always​and​only​alienated​from​the​world,​understood​as​ the​messy,​power-​laden,​varied​space​of​democratic​association.​This​book​ argues,​on​the​contrary,​for​a​distinctively​worldly​ethics,​not​only​as​a​possibility​but​as​a​reality,​one​that​is​already​expressed​and​enacted​today​by​ admirable​forms​of​joint​action. ​ This​is​a​critical​and​constructive​project.​The​argument​offered​here​ aims​to​reveal​unacknowledged​costs​of​the​turn​to​ethics.​I​demonstrate​ that​Foucauldian​and​Levinasian​approaches,​each​focused​on​a​different​ dyadic​relation​of​care,​are​inclined​to​enervate​rather​than​enrich​associative​action​by​democratic​citizens.​My​critique​does​not​conclude​with​ a​call​to​abandon​the​quest​for​a​democratic​ethos,​however.​Instead,​I​ conceptualize​and​defend​an​alternative​ethical​orientation,​one​focused​ on​inciting​citizens’​collective​care​for​worldly​things.​And​I​argue​that​ worldly​ethics,​implicit​in​certain​collective​citizen​efforts,​is​a​promising​ resource​for​democratic​action​today. ​ The​book’s​case​for​worldly​ethics​centers​on​an​associative​conception​of​democratic​politics​that​emphasizes​joint​action​by​citizens​aimed​ at​shaping​shared​conditions.34​This​view​of​democracy​grants​primacy​to​ public​practices​in​which​differentiated​collectivities​struggle,​both​with​ and​against​one​another,​to​affect​features​of​the​world​in​which​they​live.​ The​term​associative​refers​to​three​interlocking​features​of​such​a​politics:​ (1)​it​involves​collaborative​and​contentious​action,​born​out​of​association​among​multiple​citizens;​(2)​such​action​is​not​confined​to​the​official​channels​of​government​but​frequently​appears​at​the​level​of​civil​ society,​within​so-​called​secondary​associations;​and​finally,​most​significant:​(3)​democratic​actors​are​both​brought​together​and​separated​from​ one​another​by​common​objects.​In​other​words,​they​always​associate​ around​something. ​ First,​associative​signals​a​nonholistic​understanding​of​democratic​collectivity.​Relations​of​association​are​ones​in​which​distinct​individuals​ coordinate​their​actions​with​others​in​order​to​pursue​goals​not​achievable​by​a​single​actor.35​Democratic​politics​thus​understood​does​not​deTracing the Ethical Turn

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pend​on​the​existence​of​a​unified​demos​or​a​single​people.​Rather,​associative​democratic​politics​involves​collectivities​that​are​constituted​by​ multiple​“co-​actors.”36​In​addition,​these​relations​of​solidaristic​association​are​situated​within​broader,​more​contentious​forms​of​association​in​ which​competing​collectives​vie​publicly​with​one​another​over​specific​ practices,​laws,​policies,​and​norms. ​ Second,​although​certain​political​institutions​and​spaces​serve​as​enabling​ conditions​ for​ the​ enactment​ of​ associative​ democratic​ politics,​ this​ politics​ is​ not​ confined​ to​ the​ official​ channels​ of​ government.​ As​ many​of​the​most​powerful​examples​of​associative​democratic​politics​in​ recent​American​history​indicate,​these​projects​frequently​involve​creative​forms​of​advocacy​that​take​place​on​the​margins​of​or​in​opposition​ to​the​state​apparatus.​Whether​in​pursuit​of​African​American​civil​rights,​ environmental​protections,​a​humane​aiDs​policy,​or​economic​policies​ that​benefit​the​so-​called​99​percent,​direct​collective​action​has​typically​ involved​the​creation​of​new​institutions​and​the​reconfiguration​of​public​space,​not​simply​the​occupation​of​preexisting​political​venues.​We​ cannot​fully​anticipate​where​or​how​associative​democratic​politics​will​ appear.37 ​ Finally,​associative​indicates​that​democratic​relations​are​not​simply​ intersubjective,​ if​ by​ that​ we​ mean​ they​ involve​ two​ or​ more​ subjects.​ Rather,​ democratic​ politics​ involves​ relations​ among​ plural​ individuals​ which​ are​ mediated​ by​ shared,​ yet​ also​ disputed,​ objects​ of​ attention.​ These​ third​ terms​ around​ which​ democratic​ actors​ associate​ serve​ as​ sites​of​mutual​energy​and​advocacy.​Citizens​are​simultaneously​brought​ together​and​separated​from​one​another​by​specific,​worldly​matters​of​ concern,​ which​“inter-est”​or​lie​between​them.38​Relations​ of​both​cooperation​ and​ antagonism​ among​ democratic​ constituencies​ are​ mediated​by​something​in​the​world​that​is​the​focal​point​of​their​activity. ​ This​portrait​does​not​claim​to​depict​democracy​as​such;​certain​features​ of​ democratic​ politics​ are​ emphasized​ at​ the​ expense​ of​ others.​ Nonetheless,​it​is​important​to​recognize​that​associative​activity​by​ordinary​ citizens​ is​ central​ to​ almost​ every​ conception​ of​ democratic​ politics,​including​philosophical​formulations​and​practical​understandings​ alike.​Citizen​association​is​certainly​not​always​interpreted​in​the​way​ sketched​above—indeed,​as​I​will​show,​the​central​role​played​by​mediating​worldly​things​is​especially​neglected—yet​there​is​a​pervasive,​ shared​understanding​that​the​“art​of​association”​is​absolutely​central​to​ Introduction

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any​satisfactory​account​of​democratic​politics.39​David​Held’s​influential​ Models of Democracy,​for​example,​reveals​the​extent​to​which​associative​ activity​by​citizens​is​regarded​as​a​distinctive,​indispensable​characteristic​of​democracy,​even​according​to​competing​philosophies​which​otherwise​diverge​considerably.40​It​is​not​only​direct​democrats,​but​also​Dahlian​pluralist​democrats​and​more​conventional​liberal​democrats,​among​ others,​who​assign​an​important​role​to​citizen​association​when​defining​ democracy.41 ​ Moreover,​everyday​language​suggests​that​people​regularly​identify​ associational​practices​by​which​plural​citizens​aim​to​affect​their​environment​as​specifically​democratic,​even​in​the​context​of​regimes​that​ would​ not​ themselves​ be​ so​ categorized.​ For​ example,​ media​ coverage​ in​the​United​States​in​early​2011​often​described​the​collective​protests​ in​Egypt​leading​up​to​the​revolution​as​part​of​a​“democratic​uprising”​ or​as​the​expression​of​“democratic​freedom.”42​These​characterizations,​ also​prevalent​in​informal​conversations​among​nonexperts,​indicate​that​ people​tend​to​understand​public​action​in​concert​precisely​as​an​enactment​of​democracy,​wherever​it​occurs.​The​identification​of​the​protests​ in​Tahrir​Square​in​the​spring​of​2011​as​democratic​had​less​to​do​with​ the​ fact​ that​ some​ participants​ were​ calling​ for​democratizing​ reforms​ than​with​the​shared​insight​that​the​protesters​were​already​practicing​ democracy​by​joining​together​to​generate​power​and​produce​effects​collectively​that​they​could​not​alone. ​ If​associative​action​is​integral​to​nearly​every​philosophical​and​practical​ definition​ of​ democracy,​ then​ this​ book’s​ investigation​ of​ ethos​ is​ perhaps​of​some​general​interest.​The​book’s​central​questions—Does​the​ practice​of​associative​democracy​have​an​ethos?​How​should​it​be​characterized?​Can​it​be​purposely​fostered?​How?—will,​I​hope,​resonate​with​ democrats​of​varying​stripes​who​share​the​conviction​that​ordinary​citizens’​joint​action,​and​not​merely​individuals’​right​to​vote,​is​essential​to​ democratic​life. ​ The​book’s​initial,​ground-​clearing​project​centers​on​work​that​takes​ inspiration​from​Foucault​and​Levinas.​Theorists​who​turn​to​these​thinkers​in​order​to​develop​an​account​of​democratic​ethos​are​typically​interested​in​nourishing​activist​forms​of​democracy​that​involve​significant​ associational​activity​among​citizens.​Yet,​as​I​show,​the​ethical​orientations​they​conceptualize​are​ill-​suited​to​enriching​the​associative​dynamics​outlined​above,​in​which​collaborative​and​contentious​forms​of​action​ Tracing the Ethical Turn

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take​place​in​plural​sites​and​are​mediated​by​disputed​common​objects.​In​ particular,​care​for​the​self​and​care​for​the​Other​describe​ethical​orientations​that​celebrate​dyadic​relations​in​which​the​primary​actor,​a​single​ self,​tends​to​herself​or​to​another.​These​models​of​care​cannot​simply​be​ extended​to​associative​democratic​politics.​Neither​the​face-​to-​face​immediacy​of​the​Levinasian​encounter​nor​the​reflexive​intimacy​of​Foucauldian​arts​of​the​self​leaves​room​for​the​crucial​third​term,​a​common​ and​disputed​object,​that​inspires​democratic​projects​and​draws​citizens​ into​relations​of​support​and​contestation​with​one​another.​In​response​ to​this​neglect,​the​book​elaborates​an​alternative​ethics,​also​centered​on​ practices​of​care.​Yet​the​care​that​is​central​to​associative​democracy,​I​ show,​is​enacted​by​many​persons,​not​one.​And​the​recipient​of​that​care​ is​neither​a​self​nor​even​selves​but​a​particular​feature​of​shared​conditions—a​worldly​thing—that​is​both​a​common​and​contentious​object​of​ concern. ​ One​final​note,​before​offering​a​map​of​the​book’s​contents:​the​three​ central​ thinkers​ in​ this​ project,​ Foucault,​ Levinas,​ and​ Arendt,​ whose​ work​and​its​appropriation​by​others​I​examine​in​relation​to​the​question​ of​democratic​ethics,​are​heirs​to​a​specific,​shared​intellectual​heritage.43​ This​lineage,​existential​phenomenology​in​general​and​Martin​Heidegger’s​thought​in​particular,​is​not​the​focus​of​my​inquiry,​yet​the​fact​that​ all​three​theorists’​writings​are​shaped​by​and​responsive​to​this​singular​ theoretical​tradition​is​important.44​Most​notably,​it​may​help​to​explain​ why​their​work​is​especially​fertile​ground​for​today’s​investigations​into​ ethos,​investigations​which,​as​discussed​earlier,​are​undertaken​from​a​ nonessentialist,​postmoral​vantage​point.45​Despite​the​distinctiveness​of​ their​respective​approaches​and​the​unique​relations​of​care​each​conceptualizes,​ Foucault,​ Levinas,​ and​ Arendt​ can​ be​ regarded​ as​ participants​in​a​common​theoretical​endeavor,​one​which​is​marked,​first​of​ all,​by​a​“critical​orientation​to​rationalism,​abstract​system-​building,​and​ other​ objectifying​ modes​ of​ thought​ such​ as​ positivism.”46​ In​ addition,​ the​focus​of​existential​phenomenology​on​“worldly​relations”​and​“concrete​lived​experience”​rather​than​on​“mental​contents”​is​evident​in​all​ three​thinkers’​work​and​connects​with​their​readers’​interest​in​ethos​ as​an​embodied,​enacted​way​of​being.47​Finally,​because​the​existential-​ phenomenological​ perspective​ is​ especially​ alert​ to​ “non-​rational​ dimensions​of​human​existence:​habits,​non-​conscious​practices,​moods,​ and​passions,”​it​is​unsurprising​that​writings​emerging​from​this​tradiIntroduction

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tion​have​captivated​contemporary​audiences​interested​in​ethics,​where​ ethics​ is​ understood​ as​ dispositional​ and​ affective,​ an​ important​ extrarational​aspect​of​political​life.48​The​following​analysis​focuses​primarily​ on​exploring​the​differences​between​therapeutic,​charitable,​and​worldly​ ethics,​which​take​their​bearings​from​Foucault,​Levinas,​and​Arendt,​respectively.​These​competing​approaches​to​ethics​are​not​simply​or​only​at​ odds​with​one​another,​however;​a​shared​existential-​phenomenological​ orientation​informs​the​work​of​all​three​and​seems​to​resonate​with​those​ seeking​a​democratic​ethos​today. The​book’s​argument​proceeds​as​follows.​Chapter​1​focuses​on​how​Foucault’s​late​work​has​been​taken​up​by​theorists​seeking​a​contemporary​ democratic​ethos.​Foucault’s​interest​in​ancient​aesthetic/ascetic​modes​ of​self-​elaboration,​which​he​describes​as​an​ethics​of​“care​of​the​self,”​ has​intrigued​those​interested​in​cultivating​new​forms​of​democratic​subjectivity​that​might​spur​deeper,​more​respectful​forms​of​citizen​engagement.​Building​on​Foucault’s​recommendation​that​the​ethics​of​self-​care​ might​be​reinvented​for​the​present​and​help​to​foster​selves​who​“play​ games​of​power​with​as​little​domination​as​possible,”​William​Connolly,​ for​example,​has​advocated​ethical​tactics​performed​by​the​self​on​herself​ as​indispensable​for​contemporary​pluralist​democracy.49 ​ In​this​chapter​I​examine​both​Foucault’s​and​Connolly’s​work,​focusing​on​Connolly’s​contention​that​arts​of​the​self,​or​“micropolitics,”​have​ a​vital​role​to​play​in​inspiring​and​shaping​collective​democratic​action,​ that​is,​“macropolitics.”​I​argue​that​although​this​idea​is​appealing,​an​ ethics​capable​of​animating​associative​democratic​activity​cannot​take​ the​self’s​relationship​to​itself​as​a​starting​point.​Even​though​Foucault​ and​Connolly​conceptualize​a​self​that​is​continually​recrafted​rather​than​ discovered​in​its​ultimate​truth,​their​work​nonetheless​advances​a​therapeutic​ethics,​which​treats​the​self’s​relationship​with​itself​as​primary​ and​envisions​democratic​activity​as​a​consequence​or​extension​of​that​ reflexive​relation.​The​chapter​illuminates​this​therapeutic​ethical​orientation​and​tries​to​dispel​the​belief​that​it​is​by​caring​for​oneself​that​one​ comes​to​care​for​the​world.​I​argue​that​unless​the​self’s​relationship​to​ itself​is​driven​from​the​start​by​shared​concern​for​a​worldly​problem,​ there​is​no​reason​to​believe​that​it​will​lead​in​an​activist,​democratic​direction.​Indeed,​focused​care​for​the​self​too​readily​substitutes​for​tending​to​the​world​that​is​shared​with​diverse​others. Tracing the Ethical Turn

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​ In​light​of​the​critical​perspective​cast​on​Foucauldian​ethics,​I​turn​ in​chapter​2​to​Levinas’s​ethical​theory,​which​condemns​egoism​in​the​ name​of​the​self’s​infinite​responsibility​to​the​Other.​This​understanding​ of​ethics,​centering​on​the​Other​and​its​summons​to​the​self,​privileges​ an​intersubjective​rather​than​an​intrasubjective​relation. ​ For​theorists​such​as​Simon​Critchley​and​Judith​Butler,​this​focus​on​ the​self’s​obligation​to​tend​to​a​needy​Other​appears​especially​useful​to​ a​democratic​ethos​because​it​confronts​self-​interest,​calling​on​us​to​concern​ourselves​with​the​fates​of​others.​My​readings​of​Levinas,​Critchley,​ and​Butler,​however,​show​that​it​is​a​mistake​to​assume​that​a​charitable​ ethics,​centered​on​the​self’s​provision​of​aid​to​a​singular,​suffering​other,​ can​support​collective​democratic​endeavors.​The​tendency​to​present​a​ Levinasian-​inspired​ethical​truth​as​the​key​to​political​transformation​is​ falsely​reassuring;​it​evades​the​difficulties​of​democratic​mobilization​by​ implying​that​associative​action​simply​awaits​acceptance​of​an​indisputable​ethical​reality:​the​self’s​total​obligation​to​the​Other.​Yet​an​ethics​ focused​on​the​self’s​care​for​the​Other,​even​if​understood​in​less​foundational​terms​than​this,​is​unable​to​nourish​associative​democratic​action.​ Levinasian​ ethics​ may​ be​ compelling,​ but​ it​ revolves​ around​ a​ dyadic,​ hierarchical​relation​that​is​focused​on​addressing​immediate​needs.​Such​ charitable​relations​have​value,​but,​as​I​show,​they​are​distinct​from,​even​ at​ odds​ with,​ democratic​ ones,​ which​ involve​ collaboration​ among​ co-​ actors​who​struggle​to​tend​not​to​a​singular​Other,​but​to​the​worldly​conditions​under​which​selves​and​others​live. ​ I​argue​that​the​therapeutic​and​charitable​models​of​ethics​promoted​ by​Foucault,​Levinas,​and​key​interpreters​ such​as​Connolly,​Critchley,​ and​Butler​are​unlikely​to​inspire​and​sustain​collective​democratic​activity,​in​which​participants​cooperate​and​contend​with​one​another​in​an​ effort​to​affect​worldly​conditions.​Care​for​oneself​or​care​for​the​Other,​ though​ perhaps​ valuable,​ does​ little​ to​ encourage​ associative​ relations​ among​citizens.​Moreover,​it​is​a​mistake​to​assume​that​forms​of​democratic​engagement​somehow​follow​from​proper​care​for​the​self​or​for​ an​Other.​Indeed,​I​show​that​the​therapeutic​and​charitable​orientations​ others​have​advocated​in​the​name​of​a​democratic​ethos​need​to​be​resisted​if​we​seek​to​foster​activist​forms​of​democratic​citizenship. ​ Chapters​3​and​4​are​dedicated​to​theorizing​a​world-​centered​ethos.50​ I​argue​that​the​spirit​of​care​for​the​world,​which​already​animates​some​ associative​democratic​projects,​deserves​to​be​explicitly​thematized​and​ Introduction

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purposefully​cultivated.​The​first​step​toward​elaborating​this​ethical​orientation,​which​I​argue​is​especially​important​to​democratic​life,​is​to​ articulate​the​central​concept​of​world.​Chapter​3​develops​this​notion,​ first,​by​defining​world​as​the​array​of​material​and​immaterial​conditions​ under​which​human​beings​live—both​with​one​another​and​with​a​rich​ variety​of​nonhumans,​organic​and​technological.​This​portrait​draws​on​ Arendt’s​understanding​of​world​as​an​“in-​between,”​that​is,​both​the​site​ and​object​of​politics,​yet,​as​the​above​statement​indicates,​I​challenge​ her​restriction​of​world​to​what​is​man-​made.​In​addition,​I​claim​that​ coaction​among​citizens​is​best​understood​not​as​being​directed​at​the​ world​per​se,​as​Arendt​would​have​it,​but​at​particular​worldly​things,​ which​are​more​plural,​dynamic,​and​disputed​than​her​theory​recognizes.​ In​reference​to​thing’s​original​meaning,​worldly​thing,​a​central​concept​ in​this​book,​indicates​not​a​generic​object​but​a​“matter​of​fact”​that​has​ been​reconstituted​as​a​public​“matter​of​concern.”51​This​thing,​I​show,​ is​ crucial​ to​ every​ democratic​ undertaking;​ it​ is​ the​ contentious​ third​ term​around​which​people​gather,​both​in​solidarity​and​division.​A​viable​ democratic​ethos​honors​this​dynamic,​seeking​to​inspire​mutual​care​for​ worldly​conditions. ​ Chapter​3​engages​with​the​work​of​Arendt,​John​Dewey,​Bruno​Latour,​ and​others​in​order​to​reveal​the​structure​of​citizen​association​in​which​ worldly​things​both​connect​and​divide​constituencies,​a​structure​that​is​ eclipsed​by​dyadic​models​of​ethics.​Chapter​4​builds​on​this​account​of​ the​crucial​role​played​by​worldly​things​in​democratic​politics​in​order​to​ specify​the​normative​ends​that​care​for​the​world​pursues.​This​chapter​ clarifies​that​not​all​forms​of​collective​organizing​in​relation​to​a​worldly​ thing​or​matter​of​concern​count​as​instances​of​care​for​the​world.​The​ democratic​ethos​I​defend​is​refined​to​mean​care​for​the​world​as​world.​ Here​I​advance​an​explicitly​normative​conception​of​world—as​both​a​ shared​human​home​and​mediating​political​space—that​allows​for​critical​distinctions​to​be​made​between​competing​projects​undertaken​by​ democratic​actors.​The​chapter​elaborates​these​concepts​by​examining​ contemporary​organizations​and​movements,​including​No​More​Deaths/ No​Más​Muertes,​the​Beacons​programs​in​New​York​City​Public​Schools,​ and​the​Right​to​the​City​Movement,​which​embody​the​democratic​ethos​ I​advance. ​ A​brief​epilogue​revisits​the​distinctions​between​care​for​the​self,​care​ for​the​Other,​ and​care​ for​the​world​that​inform​ the​book’s​ argument​ Tracing the Ethical Turn

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in​support​of​an​ethos​that​can​and​does​animate​associative​democratic​ politics.​Here​I​consider​whether​and​how​the​dyadic,​intimate​modalities​ of​care​emphasized​by​Foucauldian​and​Levinasian​ethics​can​be​transformed​into​collaborative​practices​of​care​focused​on​shaping​collective​ conditions.​ What​ strategies​ of​ politicization,​ for​ example,​ can​ activate​ feelings​ of​care​ and​concern​ and​direct​ them​ toward​ worldly​ things?​ I​ consider​the​techniques​that​can​help​foster​care​for​the​world​even​under​ circumstances​seemingly​inhospitable​to​it. ​ One​image​in​particular,​from​the​margins​of​Arendt’s​work,​can​help​ illuminate​the​distinctive​orientation​that​defines​worldly​ethics.​In​the​ summer​of​1963,​Gershom​Scholem,​the​renowned​Jewish​scholar,​wrote​ a​letter​to​Arendt​concerning​her​recently​published​book​Eichmann in Jerusalem,​which​reported​on​the​trial​of​the​former​ss​officer​Adolf​Eichmann.52​At​the​time​of​its​appearance​Eichmann in Jerusalem​was​the​subject​of​intense​dispute,​debates​that​continue​to​shape​its​reception​today.​ One​of​the​most​controversial​points​in​the​book​was​Arendt’s​charge​that​ the​Judenräte,​or​local​Jewish​governing​structures,​had,​in​their​maintenance​of​Jewish​public​order​in​the​ghettoes,​enabled​the​Nazis​to​slaughter​greater​numbers​of​Jews​with​greater​efficiency​than​they​might​otherwise​have​done.​Many​people,​Jews​and​non-​Jews,​were​shocked​by​this​ seemingly​ harsh​ and​ unempathic​ claim.​ Scholem’s​ letter​ to​ Arendt​ accuses​her​of​adopting​a​“heartless”​tone​in​her​discussions​of​“Jews​and​ their​bearing​in​the​days​of​catastrophe.”​By​way​of​elaboration,​Scholem​ explains​to​Arendt,​“In​the​Jewish​tradition,​there​is​a​concept,​hard​to​ define​and​yet​concrete​enough,​which​we​know​as​Ahabath Israel:​‘Love​ of​the​Jewish​people.’”​And​he​declares​that​he​finds​“little​trace​of​this”​in​ her​book.53 ​ In​her​response​to​Scholem,​Arendt​directly​addresses​this​charge.​She​ writes​of​the​“love​of​the​Jewish​people,”​“You​are​quite​right—I​am​not​ moved​by​any​love​of​this​sort.”​She​states,​“This​‘love​of​the​Jews’​would​ appear​to​me,​since​I​am​myself​Jewish,​as​something​rather​suspect.​I​ cannot​love​myself​or​anything​which​I​know​is​part​and​parcel​of​my​own​ person.”​And​she​writes,​as​a​point​of​contrast,​that​“the​greatness​of​this​ people​was​once​that​it​believed​in​God,​and​believed​in​Him​in​such​a​ way​that​its​trust​and​love​towards​him​was​greater​than​its​fear.​And​now​ this​people​believes​only​in​itself?​What​good​can​come​of​that?—Well,​in​ this​sense​I​do​not​‘love’​the​Jews,​nor​do​I​‘believe’​in​them.”54​Arendt’s​response​to​Scholem​calls​into​question​the​self-​oriented​nature​of​Ahabath Introduction

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Israel,​the​love​of​the​Jewish​people​by​the​Jewish​people.​She​reminds​ him​of​the​real​“greatness”​of​the​Jews,​which​concerned​their​trust​in​and​ love​for​an​entity​outside​themselves​in​relation​to​which​they​came​to​be:​ God,​who​acted​as​a​common​object​of​devotion​and​thus​constituted​a​ shared​world​for​them,​an​in-​between.​It​is​not​the​Jews’​love​for​themselves​or​even​for​one​another​that​Arendt​wants​to​recall​and​honor,​but​ their​regard​for​a​third​term,​their​God,​around​which​they​constituted​a​ com​munity. ​ This​book​invites​readers​to​see​in​Arendt’s​exchange​with​Scholem​a​ nascent​democratic​analogy.​Scholem’s​invocation​of​a​self-​oriented​relation​of​love​and​faith​(of​Jews​to​themselves)​evokes​a​dyadic​ethical​ relation​of​the​sort​I​call​into​question.​Arendt’s​radical​shift​in​perspective,​which​brings​into​view​a​relation​involving​multiple​individuals​and​ a​shared​object​of​love​and​faith,​offers​a​religious​analog​to​the​democratic​relations​with​which​this​book​is​concerned.​The​third​term,​God,​ is​akin​to​those​secular,​worldly​objects​that,​as​I​argue,​inspire​the​labors​ of​democratic​actors​and​mediate​relations​among​them.​The​book​tracks​ how​these​democratic​modes​of​relation—in​which​individuals​are​connected​ to​ and​ separated​ from​ one​ another​ by​ a​ common​ object​ which​ they​attempt​to​affect—are​occluded​by​popular​ethical​approaches.​And​ it​urges​us​to​see​that​a​sensibility​focused​on​collective​and​contentious​ care​for​worldly​things​is​an​ethos​uniquely​fit​for​democracy.

Tracing the Ethical Turn

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ChaPter​one –​ ​— –​

crafti ng a dE Mocratic su bj Ect? The​Foucauldian​Ethics​of​Self-​Care

Care​for​others​should​not​be​put​before​the​care​of​oneself.​The​care​ of​the​self​is​ethically​prior​in​that​the​relationship​with​oneself​is​ontologically​prior.

—miCheL​FouCauLt Change​the​World.​Start​with​Yourself.

—BumPer​stiCker

The​oft-​heard​complaint​about​contemporary​Americans’​political​apathy,​their​apparent​disinterest​in​the​basic​activities​ of​citizenship,​is​coupled​with​another,​seemingly​distinct​objection:​that​those​who​do​participate,​particularly​in​public​ debates​and​protests,​do​so​in​ways​that​are​aggressive,​close-​ minded,​and​unlikely​to​contribute​to​meaningful​discussion​ or​reflection.​The​so-​called​decline​in​civility,​though​arguably​ a​characteristic​of​political​actors​on​the​right​and​the​left,​was​ especially​evident​early​in​President​Barack​Obama’s​administration,​as​citizens​opposing​his​health​care​proposals​commandeered​town​hall​meetings​with​Democratic​officials,​yelling​angrily​over​one​another​while​frequently​likening​Obama​ to​ Hitler.1​ Tea​ Party​ protesters​ challenging​ big​ government​ drew​national​attention​in​late​2009​with​vitriolic​and​racist​ words​and​images​of​the​president.​In​these​instances,​citizens​

are​far​from​withdrawn​and​indifferent;​yet​the​form​and​style​of​their​engagement​are​disconcerting​to​many.​Indeed,​this​version​of​active​citizenship​threatens​to​give​apathy​a​good​name. ​ While​citizen​inaction,​on​the​one​hand,​and​the​confrontational,​angry​ demeanor​of​some​citizen​groups,​on​the​other,​may​seem​to​pose​wholly​ separate​ problems,​ these​ phenomena​ actually​ raise​ some​ similar​ questions​about​democratic​subjectivity.​What​kinds​of​selves​are​apt​to​venture​into​and​are​capable​of​enduring​the​demands​and​frustrations​of​contemporary​political​life?​What​proclivities​or​sensibilities​inspire​ordinary​ individuals​not​only​to​vote​but​also​to​attend​meetings,​organize​protests,​ form​associations,​and​speak​publicly​when​many​others​turn​away​in​exhaustion​or​disgust?​Moreover,​what​habits,​dispositions,​and​character​ traits​encourage​individuals​to​pursue​forms​of​public​involvement​that​ are​impassioned​yet​respectful,​oppositional​without​being​antagonizing?​ What​allows​people​to​enter​into​democratic​contest​in​such​a​way​that​ their​convictions​do​not​foreclose​other​voices​and​demonize​those​who​ disagree?​These​related​questions​focus​on​identifying​the​personal​qualities​that​equip​an​individual​to​participate​deeply​in​democratic​politics​ and​to​do​so​in​a​certain​spirit. ​ This​is​hardly​a​new​inquiry.​Political​theorists​through​the​ages​have​ struggled​with​the​question​of​how​to​create​not​only​a​polity​suited​to​its​ potential​members​but​also​members​who​are​themselves​suited​to​the​ polity.​ From​ the​ Republic’s​ account​ of​ the​ wide-​ranging,​ exacting​ techniques​required​to​mold​inhabitants​so​they​can​assume​their​proper​roles​ in​the​ideal​city​to​Rawls’s​interest​in​a​public​culture​that​inculcates​in​ citizens​the​desire​to​be​the​kind​of​person​that​acts​in​accordance​with​ the​ principles​ of​ justice,​ the​ making​ of​ citizens​ is​ a​ perennial​ as​ well​ as​ a​ fraught​ concern​ in​ political​ thought.​ Contemporary​ inquiries​ into​ civic​virtue​in​liberal-​democratic​contexts​address​not​only​the​means​by​ which​the​cultivation​of​virtue​might​occur,​but​also​the​abiding​tension​ between​projects​of​citizen​formation​and​ideals​of​liberty,​individuality,​ and​​diversity. ​ As​I​suggested​in​the​introduction,​the​quest​for​a​democratic​ethos​is​ similarly​motivated​by​the​insight​that​political​institutions​and​practices​ depend​for​their​vitality​and​endurance​on​the​attitudes,​emotions,​and​ habits​of​thought​of​citizens.​The​inquiry​into​ethos​aims​to​address​the​affective​and​normative​dimensions​of​democratic​subjectivity​while​rejecting​the​idea​of​a​single,​universal​morality​that​would​ground​collective​ Chapter 1

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life.​Revived​interest​in​ethics​among​postfoundational​thinkers​reflects​a​ desire​to​consider​the​connections​between​character​and​democratic​activity,​while​remaining​cautious​about​the​imposition​of​uniform​ways​of​ being. ​ It​is​perhaps​not​surprising,​then,​that​a​conception​of​ethics​centered​ on​care​for​the​self​holds​such​appeal.​The​idea,​drawn​from​Foucault’s​ intriguing​unfinished​work​on​ancient​Greco-​Roman​culture,​holds​out​ the​hope​that​people​can​transform​who​they​are,​that​is,​develop​certain​ qualities​of​character​that​allow​them​to​conduct​themselves​differently,​ through​reflexive​relations​with​themselves.​An​ethics​defined​in​terms​of​ arts​of​the​self​emphasizes​the​individual’s​capacity​to​consciously​shape​ or​reshape​herself​and​acquire​an​admirable​style​of​existence​largely​detached​from​the​enforcement​of​a​general​moral​code.​As​we​will​see,​Foucault’s​work​invites​us​to​explore​the​possibilities​of​a​reworked​ethics​of​ self-​care​in​the​present​and​gestures​toward​its​potential​political​significance,​yet​it​is​ultimately​ambiguous​about​the​purpose​and​effects​of​such​ an​ethics.​Contemporary​political​theorists,​however,​captivated​by​the​ idea​of​self-​care,​have​placed​great,​arguably​disproportionate,​weight​on​ this​facet​of​Foucault’s​work.2​Drawing​on​his​evocative​discussions​of​self-​ care,​Foucault’s​readers​have​insisted​that​techniques​of​the​self​have​an​ important​role​to​play​today​in​preparing​individuals​for​the​challenges​of​ democratic​struggle.3​The​cultivation​of​citizenly​desires​and​dispositions,​ it​is​suggested,​can​be​a​self-​guided​“practice​of​freedom”​rather​than​the​ task​of​large-​scale​social​and​political​institutions​intent​on​making​good​ subjects. ​ This​chapter​offers​a​critical​analysis​of​care​for​the​self​(le souci de soi)​ as​an​ethics​for​democratic​ politics.​Beginning​ with​an​examination​ of​ Foucault’s​writings,​lectures,​and​interviews​on​the​topic,​I​assess​the​appeal​of​and​the​difficulties​posed​by​his​account​of​care​for​the​self.​In​particular,​although​Foucault​implies​that​arts​of​the​self​can​provide​the​basis​ for​a​contemporary​ethics​and​even​avers​that​such​a​reflexive​ethics,​focused​on​the​self’s​relationship​to​itself,​can​alter​the​broader​field​of​intersubjective​power​relations,​the​connection​between​self-​care​and​sociopolitical​dynamics​is​only​weakly​and​inconsistently​articulated.​In​light​of​ this​gap​in​Foucault’s​thinking,​the​work​of​William​Connolly​is​intriguing.​ He​argues​that​Foucauldian​techniques​of​the​self,​or​“micropolitics,”​are​ crucially​important​for​enabling​and​guiding​collective​democratic​action,​ or​“macropolitics,”​and​he​seeks​to​articulate​the​relation​between​the​two. Crafting a Democratic Subject?

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​ I​argue​here​that​the​care​for​the​self​is​a​flawed​basis​for​elaborating​ a​ democratic​ ethics.​ Although​ the​ notion​ that​ purposeful​ work​ on​ the​ self​can​contribute​to​collective​citizen​action​is​no​doubt​appealing,​an​ ethics​capable​of​animating​associative​democratic​activity,​I​show,​cannot​take​the​self’s​relationship​to​itself​as​its​starting​point.​The​therapeutic​ethics​that​emerges​from​Foucault’s​and​Connolly’s​work​tends​to​treat​ democratic​activity​as​a​consequence​or​extension​of​self-​care,​a​view​that​ overlooks​the​unique​orientation​toward​shared​conditions​that​associative​democracy​requires.​Unless​the​self’s​reflexive​relationship​to​itself​is​ driven​from​the​start​by​concern​for​a​worldly​problem,​there​is​no​reason​ to​ believe​ that​ self-​intervention​ will​ lead​ in​ an​ activist,​ democratic​ direction.​Any​reflexive​relationship​that​might​enhance​democratic​subjectivity​depends​upon​collective​political​mobilizations​that​both​inspire​ and​continually​guide​work​on​the​self.​A​viable​democratic​ethos​should​ focus​less​on​inciting​and​enriching​individual​care​for​oneself​than​on​ activating​ collaborative​ concern​ for​ social​ conditions.​ Only​ in​ tandem​ with​ such​ world-​centered​ practices​ of​ care​ can​ arts​ of​ the​ self​ acquire​ democratic​significance.

“Man is one and the other at the same time”: foucault’s ancient Ethics Foucault​ locates​ in​ antiquity​ a​ very​ particular​ understanding​ of​ ethics,​ conceptualized​as​rapport à soi,​or,​more​specifically,​as​“the​kind​of​relationship​you​ought​to​have​with​yourself.”4​The​self​was​regarded​as​both​ subject​and​object​of​ethical​action​in​Greco-​Roman​culture,​according​to​ Foucault,​and​this​is​the​central​idea​that​captured​his​attention​and​subsequently​his​readers’​as​well.​But​what​exactly​is​the​reflexive​relation​ at​the​heart​of​this​ethics?​And​what​possible​connection​could​exist​between​that​uniquely​ancient​perspective​and​the​present​time​and​place? ​ Foucault’s​work​on​ancient​ethics​is​often​quite​dense,​consisting​of​ detailed​analysis​of​sometimes​obscure​texts.​It​is​nonetheless​possible​to​ identity​four​distinguishing​features​of​Foucault’s​account​of​ancient​ethics​ that​merit​scrutiny:​the​emphasis​on​the​aesthetic​dimension​of​the​care​of​ the​self,​the​significance​of​askesis​(exercise,​training)​in​order​to​achieve​ self-​control,​the​identification​of​care​for​oneself​with​the​practice​of​freedom,​and​the​distinction​drawn​between​ethics​and​morality.​Grappling​ with​these​elements​is​a​necessary​prelude​to​consideration​of​whether​ such​an​ethics,​reimagined​and​reinvented,​might​serve​to​support​associative​democracy​today.​Because​the​larger​question​of​democratic​ethos​ Chapter 1

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guides​this​encounter,​my​analysis​is​less​concerned​with​judging​the​historical​veracity​of​Foucault’s​account​than​with​exploring​the​connections​ between​the​(admittedly​partial​and​creative)​story​he​tells​about​ancient​ ethics​and​the​conditions​of​the​present.​While​valid​objections​have​been​ made​to​inaccuracies​in​Foucault’s​treatment​of​Greco-​Roman​ethics,5​his​ “unabashed​contemporary​orientation”​gives​one​reason​to​approach​this​ work​as​a​narrative​constructed​at​least​partly​in​relation​to​present-​day​ concerns.6 ​ The​first​feature​of​ancient​ethics​that​Foucault​stresses​is​the​aesthetic​ character​of​epimeleia heautou,​the​injunction​to​“take​care​of​yourself.”​ This​principle,​traceable​from​classical​Greece​through​the​imperial​era,​ despite​undergoing​important​changes​during​that​period,​called​for​treating​“one’s​own​life​as​a​personal​work​of​art.”7​The​practice​of​self-​care​ Foucault​explores​in​texts​ranging​from​the​first​Platonic​dialogues​to​the​ major​texts​of​late​Stoicism​is​a​project​of​self-​creation.​Care​consists​not​ in​the​nurturing​of​an​already​constituted​self​but​in​the​efforts​by​which​ a​self​is​brought​into​existence​as​a​distinctive​entity​to​be​recognized​by​ others.8​This​“aesthetics​of​existence,”​involving​concerted​attention​and​ ongoing​work​directed​at​cultivating​the​self,​stands​as​a​striking​alternative​to​the​later​Christian​hermeneutic​tradition​of​confession​and​self-​ renunciation.9​Timothy​O’Leary​argues​that,​for​Foucault,​“The​modern​ hermeneutics​ of​ the​ self​ is​ both​ historically​ preceded​ and​ normatively​ surpassed​by​the​ancient​aesthetics​of​the​self.”10​But​if​this​is​so,​what​is​ normatively​compelling​about​this​aesthetic​pursuit?​What​does​it​mean​ to​regard​the​self​as​a​creative​production​elaborated​through​form-​giving​ activity? ​ Foucault​elaborates:​“What​I​mean​by​the​phrase​[arts​of​existence]​are​ those​intentional​and​voluntary​actions​by​which​men​not​only​set​themselves​rules​of​conduct,​but​also​seek​to​transform​themselves,​to​change​ themselves​in​their​singular​being,​and​to​make​their​life​an​oeuvre​that​ carries​certain​aesthetic​values​and​meets​certain​stylistic​criteria.”11​This​ passage​is​striking​in​several​ways.​First,​it​depicts​the​arts​of​the​self​as​ intentional,​voluntary,​and​guided​by​self-​set​rules​of​conduct.​These​arts,​ Foucault​contends,​are​undertaken​freely​and​in​accordance​with​standards​ that​ are​ not​ simply​ imposed​ from​ without​ but​ taken​ up​ and​ endorsed​by​the​individual​who​seeks​to​meet​them.​I​want​to​focus​here​on​ the​specifically​aesthetic​qualities​ascribed​to​the​care​for​the​self.​This​ passage​is​marked​by​an​ambiguity​that​runs​throughout​Foucault’s​acCrafting a Democratic Subject?

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count,​an​ambiguity​born​of​two​competing​understandings​of​aesthetic.​ On​the​one​hand,​the​activities​of​self-​care​seem​to​be​aesthetic​because​ they​aim​to​create​a​life​that​is​beautiful,​a​work​of​art,​or,​as​Foucault​says​ above,​an​oeuvre​that​realizes​certain​stylistic​criteria.​On​the​other​hand,​ he​depicts​caring​for​the​self​as​aesthetic​largely​because​the​self​is​related​ to​as​a​site​of​work​and​transformation;​here​the​emphasis​is​on​travail​ rather​than​oeuvre.​So​does​the​aesthetic​quality​of​the​practice​of​self-​care​ primarily​concern​a​process​or​an​outcome?​Is​caring​for​the​self​aesthetic​ because​the​self​is​treated​as​material​in​an​ongoing​project,​susceptible​to​ lifelong​form-​giving​and​alteration,​or​because​the​self​is​likened​to​a​finished​art​object,​modeled​in​accordance​with​certain​standards​of​beauty? ​ The​ latter​ possibility,​ most​ pronounced​ when​ Foucault​ explains,​ for​ example,​that​one’s​life,​no​less​than​a​lamp​or​a​house,​might​be​seen​as​ an​art​object,​has​elicited​charges​of​dandyism.12​Richard​Bernstein​and​ Pierre​Hadot,​for​example,​worry​that​the​care​for​the​self​pursues​stylization​for​its​own​sake​and​therefore​cannot​serve​to​inspire​an​ethics​ worthy​of​consideration​today.13​Art​for​art’s​sake​as​it​applies​to​the​formation​of​the​self,​the​argument​goes,​is​a​superficial,​even​normatively​ bankrupt​pursuit. ​ Yet​as​Thomas​Flynn​and​O’Leary​have​pointed​out,​the​implied​opposition​between​beauty​and​substantive,​moral​ends​is​troubled​by​the​identification​of​the​beautiful​with​the​morally​good​in​ancient​thought,​as​ evidenced​ by​ the​ term​ kalos,​ which​ referred​ to​ both​ beauty​ and​ moral​ worth.14​This​indicates​that​even​if​beauty​was​sometimes​the​aim​of​the​ care​of​the​self​in​antiquity,​this​need​not​be​interpreted​in​superficial​or​ amoral​terms.15​Moreover,​Foucault​repeatedly​insisted—both​in​his​readings​of​ancient​techniques​of​the​care​of​the​self​and​in​his​references​to​ a​possible​reworking​of​such​techniques​in​the​present—that​such​care​ is​directed​at​an​end​distinct​from​beauty​per​se:​limiting​and​controlling​ one’s​ domination​ over​ others.​ Thus​ the​ ambivalence​ of​ the​ term​ kalos,​ along​with​Foucault’s​emphasis​on​the​minimization​of​domination,​directs​one​away​from​the​assumption​that​the​“aesthetics​of​existence”​is​ about​the​pursuit​of​beauty,​at​least​in​any​conventional​modern​sense​of​ the​term.​Indeed,​the​stress​in​Foucault’s​work​on​ethics​lies​on​the​aesthetic​mode​of​relation,​which​regards​the​self​as​something​to​be​crafted​ and​recrafted​over​time,​rather​than​on​the​notion​that​caring​for​oneself​ is​synonymous​with​making​the​self​beautiful. ​ Second,​ the​ activity​ of​ self-​constitution​ Foucault​ identifies​ with​ anChapter 1

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cient​Greek​ethics​involves​not​only​techne​but​also​askesis,​continuous​ training​ and​ exercise.​ The​ ancient​ focus​ on​ self-​formation​ was,​ Foucault​writes,​a​matter​of​“constant​practice”​and​“regulated​occupation,”​ not​ merely​ an​ idea​ or​ attitude.16​ This​ work,​ though​ it​ assumed​ various​ forms​over​time,​entailed​both​mental​and​physical​exercises​involving​ self-​examination,​“control​over​representations,”​and​practices​of​“abstinence,​privation,​and​physical​resistance”​focused​on​three​domains​of​ the​“arts​of​self-​conduct”:​bodily​regimen,​household​management,​and​ erotics.17​The​array​of​techniques,​though​vast,​is​characterized​by​a​common​theme:​the​establishment​of​a​relation​with​oneself​characterized​by​ “domination,”​“mastery,”​“arkhe,”​and​“command.”18​As​Foucault​explains,​ “The​effort​that​the​individual​was​urged​to​bring​to​bear​on​himself,​the​ necessary​ascesis,​had​the​form​of​a​battle​to​be​fought,​a​victory​to​be​ won​in​establishing​a​dominion​of​self​over​self,​modeled​after​domestic​or​ political​authority.”19​The​“domination​of​oneself​by​oneself,”​or​enkrateia,​ requires​the​constitution​of​part​of​oneself​as​a​“vigilant​adversary,”​akin​ to​a​fighting​soldier​or​wrestler,​who​confronts​and​attempts​to​subdue​ the​“inferior​appetites”​that​threaten​to​overtake​the​self.20​On​Foucault’s​ telling,​success​within​the​terms​of​this​ethical​struggle​was​imagined​not​ as​the​complete​expulsion​of​desires​but​as​the​“setting​up​of​a​solid​and​ stable​state​of​rule​of​the​self​over​the​self.”21​The​desires​and​pleasures​ did​not​need​to​disappear;​what​was​required​was​that​one​“construct​a​relationship​with​the​self​that​is​of​the​‘domination-​submission,’​‘command-​ obedience,’​‘mastery-​docility’​type.”22 ​ Third,​the​aesthetic​and​ascetic​undertaking​that​Foucault​labels​care​of​ the​self​is​also​framed​as​a​“practice​of​freedom.”​This​claim​is​complicated​ by​the​fact​that​the​ancient​culture​Foucault​examines​was​home​to​more​ than​a​single​notion​of​freedom​(as​he​sometimes​acknowledges),​making​ it​difficult​to​pin​down​the​exact​meaning​of​this​identification​of​reflexive​ ethics​with​freedom.​On​the​one​hand,​disciplined​self-​elaboration​among​ the​classical​Greeks​was​generally​understood​to​be​an​activity​reserved​ for​a​certain​class:​free​citizens,​those​who​were​not​ruled​by​others.​The​ ethical​practice​of​self-​care​was​not​a​universal​pursuit​but​was​typically​ undertaken​by​those​who​enjoyed​civic​freedom,​itself​defined​in​opposition​to​slavery.​On​the​other​hand,​as​Foucault​is​well​aware,​this​understanding​of​outer​freedom​coexisted,​somewhat​tensely,​with​a​conception​of​inner​freedom,​developed​most​influentially​in​Plato’s​philosophy,​ in​which​the​master–slave​relation​is​installed​within​the​self,​in​the​soul.​ Crafting a Democratic Subject?

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According​to​this​understanding​of​freedom,​as​it​was​most​forcefully​articulated​by​the​later​Stoic​thought​of​Epictetus,​a​slave​who​is​master​of​ himself,​such​that​his​reason​reigns​over​the​passions,​may​be​freer​than​ Alcibiades,​ who​ enjoyed​ a​ powerful​ social​ and​ political​ status​ but​ was​ beholden​to​the​tyrannous​elements​within​himself.23​Foucault​does​not​ specify​how​he​is​using​the​term​freedom​when​he​declares​the​care​of​the​ self​to​be​an​instance​of​its​practice.​But​his​comments​indicate​that​he​ means​to​link​self-​care​to​some​measure​of​outer​freedom,​understood​ as​a​necessary​condition​for​the​exacting​project​of​aesthetic​and​ascetic​ self-​formation.​Such​reflexive​activity,​Foucault​seems​to​believe,​requires​ a​degree​of​outer​freedom,​such​that​one​is​not​enslaved​or​dominated​ by​others.​Care​of​the​self​amounts​to​an​advanced,​rigorous,​and​by​no​ means​automatic​enactment​of​that​basic​freedom.​He​writes,​“Freedom​ is​the​ontological​condition​of​ethics.​But​ethics​is​the​considered​form​ that​freedom​takes​when​it​is​informed​by​reflection.”24​In​other​words,​ a​measure​of​civic​freedom,​or​what​Foucault​elsewhere​calls​liberation,​ is​required​for​the​ethics​of​self-​care​to​be​a​meaningful​possibility.25​But​ the​exercise​of​self-​care,​the​attempt​to​form​oneself​through​a​demanding​ reflexive​relation,​is,​to​Foucault,​an​example​of​what​it​means​to​practice​ freedom​actively,​that​is,​to​put​one’s​freedom​to​use​and​thereby​experience​it​as​something​other​than​a​static​condition:​“What​is​ethics​if​not​ the​practice​of​freedom,​the​conscious​practice​of​freedom?”26 ​ The​conscious​practice​of​freedom​consists​in​“extensive​work​by​the​ self​on​the​self,”​but​this​work​is​not​private;​it​is​manifest​in​one’s​interactions​with​others.​Foucault​says​of​the​Greeks,​“Ethos​was​a​way​of​being​ and​of​behavior.​It​was​a​mode​of​being​for​the​subject,​along​with​a​certain​ way​of​acting,​a​way​visible​to​others.”​While​this​mode​of​being​involved​a​ rich,​reflexive​relation​of​disciplined​craftsmanship,​a​person’s​ethos​was​ externalized​and​evident​in​everything​he​did:​what​he​wore,​the​way​he​ walked,​how​he​responded​to​events.​Ethos,​as​the​“concrete​form​of​freedom,”​was​on​ display​ for​others:​ “A​man​ possessed​ of​a​splendid​ ethos,​ who​could​be​admired​and​put​forward​as​an​example,​was​someone​who​ practiced​freedom​in​a​certain​way.”27​For​the​ancients,​Foucault​explains,​ freedom​was​exercised​in​the​development​of​a​style​of​existence​visible​to​ others. ​ The​prominence​of​freedom​in​Foucault’s​account​of​self-​care​is​especially​notable​because​it​seems​to​mark​a​shift​in​his​work​away​from​a​ portrait​of​the​subject​as​an​effect​or​conduit​of​power​(which​dominated​ Chapter 1

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his​middle-​period​writing)​and​toward​a​conception​of​the​subject​as​a​ purposeful​actor,​capable​of​giving​shape​to​himself.​What​does​one​make​ of​the​appearance​of​this​figure,​who​engages​in​“practices​of​liberty”?​Is​ Foucault​invoking​a​premodern​self​untouched​by​the​operations​of​disciplinary​and​bio​power?​Or​is​he​seeking​to​replace​or​amend​the​theory​ of​the​subject​as​constructed​by​regimes​of​power?​Although​some​commentators​have​suggested​that​the​inquiry​into​the​care​of​the​self​marks​ a​decisive​break​in​Foucault’s​thinking,​even​an​embrace​of​autonomous​ individuality,​the​shift​in​emphasis​in​his​later​work​is​nonetheless​consistent​with​earlier​analyses.28 ​ Addressing​his​interest​in​the​care​of​the​self,​Foucault​explained,​“Perhaps​I’ve​insisted​too​much​on​the​technology​of​domination​and​power.​ I​am​more​and​more​interested​in​the​interaction​between​oneself​and​ others,​and​in​the​technologies​of​individual​domination,​in​the​mode​of​ action​that​an​individual​exercises​upon​himself​by​means​of​the​technologies​of​the​self.”29​While​previous​scholarship​centered​on​the​subject’s​relation​to​“coercive​practices,”​the​turn​to​the​ancient​ethics​of​self-​ creation​is​partly​an​inquiry​into​the​“practices​of​liberty”​that,​together​ with​“practices​of​subjection,”​constitute​the​subject.30​And​in​1984,​on​ the​occasion​of​the​publication​of​volumes​2​and​3​of​The History of Sexuality,​Foucault​explained​that​what​bothered​him​about​his​previous​books​ was​ that​ he​ considered​ only​ two​ of​ three​ major​ problems​ or​ “domains​ of​experience”—the​problem​of​truth​and​the​problem​of​power—while​ neglecting​the​third,​the​problem​of​individual​conduct,​which​he​now​ sought​to​take​into​account.31 ​ While​these​comments​lead​some​readers​of​Foucault​to​interpret​his​ ethical​ work​ as​ the​ much-​longed-​for​ answer​ to​ the​ problems​ posed​ by​ his​earlier​analysis​of​the​production​of​compliant​subjects,​the​concept​ of​subjectivation​(assujettissement)​actually​connects​the​middle​and​later​ work,​revealing​continuity​rather​than​rupture​between​the​two.32​Subjectivation,​as​Foucault​explained​in​the​first​volume​of​The History of Sexuality,​refers​to​human​beings’​constitution​as​subjects​“in​both​senses​of​ the​word.”33​Foucault’s​turn​to​ethics​corresponds​to​one​side​of​this​ambivalent​ structure​ of​ subjectivation.​ If​ subjectivation​ refers​ to​ the​ fact​ that​power​both​initiates​the​subject​and​constitutes​the​subject’s​agency​ such​that​the​subject​is​“neither​fully​determined​by​power​nor​fully​determining​of​power​(but​significantly​and​partially​both),”​then​Foucault’s​ earlier​work​can​be​considered​primarily​an​analysis​of​the​way​in​which​ Crafting a Democratic Subject?

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subjects​are​constituted,​while​his​late​work​on​ethics​aims​to​consider​ the​constituting​capacities​of​subjects.34​This​mapping​of​Foucault’s​work​ helps​guard​against​the​facile​taking​of​sides​in​which​one​affirms​either​ Foucault’s​account​of​the​subject-​as-​effect-​of-​power​or,​alternatively,​his​ account​of​subject-​as-​artistic-​practitioner-​of-​freedom​and​encourages​instead​an​attentiveness​to​the​ways​in​which​these​two​portions​of​Foucault’s​scholarship​speak​to​what​Judith​Butler​calls​“the​double​aspect​ of​subjection,”​that​“the​subject,​taken​to​be​the​condition​for​and​instrument​of​agency,​is​at​the​same​time​the​effect​of​subordination.”35 ​ The​dynamic​of​subjectivation​helps​to​clarify​that​the​freedom​exercised​in​self-​care​occurs​within​social​constraints;​it​is​not​outside​or​beyond​power​relations.​Indeed,​the​practices​of​liberty​that​allow​the​subject​of​antiquity​to​form​himself,​Foucault​argues,​are​based​on​“the​rules,​ styles,​inventions​.​.​.​found​in​the​cultural​environment.”36​Even​the​self-​ fashioning​subject​is​simultaneously​limited​and​enabled​by​the​repertoire​ of​norms​and​techniques​available​in​his​social​setting.​The​practices​of​ the​self,​as​a​manifestation​of​freedom,​are​possible​only​on​the​basis​of​ models​that​are​“proposed,​suggested,​imposed”​by​one’s​culture,​society,​ or​social​group.37​Self-​formation​can​be​understood​as​a​“struggle​for​freedom​within​the​confines​of​a​historical​situation.”38 ​ Finally,​aligning​ancient​ethics​with​the​practice​of​freedom​enables​ Foucault​to​establish​a​distinction​between​morality​and​ethics.​Whereas​ morality​ centers​ on​ rule-​following,​ ethics,​ he​ claims,​ is​ not​ primarily​ about​obedience​to​a​code​but​about​the​manner​in​which​one​forms​oneself​as​an​ethical​subject,​how​one​conducts​oneself.39​Foucault​recognizes​ that​ these​ typologies​ coexist​ in​ practice:​ “Every​ morality,​ in​ the​ broad​ sense​ comprises​ .​ .​ .​ codes​ of​ behavior​ and​ forms​ of​ subjectivation.”40​ Nonetheless,​Foucault​asserts​that​in​certain​moralities​“the​main​emphasis​is​placed​on​the​code,​on​its​systematicity,​its​richness,​its​capacity​to​ adjust​to​every​possible​case​and​to​embrace​every​area​of​behavior,”​while​ in​others,​“the​strong​and​dynamic​element​is​to​be​found​in​the​forms​of​ subjectivation​and​practices​of​the​self.”​Foucault​associates​the​former​ type​of​morality​with​Christianity​and​the​latter​with​antiquity:​“Moral​ conceptions​in​Greek​and​Greco-​Roman​antiquity​were​much​more​oriented​toward​practices​of​the​self​and​the​questions​of​askesis​than​toward​ codifications​of​conducts​and​the​strict​definition​of​what​is​permitted​and​ what​is​forbidden.”41 ​ The​contrast​between​ancient​ethics​and​Christian​morality​is​deepChapter 1

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ened​by​Foucault’s​depiction​of​ancient​ethics​as​being​concerned​with​the​ cultivation​of​“singular​being”​rather​than​focused​on​processes​of​“normalization”​involving​a​“pattern​of​behavior​for​everyone.”42​Foucault​depicts​the​aesthetic​ethics​of​self-​creation​as​a​matter​of​“personal​choice,”​ and​creative​elaboration​that​lacks​any​relation​to​“the​juridical​per​se,”​ “an​authoritarian​system,”​or​a​“disciplinary​structure.”43​At​the​heart​of​ these​comparisons​is​the​idea​that​later,​Christian-​based​moralities​impose​ a​general​code​of​conduct,​universal​in​scope,​which​centers​on​compulsory​precepts​supported​by​the​penalty​both​of​the​norm​and​of​the​law.44​ Ancient​ ethics,​ on​ the​ contrary,​ Foucault​ holds,​ operated​ relatively​ independently​of​“any​social—or​at​least​legal—institutional​system.”​The​ questionable​veracity​of​this​claim​notwithstanding,​Foucault​was​drawn​ to​what​he​regarded​as​rigorous,​austere​work​on​the​self​that​was​not​ simply​imposed​via​law​or​religion​but​was​“a​choice​about​existence​made​ by​the​individual.”45​The​aesthetics​of​existence​was​voluntarily​pursued​ as​a​“supplement”​or​“luxury”​involving​the​individual​stylization​of​activity.46​The​reference​to​luxury​signals​that​the​ancient​ethics​Foucault​ depicts​was​primarily​the​practice​of​an​elite,​“the​smallest​minority​of​the​ population.”47​Yet​his​critical​remarks​on​the​exclusions​and​oppressions​ characterizing​ancient​Greece​suggest​that​what​Foucault​is​drawn​to​is​ not​the​idea​of​an​ethics​that​is​the​purview​of​an​elite​class,​but​the​possibility​of​an​ethics​centered​on​the​self’s​reflexive​relation,​an​ethics​that​is​ willingly​pursued​apart​from​an​“authoritarian​moral​system”​consisting​ in​“deep​and​essential​prohibitions.”48 ​ These​four​features​of​ancient​ethics—aestheticism,​asceticism,​freedom,​and​stylization​over​codification—are​not​merely​matters​of​antiquarian​curiosity​for​Foucault.​His​inquiry​is​consistently​guided​by​the​insight​that​“our​problem​nowadays”​might​be​similar​to​that​of​the​Greeks,​ because​he​asserts​(rather​hopefully?)​that​“most​of​us​no​longer​believe​ that​ethics​is​founded​in​religion,​nor​do​we​want​a​legal​system​to​intervene​in​our​moral,​personal,​private​life.”49​Foucault​believes​that​modern​ circumstances​may​be​particularly​well​suited​to​and​in​need​of​an​ethics​ centered​on​care​for​the​self,​characterized​by​the​four​features​addressed​ above.​He​rejects​the​notion​that​ancient​ethical​practices​could​simply​be​ imported​into​the​present,​arguing​that​contact​with​the​past​may​“produce​something,​but​it​must​be​emphasized​that​it​would​be​something​ new.”50​Nonetheless,​he​continually​links​the​inquiry​into​ancient​ethics​ to​the​conditions​of​the​present.51 Crafting a Democratic Subject?

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​ It​ is​ the​ Greek​ and​ Greco-​Roman​ emphasis​ on​ practices​ of​ self-​ formation​rather​than​on​a​prescriptive​and​proscriptive​moral​code​that​ leads​Foucault​to​wager​that​there​may​be​something​to​learn​from​ancient​ethics.52​He​situates​his​inquiry​in​relation​to​contemporary​conditions:​“From​Antiquity​to​Christianity,​we​pass​from​an​ethics​that​was​ essentially​the​search​for​a​personal​ethics​to​a​morality​as​obedience​to​ a​system​of​rules.​And​if​I​was​interested​in​Antiquity​it​was​because​for​ a​whole​series​of​reasons,​the​idea​of​morality​as​obedience​to​a​code​of​ rules​is​now​disappearing,​has​already​disappeared.​And​to​this​absence​ of​morality​corresponds,​must​correspond,​the​search​for​an​aesthetics​of​ existence.”53​Here​Foucault​claims​that​we​live​in​something​like​a​postmoral​era,​having​left​behind​the​aspiration​for​a​universalizable​code​of​ rules,​a​situation​that​opens​up​the​possibility​of​an​ethics​of​self-​care.54​ Although​Foucault​wavers​as​to​whether​we​are​truly​beyond​the​morality​ of​rule-​following​or​still​somewhat​beholden​to​it,​he​consistently​maintains​ that​ the​ ethics​ of​ self-​cultivation​ he​ traces​ through​ antiquity​ is​ worthy​of​attention​here​and​now.55​He​seems​to​think​there​is​something​ to​be​learned​from​an​ethics​defined​in​terms​of​reflexive​self-​creation​and​ transformation.​As​Paul​Veyne​notes,​Foucault​believed​that​“in​the​modern​world,​it​was​impossible​to​ground​an​ethics”​and​that​under​these​ conditions,​one​element​of​Greek​ethics,​“namely,​the​idea​of​a​work​of​ the​ self​ on​ the​ self”​ might​ be​ “capable​ of​ reacquiring​ a​ contemporary​ ​meaning.”56 ​ But​if​Foucault​maintains​that​we​need​an​ethics​today,​why​is​this​so?57​ To​what​problem​might​the​ethics​of​self-​care​serve​as​a​response?​What​is​ its​purpose?​Its​potential?

the aims of self-care One​way​of​understanding​the​purpose​or​telos​of​arts​of​the​self​in​contemporary​contexts​is​in​terms​of​what​James​Bernauer​and​Michael​Mahon​ have​described​as​the​two​sides​of​resistance​articulated​by​Foucault.58​ Perhaps​the​value​of​self-​care​lies​in​the​role​it​can​play​in​the​project​Foucault​describes​in​“The​Subject​and​Power”:​the​task​of​simultaneously​refusing​the​kind​of​individuality​that​has​been​“imposed​on​us​for​several​ centuries”​and​“promot[ing]​new​forms​of​subjectivity.”59​This​approach​ to​conceptualizing​the​meaning​of​self-​care​is​appealing​for​its​elegance.​ It​suggests​that​an​ethics​centered​on​reflexive​self-​(trans)formation​is​intended,​in​a​rather​direct​way,​to​challenge​existing​forms​of​subjectivity​ Chapter 1

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and​create​alternative​forms.​While​this​casting​leaves​open​the​normative​question​of​which​subjectivities​ought​to​be​resisted,​which​pursued,​ and​on​what​grounds,​the​seemingly​linear​route​from​purposeful​efforts​ at​self-​crafting​to​the​creation​of​new​and​different​kinds​of​subjectivity​is​ intuitively​compelling. ​ When​care​of​the​self​is​understood​in​this​way,​as​a​means​by​which​ to​invent​new​modes​of​subjectivity,​it​is​positioned​as​a​strategy​of​antinormalization.60​ Arts​ of​ the​ self,​ that​ is,​ purposeful​ efforts​ to​ create​ and​transform​oneself,​are​seen​as​a​potentially​valuable​contemporary​ strategy​for​challenging​the​conformist​effects​of​discipline,​theorized​so​ effectively​by​Foucault​in​his​earlier​writings.​Michael​Schwartz,​for​example,​says​Foucault’s​aesthetics​of​existence​amounts​to​a​“tactic​for​denormalizing​ identity,”​ and​ Johanna​ Oksala​ attests,​ “The​ way​ to​ contest​ normalizing​power​is​by​shaping​oneself​and​one’s​lifestyle​creatively.”61​ This​interpretation​effectively​posits​two​dueling​forms​of​discipline.​As​ Richard​Flathman​describes​it,​Foucault’s​work​sets​up​a​contrast​between​ the​self-​discipline​embodied​in​Greco-​Roman​techniques​of​the​self​and​ the​ “dominating​ disciplines”​ of​ disciplinary​ society.62​ It​ is​ as​ if​ ethics​ stands​for​a​kind​of​good​discipline​that​might​oppose,​or​at​least​rework,​ bad​discipline.​In​Flathman’s​terms,​Foucault’s​late​texts​develop​the​idea​ of​self-​discipline​as​a​“counter-​discipline”​that​resists​“cultural,​social​and​ political​discipline.”63 ​ But​if​self-​discipline​and​dominating​discipline​are​both​disciplines— forms​of​power​that​act​locally​and​materially​on​the​minute​details​of​ human​ existence​ to​ produce​ particular,​ ongoing​ effects—what​ exactly​ distinguishes​one​from​the​other?​At​first​glance​it​would​seem​to​be​their​ respective​sources.​Self-​discipline​has​a​reflexive​structure;​it​is​imposed​ by​the​self​on​the​self.​On​the​other​hand,​the​disciplinary​power​Foucault​ theorizes​in​Discipline and Punish​and​other​works​from​that​period​seems​ to​emanate​from​sites​of​institutional​authority:​schools,​armies,​prisons,​ factories.​But​this​easy​distinction​between​self-​and​externally​imposed​ discipline​cannot​hold,​since​one​of​the​characteristic​features​of​disciplinary​power​of​the​dominating​type​is​precisely​its​ability​to​be​taken​ up​and​internalized​by​the​subject.​The​disciplinary​techniques​Foucault​ chronicled​in​detail​prior​to​his​work​on​ethics​are​effective​precisely​because​they​are​not​simply​exercised​upon​subjects​from​without​but​assumed​by​subjects​who​learn​to​regulate​themselves​even​in​the​absence​ of​any​visible​authority.​If​disciplinary​power​is​a​type​of​power​that​funcCrafting a Democratic Subject?

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tions​by​making​the​human​subject​“the​principle​of​his​own​subjection,”​ doesn’t​the​distinction​between​good​(self-​imposed)​discipline​and​bad​ (externally​imposed)​discipline​become​untenable? ​ When​is​ascetic​self-​care​a​practice​of​freedom​and​when​is​it​the​quiet,​ light​operation​of​disciplinary​power?​Are​those​who​would​engage​in​reflexive​acts​of​self-​making​today​performing​a​kind​of​resistance​or​serving​ as​“relays”​for​the​reigning​technologies​of​a​given​culture?64​These​difficulties​are​never​addressed​directly​by​Foucault,​as​Jean​Grimshaw​notes.65​ Foucault’s​language,​however,​hints​at​part​of​the​problem:​his​discussions​ of​ancient​ethics​refer​repeatedly​to​the​“self”​as​the​source​and​object​of​ ethical​practice,​whereas​this​term​is​nearly​absent​from​his​work​on​disciplinary​power.​In​those​texts,​the​“subject”​is​everywhere​while​the​“self”​ hardly​ever​appears.​This​difference​in​language​signals​that​the​“self”​is​ the​name​usually​reserved​for​a​form​of​being​that​predates​disciplinary​ power​and​the​processes​of​subjectification​that​attend​it.​(Foucault​dates​ the​origins​of​disciplinary​power​to​the​sixteenth​century.)​If​the​“self”​ and​the​“subject”​are​not​synonymous,​then​it​becomes​necessary​to​ask,​ how​is​care​of​the​self​undertaken​by​a​“self”​who​is​a​disciplinary​subject?​ When​is​the​deliberate​fashioning​of​oneself​a​way​of​countering​disciplinary​normalization​and​surveillance,​and​when​is​it​the​recapitulation​ of​those​operations?​These​questions​may​express​irresolvable​dilemmas,​ yet​I​have​argued​elsewhere​that​there​are​good​reasons​to​be​skeptical​ about​a​resistance​strategy​that​so​closely​mirrors​the​modality​of​power​ it​seeks​to​contest.66 ​ But​ Foucault​ also​ identifies​ another​ possible​ end​ of​ self-​care.​ Here,​ emphasis​lies​on​intersubjectivity​rather​than​on​subjectivity​per​se.​The​ ethical​practice​of​arts​of​the​self,​according​to​Foucault,​is​always​a​social​endeavor​that​involves​other​selves​and​generates​effects​beyond​the​ practitioner.​There​are​at​least​two​senses​in​which​ancient​care​of​the​ self​is​intersubjective,​according​to​Foucault’s​account.​On​the​one​hand,​ although​the​aesthetics​of​existence​is​pursued​by​a​self​who​is​both​its​ subject​and​object,​this​ethical​actor​should​not​be​mistaken​for​a​monadic​ or​atomistic​individual.​The​self​is​an​embedded​self,​one​whose​action​is​ shaped​by​social​conditions​of​possibility​as​well​as​by​the​participation​ of​others​who​help​facilitate​self-​care.​Yet​the​care​of​the​self​is​intersubjective​in​another​way​as​well.​Not​only​is​it​a​situated​practice​that​may​ involve​other​selves,​but,​Foucault​repeatedly​suggests,​care​of​the​self​is​

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capable​of​generating​effects​beyond​the​self;​indeed,​it​may​be​the​precondition​for​caring​for​others​and​may​help​to​shape​broader​social​and​ political​relations.67 ​ The​first​sense​in​which​care​for​the​self​is​intersubjective​is​that​the​ self​who​labors​to​craft​himself​never​does​so​in​isolation.​His​location​in​ a​particular​historical​and​social​context​structures​the​pursuit​of​an​aesthetics​of​existence.​ As​noted​above,​ Foucault​ maintains​ that​practices​ of​the​self​are​never​invented​by​an​individual​but​are​made​available​by​ “his​culture,​his​society,​his​social​group.”​By​emphasizing​the​extent​to​ which​ancient​self-​care​was​understood​and​exercised​in​relation​to​a​particular​ community,​ Foucault​ tries​ to​show​ that​ the​ self’s​ reflexive​ relation​with​itself​never​takes​place​in​a​vacuum;​it​is​anchored​to​a​cultural​ environment​that​is​shared​with​others.​This​environment​both​provides​ and​limits​the​techniques​and​resources​available​to​any​potential​ethical​ subject.​In​addition,​Foucault​points​out​that​Greco-​Roman​practices​of​ self-​care​regularly​involved​the​close​participation​of​specific​individuals​ who​served​as​guides,​masters,​and​teachers​to​those​engaged​in​epimeleia heautou.68 ​ The​second​way​in​which​care​of​the​self​is​intersubjective,​on​Foucault’s​ account,​ is​ more​ significant.​ Here​ the​ point​ is​ not​ the​ context​ within​which​a​situated​self​engages​in​arts​of​the​self​(often​with​assistance​from​others)​but​rather​the​effects​that​those​arts​can​have​on​others​ and​on​one’s​community.​Dispelling​the​negative​associations​that​care​of​ the​self​carries​with​it​thanks​to​Christian​traditions,​in​which​“being​concerned​with​oneself​was​denounced​as​a​form​of​self-​love,​selfishness,​or​ self-​interest,”​Foucault​maintains​that​for​the​ancients​the​meaning​of​self-​ care​extended​far​beyond​the​individual​self.69​Speaking​of​the​Greeks,​he​ explains,​“The​care​of​the​self​.​.​.​implies​complex​relations​with​others​ insofar​as​this​ethos​of​freedom​is​also​a​way​of​caring​for​others.​Ethos​implies​a​relationship​with​others​insofar​as​the​care​of​the​self​enables​one​ to​occupy​his​rightful​position​in​the​city,​the​community,​or​interpersonal​ relations.”​ The​ central​ claim​ here​ is​ that​ the​ relation​ the​ self​ has​ with​ itself—rapport​à​soi—is​vitally​connected​to​the​relations​one​has​with​ others.​Caring​for​the​self,​on​this​view,​serves​a​preparatory​ function,​ readying​the​individual​for​the​complex,​pluralistic​relations​that​characterize​communal​and,​specifically,​political​life.​When​Foucault​characterizes​self-​care​as​intersubjective​in​this​sense,​he​echoes​the​Socratic​

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notion​that​“a​person​who​took​proper​care​of​himself,​would,​by​the​same​ token,​be​able​to​conduct​himself​properly​in​relation​to​others​and​for​ others.”70 ​ Yet​this​characterization​of​the​care​of​the​self​as​being​socially​relevant​ is​not​exactly​convincing.​First,​in​articulating​the​Greek​perspective,​Foucault​repeats,​without​interrogating,​the​assumption​of​a​world​in​which​ humans’​supposed​rightful​positions​are​given​or​at​least​unproblematic.​ But​is​this​a​plausible​or​desirable​aim​for​an​ethics​of​self-​artistry​undertaken​in​the​present?​And​supposing​one​wants​to​grant​that​a​certain​kind​ of​self-​care​can​contribute​to​caring​for​others,​why​suppose​that​such​care​ for​others​proceeds​automatically​from​reflexive​concern,​as​Foucault’s​ language​of​implication​suggests?​Moreover,​isn’t​it​necessary​to​differentiate​between​the​multiple​kinds​of​relations​that​can​exist​between​selves​ and​others?​If​care​for​the​self​potentially​assists​in​caring​for​others,​this​ still​leaves​the​meaning​of​caring​for​others​open.​Does​self-​care​produce​ effects​in​intimate​interpersonal​relations;​in​social​relations​within​a​defined​community​such​as​a​school,​workplace,​or​neighborhood;​or​in​political​relations​among​citizens?​Again,​what​is​the​value,​the​purpose,​the​ telos​of​caring​for​oneself?​What​comes​of​it? ​ Foucault​makes​another​provocative​claim​in​this​regard​by​explicitly​ linking​the​ethics​of​the​care​of​the​self​to​the​problem​of​power.​Specifically,​he​states​that​an​ethics​centered​on​an​aesthetic​and​ascetic​self-​ relation​may​serve​as​“a​way​of​controlling​and​limiting​power.”71​He​even​ offers​that​there​may​be​“no​first​or​final​point​of​resistance​to​political​ power​other​than​in​the​relationship​one​has​to​oneself.”72​Foucault​casts​ ethics​in​these​terms​not​only​in​his​commentary​on​Greco-​Roman​culture​but​also​in​relation​to​the​present:​“Power​relations​are​not​something​ that​is​bad​in​itself,​that​we​have​to​break​free​of.​I​do​not​think​that​a​society​can​exist​without​power​relations,​if​by​that​one​means​the​strategies​ by​which​individuals​try​to​direct​and​control​the​conduct​of​others.​The​ problem,​then,​is​not​to​try​to​dissolve​them​in​the​utopia​of​completely​ transparent​communication​[referring​to​Habermas]​but​to​acquire​the​ rules​of​law,​the​management​techniques,​and​also​the​morality,​the​ethos,​ the​practice​of​the​self,​that​will​allow​us​to​play​these​games​of​power​ with​as​little​domination​as​possible.”73 ​ This​ passage​ relies​ on​ an​ important​ distinction​ Foucault​ makes​ between​ power​ relations,​ in​ which​ there​ is​ “necessarily​ the​ possibility​ of​ resistance,”​and​what​he​calls​“states​of​domination.”74​While​power​relaChapter 1

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tions​are​“mobile,​reversible​and​unstable,”​domination​describes​power​ relations​ that​ are​ “fixed​ in​ such​ a​ way​ that​ they​ are​ perpetually​ asymmetrical.”75​This​distinction​between​power​relations​in​which​“there​are​ always​possibilities​of​changing​the​situation”​and​states​of​domination​in​ which​a​field​of​power​relations​has​been​“blocked”​is​critical.76​It​underlies​Foucault’s​repeated​(and​often​misunderstood)​claim​that​one​cannot​ get​outside​of​power​relations,​and​it​also​makes​legible​the​new​problem​ he​poses​here:​How​might​one​“play​these​games​of​power​with​as​little​ domination​as​possible”? ​ Ethics,​defined​as​the​kind​of​relationship​you​ought​to​have​with​yourself,​rapport​à​soi,​is​presented​as​an​integral​part​of​the​answer​to​this​ question.​In​connection​with​“rules​of​law”​and​“management​techniques”​ (about​which​Foucault​says​almost​nothing),​the​ethical​self-​relation​is​ offered​as​one​of​the​means​by​which​power​relations​can​be​altered​in​ the​direction​of​greater​flexibility​and​openness.​This​framing​is​crucial​ because​it​positions​reflexive​arts​of​the​self​as​a​tool​in​a​distinctly​political​project:​challenging​sedimented​patterns​of​inequality​and​promoting​ contestability​and​revisability. ​ Probing​this​insight​in​Foucault’s​work,​however,​is​complicated​by​the​ fact​that​the​primary​models​his​texts​offer​for​thinking​about​the​sociopolitical​effects​of​self-​care​remain​those​of​the​Greeks​and​Romans.​Although​ Foucault​ attributes​ to​ them​ two​ distinct​ understandings​ of​ the​ connection​between​rapport​à​soi​and​broader​social​and​political​relations,​neither​of​these​understandings​supports—indeed,​each​is​at​odds​ with—the​claim​that​care​of​the​self​can​help​render​power​relations​more​ open​and​symmetrical. ​ The​ancient​Greek​view,​exemplified​by​Plato’s​texts,​was​that​care​of​ the​self​took​the​form​of​self-​rule​and​was​a​precondition​for​the​effective​ rule​of​others.77​As​Foucault​explains,​“The​exercise​of​political​power​required,​as​its​own​principle​of​internal​regulation,​power​over​oneself.”​ Dominion​ over​ himself​ “qualified​ a​ man​ to​ exercise​ his​ mastery​ over​ others.​ The​ most​ kingly​ man​ was​ king​ over​ himself.”​ This​ belief​ in​ the​ necessity​of​self-​rule​for​political​rule​is​illustrated​by​the​figures​of​the​ tyrant​and​the​good​political​leader,​who​appear​throughout​ancient​political​thought.​The​tyrant​exemplifies​the​man​who,​“incapable​of​mastering​his​own​passions,”​is​prone​to​abuse​his​power​and​harm​his​subjects,​ while​the​ideal​political​ruler​is​one​whose​“self-​rule​moderated​his​rule​ over​others.”78 Crafting a Democratic Subject?

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​ On​Foucault’s​telling,​the​Greeks​understood​there​to​be​a​strong​connection​between​the​relationship​one​forged​with​oneself​and​how​one​ interacted​with​others:​“I​think​the​postulate​of​this​whole​morality​was​ that​a​person​who​took​proper​care​of​himself​would,​by​the​same​token,​ be​able​to​conduct​himself​properly​in​relation​to​others​and​for​others.”79​ This​characterization​is​intriguing​because​it​indicates​that​the​care​of​the​ self​should​be​understood​as​a​socially​and​politically​meaningful​activity​ and​not​simply​as​an​exercise​in​solipsism.​The​Greek​interpretation​of​the​ intersubjective​significance​of​the​reflexive​relation​is​troubled,​however,​ by​the​fact​that​this​connection​is​conceptualized​through​the​category​ of​rule,​so​that​it​is​specifically​rule​over​oneself​that​prepares​one​to​rule​ others​well.​This​formulation​of​the​link​between​self-​mastery​and​intersubjective​relations​is​not​particularly​promising​for​those​who,​like​Foucault,​are​interested​in​the​contemporary​problem​of​“how​to​play​these​ games​of​power​with​as​little​domination​as​possible.” ​ On​the​other​hand,​Foucault​notes​an​important​shift​between​Greek​ and​Roman​ethics​that​bears​on​the​question​of​the​purpose​of​self-​care.80​ He​explains​that​in​the​Hellenistic​and​Roman​periods​concern​for​the​self​ became​a​“universal​principle”​that​was​“independent​of​political​life.”81​ While​Plato​consistently​presented​self-​rule​as​a​requirement​for​rule​of​ the​city,​as​exemplified​in​Alcibiades,​“taking​care​of​yourself​for​its​own​ sake”​emerges​with​the​Epicureans,​Foucault​tells​us,​and​“becomes​something​very​general​with​Seneca,​Pliny,​and​so​on:​everybody​has​to​take​ care​of​himself.”82​As​Foucault​constructs​it,​when​mastery​over​oneself​ becomes​“something​that​is​not​primarily​related​to​power​over​others,”​ the​“relation​to​the​other”​that​this​supposes​is​“much​less​non-​reciprocal​ than​before.”83​While​the​Greeks​conceived​of​self-​mastery​as​necessary​ in​order​to​rule​others​well​(a​view​that​implies​a​“dissymmetrical​relation​ to​others”),​the​Romans​effected​“a​dissociation​.​.​.​between​power​over​ oneself​and​power​over​others.”84​Flathman​argues​that​this​“dissociation”​ is​the​reason​for​Foucault’s​implicit​endorsement​of​Roman,​as​compared​ to​Greek,​ethics.​It​is​the​separation​of​self-​rule​from​the​question​of​rule​ over​others,​he​declares,​that​constitutes​the​appeal​of​Roman​ethics​for​ Foucault.85 ​ If​Flathman​is​correct,​and​Foucault​finds​the​Roman​divorce​of​self-​ mastery​from​mastery​over​others​in​some​sense​appealing,​this​does​not​ so​much​resolve​the​question​of​the​connection​between​the​reflexive​relation​and​self/other​relations​as​deepen​it.​For,​on​Foucault’s​telling,​the​RoChapter 1

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man​version​of​care​of​the​self​understood​that​pursuit​as​something​“done​ for​its​own​sake,”​an​undertaking​relatively​detached​from​one’s​relations​ with​others.​Here​the​self​is​“no​longer​a​relay”:​the​self​is​the​definitive​ and​only​aim​of​the​care​of​the​self.86​While​this​way​of​imagining​the​care​ of​the​self​may​have​the​merit​of​detaching​the​rule​of​oneself​from​rule​ over​others,​it​does​not​offer​an​alternative​framework​for​understanding​ how​the​relationship​one​constructs​with​oneself​can​guide,​transform,​or​ otherwise​influence​one’s​relationships​with​other​selves.​Foucault​never​ provides​his​own​argument​for​how​an​ethics​of​self-​care​might​bear​on​ interpersonal,​social,​or​political​relations,​even​as​he​maintains​that​such​ an​ethics​has​a​part​to​play​in​the​transformation​of​power​relations​in​ the​present.​When​Foucault​comments,​“Care​for​others​should​not​be​ put​before​the​care​of​oneself.​The​care​of​the​self​is​ethically​prior​in​that​ the​relationship​with​oneself​is​ontologically​prior,”​he​only​raises​more​ questions​about​the​possible​interplay​between​care​of​oneself​and​care​of​ others.87 ​ Foucault’s​writings​seem​to​produce​a​bind.​Foucault​contends​that​an​ ethics​focused​on​the​self’s​relation​to​itself​bears​the​potential​to​transform​ relations​ with​ others​ by​ lessening​ domination,​ thereby​ gesturing​ toward​its​possible​political​significance.​Yet​the​ancient​models​he​analyzes​approach​the​problem​of​the​ethics-​politics​nexus​in​ways​that​do​not​ provide​many​resources​for​such​a​conception,​whether​because​reflexive,​ ethical​relations​and​intersubjective,​political​relations​are​construed​in​ terms​of​rule​and​mastery​(as​on​the​Greek​conception)​or,​alternatively,​ because​self-​care​is​detached​from​the​domain​of​political​life​altogether​ (as​ with​ the​ Romans).​ Foucault’s​ work​ on​ ethics​ thereby​ persistently​ poses​the​question​of​politics​without​effectively​addressing​it.

linking arts of the self to democratic Practice Foucault​gestures​toward​the​possible​contemporary​political​significance​ of​aesthetic​care​for​the​self​but​does​not​fully​conceptualize​this​dynamic,​ and​the​Greek​and​Roman​traditions​he​interprets​seem​to​offer​little​help​ in​this​regard.​This​underdeveloped​but​tantalizing​aspect​of​his​late​work​ has​captured​considerable​attention,​however.​Some​readers​tend​to​restate,​without​explicating,​the​claim​that​the​ethics​of​the​care​of​the​self​ is​politically​salient.​For​example,​Jon​Simons​writes,​“Perhaps​there​is​no​ more​pressing​political​need​than​arts​of​the​self​through​which​people​ detach​themselves​from​current​subjectivities.”88​And​Thomas​Dumm​deCrafting a Democratic Subject?

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clares​that​Foucault​“redefines​politics​as​an​activity​of​self-​constitution.”89​ These​claims,​however,​do​little​more​than​assert​that​arts​of​the​self​are​ political.​But​in​what​sense​is​this​so? ​ Connolly’s​ work​ offers​ the​ most​ sustained​ and​ interesting​ effort​ to​ theorize​the​value​of​Foucauldian​ethics​for​contemporary​politics.​Specifically,​he​elaborates​a​version​of​reflexive​arts​of​the​self​that​he​believes​ is​ indispensable​ to​ an​ activist,​ pluralist​ democracy.​ In​ doing​ so,​ he​ responds​to​Foucault’s​invitation​to​reimagine​the​practice​of​self-​care​while​ also​trying​to​show​that​particular​ways​of​tending​to​oneself​are​democratically​consequential.​But​how​does​he​make​this​case?​Is​it​persuasive?​ Does​Connolly​effectively​show​that​we​need​a​reflexive​ethics​today,​for​ the​sake​of​democratic​politics​and​culture? ​ There​ are​ three​ main​ elements​ to​ Connolly’s​ account:​ the​ guiding​ vision​of​pluralist​democracy,​the​depiction​of​contemporary​arts​of​the​ self,​and,​finally,​the​relationship​he​proposes​between​them.​The​ideal​of​ public​life​Connolly​advances​resonates​strongly​with​the​conception​of​ associative​democracy​laid​out​in​the​introduction.​The​pluralist​democracy​he​advocates​is​characterized​by​citizen​participation​in​shaping​the​ conditions​ under​ which​ they​ live—through​ conventional​ mechanisms​ such​as​voting,​campaigning,​and​running​for​office​but​also​through​collective​self-​organization,​activism,​and​protest,​as​exemplified​by​past​and​ present​social​movements​in​the​United​States.​Such​democracy​is​pluralist​not​only​because​multiple​constituencies​struggle​to​realize​their​ collective​goals,​but​because​it​also​welcomes​diverse​and​conflicting​“fundamental​orientations”​into​the​political​realm​and​aims​not​simply​at​the​ protection​of​existing​plurality​but​toward​deeper​pluralization.90 ​ It​is​with​reference​to​this​normative​conception​of​democratic​pluralism​that​the​issue​of​reflexive​arts​of​the​self​appears.​Recognizing​that​the​ diverse​and​conflictual​political​culture​he​favors​depends​in​part​upon​ citizens’​dispositions,​lest​it​result​in​open​hostility​and​aggression,​Connolly​points​to​“techniques​of​the​self”​as​a​means​to​develop​the​qualities​of​character​suited​to​pluralist​democracy.91​Distinguishing​between​ a​creed​and​a​sensibility,​Connolly​argues​that​the​doctrine​any​believer,​ theistic​or​otherwise,​holds​is​intertwined​with​the​manner​in​which​they​ hold​it,​the​way​in​which​they​express​and​conduct​themselves​in​light​of​ that​belief.​This​pairing​is​evident​in​the​“bicameral​orientation”​he​conceptualizes​as​being​integral​to​pluralist​democracy.​It​involves,​first,​“the​ faith,​doctrine,​creed,​ideology​or​philosophy​that​you​adopt​as​an​engaged​ Chapter 1

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partisan​in​the​world,”​and,​second​and​most​vitally,​“the​engrained​sense​ that​ you​ should​ exercise​ presumptive​ receptivity​ toward​ others​ when​ drawing​ that​ faith,​ creed​ or​ philosophy​ into​ the​ public​ realm.”92​ What​ is​most​central​to​the​practice​of​democratic​pluralism,​therefore,​is​that​ participants,​no​matter​what​comprehensive​views​guide​their​political​ activities,​be​animated​by​a​certain​sort​of​sensibility.​This​sensibility,​variously​described​as​one​of​generosity,​forbearance,​and​receptivity​toward​ others,​is​meant​to​facilitate​democratic​engagement​across​differences​ and​to​guard​against​the​demonization​of​those​with​whom​one​disagrees. ​ Arts​of​the​self​are​fundamental,​according​to​Connolly,​because​they​ can​cultivate​this​sort​of​sensibility,​thereby​enabling​citizens​to​approach​ one​ another​ with​ “agonistic​ respect”​ and​ “critical​ responsiveness”—​ central​virtues​of​pluralist​democracy.​Tactics​performed​by​the​self​upon​ itself​serve​as​preparation​for​the​challenges​of​political​life​marked​by​ deep​disagreement.93​But​what​sort​of​tactics​does​Connolly​have​in​mind?​ How​does​he​conceptualize​the​practice​of​self-​craftsmanship? ​ The​reflexive​relation​Connolly​theorizes​entails​a​dynamic​in​which​ one​part​of​the​self​works​on​other​parts​of​the​self,​but​he​does​not​describe​this​as​a​relation​of​mastery;​it​is​not​a​matter​of​establishing​rule​ over​oneself.​Via​arts​of​the​self,​one​is​able​to​“work​tactically​on​gut​feelings​already​sedimented​in​you.”​But​how​is​this​possible?​What​allows​ such​desedimentation​to​occur?​On​Connolly’s​telling,​it​is​“another​voice​ in​ you”—an​ expression​ of​ inner​ plurality—that​ allows​ for​ this​ critical​ work​to​be​undertaken.94​The​noncoherence​of​the​self​makes​possible,​ although​it​does​not​ensure,​tactical​efforts​that​can​culminate​in​“second-​ order​correction,”​whereby​hostile​or​defensive​parts​of​the​self​can​be​recrafted​into​something​admirable.95​A​certain​sort​of​discipline​is​involved​ in​this​dynamic​insofar​as​self-​artistry​involves​giving​shape​to​oneself​and,​ indeed,​improving​the​self.​But​such​self-​crafting​is​not​designed​to​result​ in​a​solid,​permanent​relation​of​rule.​Rather,​Connolly’s​arts​of​the​self​ are​intended​partly​to​destabilize​a​person’s​sense​of​a​unified​self.​When​ the​self​works​upon​itself,​the​point​is​not​to​achieve​mastery​but​to​dwell​ in,​and​in​the​process​come​to​respect,​the​multiplicity​that​characterizes​ existence​in​every​form. ​ So​instead​of​linking​the​reflexive​relation​to​intersubjective​relations​ via​the​concept​of​rule,​Connolly​draws​a​connection​on​the​basis​of​the​ plurality​that​he​contends​is​alive​within​the​self​as​well​as​in​the​sociopolitical​world.​The​kind​of​relationship​with​oneself​that​Connolly​celeCrafting a Democratic Subject?

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brates​is​one​in​which​the​self​recognizes​and​engages​with​inner​discord​ and​complexity.​Experiencing​intrasubjective​plurality,​Connolly​argues,​ can​help​one​to​foster​respect​for​intersubjective​plurality.​Actively​engaging​with​diverse​elements​within​the​self,​allowing​different​parts​to​challenge​one​another,​can​“desanctify”​elements​of​one’s​identity.96​This,​in​ turn,​serves​to​diminish​“the​drive​to​wholeness”​that​threatens​to​impose​ unitarian​ schemas​ upon​ plurality​ in​ its​ many​ guises.97​ In​ other​ words,​ Connolly​suggests​that​appreciating​the​nonunity​of​oneself​and​acting​ upon​the​contingencies​therein​can​help​one​generate​a​more​generous,​ forbearing,​and​receptive​attitude​toward​worldly​plurality​as​well.98 ​ By​arguing​that​through​self-​intervention,​or​micropolitics,​people​can​ transform​themselves​in​ways​that​ready​them​for​macropolitics,​Connolly​ endows​Foucauldian​aesthetics​of​existence​with​a​strong,​explicitly​political​aim:​developing​the​sensibilities​suitable​to​pluralist​democratic​politics.​By​thoughtfully​and​modestly​working​on​oneself,​Connolly​claims,​ one​can​loosen​the​“vengeful,​anxious,​or​stingy”​elements​of​one’s​identity​ and​ thereby​ render​ oneself​ “more​ open​ to​ responsive​ engagement​ with​alternative​faiths,​sensualities,​gender​practices,​ethnicities​and​so​ on.”99​Connolly​thus​affirms​Foucault’s​basic​claim​that​techniques​of​the​ self​can​benefit​intersubjective​relations.​But​he​specifies​a​practice​of​self-​ artistry​that​fosters​qualities​meant​to​facilitate​passionate,​yet​respectful,​encounters​with​fellow​citizens,​both​potential​allies​and​adversaries.​ By​orienting​self-​care​toward​the​cultivation​of​dispositions​supportive​of​ pluralist​ democratic​ culture,​ Connolly​ seems​ to​ provide​ what​ Foucault​ does​not:​a​way​of​conceptualizing​the​link​between​care​for​the​self​and​ politics​that​is​not​premised​on​a​dynamic​of​mastery.​Perhaps​Connolly​ articulates​that​“something​new”​that​Foucault​hinted​might​be​generated​ out​of​the​encounter​staged​with​Greco-​Roman​ethics. ​ Yet​ vital​ questions​ remain​ in​ Connolly’s​ theory.​ Most​ notably,​ what​ prompts​ someone​ to​ take​ up​ practices​ of​ self-​intervention​ in​ the​ first​ place,​and​what​ensures​that​such​intervention​will​generate​democratic​ effects?​The​puzzle​is​twofold,​concerning​both​the​impetus​for​self-​care​ and​the​consequences​of​such​reflexive​activity.​How​does​such​activity,​ which​Connolly​presents​as​integral​to​democratic​practice,​get​off​the​ ground?​What​motivates​this​specific​sort​of​reflexive​relation,​in​which​ the​self​confronts​diverse​elements​within​itself​and​in​the​process​becomes​more​forbearing​and​generous​toward​faiths​other​than​one’s​own?​ Connolly​does​not​devote​as​much​attention​to​this​matter​as​one​might​ Chapter 1

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expect​and​at​times​seems​simply​to​assume​a​subject​who​is​predisposed​ to​ this​ kind​ of​ work​ upon​ the​ self.​ For​ example,​ in​ a​ discussion​ of​ the​ value​of​arts​of​the​self,​Connolly​states,​“If​men​first​constitute​‘women’​ as​sources​of​nurturance​from​which​to​develop​their​own​capacities​for​ agency​and​then​define​them​only​as​spectators​and/or​objects​through​ which​to​confirm​that​agency,​then​any​other​sign​of​agency​by​women​ will​be​received​as​a​threat​to​masculine​integrity.​Here​work​on​established​practices​of​masculinity​becomes​necessary.”100​Perhaps​so,​but​this​ statement​says​nothing​about​what​prompts​or​encourages​that​work.​Reflexive​labor​may​be​necessary,​but​nothing​assures​that​it​will​be​exercised.​Again,​what​is​the​catalyst​for​these​arts​of​the​self? ​ In​addition,​it​is​hard​to​know​what​ensures​that​self-​intervention,​if​ enacted,​will​result​in​dispositions​that​enhance,​rather​than​endanger,​ democratic​engagement.​(The​figure​of​Alcibiades,​whom​Foucault​references​often,​is​a​potent​reminder​of​the​ways​in​which​concern​with​the​ self​can​misfire.)​Will​the​self​who​practices​reflexive​arts​necessarily​be​ more​inclined​to​participate,​passionately​and​respectfully,​in​collective​ action​animated​by​a​commitment​to​pluralization?​Although​Connolly​ is​quick​to​remind​readers​that​he​is​not​counseling​“self-​indulgence,”​he​ never​explains​what​protects​care​of​the​self​from​morphing​into​one​of​ many​unsavory​alternatives—vanity,​narcissism,​selfishness,​and​so​on— alternatives​ that​ are​ strongly​ encouraged​ by​ contemporary​ culture​ but​ which​will​hardly​enrich​the​pluralist​democracy​Connolly​advocates.101​ Why​should​one​believe​that​focused​attention​on​oneself​will​foster​individuals​who​are​interested​in​and​especially​capable​of​collaborative​action​ to​reshape​social​conditions?​Why​assume​that​the​turn​inward​will​give​ way​to​a​turn​outward? ​ At​times​Connolly​posits​a​reciprocal​relation​between​techniques​of​ the​ self​ and​ collective​ political​ efforts,​ a​ formulation​ that​ may​ help​ to​ address​ these​ important​ questions​ regarding​ motivation​ (What​ sparks​ arts​of​the​self?)​and​effects​(What​directs​those​arts​toward​democracy-​ enhancing​results?).​When​Connolly​conceptualizes​self-​intervention​in​ this​way,​it​seems​to​be​both​initiated​and​continually​guided​by​existing​ political​movements​and​their​claims,​which​capture​an​individual’s​attention,​prompting​reflection,​rethinking,​and​concerted​work​upon​the​ self.​For​example,​in​a​discussion​concerning​recent​controversies​regarding​end-​of-​life​treatment,​Connolly​describes​the​arts​of​the​self​through​ which​an​individual​is​able​to​unsettle​her​previously​unquestioned​asCrafting a Democratic Subject?

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sumptions​about​the​nature​of​death.​These​arts​of​the​self,​through​which​ the​ “nonnegotiable”​ becomes​ “rethinkable,”​ Connolly​ says,​ can​ in​ turn​ prompt​ “public​ engagements”​ guided​ by​ the​ insights​ achieved​ through​ reflexive​arts.102​Yet​Connolly​notes​that​this​process​of​self-​intervention​ was​also​initially​spurred​by​a​new​political​movement​claiming​a​right​to​ die.​This​depiction​is​valuable​because​it​helps​to​explain​what​prompts​ reflexive​action​and​what​makes​this​kind​of​self-​care​at​least​potentially​ supportive​of​democratic​politics.​That​is,​if​Foucauldian-​inspired​tactics​ performed​by​the​self​upon​itself​are​tied,​from​the​very​beginning,​to​collective​political​efforts​(such​as​those​articulating​a​right​to​die),​then​the​ ethical​work​undertaken​by​the​individual​is​already​shaped​by​and​attentive​to​a​specific​public​matter​around​which​constituencies​have​organized.103​Put​somewhat​differently,​Connolly’s​account​here​implies​that​ the​care​for​the​self​capable​of​enriching​democratic​life​is​always-​already​ bound​up​with​care​for​shared​conditions. ​ Unfortunately,​Connolly​is​inconsistent​in​this​regard,​for​he​also​positions​Foucauldian​self-​artistry​as​an​“essential​preliminary​to,”​and​even​ the​necessary​“condition​of,”​change​at​the​macropolitical​level.104​That​ is,​although​Connolly​claims​that​micropolitics​and​political​movements​ work​“in​tandem,”​each​producing​effects​on​the​other,105​he​sometimes​ privileges​“action​by​the​self​on​itself”​as​a​starting​point​and​necessary​ prelude​to​macropolitical​change.​This​approach​not​only​avoids​the​question​of​the​genesis​of​such​reflexive​action​and​its​possible​harmful​effects​ but​also​indicates​that​collective​efforts​to​alter​social​conditions​actually​ await​proper​techniques​of​the​self.​For​example,​in​a​rich​discussion​of​ criminal​punishment​in​the​United​States,​Connolly​contends​that​“today​ the​micropolitics​of​desire​in​the​domain​of​criminal​violence​has​become​ a​condition​for​a​macropolitics​that​reconfigures​existing​relations​between​ class,​race,​crime​and​punishment.”106​Here​and​elsewhere​in​Connolly’s​ writing​ the​ sequencing​ renders​ these​ activities​ primary​ and​ secondary​ rather​than​mutually​inspiring​and​reinforcing.107 ​ It​ is​ a​ mistake​ to​ grant​ chronological​ primacy​ to​ ethical​ self-​ intervention,​however.​How,​after​all,​is​such​intervention,​credited​with​ producing​salient​effects​at​the​macropolitical​level,​going​to​get​off​the​ ground,​so​to​speak,​or​assuredly​move​in​the​direction​of​democratic​engagement​(rather​than​withdrawal,​for​example)​if​it​is​not​tethered,​from​ the​beginning,​to​public​claims​that​direct​attention​to​a​specific​problem,​ defined​as​publicly​significant​and​changeable?​How​and​why​would​an​ Chapter 1

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individual​take​up​reflexive​work​on​the​desire​to​punish​if​she​were​not​ already​attuned,​at​least​partially,​to​problems​afflicting​current​criminal​ punishment​practices?​And​that​attunement​is​fostered,​crucially,​by​the​ macropolitical​efforts​of​democratic​actors​who​define​a​public​matter​of​ concern​and​elicit​the​attention​of​other​citizens.108 ​ For​reflexive​self-​care​to​be​democratically​significant,​it​must​be​inspired​by​and​continually​connected​to​larger​political​mobilizations.​Connolly​sometimes​acknowledges​that​the​arts​of​the​self​he​celebrates​are​ not​themselves​the​starting​point​of​collaborative​action​but​instead​exist​ in​a​dynamic,​reciprocal​relation​with​cooperative​and​antagonistic​efforts​ to​shape​collective​arrangements.​Yet​the​self’s​relation​with​itself​is​also​ treated​as​a​privileged​site,​the​very​source​of​democratic​spirit​and​action. ​ This​tendency​to​prioritize​the​self’s​reflexive​relationship​over​other​ modes​of​relation​defines​the​therapeutic​ethics​that​ultimately​emerges​ out​of​Foucault’s​and,​to​a​lesser​degree,​Connolly’s​work.​This​ethics​not​ only​elides​differences​between​caring​for​oneself​and​caring​for​conditions​but​also​celebrates​the​former​as​primary​or,​as​Foucault​says,​“ontologically​prior.”​An​ethics​centered​on​the​self’s​engagement​with​itself​ may​have​value,​but​it​is​not​an​ethics​fit​for​democracy.

challenging therapeutic Ethics The​claim​that​Foucauldian​ethics​amounts​to​a​therapeutic​ethics​may​ sound​ surprising​ on​ the​ face​ of​ it,​ if​ therapy​ is​ thought​ of​ in​ modern​ psychological​terms.​Indeed,​Foucault​declares​that​people​should​“liberate​[them]selves​from​the​kind​of​subjectivity​of​which​the​psychoanalysts​ treat”​and​offers​that​“the​art​of​living​is​the​art​of​killing​psychology.”109​ In​the​same​vein,​Foucault​stresses​that​the​creative,​productive​reflexive​ relationship​which​fascinates​him​stands​opposed​to​the​idea​of​a​self​who​ bears​a​core​truth​in​need​of​deciphering.​And​he​rejects​the​suggestion​ that​his​interest​in​the​arts​of​the​self​is​anything​like​the​“California​cult​of​ the​self”​and​the​quest​for​authenticity.110​Connolly​likewise​stresses​that​ the​self​engaged​in​reflexive​care​is​actively​shaping​and​reshaping​itself​ rather​than​seeking​a​deep​interiority.​So​in​what​sense​do​they​articulate​ a​therapeutic​ethics? ​ I​use​this​term​to​signify​that​the​ethics​in​question,​articulated​in​different​ways​by​Foucault​and​Connolly,​focuses​squarely​on​the​self​as​the​ primary​site​of​engagement.​The​individual​self​is​both​the​subject​and​ object​of​ethical​action,​even​if​that​self​is​seen​as​being​situated,​conCrafting a Democratic Subject?

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structed,​and​malleable​rather​than​as​essential.​The​Greek​term​therapeuein,​Foucault​tells​us,​had​three​related​meanings:​“to​give​medical​care​ to​oneself,​to​be​one’s​own​servant,​and​to​devote​oneself​to​oneself.”111​All​ three​meanings​involve​a​reflexive​relationship.​The​label​“therapeutic,”​as​ applied​to​Foucault’s​and​Connolly’s​account​of​ethics,​draws​on​this​etymology​and​describes​an​ethics​that​consists​of​focused​attention​on​oneself.​This​characterization​applies​to​both​Foucault​and​Connolly,​despite​ the​fact​that​the​self​is​understood​as​a​creative​production​and​despite​ their​shared​belief​that​this​ethics​can​generate​effects​beyond​the​self. ​ For​ even​ this​ latter​ claim​ reflects​ the​ therapeutic​ character​ of​ this​ ethics.​The​self’s​relation​to​itself​is​treated​as​fundamental,​as​the​basis​of​ other​modes​of​relation,​including​democratic​relations​among​citizens.​ The​privilege​granted​to​the​individual​reflexive​relationship​appears​most​ clearly​in​Foucault’s​insistence​that​it​is​universally​“prior​to”​one’s​relations​with​others​and​that​alterations​in​intersubjective​power​relations​ follow​from​tending​to​the​self​in​the​proper​way.112​As​Linda​Zerilli​argues,​Foucault​“takes​for​granted​the​idea​that​freedom​would​begin​with​ changes​in​subjectivity​that​then​bring​about​changes​in​the​world.”113​The​ single​self,​though​embedded​in​a​particular​cultural​context​and​shaped​ rather​than​found,​remains​the​locus​of​Foucault’s​ethics​and​the​source​of​ broader​transformation.114​And​although​Connolly​claims​that​micropolitics​and​macropolitics​mutually​influence​each​other,​self-​care​regularly​ appears​in​his​work​as​a​precondition​of​or​a​preliminary​to​engagement​ in​collaborative​democratic​action.​Therapeutic​ethics​is​concerned​above​ all​with​the​relationship​one​has​with​oneself,​which​enjoys​special​status​ as​the​source​of​other​relationships. ​ The​therapeutic​ethics​advanced​by​Foucault​and​Connolly​resonate​ strongly​with​dominant​features​of​American​culture.​In​particular,​therapeutic​ethics​echoes​a​widely​held​popular​belief,​captured​in​this​chapter’s​second​epigraph,​that​working​on​oneself​is​the​path​to​broader​social​ change.​This​view​is​expressed​quite​clearly​today​in​the​doctrine​of​ethical​consumerism,​which​holds​that​individuals​should​critically​reflect​on​ their​consumption​practices,​making​changes​in​themselves​and​in​their​ personal​conduct​(namely,​in​what​they​buy)​in​order​to​generate​collective​change.​In​addition​to​expressing​the​striking​and​disturbing​conviction​that​a​primary​way​of​shaping​the​self​and​becoming​a​better​person​ is​through​purchasing​commodities,​this​orientation​rests​on​the​belief​ that​each​individual’s​action​will​additively​amount​to​something​greater,​ Chapter 1

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producing​transformation​on​a​large​scale.​This​is​a​more​simplistic​model​ than​Connolly’s​in​that​it​recognizes​no​difference​between​micropolitics​ and​macropolitics,​treating​the​latter​as​simply​the​cumulative​result​of​ the​former.​There​are,​nonetheless,​real​similarities​between​Foucauldian-​ inspired​ ethics​ and​ the​ more​ generalized​ conviction​ that​ transforming​ oneself​ is​ the​ most​ important​ and​ even​ the​ most​ politically​ significant​ project​a​person​can​undertake. ​ Even​though​Foucault’s​and​Connolly’s​accounts​of​ethics​may​not​intend​to​further​the​prevalent​popular​belief​that​you​change​the​world​ by​changing​yourself,​conceptualizing​ethics​primarily​in​terms​of​self-​ intervention​is​dangerous​in​the​context​of​an​American​cultural​environment​that​can​fairly​be​described​as​narcissistic.115​There​is​no​doubt​that​ the​Foucauldian-​inspired​arts​of​the​self​Connolly​advocates​are​meant​to​ challenge​reigning​ways​of​being​and​to​transform​individuals​in​ways​that​ enable​them​to​engage​more​effectively​in​collective​projects,​including​ critical​and​oppositional​endeavors​that​aim​to​alter​status​quo​arrangements.​Yet​the​massive​popularity​of​self-​help​programs​disseminating​the​ view​that​worldly​events​are​the​direct​result​of​one’s​personal​thoughts,​ in​conjunction​with​capitalist​ideologies​that​tend​to​reduce​the​aesthetics​ of​existence​to​the​acquisition​of​a​lifestyle​through​shopping,​along​with​ many​other​cultural​influences​that​promote​questionable​techniques​of​ the​self,​should​make​one​hesitate​before​embracing​an​ethics​that​focuses​ so​heavily​on​concern​with​oneself.116​Even​Connolly’s​version​of​therapeutic​ethics,​which​he​wants​to​demarcate​from​unappealing​forms​of​ self-​indulgence,​runs​the​risk​of​being​captured​by​prevailing​habits​and​ beliefs​ that​ can​ render​ arts​ of​ the​ self​ nondemocratic,​ even​ antidemocratic. ​ Some​of​Connolly’s​own​formulations​bring​this​danger​into​relief.​For​ example,​Connolly​sometimes​uses​the​term​micropolitics​to​refer​not​only​ to​the​self’s​reflexive​tactics​but​also​to​small-​scale​intersubjective​relations​and​projects​that​might​not​typically​be​recognized​as​political​in​ nature​but​which​Connolly​maintains​can​support​and​enhance​macropolitics.117​Micropolitics​of​this​sort​are​already​“ubiquitous,”​but​they​can​ be​developed,​readers​are​told,​in​ways​that​are​“more​or​less​conducive​to​ democratic​politics.”118​This​dimension​of​micropolitics​is​sometimes​depicted​by​Connolly​as​a​bridge​connecting​concentrated​work​on​the​self​ to​organized​forms​of​collective​citizen​action.​But​the​concrete​examples​ of​micropolitical​activity​that​he​gives,​even​those​that​extend​beyond​the​ Crafting a Democratic Subject?

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self’s​relation​to​itself,​raise​new​doubts​about​how​resistant​or​transformative​such​activity​really​is.​Indeed,​some​of​what​Connolly​has​in​mind​ seems​ depressingly​ adaptive​ to​ contemporary​ arrangements,​ considering​how​focused​his​examples​are​on​individual​lifestyle​choices​rather​ than​on​the​admittedly​more​difficult​problem​of​how​to​mobilize​energies​for​more​collaborative,​oppositional,​and​inventive​endeavors.​Writing​of​micropolitics,​Connolly​counsels,​“If​you​are​in​the​middle​class,​buy​ a​Prius​or​a​Volt​and​explain​to​your​friends​and​neighbors​why​you​did;​ write​in​a​blog;​attend​a​pivotal​rally;​ride​your​bike​to​work​more​often;​ consider​solar​panels;​introduce​new​topics​at​your​church.”​While​these​ things​may​be​worth​doing,​it​is​not​clear​why​one​should​believe​they​will​ foster​an​urge​to​“participate​in​larger​political​assemblages​in​more​robust​ways,”​as​Connolly​wagers.119​Indeed,​these​recommendations​seem​ to​reinforce​the​belief​that​political​change​is​a​happy​by-​product​of​small​ decisions​made​by​each​individual.​Despite​Connolly’s​best​intentions— and​his​ambitious​calls​for​broad​transformation​in​the​direction​of​deepening​pluralization,​greater​economic​equality,​and​less​vengeful​foreign​ policy—the​therapeutic​ethics​he​endorses​is​too​easily​absorbed,​even​ co-​opted,​by​a​dominant​culture​that​rewards​forms​of​preoccupation​with​ the​self​that​do​little​to​facilitate​associative​democracy. ​ This​point​seems​to​be​unwittingly​made,​in​a​slightly​different​context,​ by​ Cressida​ Heyes’s​ Self-Transformations: Foucault, Ethics, and Normalized Bodies.​Heyes’s​stated​objective​is​to​rescue​Foucault’s​work​on​ ethics​from​misreadings​that​liken​self-​care​to​self-​indulgence,​in​order​ to​defend​the​importance​of​“somaesthetics,”​in​which​the​self​strives​to​ cultivate​a​body​in​ways​that​are​resistant​to​normalization.​Yet​although​ Heyes​is​devoted​to​the​idea​that​ethical​self-​discipline,​performed​by​the​ self​on​the​self,​can​be​an​“art​of​living​with​greater​embodied​freedom,”​ the​vast​majority​of​the​book​is​spent​investigating,​in​great​detail,​case​ studies​ involving​ contemporary​ practices​ of​ askesis​ (sex​ reassignment​ surgery,​Weight​Watchers,​and​cosmetic​surgery),​which,​Heyes​convincingly​argues,​help​to​produce​“docile​bodies.”120​So​although​Heyes​continues​to​hold​out​the​hope​that​concentrated​work​on​the​self,​and​specifically​on​one’s​body,​can​serve​as​a​site​of​resistance​against​normalizing​ power,​the​overwhelming​sense​conveyed​by​her​research​is​how​readily​ and​thoroughly​care​for​the​self​is​promoted​and​practiced​in​conformist,​ “self-​absorbed”​ways.121​There​is​little​acknowledgment​of​the​difficulty​ her​examples​pose​to​her​celebration​of​a​transgressive,​liberating​somaesChapter 1

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thetics.​What​does​it​mean​to​endorse​an​ethics​focused​on​rapport​à​soi​ and​on​“somatic​askesis”​in​particular,​in​the​context​of​a​society​that,​by​ Heyes’s​own​account,​obsessively​and​successfully​markets​forms​of​self-​ care​that​produce​compliant​and​often​solipsistic​selves?​Why​should​one​ believe​ that​ Heyes’s​ preferred​ example​ of​ good​ somatic​ self-​discipline,​ yoga,​ is​ somehow​ safe​ from​ the​ normalizing​ influences​ so​ well​ documented​in​her​treatments​of​sex​reassignment​surgery,​organized​weight​ loss,​and​cosmetic​surgery?​Like​Connolly,​Heyes​seems​to​neglect​the​way​ in​which​even​the​best-​intentioned​calls​for​care​of​the​self​may​still​be​too​ complicit​with​an​American​culture​that​celebrates​and​aggressively​markets​depoliticizing​modes​of​self-​care. ​ Still,​the​appeal​of​therapeutic​ethics​is​undeniable.​It​soothes​with​the​ promise​that​one​need​not​get​tangled​up​in​the​messy,​fraught​world​of​ intersubjective​political​struggle​in​order​to​engage​in​politically​meaningful​action.​Whether​tending​to​the​self​is​seen​as​synonymous​with​politics,​as​in​the​popularized​version​of​therapeutic​ethics,​or​whether​it​is​ understood​as​a​precursor​to​collective​endeavors,​as​in​Connolly’s​view,​ the​suggestion​that​one​ought​to​begin​with​focused​attention​on​oneself​is​comforting.​It​spares​one​the​challenges​of​attempting​to​address​ a​public​problem​by​acting​in​solidarity​with​and​in​opposition​to​other​ citizens,​where​there​may​be​no​assurance​of​success​and​when​fatigue,​ disappointment,​and​frustration​are​likely.​When​the​political​landscape​ looks​bleak—​because​there​are​few​opportunities​for​ordinary​citizens​to​ govern​themselves,​because​of​growing​corporate​influence​over​politics​ at​all​levels,​or​because​of​any​number​of​other​depressing​facts—therapeutic​ethics​reassures​with​the​idea​that​one​can​be​an​engaged​citizen​ all​by​oneself. ​ It​is​true​that​the​arts​of​the​self​Connolly​theorizes​are​meant​to​foster​ sensibilities​that​will,​in​turn,​facilitate​participation​in​public​life​rather​ than​act​as​a​substitute​for​it.​And​as​I​argued​above,​Connolly’s​inquiry​ into​the​ethics​of​self-​care​is​most​evocative​and​apt​when​such​care​is​ theorized​as​both​inspired​by​and​inspiring​of​collective​democratic​activity.​Yet​it​is​equally​important​not​to​exaggerate​the​connection​between​ them.​A​genuine​gap​separates​practices​of​self-​artistry​from​collaborative​efforts​to​shape​the​habitat​in​which​people​live,​though​Connolly’s​ approach​tends​to​cover​it​over,​as​his​distinctive​vocabulary​indicates.​ “Action​ by​ the​ self​ on​ itself”​ is​ labeled​ micropolitics​ and​ paired​ with​ macropolitics,​designating​an​array​of​large-​scale​institutional​formations​ Crafting a Democratic Subject?

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and​ shared​ practices,​ including​ efforts​ by​ social​ movements​ to​ disrupt​ hegemonic​patterns​of​behavior​and​push​for​greater​pluralization.​Connolly’s​point​is​to​insist​on​the​political​significance​of​arts​of​the​self,​and​ he​marks​this​claim​with​the​word​micropolitics.​The​trouble​with​this​representation,​however,​is​that​it​designates​the​self-​artistry​undertaken​by​ an​individual​to​desanctify​her​identity​and​those​collective​struggles​by​ which​a​constituency​attempts​to​alter​an​element​of​shared​conditions​as​ two​types​of​the​same​phenomenon.​Indeed,​the​labels​Connolly​relies​on​ imply​that​the​individually​practiced​reflexive​care​of​the​self​differs​from​ the​collectively​pursued​care​of​the​world​only​in​terms​of​scale:​one​is​ micro,​the​other​is​macro.​This​framing,​I​suggest,​exaggerates​the​affinities​between​building​a​self​and​building​a​world. ​ By​presenting​arts​of​the​self​and​collective​citizen​movements​as​variations​on​a​single​theme,​Connolly’s​writings​conceal​the​unique​orientation​that​democratic​politics​entails,​which​sets​it​apart​from​any​reflexive​ self-​relation.​Associative​democratic​endeavors​are​distinguished​not​only​ by​the​involvement​of​multiple​actors​but​by​the​presence​of​a​common​ object​ around​ which​ they​ organize.​ Thus​ any​ movement​ between​ the​ micropolitics​of​self-​constitution​and​the​macropolitics​of​transforming​ worldly​habits,​practices,​laws,​and​norms​is​decidedly​more​complicated​ than​Connolly’s​framing​indicates,​because​it​demands​a​turn​away​from​ oneself​as​the​object​of​attention​and​toward​a​different​and​shared​object​ of​concern​that​serves​as​a​site​of​mutual​energy​and​advocacy. ​ This​reorientation,​I​argue,​is​possible​only​if​the​self’s​reflexive​relation​with​itself​is​initially​activated​by​and​remains​tethered​to​a​public​ matter​of​concern.​If​self-​transformation​is​to​move​in​a​direction​that​enriches​democratic​subjectivity​and​readies​one​for​participation​in​democratic​contest,​it​must​be​guided​from​the​start​by​the​claims​and​actions​ of​democratic​constituencies.​There​is​simply​no​reason​to​believe​or​hope​ that​paying​focused​attention​to​oneself​will​enable​rather​than​disable​ collective​action​unless​the​labors​of​self-​constitution​are​set​in​motion​ by​a​publicly​articulated​claim​regarding​shared​conditions​that​resonates​ with​that​individual,​sparking​reflection,​examination,​and​transformation.​For​example,​in​the​passage​considered​earlier​in​which​Connolly​ describes​the​efforts​undertaken​by​an​individual​who​confronts​disparate​ elements​within​herself​that​concern​death​and​dying,​this​reflexive​activity​is​potentially​politically​meaningful​because​it​was​initiated​by​the​

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appearance​of​new​movements​claiming​a​right​to​die.​For​the​work​performed​on​the​self​to​bear​any​democratic​significance,​the​self​must​be​ able,​at​some​point,​to​divest​itself​from​the​rapport​à​soi​and​refocus​on​ a​public​matter​as​the​primary​object​of​concern.​This​divestment​is​made​ possible​by​the​presence​of​a​worldly​problem​that​captures​the​attention​ of​that​individual​from​the​start​and​allows​the​self​to​shift​out​of​concentrated​work​on​the​self​and​into​the​pluralistic​domain​of​democratic​ ​politics. ​ This​insight​sheds​light​on​those​problems​afflicting​Connolly’s​argument​for​arts​of​the​self.​In​those​places​where​Connolly—wrongly,​as​I​ have​contended—presents​a​reflexive​relationship​as​the​starting​point​or​ origin​of​macropolitical​endeavors,​the​questions​of​activation​and​effects​ loom​large.​What​prompts​someone​to​take​up​these​all-​important​techniques​of​the​self?​Why​would​someone​decide​to​engage​in​the​strenuous​arts​of​the​self​that,​to​Connolly,​are​indispensable​to​collective​democratic​undertakings?​Moreover,​under​what​circumstances​can​care​for​ the​self,​if​pursued,​be​counted​on​to​generate​democratic​virtues​rather​ than​ vices?​ What​ assures​ that​ self-​intervention​ will​ result​ in​ styles​ of​ subjectivity​that​are​especially​well-​suited​to​participation​in​associative​ projects?​The​answers​to​these​queries,​as​demonstrated​above,​turn​on​ the​fact​that​any​self-​care​that​might​matter​for​democracy​is​sparked​by​ and​remains​bound​to​public​efforts​that​bring​“matters​of​fact”​into​view​ as​common​“matters​of​concern.”​Tending​to​oneself​in​the​manner​Connolly​advocates​cannot​come​out​of​nowhere;​it​is​spurred​into​practice​by​ publicly​articulated​claims​that​aim​to​elicit​care,​not​primarily​for​a​single​ self​but​for​something​defined​as​a​public,​contested​matter​worthy​of​citizen​attention.​Reflexive​practices​of​self-​transformation​that​might​be​able​ to​nourish​associative​forms​of​democratic​action​are​dependent​on​public​ processes​of​politicization​for​their​activation​and​subsequent​direction. ​ If​we​seek​not​just​any​ethics,​but​a​democratic​ethics,​we​are​looking​ for​an​orientation​or​mode​of​being​that​can​inspire​participation​in​associative​efforts​to​shape​worldly​conditions.​Therapeutic​ethics,​focused​as​ it​is​on​the​self’s​relationship​to​itself,​cannot​be​the​source​of​such​a​spirit.​ Showing​concern​for​oneself​and​showing​concern,​in​association​with​ others,​for​a​particular​custom,​norm,​law,​or​practice​are​decidedly​different​enterprises.​Collective​action​on​behalf​of​a​public​matter​does​not​ simply​follow​from​care​of​the​self,​as​the​therapeutic​model​sometimes​

Crafting a Democratic Subject?

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suggests.​Tending​to​the​self​can​perhaps​play​a​supportive​role​in​readying​people​for​the​demands​of​democratic​association​and​struggle.​But​to​ do​so,​arts​of​the​self​must​be​undertaken​in​response​to​and​for​the​sake​ of​collaborative​arts​that​aim​to​make​and​remake​features​of​the​world.​ The​task​of​a​democratic​ethos​is​to​nourish​this​distinctive​form​of​care​ among​citizens.

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ChaPter​two –​ ​— –​

lE v i nasian Eth ics, charity, an d dE Mocracy

From​the​start,​the​encounter​with​the​Other​is​my​responsibility​for​ him.​That​is​the​responsibility​for​my​neighbor,​which​is,​no​doubt,​the​ harsh​name​for​what​we​call​love​of​one’s​neighbor;​love​without​Eros,​ charity.

—emmanueL​Levinas Compassion​may​itself​be​a​substitute​for​justice.​.​.​.​Compassion​already​signifies​inequality.​The​compassionate​intend​no​justice,​for​justice​might​disrupt​current​power​relationships.

—hannah​arenDt

If​an​ethics​of​self-​care​is​unlikely​to​enrich​democratic​politics​in​the​way​its​proponents​suggest,​is​an​explicitly​intersubjective​ethical​approach​needed?​More​specifically,​might​an​ ethics​devoted​to​the​self’s​relation​to​an​Other—rather​than​ centered​on​the​self’s​relation​to​itself—provide​sustenance​ and​support​for​associative​democratic​activity? ​ Emmanuel​Levinas’s​distinctive​ethics,​defined​by​an​inescapable​and​infinite​obligation​to​the​Other,​is​often​presented​ as​an​important​alternative​to​the​Foucauldian​ethics​of​care​ of​the​self.​If​Foucault​defended​the​“ontological​priority”​of​ the​self’s​relation​to​itself,​some​find​in​Levinas’s​work​a​persuasive​effort​to​“turn​around​Foucault’s​ontological​order​of​ primacy”​by​privileging​the​Other​and​its​call​to​responsibility​

that​summons​the​self.1​Johanna​Oksala,​for​example,​argues​that​Levinas’s​ethical​approach​rightly​regards​the​relation​between​the​self​and​the​ Other​as​originary​(and​constitutive​of​the​self),​in​contrast​to​Foucault’s​ privileging​of​the​reflexive​relation​as​ontologically​prior​to​all​others.​This​ reversal,​Oksala​contends,​opens​up​a​consideration​of​ethical​relations​between​subjects.​Barry​Smart​also​questions​the​way​in​which​“care​for​the​ self​takes​moral​precedence​over​care​for​others”​in​Foucault’s​work.​He​ claims​that​it​is​impossible​for​Foucault’s​ethics​to​imply​care​for​others,​ as​Foucault​contends,​unless​“there​is​from​the​beginning​.​.​.​already​a​responsibility​for​the​other,”​such​as​that​articulated​by​Levinas.2 ​ As​is​true​in​the​case​of​Foucault,​interest​in​Levinas’s​thought​is​often​ tied​to​the​quest​for​a​democratic​ethos.​This​quest,​as​we​have​seen,​is​ driven​largely​by​the​sense​that​American​liberal​democracy​is​afflicted​ by​a​“motivational​deficit”​and​that​this​situation​calls​for​an​empowering​ethics,​however​conceived,​that​can​spark​and​sustain​citizen​action.3​ Could​Levinasian​ethics​serve​this​vitalizing​role?​Perhaps​an​ethics​defined​by​one’s​responsibility​to​the​Other​is​what​democracy​needs.4​Might​ the​sense​of​absolute​obligation​to​care​for​another​remotivate​citizens​ and​ draw​ them​ into​ collective​ democratic​ endeavors?​ Simon​ Critchley​ and​Ewa​Ziarek,​among​others,​answer​affirmatively.​Critchley​believes​ that​Levinasian​ethics​can​help​deter​the​“nihilistic​drift”​of​contemporary​politics​and​potentially​act​as​an​impetus​for​collective​democratic​ action​to​redress​injustices.5​Ziarek​locates​in​Levinas’s​ethics​a​much-​ needed​“element​of​the​unconditional,”​the​sense​of​limitless​obligation​to​ the​Other,​that​can​help​mitigate​the​dangers​of​unrestrained​agonism​by​ fostering​democratic​action​oriented​toward​the​fulfillment​of​this​obligation.6 ​ It​is​perhaps​unsurprising​that​Levinas’s​ethics​is​invoked​as​a​resource​ for​democracy.​The​view​of​the​self​as​being​ultimately​for​the​other​seems​ to​present​a​challenge​to​narrow​self-​interest,​calling​on​people​to​concern​themselves​with​the​fate​of​others.​The​hope​is​that​such​concern,​ if​deeply​felt,​can​acquire​a​political​form,​encouraging​individuals’​involvement​in​democratic​efforts​that​attempt​to​express​the​responsibility​ to​care​for​other​human​beings.​This​chapter​explores​the​possibilities​of​ a​Levinasian-​inspired​ethos​for​democracy.​It​ultimately​argues​that​although​Levinas’s​account​of​ethics​is​in​many​ways​compelling,​it​is​poorly​ suited​to​democratic​politics​because​it​revolves​around​a​hierarchical,​ charitable​ relation​ that​ is​ focused​ on​ addressing​ immediate​ needs.​ LeChapter 2

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vinasian​ethics​is​also​routinely​figured​as​a​truth​that​exists​prior​to​politics,​a​move​which​distracts​from​vital​questions​of​how​to​inspire​and​sustain​citizens’​participation​in​associative​democratic​practices.​Yet​even​ if​charitable​ethics​is​not​regarded​as​the​absolute​ground​of​politics,​its​ features​make​it​distinct​from—even​at​odds​with—associative​democracy.​A​Levinasian​ethics,​though​powerful​in​its​incitement​to​personal​ responsibility,​is​not​particularly​supportive​of​collective​projects​seeking​ to​shape​worldly​conditions. ​ I​begin​with​a​sketch​of​Levinas’s​unique​and​provocative​ethics.​Because​it​is​impossible​to​provide​an​exegesis​of​his​complex​body​of​work​ here,​my​aim​is​to​illuminate​the​contours​of​his​ethics​and​to​tend​to​those​ features​taken​up​and​developed​by​readers​interested​in​linking​Levinas’s​ ethics​to​democratic​life.​A​key​part​of​this​inquiry​interrogates​the​notion​ of​“the​third”​and​questions​whether​this​concept​proves,​as​many​readers​ claim​it​does,​the​political​relevance​of​Levinas’s​ethics.​Moving​slightly​ away​from​Levinas’s​thought,​I​analyze​the​uses​to​which​Levinas’s​ethics​ have​been​put​by​Critchley​and​Judith​Butler,​who​in​different​ways​seek​ to​amplify​its​democratic​potential.​Both​build​on​Levinas’s​work​in​suggestive​ways,​yet​Critchley​and​Butler,​like​other​advocates​of​Levinasian-​ inspired​ ethics,​ wrongly​ assume​ that​ a​ charitable​ model​ of​ ethics​ supports​collective​democratic​projects.​Butler​at​times​grants​even​greater​ authority​to​Levinasian​ethics,​alleging​that​it​reveals​an​uncontestable​ ontological​truth​that​is​external​to​but​ought​to​govern​the​organization​ of​political​life. ​ This​chapter​contests​this​foundationalist​gesture​and,​even​more​important,​illuminates​the​gap​separating​charitable​care​for​another’s​basic​ needs​from​collaborative​care​for​shared​conditions.​While​there​is​much​ to​be​admired​in​a​Levinasian​ethics​of​responsibility,​a​democratic​ethos,​ as​I​argue​throughout​this​book,​depends​upon​something​distinct​from​ care​for​oneself​or​for​an​Other.

levinas’s singular Ethics Levinas’s​dense,​idiosyncratic,​and​intriguing​writings​on​ethics​are​united​ by​a​powerful​critical​vision​that​indicts​the​Western​tradition​for​its​continuous​attempts​to​“totalize”​the​world,​to​contain​alterity,​and​“transmute”​Otherness​into​the​Same.​This​tendency​to​deny​alterity,​though​ evident​in​Heidegger​no​less​than​in​Plato,​is​not​confined​to​philosophical​ texts.​Indeed,​to​Levinas,​the​devastating​disasters​of​the​twentieth​cenLevinasian Ethics and Democracy

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tury,​with​which​he​was​intimately​familiar,​bear​a​secret​affinity​to​Western​philosophy:​“The​visage​of​being​that​shows​itself​in​war​is​fixed​in​the​ concept​of​totality,​which​dominates​Western​philosophy.”7​He​insists​that​ the​horror​of​Nazism​must​not​be​construed​as​anomalous​or​accidental​ but​as​essentially​related​to​Western​monism​and​the​unrelenting​desire​ for​totality. ​ Human​ ways​ of​ thinking​ and​ being,​ according​ to​ Levinas,​ are​ afflicted​by​“an​insurmountable​allergy,”​“a​horror​of​the​Other​which​remains​Other.”8​The​task​he​pursues​is​nothing​less​than​the​disruption​ of​this​mode​of​relating​to​the​world.​Against​reigning​“egology,”​Levinas​ attempts​to​think​the​Other​as​Other.​And​he​does​so​in​the​name​of​an​ unusual​ethics​that​not​only​honors​alterity​but​also​calls​for​the​self’s​profound​responsibility​for​the​Other. ​ At​ the​ heart​ of​ Levinas’s​ ethics​ lies​ an​ encounter​ between​ self​ and​ Other,​whose​strangeness​calls​the​I​into​question.​This​exposure​to​Autrui,​ or​the​human​Other,​interrupts​the​“imperialism​and​egoism”​of​the​I​or​ the​Same.9​In​this​encounter,​the​Other​presents​as​a​face—a​presentation​that​always​“exceeds​the​idea​of​the​Other​in​me.”10​By​face,​Levinas​ does​not​mean​a​person’s​physical​appearance,​but​that​the​Other​“comes​ to​me”​in​a​way​that​escapes​my​cognitive​powers​and​resists​my​attempts​ at​containment​or​assimilation.11​Although​many​responses​to​the​face​are​ in​fact​possible,​including​indifference​and​even​violence,​Levinas​holds​ that​the​face​of​the​Other​cannot​be​fully​possessed.​It​persists,​“signifying​ in​its​uniqueness.”12​The​face​expresses​beyond​my​attempts​to​evade​or​ suppress​it;​it​pleas,​implores,​and​summons;​it​issues​a​demand​that​concerns​me,​even​though​I​may​fail​to​hear​or​heed​it. ​ But​what​is​this​summons?​What​am​I​being​called​upon​to​do?​The​ ethical​“revelation”​of​the​face,​Levinas​says,​is​itself​a​command,​an​incitement​to​responsibility.13​In​other​words,​the​human​Other​not​only​ puts​into​question​the​self’s​“naïve​liberty,”​but​also​calls​on​the​self​to​ do​something.​From​the​“face​of​the​other​man”​issues​“a​voice​that​commands,​an​order​issued​to​me​.​.​.​to​answer​for​the​life​of​the​other​man.”14​ When​I​am​summoned,​I​am​summoned​to​tend​to​the​needs​of​a​vulnerable​Other,​to​concern​myself​with​his​well-​being.​Over​and​over​again,​ the​Other​is​described​by​Levinas​as​being​needy,​defenseless,​precarious,​ miserable,​vulnerable,​destitute,​suffering.​As​Michael​Morgan​explains,​ “The​other​person​stands​as​other​than​the​self,​as​a​no​to​the​I.​But​.​.​.​ the​no​is​not​one​of​hostility​or​anger​or​threat.​It​is​.​.​.​a​no​of​need,​of​ Chapter 2

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defenselessness,​and​of​dependence.”15​Confronting​such​defenselessness​ and​suffering,​the​self​is​obligated​to​respond​generously.​Levinas​states,​ “In​the​relation​to​the​other,​the​other​appears​to​me​as​one​to​whom​I​owe​ something,​toward​whom​I​have​a​responsibility.”16 ​ The​encounter​with​the​Other,​then,​is​marked​by​asymmetry;​obligation​runs​in​one​direction.17​The​needy​Other,​figured​as​the​“the​stranger,​ the​widow​and​the​orphan,”​paradoxically​commands​the​self​from​a​position​of​“humility​and​height.”18​This​is​a​relation​not​between​equals​but​ between​one​who​is​destitute​and​one​who​is​not,​he​who​is​owed​and​he​ who​owes.​It​is​“the​poor​one,”​however,​who​occupies​a​superior​position​ insofar​as​he​issues​a​command​which​the​self​is​called​on​to​fulfill.19​This​ nonreciprocal​relation​is​the​site​of​charity​and​altruism.20 ​ What​does​the​Other​need?​Throughout​his​texts,​Levinas​describes​ the​suffering​of​the​Other​as​well​as​its​potential​alleviation​by​the​self​in​ starkly​material​terms:​hunger,​bread,​thirst,​shelter,​clothing,​and​so​on.​ These​descriptions​cannot​be​taken​as​simply​metaphorical​since​Levinas​ openly​embraces​materialism​in​relation​to​the​responsibility​one​has​to​ tend​to​the​Other:​“There​is​no​bad​materialism​other​than​our​own.”​Materialism​itself,​in​the​sense​of​the​provision​of​the​goods​necessary​for​ the​sustenance​of​life,​is​equated​with​the​highest​spirituality.21​Levinas​ writes,​“The​other​concerns​me​in​all​his​material​misery.​It​is​a​matter,​ eventually,​of​nourishing​him,​of​clothing​him.​It​is​exactly​the​biblical​assertion:​Feed​the​hungry,​clothe​the​naked,​give​drink​to​the​thirsty,​give​ shelter​to​the​shelterless.​The​material​side​of​man,​the​material​life​of​the​ other,​concerns​me,​and,​in​the​other,​takes​on​an​elevated​signification​ and​concerns​my​holiness.”22 ​ Levinas​repeats​this​idea​again​and​again,​often​in​relation​to​the​most​ basic​of​wants,​hunger,​and​its​simplest​response,​the​provision​of​bread.​ In​Otherwise Than Being,​he​talks​often​of​tearing​the​bread​from​one’s​own​ mouth​to​give​to​the​Other.23​He​also​cites​throughout​his​writings​a​scene​ from​Vasily​Grossman’s​epic​novel​about​Nazism​and​Stalinism,​Life and Fate,​in​which​a​Russian​woman​who​“hates​Germans”​and​is​watching​ them​remove​the​decomposing​bodies​of​Russians​from​a​building​following​the​Battle​of​Stalingrad,​gives​a​German​officer​a​piece​of​bread​from​ her​pocket,​saying,​“There,​have​something​to​eat.”24​For​Levinas,​these​ actions—of​going​without​food​for​the​sake​of​a​hungry​other,​of​supplying​bread​even​to​one’s​enemy—express​the​fulfillment​of​an​obligation​ to​place​the​needs​of​an​Other​before​one’s​own.25​Indeed,​at​his​most​diLevinasian Ethics and Democracy

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rect,​Levinas​declares​that​evil​consists​precisely​in​the​failure​to​do​so,​in​ “the​refusal​of​responsibility,”​the​turning​“away​from​the​face​of​the​other​ man,”​the​denial​of​bread.26 ​ The​responsibility​Levinas​theorizes​is​distinct​from​dominant​philosophical​and​practical​conceptions,​according​to​which​responsibility​is​ consciously​and​independently​assumed​by​individual​subjects​or​ascribed​ to​them​on​the​basis​of​their​capacity​for​free​action.​Against​this​model​ in​which​human​subjects​bear​responsibility​for​specific​deeds​that​have​ been​in​some​sense​freely​undertaken,​Levinas​describes​a​responsibility​ for​the​Other​that​is​both​unwilled​and​limitless.​First,​the​responsibility​ of​the​self​for​the​Other​is​not​contracted​or​freely​chosen.​It​is​an​unavoidable​assignation:​“To​be​a​‘self’​is​to​be​responsible​before​having​ done​anything.”27​Indeed,​individuals​have​no​say​as​to​whether​this​responsibility​binds​them,​though​they​may​fail​to​enact​it:​the​summons​ to​respond,​issued​by​the​Other,​is​not​a​matter​of​“an​obligation​or​a​duty​ about​ which​ a​ decision​ could​ be​ made.”28​ Second,​ the​ I​ is​ responsible​ from​the​start​and​furthermore​ “infinitely​ responsible.”29​“The​word​‘I’​ means​to​be​answerable​for​everything​and​for​everyone.”30​This​extreme​ claim​may​seem​nonsensical​or​even​offensive,​but​it​is​worth​considering​ the​view​that​Levinas​is​trying​to​dislodge.31​By​means​of​this​hyperbolic​ declaration​he​resists​the​idea​that​an​individual​has​a​specific,​bounded​ set​of​responsibilities​that​could​ultimately​be​fulfilled.​The​responsibility​ one​has​for​the​Other,​he​proclaims,​is​never​finally​accomplished;​there​ is​always​something​more​to​be​done:​“I​am​never​in​the​clear​toward​the​ other​man.”32 ​ The​final​piece​of​Levinas’s​account​of​unwilled​and​unlimited​responsibility​contends​that​the​Other’s​summons​to​respond​is​the​very​source​ of​subjectivity:​the​self​exists​because​of​the​Other,​with​whom​it​cannot​ be​ reconciled.​ The​ exposure​ to​ Autrui,​ then,​ is​ not​ chronologically​ situated​after​the​constitution​of​the​self:​“Being​is​not​first,​to​give​place​ afterwards​by​breaking​up,​to​a​diversity.”33​Although​there​are​places​in​ his​work,​most​notably​in​the​sequential​narration​of​Totality and Infinity,​ where​Levinas​seems​to​describe​a​solitary​subject​in​sole​possession​of​ the​world,​who​only​later​encounters​the​Other,​Levinas​most​often​depicts​the​relationship​with​the​Other​as​the​very​condition​of​possibility​for​ subjectivity:​“The​relationship​with​the​non-​ego​precedes​any​relationship​ of​the​ego​with​itself.”34​As​Michael​Morgan​writes,​for​Levinas,​“We​are​ social​before​we​are​singular.”35 Chapter 2

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​ Levinas​is​not​making​the​now-​familiar​ point​that​the​self​is​constituted​socially​or​through​its​myriad​relations​with​others.​He​is​claiming​ that​by​virtue​of​being​“preoriginally​tied​to​the​other”​the​self​consists​in​ inescapable​responsibility:​“The​I​is,​by​its​very​position,​responsibility​ through​and​through.”36​To​be​an​I​at​all​is​to​be​“straightaway​for-​the-​ other,​straightaway​in​obligation.”37​Through​these​sorts​of​formulations,​ which​appear​frequently,​Levinas​is​trying​to​do​nothing​less​than​overturn​ individualism​ in​ all​ its​ guises.​ The​ self,​ he​ maintains,​ is​ never​ for​ itself,​it​is​always​and​only​for​the​Other.​The​origin,​purpose,​and​meaning​of​the​self’s​existence​lie​in​its​obligation​to​the​fate​of​another.​Levinas​does​not,​however,​claim​this​is​a​radically​original​idea​or​even​an​ unfamiliar​one.​The​Bible,​he​says,​affirms​“a​primordial​responsibility​‘for​ the​other,’​such​that,​in​an​apparent​paradox,​concern​for​another​may​ precede​concern​for​oneself.”38​The​self​is​born​from​charity,​defined​by​ “an​unlimited​obligation​toward​the​other.”39 ​ But​what​kind​of​encounter​between​the​self​and​the​Other​is​Levinas​talking​about?​At​times​he​seems​to​be​speaking​of​a​direct,​person-​ to-​person​meeting,​marked​by​the​need​for​material​assistance,​while​at​ others,​above​all​when​he​is​speaking​of​the​emergence​of​the​self,​he​invokes​a​relation​that​is​“originary”​and​“primordial.”​Is​the​relation​that​ Levinas​ labels​ ethical​ concrete​ or​ transcendental?40​ Does​ it​ occur​ in​ everyday​life​or​is​it​located​in​an​“originary,”​“immemorial”​past”?41​In​ Levinas’s​writings,​it​is​consistently​both.​On​the​one​hand,​he​speaks​of​ the​face-​to-​face​encounter​in​quite​literal​terms,​as​involving​“the​person​ met​on​the​street,”​and​he​says​that​the​whole​of​his​philosophy​can​be​ summarized​in​the​simple​words,​“Après​vous,​Monsieur,”​a​claim​which​ identifies​concern​for​the​Other​with​everyday​activities​of​“civility,​hospitality,​kindness​and​politeness.”42​At​the​same​time,​Levinas​describes​ the​encounter​with​the​face​as​prior​to​ontology​and​to​being,​preceding​ the​very​emergence​of​the​I.​He​writes,​“The​situation​of​the​I​in​the​face​ of​the​Other​is​significant.​It​is​a​structure​that​illuminates,​and​consequently​its​analysis​is​not​the​description​of​an​empirical​fact.​.​.​.​The​ very​principle​of​my​enterprise—giving​value​to​the​relation​of​infinite​ responsibility​which​goes​from​the​I​to​the​Other​[Autrui]​remains.​Certainly​I​believe​that​this​is​our​most​valuable​everyday​experience,​one​that​ allows​us​to​resist​a​purely​hierarchical​world.​But​this​is​an​illuminating​ experience,​metaempirical,​as​[Vladimir]​Jankélévitch​would​say.​This​is​ not​pure​empiricism.”43​Levinas​claims​that​the​encounter​between​the​ Levinasian Ethics and Democracy

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self​and​the​Other​is​“metaempirical”​at​the​same​time​that​it​is​“our​most​ valuable​everyday​experience.”​The​exposure​to​alterity​can​and​does​take​ the​form​of​a​concrete​event,​but​it​cannot​be​reduced​to​that.​The​asymmetrical​relation​in​which​one​is​called​to​respond​by​the​Other​is​structural​and​primary​in​Levinas’s​account,​persisting​apart​from​any​particular​empirical​instantiations​of​this​structure. ​ The​dual​character​of​the​ethical​encounter​helps​explain​how​Levinas​ can​simultaneously​claim​that​responsibility​for​the​Other​is​unavoidable​ and​inescapable​even​as​his​work​is​guided​by​the​reality​of​genocide,​an​ event​that​signifies​a​devastating​collapse​of​obligation​to​or​concern​for​ the​Other.​He​simultaneously​insists​upon​a​responsibility​“prior​to​freedom,”​about​which​one​has​no​choice,​while​remaining​only​too​aware​of​ the​ways​in​which​human​beings​have​failed​to​acknowledge​or​respond​to​ the​Other.44​These​two​strains​coexist​without​contradiction​because​the​ profound​responsibility​born​of​the​originary​encounter​with​the​Other— to​which​one​is​hostage—cannot​be​evaded;​it​constitutes​one’s​very​existence​as​a​self:​“The​I​is​responsibility.”​Yet​at​the​same​time,​humans​regularly​and​routinely​do​fail​to​respond​to​the​“summons​to​respond”​at​the​ empirical​level,​in​the​social​world,​and​thereby​attempt​to​deny​an​alterity​ that​can​never​be​fully​disavowed.45 ​ If​ one​ accepts,​ with​ Levinas,​ that​ the​ self/Other​ encounter​ is​ both​ metaempirical​and​empirical,​the​question​remains,​in​what​sense​is​this​ relation​ethical?​Ethics​is​the​central​term​and​idea​in​Levinas’s​writings,​ but​its​meaning​is​far​from​self-​evident.​As​Diane​Perpich​says,​it​is​clear​ that​Levinas​provides​a​provocative,​original​philosophical​outlook,​“but​ is​it​an​ethics?”​It​certainly​is​not​in​any​typical​sense.​What​Levinas​calls​ ethics​does​not​attempt​to​answer​either​the​ancient​question,​“What​is​ the​best​life​for​human​beings?”​or​the​Enlightenment​question,​“What​ ought​I​to​do?”46​He​does​not​offer​“general​rules,​principles,​or​procedures.”47​So​what​does​ethics​name?​Levinasian​ethics​(usually​appearing​ in​the​adjectival​form​in​the​original​French)​attempts​to​name​a​condition​ or​situation​rather​than​prescribe​a​set​of​actions.​That​is,​the​encounter​ between​self​and​Other,​whether​in​its​primordial​or​everyday​form,​is​ itself​ethical.​As​Critchley​explains,​“The​ethical​is​an​adjective​that​describes,​a posteriori,​as​it​were,​a​certain​event​of​being​in​a​relation​to​the​ other​that​is​irreducible​to​comprehension.​It​is​the​relation​which​is​ethical,​not​an​ethics​instantiated​in​relations.”48​Significantly,​“the​fact​that​ the​encounter​with​the​Other​is​ethical​does​not​mean​that​I​will​respond​ Chapter 2

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in​an​ethical​way,”​as​Colin​Davis​explains.​That​is,​ethics,​in​the​more​ conventional​and​“restricted​sense​of​preferences,​choices,​and​actions,”​ is​made​possible​by​the​ethical​situation​Levinas​theorizes,​but​he​does​ not​focus​on​prescribing​those​particular​choices​or​actions.​Davis​continues,​“In​keeping​with​his​phenomenological​background,​he​is​descriptive​rather​than​prescriptive,​attempting​to​depict​fundamental​realities.​ And​at​this​level,​I​am​just​as​likely​to​respond​to​the​non-​violence​of​the​ Other​with​violence​as​with​respect.”49 ​ Although​ethics​in​Levinas’s​writings​describes​a​circumstance​or​condition​of​people’s​lives​rather​than​a​set​of​instructions​for​conduct,​the​ force​of​his​work​nonetheless​arises​from​the​normative​implications​of​ this​apparently​descriptive​account.​If​one​is​persuaded​by​the​claim​that​ every​ individual​ is​ infinitely​ responsible​ to​ a​ human​ Other,​ whose​ demand​for​attention​and​response​is​so​profound​that​it​can​never​be​fully​ evaded,​this​perspective​would​seem​to​radically​challenge​the​way​one​ thinks​and​acts​in​ordinary​life.50​Placing​the​Other​rather​than​the​self​at​ the​center​of​concern,​Levinas​calls​his​readers​to​account,​despite​the​absence​of​any​strong​declarative​statements​centered​on​an​ought.​Levinas​ does​not​traffic​in​the​most​familiar​sort​of​ethical​theory,​yet​his​work​as​a​ whole​enunciates​a​“basic​existential​demand.”51​It​is​not​difficult​to​locate​ in​Levinas’s​thinking​something​close​to​a​substantive​ideal,​defined​by​ generosity,​concern​for​others,​and​self-​sacrifice.52​In​fact,​in​interviews,​ in​which​he​speaks​more​directly​and​accessibly​than​in​his​formal​writings,​Levinas​makes​strong​normative​claims.​For​example,​he​states,​“I​am​ not​afraid​of​the​word​good;​the​responsibility​for​the​other​is​the​good.”53​ At​another​point​he​declares,​“The​only​absolute​value​is​the​human​possibility​of​giving​the​other​priority​over​oneself.”54​Finally,​Levinas​regularly​ speaks​of​charity,​or​devotion​to​the​care​of​another,​as​the​very​meaning​of​ the​human:​“Our​humanity​consists​in​being​able​to​recognize​the​priority​ of​ the​ other.”55​ Most​ surprisingly,​ perhaps,​ Levinas​ embraces​ the​ term​ humanism,​reappropriating​it​to​signify​“a​humanism​of​the​other​man,”​ defined​by​the​awareness​that​“man​is​capable​of​putting​the​other’s​existence​before​his​own.”56​Levinas’s​ethical​outlook​may​be​unconventional​ but​it​certainly​does​not​abandon​normativity​altogether. ​ What​ might​ Levinas’s​ unusual​ ethics,​ focused​ on​ a​ personal​ call​ to​ responsibility,​ offer​the​theory​or​practice​of​associative​democracy?​It​ would​seem​that​deep​concern​for​the​needs​of​another​could​potentially,​ though​not​necessarily,​motivate​political​engagement.​Indeed,​there​are​ Levinasian Ethics and Democracy

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many​powerful​examples​of​associative​democratic​struggles—from​the​ nineteenth-​century​ abolitionist​ movement​ to​ campaigns​ for​ gay​ rights​ today—that​cannot​be​explained​on​the​basis​of​participants’​self-​interest​ alone.​Might​a​sense​of​obligation​to​care​for​another​be​at​work​in​such​ instances​of​solidarity​among​citizens?​Is​this​an​ethical​orientation​that,​ if​fostered,​can​extend​and​invigorate​associative​democratic​action? ​ Raising​the​question​of​the​political,​let​alone​democratic,​implications​ of​Levinasian​ethics​may​seem​a​bit​strange,​since​Levinas​regularly​professes​what​can​only​be​called​an​antipolitical​outlook.​Aligning​politics​ with​the​modern​state​and​its​bureaucratized,​rational​rule,​Levinas​often​ casts​it​as​a​totalizing​force​that​does​profound​violence,​both​literal​and​ otherwise,​to​the​Other.57​Politics,​defined​in​part​as​“the​art​of​foreseeing​ war​and​winning​it​by​every​means,”​is​“opposed​to​morality.”58​It​is​not​ only​the​physical​force​exercised​by​the​state​that​is​of​concern,​however.​ Levinas​figures​the​anonymity​of​administrative​politics​as​a​source​of​real​ harm,​as​the​smooth​functioning​of​the​rule​of​law​necessarily​disregards​ the​ unique​ face​ of​ the​ Other​ in​ favor​ of​ that​ of​ an​ abstract​ individual:​ “There​are,​if​you​like,​the​tears​that​a​civil​servant​cannot​see:​the​tears​of​ the​Other.”59​Levinas’s​portrait​of​politics​as​totalizing​raises​the​question,​ is​ethics​related​to​politics​only​as​its​interrogator? ​ Still,​Levinas​maintains​that​his​focus​on​the​“proximity​and​uniqueness​of​the​other​man​is​in​no​way​a​repudiation​of​politics.”60​And​even​as​ he​paints​a​monistic,​statist​portrait​of​politics,​callous​to​the​singularity​ of​human​beings,​he​says​that​some​sort​of​politics​is​necessary​and​indicates​that​it​might​actually​serve​as​a​complement​to​ethics.​I​investigate​ this​prospect​below,​arguing​that​Levinas​does​little​more​than​gesture​ toward​the​importance​of​an​array​of​collective​phenomena​he​labels​politics,​while​continuing​to​privilege​an​unequal,​dyadic​model​of​charitable​ obligation​as​the​very​foundation​of​that​underconceptualized​politics.​To​ make​this​case,​I​begin​with​a​concept​that​has​been​held​in​abeyance​until​ now:​Levinas’s​notion​of​the​third.

More than two: from Ethics to Politics In​ “Dialogue​ on​ Thinking-​of-​the-​Other,”​ Levinas​ asks,​ “But​ then​ what​ about​ humanity​ in​ its​ multiplicity?​ What​ about​ the​ one​ next​ to​ the​ other—the​ third,​ and​ along​ with​ him​ all​ the​ others?​ Can​ that​ responsibility​toward​the​other​who​faces​me,​that​response​to​the​face​of​my​ fellow​man​ignore​the​third​party​who​is​also​my​other?​Does​he​not​also​ Chapter 2

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concern​me?”61​With​these​questions,​Levinas​challenges​the​simplicity​of​ his​ethics,​focused​so​intently​on​the​dyadic​relation​of​self​and​other.​Even​ if​absolute​responsibility​to​tend​to​the​needs​of​another​were​exercisable​ in​the​intimacy​of​a​relation-​of-​two,​what​becomes​of​this​demand​once​it​ is​recognized​that​no​dyadic​relation​exists​in​isolation​from​the​broader​ social​world?​It​is​not​just​you​and​me.​What​then?​Levinas​remarks,​“If​ there​were​only​two​of​us​in​the​world,​you​and​I,​then​there​would​be​no​ question,​then​my​system​would​work​perfectly.”62​But​of​course​this​is​ not​the​case,​a​condition​Levinas​recognizes​with​the​figure​of​the​third. ​ The​“proximity”​of​the​ethical​situation​“becomes​a​problem​when​a​ third​party​enters.”63​That​is,​the​structure​of​the​ethical​situation,​marked​ by​asymmetry,​a​unidirectional​demand,​and​the​experience​of​being​hostage​to​the​Other,​is​troubled​by​the​third​party.​Difficulties​arise​from​the​ recognition​that​there​is​not​only​a​single​Other​to​whom​I​owe​response,​ but​multiple​Others:​“How​does​this​responsibility​obligate​if​a​third​party​ troubles​the​exteriority​of​two?”64 ​ The​third​party​appears​in​slightly​different​guises​in​Levinas’s​writings.​Often​the​third​is​presented​as​“another​other”​or​a​“fellowman,”​a​ third​person​who​disrupts​the​charitable​relation​between​self​and​other:​ “Human​multiplicity​does​not​allow​the​I—let​us​say​does​not​allow​me— to​forget​the​third party​.​.​.​,​fellowman​of​the​fellowman.”65​The​third​“destroys​the​monopoly​of​one​other’s​demands.”66​But​Levinas​also​writes,​ “The​third​party​looks​at​me​in​the​eyes​of​the​Other​.​.​.​the​epiphany​ of​the​face​qua​face​opens​up​humanity,”​which​suggests​that​the​third​ party​ appears​ through​ the​ face​ of​ the​ Other​ and​ reveals​ the​ “whole​ of​ humanity.”67​Here,​the​third​party​seems​less​like​a​concrete​human​other​ than​an​element​of​the​face’s​“signifyingness,”​revealing​“all​the​others.”68 ​ Notwithstanding​the​differences​between​these​conceptualizations​of​ the​third,​they​share​two​striking​features.​First,​the​appearance​of​the​ third​is​not​exceptional​but​constant,​qualifying​the​absolutist​character​ of​the​self’s​infinite​responsibility​to​a​single​Other.​Levinas​warns​that​ the​self/Other​relation​and​the​appearance​of​the​third​are​not​“successive​stages;​in​reality,​they​are​inseparable​and​simultaneous,​unless​one​ is​on​a​desert​island,​without​humanity,​without​a​third.”69​So​the​third​ is​ there​ all​ along:​ “The​ others”—in​ the​ plural—“concern​ me​ from​ the​ first.”70​But​if​this​is​so,​doesn’t​this​seriously​qualify,​if​not​undermine,​ Levinas’s​ethics?​After​all,​the​relation​he​places​at​the​heart​of​the​ethical​ is​emphatically​a​relation-​of-​two,​structured​by​a​hierarchy​in​which​one​ Levinasian Ethics and Democracy

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is​absolutely,​infinitely​responsible​for​the​fate​of​the​Other.​How​can​this​ stark​and​limitless​obligation​to​one​human​Other​obtain​if​it​turns​out​ that​the​I​is​in​fact​“responsible​for​the​other​and​the​third”?71​Amid​multiplicity,​a​permanent​condition,​the​extremism​of​the​charitable​relation​ must​falter.​In​place​of​a​singular,​unmistakable​command,​there​are​now​ competing​demands,​multiple​needs.​It​is​no​longer​enough​to​be​completely​devoted​to​a​single​other​(supposing​this​is​even​possible​or​desirable):​“I​don’t​live​in​a​world​in​which​there​is​but​one​single​‘first​comer’;​ there​is​always​a​third​party​in​the​world:​he​or​she​is​also​my​other,​my​ fellow.​Hence,​it​is​important​to​me​to​know​which​of​the​two​takes​precedence.​Is​the​one​not​the​persecutor​of​the​other?​Must​not​human​beings​ who​are​incomparable,​be​compared?​.​.​.​I​must​judge.”72 ​ If​the​dyad​of​self​and​Other,​the​site​of​the​ethical​for​Levinas,​never​ actually​exists,​that​is,​if​this​coupling​can​never​be​abstracted​from​the​ broader​ social​ environment​ and​ the​ many​ others​ that​ inhabit​ it,​ what​ sense​does​it​make​to​build​an​ethics​around​it?​Why​define​ethics​in​terms​ of​an​insular​relation​between​self​and​Other​if​one’s​purported​unlimited​ responsibility​to​the​Other​is​always​and​necessarily​limited​by​the​reality​ of​human​multiplicity?​This​question​is​pressed​further​by​Levinas’s​tendency​to​issue​extreme​statements​about​the​total,​self-​sacrificing​responsibility​of​the​self​for​the​Other​and​then​quickly​modify​them​with​reference​ to​ what​ is​ true​ “in​ the​ concrete,”​ in​ the​ world​ of​ plurality,​ where​ other​considerations​intervene,​via​the​third,​making​the​situation​messier​ and​the​enactment​of​responsibility​less​clear. ​ What​remains​of​absolute​responsibility​to​the​Other?​How​much​force​ can​this​ethical​demand,​which​Levinas​articulates​again​and​again,​have​ once​it​is​acknowledged​that​there​is​never​simply​me​and​you?​The​world​ of​plurality​contains​complex​webs​of​relationship,​a​cacophony​of​summons​that​exceed​the​self/Other​dyad.​Yet​Levinas’s​fidelity​to​the​dyadic​ self/Other​relation​and​his​insistence​on​“ethics​as​first​philosophy”​persist.​The​best​way​to​understand​this,​I​believe,​is​to​recognize​that​Levinas​posits​the​absolute,​asymmetrical​relation​of​obligation​to​a​unique​ Other​as​the​good​even​as​it​remains,​finally,​unrealizable.​It​continues​to​ function​as​an​indisputable​ideal​for​Levinas,​even​in​the​presence​of​the​ third—and​fourth,​fifth,​and​sixth.73​The​call​to​full​and​uncompromised​ responsibility​for​the​needs​of​one​human​Other​remains​and​serves​as​a​ standard​of​judgment,​even​though​it​is​a​standard​that​cannot​be​finally,​ fully​instantiated​in​practice. Chapter 2

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​ This​brings​me​to​the​second​important​feature​of​the​third:​the​idea​of​ justice.​As​Levinas​describes​it,​the​presence​of​the​third,​whether​understood​as​another​person​or​the​invocation​of​humanity,​marks​the​shift​ from​charity​to​justice,​or​from​ethics​to​politics.​He​writes,​“I​pass​from​ the​relation​in​which​I​am​obligated​to​the​other,​responsible​for​the​other,​ to​one​in​which​I​ask​myself​which​is​first.​I​ask​the​question​of​justice:​ Which​one,​in​that​plurality,​is​the​other​par​excellence?​How​can​one​ judge?​How​to​compare​others—unique​and​incomparable?”74​This​captures​one​dimension​of​justice,​a​word​Levinas​uses​very​loosely​to​collect​ a​number​of​ideas​under​a​single​term.​Here​and​elsewhere,​justice​signifies​the​related​problems​of​judgment,​measurement,​comparison,​calculation,​or,​as​Levinas​often​puts​it,​weighing.​The​I,​Levinas​says,​must​engage​in​these​activities​of​discernment​under​conditions​of​plurality.​They​ are​unavoidable,​thanks​to​the​third:​“A​measure​superimposes​itself​on​ the​‘extravagant’​generosity​of​the​‘for​the​other.’”75​While​Levinas​consistently​identifies​“the​question​of​justice”​with​the​third,​itself​emblematic​of​human​multiplicity,​he​also​attaches​another​set​of​meanings​to​ justice,​less​directly​related​to​adjudication.​These​include​the​following​ very​broad​concepts:​the​state,​political​authority,​institutions,​administration.76​In​these​cases,​which​recur​often,​Levinas​uses​justice​as​a​catchall​for​a​range​of​political​phenomena,​all​collective​in​nature.​(On​the​ contrary,​when​he​speaks​of​the​judgment​and​comparison​required​by​ the​third,​he​often​still​describes​these​as​undertakings​of​an​I.)​In​a​rather​ rudimentary​way,​justice​is​used​by​Levinas​to​refer​to​a​whole​range​of​ problems​related​to​political​organization,​problems​that​come​into​view​ once​one​accepts​that​the​dyad​of​self/Other​never​actually​exists​as​such.​ Yet​he​does​little​more​than​state​that​institutionalized​politics​in​its​many​ iterations​is​tied​to​the​condition​of​plurality.​In​the​absence​of​any​specific​ theorizing​of​the​related​terms,​such​as​the state,​institutions,​and​so​on,​justice​is​little​more​than​shorthand​for​an​array​of​very​general​political​terms. ​ Despite​the​vagueness​of​the​term,​it​is​important​to​consider​Levinas’s​ claim​that​the​question​of​justice​is​unavoidable;​charity​cannot​exist​without​it.​Put​somewhat​ differently​ but​still​accurately​ within​the​context​ of​Levinas’s​work,​ethics​requires​politics.​That​is,​the​total,​unmitigated​ obligation​embodied​in​the​dyadic​relation​of​self​and​Other​is​never​sufficient;​the​reality​of​multiplicity​means​even​selfless​devotion​to​caring​for​ another​will​not​suffice​because​“I​cannot​neglect​anyone.”​The​charitable​ relation​is​incomplete​because​it​answers​the​needs​of​only​one.​For​this​ Levinasian Ethics and Democracy

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reason,​“institutions​and​juridical​procedures​are​necessary.”77​If​ethics​ needs​politics,​this​implies​the​possibility​of​a​nontotalizing​type​of​politics,​that​is,​a​form​of​political​life​that​is​something​other​than​antithetical​to​ethics.​Indeed,​there​are​two​vying​politics​in​Levinas’s​thought,​one​ a​“horror,”​as​discussed​above,​and​the​other​a​“promise.”78​There​is​the​ politics​he​associates​with​totalization,​the​suppression​of​alterity,​and​the​ Same,​but​also​the​politics​that​charitable​ethics​cannot​do​without.​This​ insight​is​expressed​well​by​Annabel​Herzog,​who​argues​that​in​Levinas’s​ thought​politics​appears​both​as​a​source​of​misery​and,​paradoxically,​as​ a​solution.​Levinas​“says​‘no’​to​politics​.​.​.​because​of​ethics”​and​simultaneously​“says​‘yes’​to​politics​because​my​infinite​generosity​for​the​Other​ is​not​enough​for​all​the​others,​because​there​is​more​to​do.”79 ​ Does​this​mean​that​ethics​and​politics,​in​Levinas’s​eyes,​are​complements​to​one​another​or,​as​Robert​Bernasconi​puts​it,​are​“two​sides”​of​ “the​interhuman”?80​Are​they​mutually​supportive?​Or​is​their​complementarity​of​a​different​sort—are​charity​and​justice,​ethics​and​politics​ mutually​disturbing,​as​Herzog​writes,​so​that​the​perspective​of​each​challenges​the​assumptions,​occlusions,​and​limits​of​the​other?81​Although​ it​is​true,​as​we​have​seen,​that​Levinas​says​the​third​points​toward​the​ necessity​of​politics​(in​the​very​broad​sense​documented​above),​Herzog​ errs​when​she​presents​Levinasian​ethics​and​politics​as​partners​in​a​relationship​of​mutual​support,​or​even​of​provocation.​Ethics,​the​relation​ of​obligation​of​the​I​to​the​Other,​has​a​privileged​foundational​and​normative​status​in​Levinas’s​thought.​It​is​the​source​of​and​the​check​on​ political​ life,​ which​ is​ or​ ought​ to​ be​ subordinate​ to​ it.​ As​ I​ suggested​ earlier,​the​dyadic​model​of​unlimited​responsibility​to​an​Other​serves​as​ the​standard​in​light​of​which​all​human​relations​should​be​judged.​This​ is​so​despite​the​fact​of​plurality,​which​prevents​the​full​realizability​of​ this​“supreme​ethical​principle.”82 ​ The​ relationship​ between​ ethics​ and​ politics,​ as​ conceptualized​ by​ Levinas,​is​one​in​which​the​ethical​stands​watch​over​the​political,​not​ the​other​way​around.​For​example,​Levinas​states,​“It​is​in​terms​of​the​ relation​to​the​Face​or​of​me​before​the​other​that​we​can​speak​of​the​ legitimacy​or​illegitimacy​of​the​state.”83​The​dyadic​relation​of​unlimited​ responsibility,​however​impossible​it​may​be​to​live​out,​remains​the​ideal​ with​ reference​ to​ which​ political​ practice​ ought​ to​ be​ shaped​ and​ assessed:​the​priority​of​the​Other​“remains​the​ethical​measure​of​a​necessary​politics.”84​And​“politics​must​be​held​in​check​by​ethics.”85​In​other​ Chapter 2

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words,​if​politics​is​not​to​become​the​totalizing,​violent​enterprise​Levinas​often​depicts,​it​requires​an​influence​beyond​itself;​a​state​cannot​be​ “abandoned​to​its​own​necessity.”86​If​“politics,​left​to​itself,​has​its​own​ determinism,”​ then​ “love​ must​ watch​ over​ justice.”87​ Although​ Levinas​ says​that​ethics​needs​politics​and​politics​needs​ethics,​these​claims​do​ not​mirror​one​another.​If​ethics​needs​politics,​it​is​because​the​fact​of​ human​manyness​renders​even​the​deepest​care​for​another​inadequate;​ the​sheer​scope​of​human​existence​makes​politics​necessary.​But​politics​ needs​ethics,​according​to​Levinas,​not​for​pragmatic​reasons​but​because​ ethics​properly​reigns​over​politics,​serving​as​foundation​and​guide.​It​is​ critical​to​see​that​ethics​and​politics​are​not​simply​complementary​to​one​ another.​Ethics​must​regulate​politics​and​serve​as​its​standard;​ethics​remains​primary.​It,​and​nothing​else,​is​first​philosophy. ​ What,​ultimately,​is​one​to​make​of​the​third?​Many​of​Levinas’s​readers​ believe​this​figure​reveals​the​political​significance​of​Levinasian​ethics.​ C.​Fred​Alford,​for​example,​declares​that​Levinas​articulates​a​political​ theory​through​his​conceptualization​of​the​third​and​the​recognition​of​ an​impossibility:​“That​I​be​responsible​for​all​the​others​as​I​was​for​the​ one​other.”88​The​question​of​how​to​distribute​one’s​infinite​obligation​to​ the​Other​in​a​world​of​Others​is​not​answered​by​Levinas,​Alford​notes:​ “All​Levinas​will​do​is​state​that​there​is​no​solution,​only​a​unique​obligation​to​a​multiplicity​of​others.”89​It​is​in​the​calculating​and​weighing​of​ such​limitless​obligation,​in​the​absence​of​clear​directives​or​rules,​that​ politics​occurs.​Similarly,​William​Simmons​writes​that​Levinas​is​a​“social​ and​political​thinker”​because​the​third​“universalizes”​responsibility​and​ points​the​way​toward​a​politics​that​“serves​ethics”​by​attempting​to​pursue​this​impossible​task.90​Ed​Wingenbach​says​that​Levinas​presents​an​ “imperative​to​political​engagement,”​and​Davis​believes​that​the​figure​of​ the​third​shows​the​salience​of​Levinasian​ethics​for​the​“social​and​political​domain.”91 ​ The​tendency​to​point​to​the​idea​of​the​third​to​prove​that​Levinas’s​ ethics​are​politically​relevant​is​unsatisfying.​As​we​have​seen,​when​Levinas​ claims​ that​ the​ third​ marks​ the​ transition​ to​ justice​ or​ politics,​ he​ offers​only​the​most​general​statements​about​what​this​means,​stringing​ together​a​litany​of​broad​political​terms​like​the​state,​political​authority,​ and​institutions​that​are​held​to​accompany​the​recognition​that​there​are​ more​than​two​of​us.​Levinas​says​nothing​about​what​shape​that​politics​ might​take​or​how​the​weighing​of​incomparables​might​be​institutionLevinasian Ethics and Democracy

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alized​or​enacted​at​a​collective​level.​Nor​does​he​explain​how​the​idea​ of​ personal,​ infinite​ responsibility​ can​ serve​ as​ a​ guide​ or​ standard​ for​ political​arrangements.​Indeed,​all​that​the​third​divulges​is​that​there​are​ many​selves​and​Others​beyond​the​pair​that​Levinas​puts​at​the​center​of​ his​ethics.​The​third,​as​presented​by​Levinas,​is​a​marker​of​human​plurality.​It​reminds​one​of​a​basic​fact​about​the​world—that​human​beings​ are​many,​not​ one​or​two.​ But​this​ still​ begs​ the​question​ of​how​such​ plurality​will​be​arranged,​shaped,​organized,​lived​out.​The​image​of​the​ third​rightly​points​toward​humans’​basic​existential​condition—people​ live​among​multiple​Others—but​manyness​is​not​yet​a​form​of​politics. ​ Suppose​ one​ were​ to​ push​ beyond​ Levinas’s​ statements​ to​ask​ what​ political​response​to​plurality​might​be​most​faithful​to​Levinasian​ethics.​ The​ answer​ is​ not​ necessarily​ those​ democratic​ forms​ of​ politics​ that​ readers​like​to​connect​to​his​thinking.​Levinas’s​absolute​responsibility​ to​tend​to​the​needs​of​another​is,​after​all,​a​matter​of​charity.​It​requires​ the​hierarchical​provision​of​service​to​a​suffering​Other.​Why​suppose​ this​ imperative​ bears​ any​ special​ relationship​ to​ democracy?​ Nothing​ in​this​charitable​model,​which​Levinas​contends​should​reign​over​and​ regulate​collective​life,​requires​democratic​organization​or​citizenship.​A​ beneficent,​paternal​state​offering​few​rights​to​self-​government​or​association​could​provide​for​the​material​needs​Levinas​names.92​Similarly,​ private​philanthropy​could​pursue​this​charitable​ethics.​There​is​no​reason​to​suppose​that​the​ethical​relation​in​which​one​cares​for​the​needs​ of​another​will​lead​to​democratic,​rather​than​charitable,​institutions​and​ practices. ​ Critchley​and​Butler​go​beyond​Levinas’s​thin​conception​of​the​third​to​ develop​original​accounts​of​how​Levinasian​ethics​might​animate​activist​democracy.​Yet​their​efforts​fail​to​account​for​the​difference​between​ charity​and​democracy,​wrongly​supposing​that​concern​for​another’s​suffering​can​serve​as​the​basis​of​cooperative​and​contentious​democratic​ action.

critchley and the Elision of charity and democracy We​live​in​a​time​of​sweeping​political​disappointment​and​face​a​reality​ of​violent​injustice,​growing​inequality,​and​reactionary​and​xenophobic​ movements​that​the​institutions​of​liberal​democracy​appear​ill-​equipped​ to​address.​Under​such​circumstances,​citizens​are​tempted​by​nihilism,​ whether​in​the​form​of​passive​withdrawal​or​violent​destruction.​This​is​ Chapter 2

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the​scene​Critchley​paints,​which​he​says​reveals​our​desperate​need​for​ ethics.​More​specifically,​he​declares​that​there​is​a​“motivational​deficit​at​the​heart​of​secular​liberal​democracy”​which​must​be​addressed​if​ nihilism​is​to​be​warded​off:​“What​is​lacking​at​the​present​time​of​massive​political​disappointment​is​a​motivating,​empowering​conception​of​ ethics​that​can​face​and​face​down​the​drift​of​the​present,​an​ethics​that​ is​able​to​respond​to​and​resist​the​political​situation​in​which​we​find​ ourselves.”93​ Political​ disappointment​ is​ the​ problem,​ and​ ethics​ is​ the​ solution.​Over​the​course​of​several​books​Critchley​has​articulated​a​decidedly​Levinasian​ethical​orientation​that​he​believes​can​perform​this​ motivating​function,​invigorating​collective​action​among​citizens​in​pursuit​of​greater​justice. ​ In​Infinitely Demanding​Critchley​presents​an​account​of​how​“the​ethical​subject”​is​formed,​which​is​the​first​piece​of​his​argument​for​a​Levinasian​ethics​that​can​help​make​up​the​motivational​deficit​he​diagnoses.​ The​ model​ of​ the​ ethical​ subject​ provided​ here​ is​ characterized​ by​“dividualism”;​the​subject​in​question​is​divided​and​sundered.​Why?​ According​to​Critchley,​one​becomes​an​ethical​subject​by​virtue​of​a​demand​or​an​address,​through​which​the​subject​defines​itself​by​binding​ itself​to​that​demand.​The​Levinasian​structure​is​clear,​even​as​Critchley​ stresses​ the​ act​ of​ approval​ or​ affirmation​ that​ the​ subject​ undertakes,​ which​seems​to​qualify​Levinas’s​depiction​of​the​demand​as​actual​and​ binding​regardless​of​one’s​personal​approval.94​The​self​who​“commits​ itself”​is​committing​to​a​“radical,​one-​sided,​unfulfillable​ethical​demand​ of​the​other”​to​care​for,​even​love,​“the​stranger,​the​foreigner,​the​adversary.”95​And​this​commitment​gives​rise​to​a​split​subject,​split​because​it​ can​never​fulfill​the​exorbitant​demand​to​become​infinitely​responsible​ for​the​fate​of​another:​“The​ethical​subject​is​split​between​itself​and​a​ demand​that​it​cannot​meet.”96 ​ For​Critchley,​this​division​is​not​an​injury​to​be​healed.​Indeed,​the​divided​subject​produced​by​commitment​to​an​unfulfillable​demand​is​the​ very​site​of​conscience.97​The​internalization​of​such​a​demand​results​in​a​ sense​of​discomfort​that​propels​continued​efforts​to​live​up​to​an​absolute​ but​impossible​responsibility.​Most​significant,​“the​infinitely​demanding​ ethics​of​commitment,”​Critchley​asserts,​provides​the​motivational​force​ for​renewed​democratic​activity. ​ The​“passage​from​ethics​to​politics”​is​presented​by​Critchley​as​both​ descriptive​and​normative.​That​is,​he​is​articulating​a​recommendation,​ Levinasian Ethics and Democracy

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but​one​based​on​“contemporary​activist​politics”;​it​need​not​be​invented.​ More​precisely,​he​claims​one​can​find​the​(always​incomplete)​enactment​ of​responsibility​to​the​Other​in,​for​example,​the​plural​and​dispersed​activities​taking​place​under​the​name​of​anarchism,​such​as​the​protests​ against​the​World​Trade​Organization​that​have​taken​place​around​the​ globe​since​1999.98​Critchley​claims​that​this​anarchism​and​other​recent​ instances​of​“direct​democratic​action”​are​motivated​less​by​a​quest​for​ freedom​than​by​a​sense​of​“infinite​responsibility.”99​Contemporary​anarchism,​Critchley​wagers,​is​“about​responsibility,​whether​sexual,​ecological,​or​socio-​economic.”​More​pointedly​still,​it​is​Levinasian;​this​is​ “an​anarchism​of​the​other​human​being​who​places​me​under​a​heteronomous​demand​rather​than​the​anarchism​of​the​autonomous​self.”100 ​ Jacques​ Rancière,​ commenting​ on​ Jacques​ Derrida’s​ embrace​ of​ Levinasian​ethics,​sheds​some​critical​light​on​Critchley’s​affirmation​of​a​ “passage”​from​ethics​to​politics.​Rancière​alleges​that​a​focus​on​“infinite​ openness​to​otherness”​cannot​be​anything​other​than​depoliticizing.​This​ is​so​because​Levinas’s​model​of​ethics​orients​one​toward​a​“transcendental​horizon”​that​substitutes​an​ethical​understanding​of​otherness​for​ a​political​one.​An​orientation​that​centers​on​the​figure​of​an​absolute​ Other​and​ on​ the​ notion​ of​ limitless​ responsibility,​ Rancière​ argues,​ is​ not​a​step​on​the​way​to​collective​political​action,​but​a​decisive​move​ away​from​it:​when​Derrida​and​others​contrast​the​problems​of​existing​ liberal​democracy​as​a​form​of​government​with​an​ideal​of​infinite​openness​to​the​Other,​what​is​lost​is​“democracy​as​a​practice.”​This​practice​ involves​diverse,​contestable​figurations​of​otherness​in​which​previously​ “uncounted”​members​of​a​polity​interrupt​normalized​politics​and​position​themselves​as​excluded​but​full​political​subjects.​Ethical​frameworks​ like​Levinas’s,​taken​up​by​Derrida,​Critchley,​and​others,​conceptualize​ “one​infinite​openness​to​otherness,”​bypassing​the​multiple,​creative​enactments​of​otherness​that​occur​when​newcomers​on​the​political​scene​ make​themselves​seen​and​heard,​presenting​“new​objects”​as​“common​ concerns”​in​public.​These​diverse​expressions​of​otherness,​achieved​in​ and​through​democratic​agitation,​are​eclipsed​entirely​by​an​ethics​that​ celebrates​an​abstract,​already-​given​Other.101 ​ Yet​ it​ is​ just​ this​ ethics​ of​ infinite​ responsibility​ to​ the​ Other​ that​ Critchley​claims​can​nourish​collective​forms​of​democratic​action​and​ protest.​Levinasian​ethics​is​not​just​a​useful​support​of​direct​democracy,​ moreover;​it​is​the​very​source​of​it,​on​Critchley’s​telling.​This​is​expressed​ Chapter 2

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repeatedly:​the​democratizing​politics​that​interests​Critchley​alternately​ “arises​from,”​“feeds​from,”​and​“flows​from”​the​ethics​of​infinite​responsibility​to​the​Other.102​Ethics​and​politics​are​not​wholly​separate​activities​ or​domains,​nor​is​ethics​only​an​interruption​of​the​political.103​Rather,​ ethics​is​actually​requisite​for​true​democracy​because​it​supplies​democracy​with​what​it​cannot​provide​itself:​a​“metapolitical​moment.”104​It​ is​exactly​the​“metapolitical”​character​of​ethics—the​sense​in​which​it​ is​above​or​beyond​anything​one​might​regard​as​political—that​makes​ possible​democratic​“gathering,​coalition​or​association,”​directed​at​the​ enactment​of​impossible​responsibility.105​Ethics​and​politics​are​not​entirely​separable​since​democratic​action,​for​Critchley,​is​defined​in​terms​ of​Levinasian​responsibility.​Yet​ethics​enjoys​a​special​status​relative​to​ politics,​acting​as​the​guide​and​anchor​of​an​otherwise​suspect​enterprise. ​ The​trouble​with​Critchley’s​formulation​lies​in​its​elision​of​the​difference​between​charitable​ethics​and​associative​democracy.​In​his​view,​the​ individual’s​acceptance​of​a​radical​demand​to​care​for​a​singular​Other​ leads​rather​seamlessly​to​participation​in​the​collective,​democratizing​ efforts​he​admires.​But​does​the​affirmation​of​a​limitless​responsibility​ to​a​needy​Other​really​motivate​engagement​in​associative​struggles​to​ remedy​a​public​wrong,​as​Critchley​claims?​I​believe​it​is​mistaken​to​suppose​such​a​connection​because​Levinasian​charitable​ethics​is​defined​ by​ characteristics​ that​ actually​ conflict​ with​ the​ practice​ of​ associative​ democracy.​Moreover,​the​features​of​charity​that​restrict​its​ability​to​empower​democratic​action​are​not​unique​to​Levinas.​That​is,​the​difficulties​ I​identify​should​caution​generally​against​mistaking​acts​of​charity,​however​valuable,​for​democratic​politics.​Recognizing​what​Levinas’s​conception​of​charity​shares​with​everyday​understandings​of​the​term​helps​ to​challenge​the​assumption​that​democracy​is​vitalized​if​one​only​cares​ more​for​others. ​ Three​important​elements​of​charity—in​both​the​Levinasian​and​the​ more​commonplace​sense—warrant​attention​in​relation​to​associative​ democracy.​ First,​ the​ charitable​ relation​ is​ characterized​ by​ hierarchy;​ there​are​benefactors​and​there​are​recipients.​Levinas​is​adamant​about​ this.​The​self/Other​relationship​is​asymmetrical​and​nonreciprocal.​It​is​a​ relation​not​of​mutual​support​or​care​but​one​in​which​the​self​owes​everything​to​the​needy​Other.​One​serves​and​the​Other​is​served.​Ordinary​ understandings​of​charity​also​presuppose​inequality​between​those​who​ give​and​those​who​receive.​Whether​one​thinks​of​it​in​terms​of​individual​ Levinasian Ethics and Democracy

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charitable​acts​(donated​money​or​time,​for​example)​or​of​the​efforts​of​ an​organization​to​provide​services,​hierarchy​defines​the​relationship​in​ which​one​party​has​access​to​resources​that​the​other​does​not.​As​Janet​ Poppendieck​has​demonstrated​in​her​fascinating​study​of​the​relatively​ recent​rise​of​emergency​food​programs​in​the​United​States,​the​division​ between​the​administration​and​volunteers,​on​the​one​hand,​and​the​recipients​of​aid,​on​the​other,​is​stark:​most​emergency​food​clients​“are​left​ in​the​passive​and​dependent​role​that​is​so​characteristic​of​charity,​however​kindly​and​gently​it​may​be​administered.”106 ​ However​valuable​charitable​service​may​be—feeding​the​hungry,​for​ example—it​is​difficult​to​see​how​the​deeply​unequal​dynamic​underlying​that​relationship​could​foster​the​relations​of​solidarity​that​associative​democracy​requires.​Collective​democratic​activity​is​undertaken​ by​ordinary​citizens​who​join​together​in​relations​of​mutual​support​and​ coaction.​How​are​such​coalitions​encouraged,​let​alone​motivated​by,​a​ charitable​relation​of​extreme​hierarchy?​What​allows​for​the​division​between​benefactors​and​beneficiaries​to​be​replaced​by​more​equal​relations​of​association​between​selves​and​others? ​ Charity​is​also​concerned​primarily​with​the​direct​fulfillment​of​basic​ needs.​This​is​true​of​Levinas’s​ethics​no​less​than​of​the​Red​Cross.​The​ charitable​relation​Levinas​conceptualizes​centers​on​the​provision​of​material​support,​such​as​shelter,​food,​and​clothing.​The​self​who​answers​ the​summons​of​the​Other​is​figured,​time​and​again,​as​the​one​who​supplies​bread.​And​perhaps​the​most​popular​image​of​charitable​activity​in​ the​United​States​involves​donating​food,​as​in​a​canned​food​drive,​and​ serving​food​to​the​hungry,​as​in​a​soup​kitchen.​Charitable​relations​are​ not​only​hierarchical,​then,​but​marked​by​a​specific​end:​the​fulfillment​ of​immediate​material​need. ​ It​would​be​absurd,​if​not​offensive,​to​deny​the​important​role​charitable​giving​can​play​in​improving​some​recipients’​quality​of​life.​Yet​the​ goal​of​addressing​critical​basic​needs​is​not​necessarily​the​same​as​or​ even​consistent​with​collective​democratic​efforts​to​alter​social​conditions​themselves.​In​other​words,​the​urgent​needs​to​which​many​charitable​endeavors​seek​to​respond​may​actually​direct​attention​away​from​ structural​causes​of​deprivation,​the​potential​objects​of​democratic​organization​and​agitation.​Poppendieck​makes​this​argument​in​relation​to​ emergency​food,​claiming​that​“the​proliferation​of​charity​contributes​to​ our​society’s​failure​to​grapple​in​meaningful​ways​with​poverty.​.​.​.​This​ Chapter 2

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massive​charitable​ endeavor​ serves​to​relieve​pressure​ for​more​fundamental​ solutions.”107​ Indeed,​ Poppendieck​ contends​ that​ no​ amount​ of​ charitable​giving​can​substitute​for​political​advocacy​aimed​at​the​causes​ of​hunger.108 ​ Not​every​project​undertaken​by​an​association​of​democratic​citizens​is​ directed​at​the​sweeping​transformation​of​social​conditions.​Many​efforts​ are​less​ambitious​and​more​localized.​Nonetheless,​collective​democratic​ action,​past​and​present,​is​focused​on​redressing​features​of​the​conditions​under​which​people​live.​That​is,​rather​than​feeding​the​needy​here​ and​now​(no​doubt​a​worthwhile​endeavor),​democratic​organizing,​unlike​charitable​giving,​is​inclined,​for​example,​to​make​demands​on​behalf​ of​welfare​reform,​affordable​housing,​or​unemployment​benefits,​issues​ that​are​tied​to​structural​conditions​that​affect​the​availability​of​food.​ And​the​charitable​outlook​that​supports​day-​to-​day​feeding​efforts​may​ actually​obscure​broader​questions​concerning​the​“pathways​that​lead​to​ the​food​pantry​door.”109​The​second​characteristic​of​charity,​that​is,​the​ delivery​of​immediate​aid,​does​not​directly​support​and​may​even​detract​ from​collective​struggles​to​change​social​conditions. ​ Finally,​charity​need​not​be​a​public​phenomenon.​It​is​often​undertaken​by​private​organizations​and​individuals​who​want​to​assist​needy​ individuals​ and​ groups.​ Such​ actors,​ though​ they​ may​ raise​ money​ or​ “awareness”​and​offer​direct​services,​do​not​typically​aim​to​mobilize​constituencies​around​a​publicly​articulated​demand​that​calls​for​changes​in​ conditions.​Democratic​association,​however,​depends​upon​the​recognition​of​a​problem​defined​as​a​shared​matter​of​concern,​one​that​cannot​ be​adequately​addressed​by​private​actors​and​therefore​requires​public​attention.​By​contrast,​a​charitable​outlook​invites​one​to​see​“personal​generosity​as​a​response​to​major​social​and​economic​dislocation.”110​That​is,​ charity’s​privatizing​perspective​on​social​wrongs​locates​remedies​in​the​ goodwill​of​particular​benefactors.​Similarly,​the​assistance​provided​by​ charities​is​usually​understood​as​a​gift​rather​than​a​right,​a​private​offering​rather​than​a​public​entitlement.111​This​too​should​raise​doubts​about​ the​compatibility​of​charitable​ethics​and​democratic​association. ​ These​important​features​of​charity​are​good​reason​to​question​the​ extent​ to​ which​ secondary​ associations​ as​ such​ can​ be​ said​ to​ serve​ as​ “schools​of​democracy.”112​There​is​a​temptation​to​imagine​that​participation​simply​begets​participation,​à​la​Robert​Putnam’s​view​of​“social​capital,”​yet​engagement​in​charitable​endeavors​may​not​foster​the​capacities​ Levinasian Ethics and Democracy

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or​practices​that​democratic​politics​requires.113​Even​the​influential​“resource​model​of​political​participation,”​which​highlights​the​significance​ of​ “civic​ skills”—acquired​ partly​ through​ individuals’​ activities​ in​ nonpolitical​ organizations—for​ certain​ types​ of​ citizen​ participation,​ does​ not​allay​doubts​about​the​likelihood​that​charitable​work​will​foster​democratic​practices.114​As​Poppendieck’s​analysis​of​emergency​food​provision​ and​Nina​Eliasoph’s​ethnographic​study​of​volunteer​activity​show,​participation​in​charitable​organizations,​even​when​not​restricted​to​making​ financial​ donations,​ usually​ takes​ the​ form​ of​ “lending​ a​ hand”​ to​ predetermined​tasks​directed​at​a​“small​circle​of​concern”​rather​than​those​ initiative-​taking​and​communicative​“skill-​acts”​that​Brady​et​al.​argue​can​ be​transferred​from​nonpolitical​to​political​settings.115​As​Eliasoph​demonstrates​ through​ many​ compelling​ examples,​ contemporary​ forms​ of​ charitable​volunteer​work​are​often​explicitly​antipolitical,​discouraging​ reflection​and​disagreement​among​participants​in​order​to​focus​on​“no-​ brainer,”​“indisputably​good,”​small​projects​that​do​little​to​interrogate​ the​sources​of​social​problems.116​(An​especially​perverse​expression​of​ this​tendency​was​the​routine​depiction​of​Martin​Luther​King​Jr.​as​a​do-​ gooder​volunteer​by​participants​in​Community​House,​an​after-​school​ program​in​the​Midwest​meant​to​empower​disadvantaged​youth.​This​ representation,​Eliasoph​notes,​completely​ignores​King’s​political​positions​concerning​institutionalized​racism,​unions,​foreign​wars,​and​class​ inequality​in​order​to​render​him​an​innocuous​figure​with​whom​no​one​ could​disagree.)117​Indeed,​the​three​features​of​charity​specified​above— unequal​relations​between​providers​and​recipients,​a​focus​on​immediate​ need,​and​a​basically​privatized​approach​to​social​problems—may​render​ charitable​volunteerism​an​obstacle​to​rather​than​a​support​for​collaborative​democratic​projects​that​engage​in​public​contestation​over​worldly​ conditions.​“Doing​for”​others​may​discourage​“doing​with”​them.118​The​ tendency​of​charitable​volunteers​to​perform​already-​defined​tasks​related​ to​immediate​needs​can​occlude​more​expansive​perspectives​that​interrogate​the​broader​conditions​that​generate​needs.​And​the​provision​of​aid​ by​private​entities​may​distract​participants’​attention​from​the​question​ of​public,​governmental​responsibility.​Charitable​volunteerism​may​not​ be​a​training​ground​for​democracy​at​all. ​ Critchley’s​ argument,​ however,​ supposes​ a​ direct​ path​ from​ charity​ to​democracy,​from​the​self’s​Levinasian​obligation​to​care​for​an​Other​ to​ associative​ efforts​ to​ address​ injustice.​ He​ offers​ no​account​ of​ how​ Chapter 2

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the​inequality,​for​example,​that​marks​the​self/Other​relation​is​transformed​into​a​solidaristic​bond​among​citizens​acting​in​concert.​Likewise,​no​explanation​is​given​for​the​shift​between​personal​concern​for​ an​Other’s—or​even​others’—immediate​material​needs​and​mutual​concern​for​broader​social​conditions.​Critchley​describes​the​radical​democratic​projects​he​aligns​with​Levinasian​ethics​as​being​motivated​by​“a​ shared​experience​of​certain​wrongs​and​a​determination​to​right​those​ wrongs.”​But​how​are​those​wrongs​brought​to​light​publicly?​What​facilitates​the​shared​recognition​of​them​and​the​desire​to​redress​them​collaboratively?​Put​somewhat​differently,​even​if​the​self/Other​encounter​ at​the​heart​of​Levinas’s​ethics​is​met​by​the​self’s​desire​to​respond​generously​to​its​call​(rather​than​by​indifference,​neglect,​or​violence),​what​ directs​that​desire​toward​collective​action​with​others?​This​is​a​question​ that​concerns​both​agent​and​aim:​how​does​the​“unicity”​of​the​I,​called​ to​account​in​the​Levinasian​scene,​come​to​be​replaced​by​a​we?​And​ how​does​the​focus​of​intent​shift​from​addressing​the​Other’s​immediate​ needs​in​their​particularity​to​tending​to​wrongs​understood​as​features​ of​the​social​world​that​require​collective​advocacy?​Rather​than​address​ these​questions,​Critchley​wrongly​assumes​that​charitable​ethics​generates​democratic​action. ​ The​distinction​between​charitable​and​democratic​forms​of​activity​is​ crucial,​yet​it​is​something​Critchley​and​others​who​advocate​a​Levinasian​ethos​for​democracy​overlook.​Even​more​significant,​however,​is​the​ acknowledgment​that​the​charitable​outlook,​marked​by​the​characteristics​identified​above,​may​actually​serve​as​an​obstacle​to​democratic​ mobilization.​The​charitable​perspective​leads​one​to​see​the​solution​to​ cases​of​suffering,​deprivation,​and​need​in​the​private​provision​of​aid​by​ the​haves​to​the​have-​nots.​Yet,​as​Poppendiek​writes,​“the​joys​and​demands​of​personal​charity​divert​us​from​the​more​fundamental​solutions​ to​the​problems​of​deepening​poverty​and​growing​inequality.”​Charitable​ endeavors​ may​ replace​ rather​ than​ support​ politics.119​ This​ means​ that​ democratic​action—collaborative,​public,​and​directed​at​lasting​conditions—may​ actually​ require​ overcoming​ the​ charitable​ orientation​ Levinasian​ethics​invites​us​to​take​up.

judith butler and the false Promise of Precariousness If​Critchley​assumes​too​seamless​a​movement​from​charity​to​democracy,​ perhaps​what​is​needed​is​a​more​careful​elaboration​of​how​Levinasian​ Levinasian Ethics and Democracy

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ethics​might​be​reworked​or​transformed​in​ways​that​could​animate​associative​democratic​projects.​Butler’s​recent​work​posits​less​of​a​direct​link​ between​the​charitable​self/Other​relation​and​democratic​politics,​even​ as​she​makes​Levinas​central​to​her​theorizing​about​democratic​ethos.​ Can​this​more​circuitous​route​from​charity​to​democracy​reveal​the​value​ of​Levinasian​ethics​for​politics? ​ Whether​Butler’s​recent​work,​which​is​the​focus​here,​performs​an​ “ethical​turn”​of​its​own​is​the​subject​of​some​debate.​Although​Butler​ once​worried​that​the​fascination​with​ethics​might​displace​politics,​some​ readers​identify​a​turn​toward​ethics​in​her​writings​since​2000.120​Other​ interpreters​maintain​that​despite​the​adoption​of​a​more​explicitly​ethical​idiom,​these​texts​are​actually​continuous​with​rather​than​a​departure​from​her​previous​writings.​Moya​Lloyd​as​well​as​Samuel​Chambers​ and​Terrell​Carver​hold​that​Butler’s​most​recent​work,​namely,​Precarious Life,​ Giving an Account of Oneself,​ and​ Frames of War,​ are​ of​ a​ piece​ with​her​previous​books.121​On​this​reading,​supported​by​Butler’s​own​ remarks​on​the​tenth​anniversary​of​the​publication​of​Gender Trouble,​all​ of​her​writing​has​a​common​concern​and​aim:​to​expose​the​workings​ of​“normative​violence”​and​to​explore​the​possibilities​of​more​“livable”​ lives​for​all​human​beings.122​This​interpretation​defines​Butler’s​work​by​ its​sustained​attention​to​how​“culturally​particular​norms​define​who​is​ recognizable​as​a​subject​capable​of​living​a​life​that​counts.”123​Without​ disputing​the​thematic​coherence​this​reading​locates​in​Butler’s​work​or​ insisting​upon​a​definitive​rupture​in​her​writings,​I​find​it​nonetheless​undeniable​that​the​category​of​ethics​assumes​new​prominence​in​Butler’s​ recent​books.​While​it​may​be​reasonable​to​group​all​of​Butler’s​writings​ (so​far)​in​terms​of​the​problems​of​social​intelligibility​and​livability,​it​is​ also​the​case​that​her​last​few​books​pursue​these​problems​in​a​new​way:​ by​dwelling​on​precariousness​as​an​ethically​significant​fact​that​Levinas​ helps​bring​to​light​and​by​suggesting​that​awareness​of​such​vulnerability​ can​and​should​reinvigorate​democratic​politics​today.124 ​ In​Precarious Life​and​Giving an Account of Oneself,​Butler,​like​Critchley,​ dwells​on​Levinas’s​scene​of​the​encounter​between​self​and​Other.​Yet​ what​she​finds​in​that​scene​is​not​mainly​the​sense​of​unlimited​responsibility​that​Critchley​argues​can​and​should​invigorate​collective​citizen​ action.​Instead,​it​is​the​sense​of​precariousness​that​is​expressed​through​ the​ “face​ of​ the​ other.”​ Having​ quoted​ Levinas’s​ reference​ to​ “the​ face​ as​the​extreme​precariousness​ of​the​other,”​Butler​explains​ that​to​reChapter 2

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spond​to​the​face​“means​to​be​awake​to​what​is​precarious​in​another​ life​or,​rather,​the​precariousness​of​life​itself.”125​What​is​most​significant​ about​the​Levinasian​dyad​is​its​potential​to​reveal​a​common​precariousness;​the​vulnerability​of​the​needy​Other,​in​its​utter​particularity,​makes​ visible​or​intelligible​the​vulnerability​of​all​human​beings.​It​is​this​universal​precariousness​that​lies​at​the​heart​of​Butler’s​ethics​and​that​she​ claims​can​support​new​forms​of​democratic​association​and​guide​the​ “political​tasks”​they​undertake.126 ​ Precariousness​means​that​humans​are​“all​subject​to​each​other,​vulnerable​to​destruction​by​the​other​and​in​need​of​protection.”127​Butler’s​ethical​approach​centers​on​acknowledging​this​“fundamental​dependency”​ that​cannot​be​willed​away,​avowing​rather​than​denying​humanity’s​state​ of​ shared​ “injurability.”128​ But​ how​ is​ such​ an​ ethics​ of​ precariousness​ democratically​ significant?​ Butler​ offers​ two​ answers.​ First,​ she​ claims​ that​ this​ ethical​ perspective​ can​ inaugurate​ new​ collectivities​ that​ are​ rooted​in​an​affirmation​of​“common​human​vulnerability.”129​A​sense​of​ solidarity​can​emerge,​she​proposes,​on​the​basis​of​such​universal​insecurity:​a​“we”​born​of​shared​dependency​and​vulnerability.130​In​other​words,​ the​experience​of​“helplessness​and​need”​is​not​necessarily​privatizing;​ it​may​actually​help​constitute​a​“political​community.”131​Most​striking​ about​this​line​of​Butler’s​thought​is​the​way​in​which​the​formation​of​ community​is​tied​to​the​recognition​of​an​indisputable​fact​about​human​ experience,​in​all​times​and​places.​As​Antonio​Y.​Vásquez-​Arroyo​puts​it,​ Butler​elevates​vulnerability​to​the​“plane​of​ontology.”​This​maneuver​is​ important​because​it​aims​to​“anchor​responsibility​.​.​.​in​advance​of​the​ scene​of​power​in​which​encounters​with​others​occur.”132​The​very​fact​of​ vulnerability​and​dependency,​evinced​in​the​Levinasian​scene​of​address,​ can​serve​as​a​bond,​Butler​suggests,​a​new​basis​for​social​relations.​As​ George​Shulman​notes,​what​Butler​calls​on​to​be​acknowledged​here,​in​ order​to​refound​community,​is​not​“concrete​others,”​“a​constitution,”​or​ “a​problematic​history,”​but​a​“truth​about​human​life​as​such.”133 ​ Building​upon​this​understanding​of​the​importance​of​“avowing​injurability,”​Butler​argues​in​Frames of War​that​although​precariousness​ itself​ is​ universal,​ is​ an​ existential​ condition,​ one​ must​ be​ alert​ to​ the​ ways​in​which​precariousness​is​differentially​distributed,​rendering​some​ lives​much​more​vulnerable​and​injurable​than​others.​The​second​link​ between​Butler’s​ethics​and​democracy​lies​here.​Butler​says​that​while​ precariousness​is​a​feature​of​human​life​as​such,​“precarity”​designates​ Levinasian Ethics and Democracy

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a​“politically​induced​condition​in​which​certain​populations​.​.​.​are​differentially​exposed​to​injury,​violence,​and​death.”134​And​she​contends​ that​minimizing​this​unequal​distribution​of​precariousness​is​a​pressing​ “political​ task,”​ one​ that​ follows​ from​ the​ ethical​ truth​ Butler​ presents​ under​the​names​of​precariousness,​vulnerability,​dependency,​and​injurability.​Precariousness,​as​evinced​by​the​Levinasian​face,​assigns​humankind​to​a​political​project:​organizing​precariousness​in​more​egalitarian​ ways.​Indeed,​according​to​Butler,​the​acknowledgment​of​precariousness​ imposes​obligations.​If​one​grasps​that​precariousness​is​“not​a​feature​ of​this​or​that​life”​but​a​shared​condition,​then​one​cannot​avoid​taking​ on​the​task​of​redistribution:​“The​injunction​to​think​precariousness​in​ terms​of​equality​emerges​precisely​from​the​irrefutable​generalizability​ of​this​condition.”135​Butler​maintains​that​because​vulnerability​characterizes​human​existence​as​such,​is​“coextensive​with​birth​itself,”​full​affirmation​of​this​fact​necessitates​concern​for​the​egalitarian​distribution​ of​vulnerability​among​all​people​and​populations.136​Shared​precariousness,​then,​if​it​is​only​recognized,​can​serve​both​as​the​bond​that​unites​ a​political​community​and​also​as​the​source​of​a​normative​commitment​ to​create​social​arrangements​that​distribute​precariousness​more​fairly. ​ There​are​two​notable​problems​with​Butler’s​attempt​to​connect​Levinas’s​ethics​to​democratic​politics.​The​first​directly​concerns​her​appropriation​of​Levinas.​Significantly,​what​Butler​takes​from​Levinas’s​depiction​of​the​encounter​with​a​singular​Other​in​its​alterity​is​a​universal​ truth:​the​vulnerability​of​all​human​beings.​It​is​strange​that​in​the​several​ books​that​develop​this​idea,​Butler​does​not​address​the​extent​to​which​ this​marks​a​departure​from​Levinas,​who​never​describes​the​neediness​ or​dependency​of​the​Other​in​universal​terms.​(In​fact,​he​does​not​even​ describe​any​particular​self​and​Other​as​having​this​in​common.)​Indeed,​ the​ very​ idea​ of​ the​ face​ of​ the​ Other​ revealing​ “the​ precariousness​ of​ life​itself”​seems​to​run​the​risk​of​denying​the​radical​alterity,​the​singularity,​of​the​particular​Other​in​favor​of​a​thematizing,​even​totalizing​concept​of​precariousness.​Butler’s​reading​of​the​Levinasian​scene​ effectively​erases​particularity,​turning​the​Other​into​a​representative​of​ a​general​case.​The​unique,​vulnerable​Other​is​immediately​rendered​as​ an​instance​of​vulnerable​being​itself.​At​the​same​time,​the​hierarchy​that​ characterizes​the​Levinasian​ethical​encounter,​in​which​the​self​is​summoned​to​respond​to​the​needs​of​a​suffering,​defenseless​Other,​is​also​ erased.​When​Butler​draws​out​of​Levinas’s​ethics​a​generalized​vulneraChapter 2

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bility​that​is​thought​to​serve​as​a​point​of​identification,​she​covers​over​ the​decidedly​nonreciprocal​dynamic​in​which​the​Other​commands​the​ self​from​a​paradoxical​position​of​“humility​and​height.”​The​hierarchy​ that​marks​the​Levinasian​ethical​relation​and​defines​charitable​ethics​ more​broadly​vanishes​in​Butler’s​hands.​It​is​fair​to​ask​whether​Butler’s​ ethics​of​universal​precariousness​is​in​the​end​Levinasian​in​any​meaningful​sense. ​ Even​ if​ one​ answers​ this​ question​ no,​ this​ does​ not​ yet​ determine​ whether​ Butler’s​ ethics​ of​ precariousness​ is​ a​ promising​ resource​ for​ democracy.​Perhaps​Butler​has​rightly​diverged​from​Levinas​by​privileging​a​conception​of​universal​vulnerability.​But​here​a​second​difficulty​ emerges.​Butler​declares​that​the​fact​of​precariousness​brings​with​it​not​ only​the​potential​for​new​forms​of​community​but​an​obligation​of​redistribution.​ How​ is​ this​ possible?​ Supposing​ for​ the​ moment​ that​ the​ recognition​and​affirmation​of​vulnerability​as​an​unavoidable​existential​ truth​were​somehow​achieved,​why​would​this​acknowledgment​entail​ an​“injunction”​to​pursue​equality,​as​Butler​insists?​The​idea​of​universal​ precariousness​could​perhaps​become​mobilizing,​if​enunciated​as​a​public​claim​and​tied​to​a​demand​for​the​redistribution​of​vulnerability​across​ populations—a​claim​and​demand​that​would​most​likely​center​on​charging​a​specific,​concrete​program,​policy,​or​practice​with​wrongly​rendering​certain​groups​especially​and​unnecessarily​vulnerable.​But​this​is​not​ what​Butler​says​when​she​claims​that​because​precariousness​is​true,​we​ must​pursue​a​politics​committed​to​its​reorganization.​The​objection​here​ is​not​simply​logical,​though​Butler​can​fairly​be​charged​with​succumbing​to​the​classic​is–ought​problem.​Butler’s​contention​that​the​ethics​of​ precariousness​is​politically​salient​depends​on​the​unjustified​assertion​ that​a​specific​truth​about​the​world​compels​the​pursuit​of​a​particular​ normative​end;​injurability​“imposes​an​obligation​upon​us.”137​(In​some​ ways,​this​move​between​descriptive​and​normative​registers​mirrors​a​ slippage​in​Levinas’s​own​writings,​in​which​responsibility​names​both​an​ unavoidable​situation​of​the​self’s​indebtedness​to​the​Other​and​the​desirable​action​through​which​the​self​answers​the​call​issued​by​the​Other.)​ Butler’s​ethics​are​most​relevant​to​what​she​calls​“radical​democracy”​if​ one​accepts,​as​she​does,​that​human​precariousness​is​not​only​a​fact​but​ also​inherently​prescriptive,​mandating​a​specific​response​on​the​part​of​ the​“political​communities”​to​which​it​is​thought​to​give​rise. ​ This​tendency​to​position​a​certain​(commendable)​politics​as​the​prodLevinasian Ethics and Democracy

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uct​of​an​ethical​realization​strains​against​another​element​of​Butler’s​ thought.​In​the​same​texts​in​which​Butler​highlights​the​Levinasian​dyad​ as​the​source​of​a​profound​ethical​truth​that​can​guide​politics,​she​seems​ to​challenge​Levinas’s​portrait​of​the​ethical​self/Other​relation​by​continually​reminding​readers​of​the​broader—what​I​would​call​worldly— contexts​in​which​actual​dyadic​encounters​occur.​That​is,​Butler​stresses​ the​social​conditions​that​shape​relations​between​subjects:​“If​the​claim​ of​the​other​upon​me​is​to​reach​me,​it​must​be​mediated​in​some​way.”​ And:​“Our​very​capacity​to​respond​with​non-​violence​.​.​.​depends​upon​ the​frames​by​which​the​world​is​given​and​by​which​the​domain​of​appearance​ is​ circumscribed.”138​ Butler​ tends​ to​ present​ “conditions”​ in​ fairly​abstract,​even​cognitive​terms,​namely​as​“frames”​and​“norms”​that​ govern​intelligibility,​and​thus​misses​the​full​complexity​of​those​worldly​ conditions​I​theorize​in​the​next​two​chapters.​Nonetheless,​Butler’s​persistent​invocation​of​“conditions”​serves​to​redirect​attention​away​from​ the​intimacy​of​the​dyad​and​toward​collective​arrangements.​In​so​doing,​ she​issues​a​direct​challenge​to​Levinas:​“It​is​not​enough​to​say,​in​a​Levinasian​vein,​that​the​claim​is​made​upon​me​prior​to​my​knowing​and​as​ an​inaugurating​instance​of​my​coming​into​being.​That​may​be​formally​ true,​but​its​truth​is​of​no​use​to​me​if​I​lack​the​conditions​for​responsiveness​that​allow​me​to​apprehend​it​in​the​midst​of​this​social​and​political​life.”139 ​ “Social​and​political​life,”​that​is,​the​specific​policies,​habits,​laws,​vocabularies,​and​traditions​that​characterize​a​particular​context,​has​everything​to​do​with​whether​I​will​hear​the​call​of​the​Other​and​with​whether​ a​life​will​even​register​as​a​life,​as​injurable​and​hence​grievable.​In​these​ places​ and​ others,​ Butler​ complicates​ the​ Levinasian​ scene​ of​ self​ and​ Other—which,​as​we​have​seen,​she​also​presents​as​revelatory​of​universal​precariousness—by​foregrounding​the​extent​to​which​such​a​scene​ can​never​be​counted​on​to​function​as​the​origin​of​an​absolute​ethical​ truth,​governed​as​it​is​by​complex​institutional​arrangements​that,​for​ example,​humanize​some​subjects​while​“derealizing”​others.140​Although​ Butler​mobilizes​a​distinction​between​precariousness​and​precarity​to​ insist​that​the​recognition​of​precariousness’s​generalizability​leads​to​an​ injunction​to​equalize​existing​precarity,​her​orientation​toward​conditions​gives​reason​to​question​this​argument,​particularly​the​sequencing​it​advances.141​Is​it​even​possible​to​access​“precariousness​as​such”?​ If​ precarity—the​ particular​ configurations​ of​ power​ that​ render​ some​ Chapter 2

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groups​especially​insecure​and​even​unreal,​while​protecting​and​benefiting​others—shapes​every​encounter,​then​why​not​locate​democratic​ struggle​on​just​this​terrain?​Why​imagine​such​struggle​as​a​consequence​ of​an​absolute​truth​contained​in​the​Other’s​face?​Perhaps​the​critical​ task​is​not​to​see​and​avow​“primary​human​vulnerability”​as​an​uncontestable​and​universal​ethical​truth​(a​possibility​that​Butler’s​emphasis​on​ enabling​and​restraining​conditions​throws​into​question)​but​to​engage​in​ the​risky​business​of​democratic​contestation,​publicizing​and​casting​as​ changeable​those​specific​harms​that​are​systematically​and​unnecessarily​ wrought​on​some​human​beings​and​not​others. ​ Butler’s​ distinction​ between​ precariousness​ and​ precarity​ and​ her​ understanding​of​precarity​as​a​“politically​induced​condition”​brings​her​ close​to​tethering​“an​ethical​demand​to​political​analysis,”​as​Shulman​ writes.142​Her​further​specification​that​“our​obligations”​are​actually​to​ conditions,​to​institutions​and​environments,​lends​credence​to​Lloyd’s​ claim​ that​ Butler​ aims​ to​ reconcile​ ethics​ and​ politics.143​ According​ to​ Lloyd,​by​focusing​so​much​on​norms​Butler​effectively​politicizes​Levinas’s​ethics,​identifying​the​factors​that​“inhibit​.​.​.​an​ethical​encounter.”​ Lloyd​continues,​“Her​exploration​of​ethics​is​thus​embedded​in​an​account​ of​ the​ politics—or​ power​ relations—involved​ in​ producing​ the​ human.”​This​implies​that​“political​struggles​against​the​norm​are​a​way​ of​securing​the​possibility​of​ethical​relations.”144​This​reading​attributes​ to​ Butler​ a​ view​ which​ prioritizes​ political​ action​ directed​ at​ common​ conditions,​conditions​that​can​make​possible​nonviolent​ethical​relations​ between​selves​and​others.​Yet,​as​Lloyd​points​out​in​a​subsequent​essay,​ Butler’s​approach​actually​wavers​on​this​key​point.​At​the​same​time​that​ Butler​explores​“how​power​circumscribes”​ethical​encounters,​she​“takes​ for​granted​the​ethical​imperative​itself,”​which​mandates​the​equalization​ of​vulnerability.​Thus​Butler​argues​both​as​though​“the​ethical​imperative​ is​apolitical​(because​it​is​presented​as​prediscursive​and​thus,​as​not​predicated​on​power​relations)”​and​as​though​“ethical​encounters​in​determinate​contexts​are​political​(because​they​operate​through​power​relations​ and​normative​violence).”145​These​two​lines​of​thinking​persist​in​Butler’s​ recent​writings​and​cannot​be​easily​reconciled.​Rather​than​simply​deny​ the​former,​as​Lloyd’s​earlier​reading​suggests,​one​might​want​to​consider​ why​the​notion​of​an​ethical​imperative​beyond​politics​holds​such​appeal,​ even​for​a​thinker​like​Butler,​who​is​otherwise​so​attuned​to​the​workings​of​power​and​to​the​importance​of​democratic​contestation​aimed​ Levinasian Ethics and Democracy

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at​reshaping​power​relations.​Might​it​be,​as​Shulman​has​provocatively​ suggested,​that​the​romance​with​ethical​absolutes​betrays​a​cynicism​or​ despair​about​the​possibilities​of​democratic​mobilization?146​Could​it​be​ that​quiescence,​the​absence​of​political​dissent​in​the​form​of​“bodies​ joined​in​protest,​generating​power​by​acting​in​concert,”​has​driven​theorists,​including​Butler,​to​“imagine​founding​community​on​acknowledgement​of​an​extra-​political​truth?”147

Parting Ways with levinas In​ the​ end,​ a​ common​ problem​ afflicts​ Critchley’s​ and​ Butler’s​ efforts​ to​ deploy​ Levinas​ for​ explicitly​ democratic​ purposes.​ In​ each​ case,​ the​ movement​ from​ Levinasian​ ethics​ to​ democratic​ activity,​ from​ individual​concern​for​the​Other​to​shared​concern​for​worldly​conditions,​ is​glossed​over,​assumed​rather​than​accounted​for.​More​pointedly,​both​ approaches​rely​on​an​if, then​structure,​according​to​which​democratic​ activity​follows​from​the​recognition​of​an​ethical​truth​(credited​to​Levinas).​The​trouble​is​twofold.​First,​the​if​in​both​cases​is​a​rather​large​if.​ Neither​Critchley​nor​Butler​focuses​on​how​their​central​ethical​truths,​ infinite​responsibility​and​universal​precariousness,​respectively,​come​to​ light​and​become​objects​of​belief​or​affirmation.​They​are​merely​alluring​ if ’s.​Critchley’s​all-​important​moment​of​the​self’s​commitment​to​an​unfulfillable​obligation​is​assumed​without​explanation​of​how​or​why​such​a​ demand​is​heard,​felt,​and​taken​up​(or​not).​His​analysis​does​not​address​ how​a​self​“binds​itself”​to​Levinasian​obligation.148​Even​Butler,​who​is​ more​attuned​to​the​“frames”​that​affect​one’s​ability​to​perceive​the​vulnerability​of​the​Other,​still​posits​the​fact​of​universal​vulnerability​with​ very​little​consideration​of​how​such​a​supposed​truth​comes​to​be​formulated,​articulated,​or​accepted​in​particular​worldly​contexts. ​ The​if​becomes​a​more​pressing​problem​in​both​cases​because​it​is​ coupled​with​an​unwarranted​then,​which​ushers​in​democratic​activity.​ Collective​mobilization,​in​Critchley’s​and​Butler’s​texts,​often​appears​as​ a​consequence​of​a​prior,​ethical​truth.​As​we​have​seen,​Critchley​credits​ the​existence​of​an​inescapable​demand​with​the​appearance​of​collaborative​ citizen​ projects​ that​ challenge​ perceived​ injustices.​ He​ does​ not​ address​why​or​how​this​obligation​finds​expression​in​democratic​action​ rather​than​in​charitable​direct​aid.​He​simply​states​that​admirable​attempts​at​democratization​follow​from​the​fact​of​infinite​responsibility.​ Although​Butler​sometimes​presents​that​ethical​insight​as​being​itself​deChapter 2

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pendent​on​alterable​sociopolitical​conditions,​she​repeatedly​claims​that​ if​universal​vulnerability​is​accepted,​then​an​egalitarian​political​project​ follows.​As​Shulman​argues,​Butler​effectively​ignores​how​such​a​truth​is​ “politically​generated”​and​instead​treats​universal​injurability​as​a​revelatory​fact​that,​if​only​accepted​and​affirmed,​leads​to​desirable​political​ outcomes.149 ​ The​remedy​is​not​to​be​found​by​filling​in​missing​pieces​of​Critchley’s​ and​ Butler’s​ efforts​ to​ wed​ Levinasian​ ethics​ to​ democratic​ politics.​ It​ is​not​a​matter​of​fleshing​out​details​that​their​accounts​move​over​too​ quickly.​This​is​because,​as​I​have​been​suggesting,​it​is​a​mistake​to​look​to​ Levinas​for​a​democratic​ethics.​Contemporary​liberal​democracy​might​ indeed​benefit​from​a​motivating,​empowering​ethical​spirit,​but​it​is​not​ to​be​found​in​Levinas’s​ethics​of​limitless​personal​responsibility​to​the​ Other.​The​Levinasian​model​fixes​attention​on​a​dyadic​relation,​obscuring​the​worldly​contexts​that​serve​as​the​sites​and​objects​of​democratic​ action.​As​in​the​case​of​the​therapeutic​ethics​I​analyzed​in​chapter​1,​a​ real​gap​separates​charitable​ethics​from​associative​democratic​practice,​ in​which​citizens​act​publicly​and​collaboratively​in​order​to​shape​the​ world​ in​ which​ they​ live.150​ This​ distance​ between​ charity​ and​ democracy​is​one​that​even​Critchley’s​and​Butler’s​creative​modifications​cannot​overcome. ​ One​ might​ suppose​ at​ this​ point​ that​ the​ very​ quest​ for​ ethics​ is​ in​ doubt.​If​neither​Foucauldian​nor​Levinasian​ethics​holds​great​promise​ for​the​elaboration​of​a​democratic​ethos,​should​we​question​the​aspiration​itself?​This​is​surely​too​hasty,​for​the​ethics​of​self-​care​and​of​care​for​ the​Other,​despite​their​influence,​do​not​exhaust​the​field​of​possibilities.​ Indeed,​there​is​a​distinctive​form​of​care,​neither​therapeutic​nor​charitable,​that​is​uniquely​capable​of​nourishing​associative​democracy.​It​is​to​ this​alternative​ethics​that​we​now​turn.

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ChaPter​three –​ ​— –​

th E dE Mocratic Eth ics of carE for W orldly th i ngs

Res​means​what​concerns​men.

—martin​heiDegger Each​object​gathers​around​itself​a​different​assembly​of​relevant​parties.

—Bruno​Latour

To​question​Foucauldian​and​Levinasian​ethics​is​not​to​reject​the​quest​for​a​democratic​ethos.​The​critique​offered​in​ the​preceding​chapters​does​not​now​culminate​in​a​call​for​a​ return​to​more​universal​and​absolute​modes​of​morality​that​ would​somehow​overcome​the​limitations​of​care​for​the​self​ and​care​for​the​Other.​Nor​are​the​doubts​I​have​raised​meant​ to​divorce​democracy​from​ethos,​in​the​name​of​a​rationalist-​ institutionalist​vision​of​politics​or​the​autonomy​of​the​political.​Theorists​ such​ as​ Connolly,​ Critchley,​ and​ Butler​ are​ right​to​insist​that​democratic​practice​is​irreducible​to​formal​ structures​of​government;​it​is​always​shaped​by​the​dispositions,​habits​of​mind,​affective​comportments,​and​felt​commitments​of​its​participants​(and​nonparticipants).​The​exploration​and​elaboration​of​a​democratic​ethos​is​a​meaningful​ endeavor.​The​problem​lies​not​with​the​desire​to​articulate​an​ ethics​for​democracy​but​with​the​mistaken​supposition​that​ therapeutic​and​charitable​models​are​suitable​to​the​task. ​ In​ this​ chapter​ I​ lay​ the​ groundwork​ for​ an​ alternative​

democratic​ethos,​one​centered​on​the​notion​of​care​for​the​world,​a​subject​I​will​continue​to​elaborate​in​chapter​4.​This​conception,​prefigured​ in​ earlier​ chapters​ but​ not​ yet​ fully​ presented,​ captures​ a​ spirit​ which​ already​animates​associative​democratic​projects​but​which​deserves​to​ be​explicitly​thematized​and​purposefully​cultivated.​Care​for​the​world,​ distinct​from​concern​for​oneself​or​for​an​Other,​is​an​ethos​uniquely​fit​ for​democratic​life.1 ​ Like​the​ethical​orientations​that​take​inspiration​from​Foucault​and​ Levinas,​the​democratic​ethos​I​posit​privileges​relations​of​care:​expressions​of​regard​and​concern​and​active​tending​to.​Yet​such​care​involves​ different​agents​and​recipients​than​those​assumed​by​therapeutic​and​ charitable​ models.​ Democratic​ care​ is​ collaborative,​ expressed​ in​ joint​ action​by​plural​participants.​The​practitioner​of​such​care​is​never​a​self​ but​always​an​association​of​selves.​Even​more​important,​the​recipient​ of​care​is​not​another​person​or​even​persons,​but​the​world,​understood​ as​the​array​of​material​and​immaterial​conditions​under​which​human​ beings​live—both​with​one​another​and​with​a​rich​variety​of​nonhumans,​ organic​and​technological.​More​specifically​still,​coaction​among​citizens​ is​directed​not​at​the​world​per​se​but​at​particular​worldly​things​that​ become​objects​of​shared​attention​and​concern.​This​thing,​a​concept​ that,​like​world,​awaits​full​theorization,​is​crucial​to​every​democratic​ undertaking.​It​is​the​third​term—a​practice,​place,​law,​habit,​or​event— around​which​people​gather,​both​in​solidarity​and​division. ​ Yet​it​is​precisely​the​world​with​its​many​potential​objects​of​concern​ that​is​absent​from​the​Foucauldian​and​Levinasian​ethical​scenes.​The​relations​of​self/self​and​self/Other​tend​to​suppose​that​it​is​a​single​human​ being​rather​than​a​collectivity​who​exercises​care,​and​in​addition​the​ intimacy​of​those​dyadic​relations​threatens​to​eclipse​worldly​conditions​ altogether.​There​is​little​room​in​these​accounts​for​anything​other​than​ human​selves​and​others.​This​is​true​even​of​Levinas’s​much-​celebrated​ third,​ which​ evokes​ the​ presence​ of​ another​ human​ being​ but​ not​ the​ milieu​inhabited​by​plural​human​beings.​Both​ethical​approaches​neglect​ something​vital​to​democratic​politics,​and​that​is​the​central​role​played​ by​things.​These​are​matters​of​concern​that​serve​as​the​focal​points​of​ collective​democratic​activity,​both​cooperative​and​antagonistic.​A​viable​ democratic​ethos,​I​argue,​is​one​that​supports​and​inspires​mutual​care​ for​worldly​conditions.

Chapter 3

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Practicing care To​attest​to​care​about​something​is,​at​the​most​basic​level,​to​indicate​ that​the​something​in​question​has​a​claim​on​our​attention;​if​we​care​in​ this​sense,​we​are​interested,​not​indifferent.​This​meaning​of​the​word​is​ most​evident​in​the​negative​expression,​“I​don’t​care.”​Care​for​worldly​ things,​which​I​place​at​the​center​of​democratic​ethics,​certainly​requires,​ in​the​first​instance,​this​giving​of​attention,​yet​it​also​entails​a​second,​ stronger​and​more​deeply​felt​sentiment​which​is​expressed​in​action.​The​ difference​between​these​modalities​of​care​is​evinced​by​the​distinction​ between​caring​about​and​caring​for​something.​In​the​second,​more​demanding​sense,​to​care​is​to​feel​and​show​concern,​solicitude,​or​regard​ for​ something.​ It​ implies​ not​ merely​ an​ attitude​ but​ a​ form​ of​ engagement​ or​ activity​ consisting​ in​ enduring​ dispositional​ conduct.​ Care​ for​ the​world​is​meant​to​invoke​this​richer​notion​of​care,​which​involves​not​ only​paying​attention​but​active​tending​to​and​looking​after. ​ Care​for​the​world,​as​an​ethical​concept,​draws​on​ordinary​definitions​ of​what​it​means​to​care,​but​it​also​marks​a​departure​from​conventional​ usage,​where​the​implied​object​of​care​is​another​human​being.​Similarly,​ it​challenges​the​intra-​and​intersubjective​portraits​of​care​presented​by​ Foucauldian​therapeutic​ethics​and​Levinasian​charitable​ethics.​Despite​ the​rigor​of​their​work,​the​view​of​the​caring​activity​each​advances​corresponds​to​familiar​ways​of​thinking​about​care,​which​in​both​cases​is​ identified​with​nurturance​of​a​specific​human​being.​Care​for​the​world​ as​a​democratic​ethos​is​distinctive​because​it​departs​from​this​commonplace​ understanding​ to​ specify​ a​ mode​ of​ collaborative​ caretaking​ that​ is​directed​not​at​a​person​or​even​persons​but​at​the​conditions​of​their​ lives. ​ Care​for​the​world,​conceptualized​as​a​distinctively​democratic​ethos,​ is​partly​inspired​by​Hannah​Arendt’s​notion​of​amor mundi,​or​love​of​ the​world.​Amor Mundi​is​the​title​Arendt​originally​intended​to​give​to​ her​landmark​book​The Human Condition,​and​it​is​an​idea​that​arguably​ informs​all​of​her​work,​though​references​to​it​are​scattered.2​As​I​read​ it,​the​phrase​is​meant​to​describe​an​emotional​investment​in​and​deep​ affection​for​something​other​than​human​selves,​namely,​for​the​complex,​extrasubjective​“web”​that​constitutes​the​conditions​of​our​lives.​ The​worldly​ethics​I​elaborate​builds​on​Arendt’s​insight​into​the​distinctive​regard​and​concern,​even​love,​that​is​expressed​through​action​in​ Democratic Ethics of Care

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concert,​ when​ people​ combine​ together​ to​ tend​ not​ to​ themselves​ but​ to​the​world​in​which​they​live.3​A​key​example​of​such​amor​mundi​in​ action,​according​to​Arendt,​was​the​antiwar​practices​of​civil​disobedience​of​the​1960s​and​1970s,​in​which​participants​effectively​“took​sides​ for​the​world’s​sake.”4​In​what​follows,​I​take​up​the​invitation​posed​by​ Arendt’s​evocative​but​underdeveloped​notion​of​amor​mundi,​which​expresses​a​special​kind​of​care​enacted​by​citizens​in​association,​in​order​ to​fully​conceptualize​and​advocate​what​Arendt​does​not:​a​worldly​ethics​ for​democracy.5 ​ The​language​of​care​that​I​draw​on​in​defense​of​this​specific​ethos​ features​prominently​in​the​literature​of​care​ethics.​Some​advocates​of​ care​ethics​have​challenged​the​tendency​to​privatize,​if​not​denigrate,​ caring​activities​and​to​cast​care​as​incompatible​with​the​public​pursuit​ of​impartial,​universalist​justice.​The​field​of​feminist​care​ethics​began​ with​work​that​treated​maternal​care​for​a​child​as​paradigmatic,​thereby​ retaining​a​very​traditional​and​feminized​conception​of​care,​albeit​revalued​ as​ morally​ worthy.6​ But​ while​ early​ contributions​ focused​ on​ a​ dyadic,​ usually​ familial​ relation​ in​ which​ an​ individual​ cares​ for​a​ particular​vulnerable​Other,​more​recent​writings​have​developed​an​expansive​notion​of​care​that​is​explicitly​linked​to​political​life.7​Joan​Tronto’s​ “political​theory​of​care”​is​especially​intriguing​because​she​challenges​ the​tendency​to​think​of​care​as​intimate,​suggesting​both​that​care​can​ be​undertaken​collectively​by​an​association​of​actors​and​also​that​care​ can​at​times​mean​caring​for​objects​and​environments​as​well​as​people.8​ She​offers​examples​of​caring​activities​that​are​neither​individualist​nor​ dyadic,​such​as​the​collective​creation​of​new​institutions​like​Gay​Men’s​ Health​Crisis,​Project​Open​Hand,​and​the​Shanti​Project​that​successfully​ transformed​the​circumstances​faced​by​hiv/aiDs​patients.9 ​ The​argument​I​make​for​a​democratic​ethics​focused​on​care​for​the​ world​resonates​in​some​respects​with​Tronto’s.​I​agree​that​the​notion​of​ care,​freed​from​its​privatized​and​gendered​connotations​and​tethered​to​ the​practice​of​citizenship,​has​the​potential​to​“change​the​terms​of​political​debate​and​discussion.”10​Yet​Tronto’s​tendency​to​collapse​many​disparate​kinds​of​care​together​(people,​she​says,​“spend​most​of​their​lives”​ caring)​makes​it​difficult​to​recognize​and​appreciate​what​I​argue​is​a​specifically​democratic​mode​of​care,​associative​in​character​and​oriented​ toward​worldly​things.​Tronto’s​important​effort​to​expand​the​notion​of​ care​ unfortunately​ results​ in​ a​ fairly​ generic​ definition—providing​ for​ Chapter 3

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people’s​needs—which​does​not​facilitate​differentiation​among​diverse​ forms​of​caregiving.11​Democratic​care​for​the​world,​for​example,​though​ not​unrelated​to​the​fulfillment​of​people’s​needs,​may​involve,​paradoxically,​displacing​immediately​vulnerable​people​from​the​center​of​analysis​in​order​to​bring​into​view​and​work​to​transform​the​complex​environment​out​of​which​their​needs​arise. ​ Tronto​believes​that​if​people​were​to​become​more​adept​at​caring​in​ a​general​sense,​that​is,​by​developing​qualities​of​“attentiveness,​responsibility,​competence,​responsiveness,”​they​would​become​better​citizens.​ Yet​I​want​to​insist​on​a​certain​discontinuity​among​modes​of​caregiving.​ That​is,​although​caring​for​oneself,​others,​and​the​world​have​something​ in​common—signaled​by​the​presence​of​the​term​care—they​are​far​from​ identical​or​even​mutually​supportive​activities.​Indeed,​if​they​were,​the​ turn​to​Foucault​and​Levinas​for​a​democratic​ethos​would​be​more​persuasive​than​I​am​willing​to​grant.​Democratic​care​is​not​simply​an​extension​or​expansion​of​caring​for​oneself​or​caring​for​another.​As​I​have​ suggested,​those​practices​of​care,​while​valuable,​may​impede​participation​in​action​in​concert​that​aims​to​shape​worldly​conditions​because​ they​either​direct​people’s​focus​inward​as​they​“work​on”​themselves​or,​ alternatively,​turn​toward​answering​the​immediate​needs​of​vulnerable​ Others.​Neither​activity,​however​worthy,​can​be​counted​on​to​encourage​coordinated​action​by​citizens​who​aim​to​affect​an​aspect​of​public​ life.​One​may​personally​tend​very​effectively​to​a​child​or​an​ailing​parent,​but​such​care​may​never​translate​into​coaction​with​others​that​aims​ to​address,​say,​the​availability​of​low-​cost​quality​child​care​or​the​social​ marginalization​of​the​elderly.​Quite​simply,​democratic​politics​depends​ on​a​style​and​practice​of​care​that​are​distinct​from​those​of​other,​more​ familiar​forms.​The​difference​lies​in​the​identity​of​both​those​who​care​ and​those​who​are​cared​for.

the World and its things What​does​it​mean​ to​say​that​the​world​is​at​the​center​of​associative​ democratic​politics​or​to​claim,​further,​that​caring​for​this​entity​amounts​ to​a​democratic​ethos?​I​want​to​elaborate​here​an​understanding​of​world,​ thinking​both​with​and​against​Arendt’s​conceptualization​of​the​term,​ and​defend​its​significance​to​a​uniquely​democratic​ethical​sensibility. ​ The​ world​ is​ both​ material​ and​ nonmaterial.​ In​ Arendt’s​ political​ theory,​ it​ names​ both​ a​ “physical​ .​ .​ .​ in-​between”​ and​ a​ “second,​ subDemocratic Ethics of Care

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jective​in-​between”​that​is​constituted​by​“deeds​and​words.”12​The​world​ is​not​strictly​tangible.​Its​materiality,​what​can​be​seen​and​touched,​is​ never​ isolated​ from​ languages,​ relationships,​ norms,​ habits,​ and​ traditions,​the​more​intangible​elements​of​existence​that​overlie​the​physical.​ Yet​Arendt’s​conception,​which​I​selectively​draw​upon,​also​demarcates​ world​from​earth​and​nature,​reserving​world​for​what​is​man-​made.13​Indeed,​world,​in​both​its​tangible​and​intangible​dimensions,​is​synonymous​ with​human artifice​to​Arendt.​As​Hanna​Pitkin​explains,​it​is​“the​material​ culture​of​humanly​made​or​altered​objects​and​the​nonmaterial​culture​of​ humanly​sustained​relationships,​institutions,​customs,​mores,​concepts,​ and​civilization​in​general.”14​In​other​words,​world​stands​for​culture,​or​ that​which​is​humanly​made,​whether​an​object​or​a​practice,​in​opposition​to​nature,​which​is​given.​This​division,​however,​is​hard​to​maintain,​ insofar​as​humanly​produced​customs,​institutions,​relations,​and​objects​ are​inevitably​bound​up​with​the​natural.​A​particularly​dramatic​example​ is​the​British​Petroleum​oil​spill​in​the​Gulf​of​Mexico​in​2010,​which​may​ be​regarded​as​a​site​of​the​dense​entanglement​of​man-​made​objects​(an​ oil​rig,​dispersants,​cameras,​caps,​saws,​valves,​and​so​on),​natural​entities​ (human​beings,​water,​salt,​tides,​oil,​animals),​and​cultural​artifacts​(corporations,​regulations,​the​commercial​fishing​industry,​legal​claims,​protests,​media​coverage,​and​so​on).​It​is​impossible​to​isolate​the​cultural​ from​ the​ natural​ without​ doing​ violence​ to​ reality.​ Even​ much​ simpler​ activities​reveal​this​to​be​so.​When​I​sit​down​to​have​lunch,​where​I​eat,​ what​I​eat,​and​how​I​eat​it​are​never​simply​worldly​(cultural)​or​earthly​ (natural)​ in​ character​ but​ always​ and​ necessarily​ an​ amalgamation​ of​ both.​The​concept​of​world​that​I​forward​builds​on​Arendt’s​insight​into​ the​entanglement​of​the​tangible​and​the​intangible​but​rejects​the​line​ she​tries​to​draw​between​world​and​earth.​The​world,​as​conceptualized​ here,​denies​that​culture/nature​opposition​and​instead​aims​to​capture​ the​total​interplay​between​elements​falsely​assigned​to​either​side​of​this​ division. ​ World​ here​ does​ not​ refer​ only​ to​ what​ is​ man-​made.​ Nonetheless,​ much​ of​ the​ world​ is​ created​ and​ all​ of​ it​ affected​ by​ human​ beings,​ a​ fact​that​is​integral​to​the​democratic​ethos​I​advocate.​Indeed,​as​Arendt​ points​out,​politics​itself​depends​on​the​belief​that​“man​can​act​in​and​ change​and​build​a​common​world​together​with​others.”15​To​affirm​this​ world-​building​capacity​is​not​to​deny​to​nonhumans​the​ability​to​affect​ the​world​nor​should​it​be​mistaken​for​a​claim​to​absolute​mastery.​But​ Chapter 3

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it​is​certainly​the​case​that​human​beings​possess​an​especially​potent​as​ well​as​self-​reflexive​capacity​to​shape​the​complex​environment​of​which​ they​are​a​part.​The​world,​in​short,​should​be​understood​as​highly​susceptible​to​human​decision​making​and​activity. ​ At​the​same​time,​the​world—both​tangible​and​intangible,​organic​and​ inorganic—shapes​the​human​beings​who​are​uniquely​powerful​in​its​ construction.​As​Arendt​points​out,​even​the​conditions​of​our​existence​ that​are​clearly​humanly​made​and​variable​have​a​“conditioning​effect”​ on​us:​“The​things​that​owe​their​existence​exclusively​to​men​nonetheless​ constantly​condition​their​human​makers.”16​There​is​a​reciprocal​relation​ of​mutual​influence​between​human​beings,​who​help​build​the​world,​ and​the​world​itself.​This​is​especially​evident​in​the​realm​of​technology.​ Arendt’s​famous​example​of​this​phenomenon​is​the​invention​of​the​telescope​and​its​effects​on​human​subjectivity.​On​her​telling,​the​realization​that​human​senses​were​fallible​and​less​reliable​than​manufactured​ instruments​in​ascertaining​reality​gave​rise​to​profound​doubt​and​distrust​in​human​perception,​motivating​a​fateful​turn​inward;​this​was​the​ advent​of​modern​subjectivism.17​A​current​example​can​be​found​in​the​ incredibly​swift​invention​and​adoption​of​new​devices​and​practices​of​ communication:​cell​phones,​social​networking,​wireless​Internet,​texting,​smart​phones,​and​so​on.​Recent​studies​have​found​that​the​widespread​use​of​such​technology,​the​ingenious​creations​of​human​beings,​ may​alter​the​human​beings​who​use​them,​reshaping​the​neural​networks​ in​the​brain​in​ways​that​affect​concentration,​the​ability​to​prioritize,​and​ short-​term​memory.18​In​other​words,​these​“things​that​owe​their​existence​exclusively​to​men,”​in​Arendt’s​phrase,​have​cognitive​and​emotional​effects​on​their​human​makers.​This​means​that​the​human​capacity​ to​shape​the​world​is​never​the​end​of​the​story. ​ To​what​extent​can​one​describe​the​world​as​a​conditioned​and​conditioning​habitat​for​human​beings​(though​not​for​them​alone)?​Does​ it​make​sense​to​think​of​it​as​an​overall​environment​or​setting?​On​the​ one​hand,​this​representation,​by​casting​the​world​as​a​mere​background​ or​container,​runs​the​risk​of​exaggerating​the​separation​between​it​and​ human​actors.19​This​depiction​seems​to​obscure​that​human​beings​are​of​ the​world​and​not​just​in​it,​while​also​minimizing​the​vitality​and​activity​ of​nonhuman​existence.​There​is​more​enmeshment​and​reciprocal​influence​between​human​beings​and​“everything​else”​included​in​the​concept​ world​than​the​language​of​habitat​or​context​might​imply.​On​the​other​ Democratic Ethics of Care

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hand,​part​of​the​value​of​the​concept​of​world,​both​in​Arendt’s​understanding​and​my​own,​lies​in​its​broadly​anti-​anthropocentric​character.​ World​displaces​human​beings​from​the​center​of​analysis​and​brings​into​ view​a​complex​material​and​immaterial​assemblage​that​is​irreducible​to​ human​beings​themselves.​Although​the​world​is​never​simply​an​inert​ background,​ it​ is​ the​ site​ and​ context​ of​ human​ action,​ among​ many​ other​things.​And​worldly​conditions,​many​of​them​produced,​sustained,​ and​altered​by​human​actors,​are​nonetheless​distinguishable​from​those​ actors​themselves.20​Naming​the​world​is​important​because​it​brings​into​ focus​a​complex,​heterogeneous​entity​that​is​distinct​from​any​human​ being​or​collection​of​human​beings. ​ The​world​is​the​stuff​of​associative​democratic​politics.​It​is​not​only​ the​site​or​space​of​collaborative​democratic​practice​but​also​its​very​object.​As​Tocqueville​noted,​when​citizens​participate​in​public​affairs​they​ “take​ a​ look​ at​ something​ other​ than​ themselves.”21​ The​ focus​ of​ their​ attention,​that​“something”​else,​is​a​feature​of​the​world.​And,​as​Arendt​ points​out,​the​world​is​“that​about​which​we​speak”​when​we​address​ one​another​as​citizens.22​The​world,​or​rather​some​element​of​it,​is​the​ reason​citizens​struggle​with​and​against​each​other.​When​democratic​ constituencies​organize​themselves,​they​do​so​with​reference​to​a​specific​worldly​matter,​whether​it​has​a​relatively​concrete,​physical​character​ (the​ polar​ ice​ caps,​ the​ U.S.-​Mexico​ border,​ a​ local​ development​ project)​or​is​somewhat​less​so​(a​constitutional​amendment​banning​gay​ marriage,​the​Geneva​Conventions,​media​representations​of​women​of​ color).​To​say,​with​Arendt,​that​the​world​is​“at​stake”​in​politics​means​ that​although​the​specific​motivations​and​sentiments​that​inspire​collective​democratic​action​vary​widely​and​produce​outcomes​that​are​uncertain,​an​underlying​impulse,​the​“wish​to​change​the​world,”​is​shared​by​ even​the​most​divergent​democratic​actors.23 ​ Yet,​as​the​above​references​hint,​it​is​not​so​much​the​world​at​large​ that​serves​as​the​third​term​around​which​democratic​actors​associate​as​ some​specific​feature​of​that​world:​a​thing.​I​use​this​term​purposefully,​ not​ in​ reference​ to​ a​ generic​ object​ but​ in​ recognition​ of​ the​ fact​ that​ thing,​as​Heidegger​noted,​originally​meant​“a​gathering,​and​specifically​ a​gathering​to​deliberate​a​matter​under​discussion,​a​contested​matter.”24​ Thing​designated​precisely​an​associative​activity​by​which​participants​ collectively​ addressed​ a​ matter​ of​ importance.​ Subsequently,​ the​ term​ shifted,​so​that​rather​than​referencing​the​assembly​itself,​thing​signified​ Chapter 3

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the​“affair​or​matter​of​pertinence”​that​drew​people​together​in​deliberation,​denoting​what​concerned​human​beings​and​was​therefore​a​“matter​ for​discourse.”​The​original​meaning​of​thing​as​assembly​and​its​later​naming​of​a​“matter​of​pertinence”​are​a​reminder​that​whether​citizens​are​ acting​cooperatively​on​behalf​of​a​shared​goal​or​struggling​against​one​ another​in​pursuit​of​competing​projects,​their​relations​are​mediated​by​ the​presence​of​a​third​term,​a​feature​of​the​world​that​concerns​or​“bears​ upon”​them.25 ​ Worldly​things,​ the​objects​ of​associative​ democratic​ action,​ are​defined​by​three​principal​features:​they​are​multiple,​fluctuating,​and​contested.​First,​rather​than​thinking​of​the​world​as​the​focal​point​of​democratic​efforts,​it​is​illuminating​to​consider​the​vast​array​of​worldly​things​ that​have​been​and​can​become​objects​of​political​attention​and​advocacy.​ In​ place​ of​ Arendt’s​ famous​ description​ of​ the​ world​ as​ akin​ to​ a​ table​ around​which​citizen-​actors​gather,​we​might​envision​a​democratic​scene​ involving​multiple​tables,​each​serving​as​a​site​of​interaction​and​contention.26​The​contemporary​political​environment​in​the​United​States,​for​ example,​is​marked​by​ongoing​struggles​over​energy​policy,​health​care,​ immigration,​ the​ war​ in​ Afghanistan,​ and​ financial​ regulation,​ among​ many​other​issues.​It​may​make​some​sense​to​say,​with​Arendt,​that​the​ world​ is​ at​ stake​ in​ debates​ over​ these​ issues,​ insofar​ as​ each​ pertains​ to​the​conditions​under​which​human​beings​live;​but​this​framing​may​ prevent​us​from​appreciating​the​many,​varied​things​or​matters​of​pertinence​that​draw​people​into​democratic​politics​and​serve​as​third​terms​ between​them.​It​is​not​so​much​the​world​per​se​that​motivates​citizens​ to​participate​in​democratic​activity​(a​characterization​which​can​sound​ overly​grand),​but​some​particular​feature​of​that​world​that​becomes​a​ site​of​mobilization. ​ Second,​emphasizing​things​rather​than​the​world​in​general​prompts​ us​to​consider​how​a​particular​matter​becomes​a​political​thing,​the​focus​ of​concerted​attention​and​activity.​Recalling​that​thing​originally​named​ not​a​generic​object​but​an​affair​or​matter​of​importance,​a​contested​ matter​prompting​discussion​and​deliberation,​we​can​then​ask,​how​does​ an​entity,​practice,​habit,​or​policy​become​such​a​thing?​In​other​words,​ recognizing​plural​worldly​things​as​the​objects​of​democratic​action​invites​us​to​tend​to​processes​of​politicization.​While​Arendt’s​table​metaphor​tends​to​depict​the​common​world​as​something​that​is​there,​mediating​relations​among​individuals,​or​not​there,​like​the​disappearing​table​ Democratic Ethics of Care

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at​a​séance,​this​portrait​should​be​challenged​by​Romand​Coles’s​more​ dynamic​notion​of​“tabling.”27​Coles’s​conception​draws​attention​to​the​ process​by​which​some​feature​of​the​world​is​constituted​as​a​thing.​These​ things,​the​many​tables​around​which​citizens​act,​whether​cooperatively​ or​oppositionally,​are​not​simply​present​or​absent;​they​are​called​into​ existence​through​strategies​of​politicization. ​ Bruno​Latour​captures​such​a​process​of​transformation​in​his​distinction​between​a​“matter​of​fact”​and​a​“matter​of​concern.”28​The​emergence​ of​ a​ worldly​ thing​ as​ an​ object​ around​ which​ people​ associate​ requires​that​what​was​previously​regarded​as​a​matter​of​fact—a​relatively​unproblematic​feature​of​existence—is​reconfigured​as​important,​ changeable,​and​demanding​of​public​attention,​that​is,​a​matter​of​concern.​Something​is​politicized​once​it​is,​in​Nancy​Fraser’s​words,​“contested​across​a​range​of​different​discursive​arenas​and​among​a​range​of​ different​publics,”​in​contrast​with​what​is​not​contested​in​public​at​all​ or​what​is​contested​only​in​specialized​enclaves.​A​matter​of​concern​in​ this​political​sense​is​publicly​recognizable​as​an​object​of​attention​and​ dispute.​As​Hanna​Pitkin​has​pointed​out,​“A​social​condition​becomes​a​ public​issue​only​when​it​is​widely​perceived​as​a​problem,​and​as​remediable​through​public​action.”29​Consider​how​various​matters​of​fact,​for​ example,​the​widespread​consumption​of​meat,​use​of​fur​and​leather,​and​ medical​experimentation​upon​animals,​have​been​transformed​into​matters​of​concern​calling​for​attention​and​action,​thanks​in​large​part​to​the​ efforts​of​People​for​the​Ethical​Treatment​of​Animals.​The​emergence​of​ a​discourse​around​animal​rights​in​the​late​twentieth​century​exemplifies​ the​degree​to​which​political​things​are​created​rather​than​discovered.​ The​tabling​process​is​one​in​which​a​feature​of​existence,​a​taken-​for-​ granted​practice,​policy,​or​custom,​is​reframed​so​that​it​becomes​legible​ as​a​problem​warranting​collective​advocacy​and​action. ​ Jacques​Rancière’s​distinctive​theory​of​democracy​contains​a​powerful​ account​of​politicization​that​further​enriches​one’s​understanding​of​the​ process​whereby​a​particular​matter​of​fact​is​constituted​as​a​matter​of​ concern.​For​my​purposes—exposing​the​critical​role​played​by​worldly​ things​in​associative​practices​of​democracy—two​insights​are​especially​ significant.​First,​Rancière​portrays​collective​organizing​by​ordinary​citizens​who​seek​to​challenge​existing​arrangements​as​involving​the​“assertion​of​a​common​world.”30​What​is​being​asserted​here​is​not​the​world​in​ the​broadest​possible​sense​(the​entire​assemblage​that​constitutes​earthly​ Chapter 3

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reality,​about​which​I​spoke​earlier)​but,​more​specifically,​a​mutual​context​within​which​a​dispute​is​possible.​Democratic​actors​must​establish​ that​ a​ common​ world​ of​ this​ sort​ exists,​ one​ that​ is​ shared​ with​ those​ they​ address.​ It​ is​ a​ question​ of​ “creating​ a​ stage”​ on​ which​ a​ “specific​ conflict”​can​occur.31​As​Rancière​notes,​when​those​who​are​presently​ “uncounted”​within​a​polity​aim​to​publicly​articulate​a​wrong​to​be​redressed,​they​attempt​to​make​themselves​“of​some​account”​by​enacting​ a​radical​equality​the​social​order​denies​(a​scenario​that,​to​Rancière,​is​ definitive​of​democracy​as​such).​These​democratic​actors​are​in​the​demanding​position​of​having​to​behave​“as though​such​a​stage​existed,​as​ though​there​were​a​common​world​of​argument”​already​in​place,​in​the​ hopes​of​bringing​it​into​being.32​The​task​here​is​to​set​up​a​context​for​ dispute,​and​this​is​done​by​way​of​the​public​presentation​of​a​particular​object,​what​I​am​calling​a​worldly​thing.33​The​attempt​to​constitute​ a​“common/litigious”​ object​and​thereby​a​stage​upon​which​a​conflict​ can​occur​is​bound​up,​Rancière​notes,​with​the​status​of​those​who​posit​ this​object.34​This​leads​to​his​second​major​insight:​the​ability​to​“present​ a​ common​ object”​ turns​ upon​ whether​ those​ doing​ the​ presenting​ are​ regarded​as​subjects​at​all:​Are​they​“speaking​or​just​making​noise”?35​ Whether​the​object​they​designate​is​acknowledged​as​an​object​of​conflict​has​everything​to​do​with​whether​they​are​“counted​as​arguers”​at​ all.36​The​achievement​of​political​subjectivity​and​the​ability​to​present​a​ common​object​are​co-​constitutive.​Neither​precedes​the​other.​Rancière​ helps​reveal​just​how​pivotal​worldly​things​are​when​he​says​that​agency​ itself​is​the​“capacity​to​put​something​in​the​middle​as​an​object​of​argumentation.”37 ​ In​his​analysis​of​the​work​it​takes​to​“make​an​object​political,”​Andrew​ Barry​draws​on​the​dual​meaning​of​demonstration​to​emphasize​that​a​ central​goal​of​any​democratic​constituency​is​to​define​and​render​visible​ an​object​of​potential​intervention​to​a​broader​public​audience.​Demonstration​historically​referred​to​a​practice​in​which​a​demonstrator​in​an​ anatomy​lecture​theater​“pointed​out​the​feature​of​the​body​which​was​ being​shown​and​about​which​the​lecturer​was​speaking.”​Barry​holds​that​ contemporary​ political​ protests,​ or​ demonstrations,​ can​ also​ be​ understood​as​an​attempt​to​show​something​to​others,​that​is,​a​specific​matter​requiring​attention​and​action.​For​example,​antiroad​protests​in​the​ United​Kingdom​and​elsewhere​in​Europe​in​the​1990s​occurred​not​in​ places​of​public​administration​but​in​the​very​areas​in​which​roads​were​ Democratic Ethics of Care

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being​built,​amidst​their​construction.​The​protests​were​“something​like​ a​demonstration​in​the​technical​sense:​an​act​of​pointing out”​a​particular​site,​one​marked​by​obvious​signs​of​environmental​destruction​such​ as​downed​trees,​noise,​and​dead​animals.​By​“directing​attention​to”​a​ particular​ object,​ the​ protests​ were​ demonstrations​ in​ a​ double​ sense:​ they​were​collective,​public​actions​designed​to​bring​into​focus​an​object​worthy​of​attention​and​concern.38​Rancière​likewise​emphasizes​the​ revelatory​dimensions​of​political​demonstration,​stressing​that​“the​demonstration​proper​to​politics​is​always​both​argument​and​opening​up​the​ world.”​The​collective​articulation​of​demands​in​public​exemplifies,​in​ Rancière’s​view,​that​“politics​is​aesthetic​in​principle”:​to​demonstrate​is​ not​only​to​forward​an​argument​but​also​to​participate​in​making​visible​ what​was​once​invisible.​More​precisely,​democratic​action​involves​“opening​up​the​world”​so​that​“new​objects”—what​I​call​worldly​things—can​ appear.39 ​ Finally,​the​things​that​serve​as​the​focal​points​of​democratic​activity​ are​disputed;​they​do​not​admit​of​a​single​identity​or​meaning.​The​antiroad​protesters​Barry​describes​attempted​to​define​and​illuminate​an​object,​a​new​road,​in​a​way​very​different​from​that​of​the​proponents​of​ construction,​who​depicted​it​as​an​important​instrument​of​economic​ development.​The​object​is​the​same​only​in​the​most​basic​sense;​its​signification​is​not.​Emilie​Gomart​and​Maarten​Hajer​provide​a​similar​example​in​their​analysis​of​a​struggle​over​land​use​on​the​Hoeksche​Waard,​ an​island​south​of​Rotterdam.​The​conflict​in​this​case​was​complex;​the​ debate​could​not​be​reduced​to​pro-​and​antidevelopment​measures,​as​ multiple​visions​of​the​island​vied​with​one​another.​While​the​object​was​ in​some​sense​common​in​that​all​participants​understood​themselves​to​ be​engaged​in​the​question​of​land​use​on​Hoeksche​Waard,​each​constituency​ actually​ “created​ their​ own​ Hoeksche​ Waard.”40​ Even​ objects​ less​ concrete​than​roads​and​land​masses​are​subject​to​competing​constructions.​Noortje​Marres,​for​example,​has​shown​how​the​Extractive​Industries​Review​(eir)​of​2000,​commissioned​by​the​World​Bank​to​evaluate​ fossil​fuel​projects​funded​by​the​bank​and​their​effects​on​“poverty​reduction,”​became​“an​object​of​contention,”​subject​to​competing​“framing”​ practices,​some​of​which​were​“urgency-​creating”​and​others​“urgency-​ deflating.”​Most​notably,​certain​actors​struggled​to​constitute​the​eir​as​ a​referendum​on​climate​change​generally​and​on​the​bank’s​institutional​ responsibility​to​address​it​in​particular.​The​eir​was​a​“hairy​object,”​a​ Chapter 3

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complex​entity​subject​to​competing​efforts​at​definition,​Marres​shows.41​ Worldly​things,​then,​are​not​only​plural​and​dynamic​but​also​disputed. ​ Latour’s​reflections​on​the​possibility​of​what​he​calls​Dingpolitik,​or​ “object-​oriented​ democracy,”​ presents​ the​ worldly​ thing​ as​ discordant.​ Latour​poses​the​question,​“What​is​the​res​of​respublica?”​and​envisions​ democracy​as​a​contentious​practice​of​assembly​that​is​directed​toward​ “divisive​matters​of​concern.”​Latour’s​remarks​on​the​meaning​of​Dingpolitik​are​notable​because​he​resists​the​urge​to​position​the​matter​of​ concern,​ or​ worldly​ thing,​ as​ the​ site​ of​ communitarian​ unity.​ Rather,​ drawing​on​the​etymology​of​thing,​cited​earlier,​Latour​conceptualizes​ the​Ding​of​Dingpolitik​as​that​which​“brings​people​together​because​it​ divides​them.”​A​worldly​thing​may​serve​as​a​shared​object​of​concern​ for​a​particular​collective,​helping​to​produce​a​bond​among​them,​but​in​ addition​it​is​always​a​disputed​object,​a​third​term​that​divides​as​well​as​ unites.​That​it​is​never​secure​in​its​meaning,​marked​by​a​single​name,​is​ not,​however,​evidence​against​commonality.​Rather,​it​accentuates​that​ in​politics​what​is​common​in​the​sense​of​connecting​people​is​also​that​ which​divides​them.42 ​ This​ last​ point​ is​ crucial.​ An​ object​ need​ not​ be​ the​ “same”​ for​ all​ parties​in​order​for​it​to​be​“common”​to​them.​Worldly​things​are​objects​ of​ deep,​ ongoing​ disagreement,​ yet​ they​ serve​ as​ third​ terms​ that​ link​ human​subjects​to​one​another,​not​in​spite​of​being​disputed​but​because​ they​are​disputed.​This​formulation,​which​is​meant​to​capture​a​distinctively​contentious​form​of​commonality,​pushes​against​Arendt’s​characterization​of​politics​as​an​activity​that​involves​multiple​perspectives​on​ the​same​object.​While​the​emphasis​on​varied​perspectives​rightly​points​ to​an​absence​of​unity​among​plural​participants,​the​reference​to​the​object’s​sameness​exaggerates​its​stability​and​consistency.​A​particular​organized​constituency​may​act​to​collectively​affect​a​worldly​thing​whose​ name​and​meaning​are​roughly​the​same​to​its​members,​but​the​label​and​ concept​they​use​will​always​vie​with​those​offered​by​other​constituencies​who​are​seeking​to​produce​effects​of​their​own.​Strict​sameness​is​ not​possible​here,​but​mediation​does​not​require​it.​A​litigious​matter​is​ common​in​the​sense​of​serving​as​a​shared​site​of​attention​and​struggle,​ though​that​matter​is​subject​to​competing​characterizations,​interpretations,​and​calls​to​action. ​ The​naming​and​renaming​of​worldly​things​by​competing​actors​illustrates​how​contentious​commonality​works.​For​example,​recent​debates​ Democratic Ethics of Care

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in​the​United​States​concerning​immigration​policy​are​characterized​by​ struggle​over​the​very​terms​of​discussion:​Does​the​central​issue​lie​in​ the​treatment​of​illegal​immigrants​or​undocumented​workers?​To​take​ another​example,​when​and​how​is​the​call​for​universal​health​care​recast​as​a​question​of​socialized​medicine?​And​what​is​at​stake​in​speaking​ of​a​fetus​as​opposed​to​a​baby​in​debates​over​abortion?​These​examples​ demonstrate​that​political​contestation​entails​more​than​the​expression​ of​multiple​perspectives​on​the​same​object:​it​involves​struggle​over​what​ the​object​itself​is. ​ The​shift​from​world​to​worldly​things​calls​attention​to​the​diversity,​ dynamism,​ and​ contentiousness​ of​ the​ targets​ of​ democratic​ activity.​ There​is​no​single,​unitary​focal​point​of​associative​activity​among​citizens.​Instead,​particular​elements​of​the​world,​things,​come​in​and​out​of​ focus​as​the​result​of​collective​action,​as​new​claims​are​articulated​and​ objects​move​from​the​margins​of​attention​to​the​center​and​back​again. ​ That​state​of​flux​means​there​is​never​one​table​that​mediates​between​ democratic​actors​but​many,​appearing,​disappearing,​and​reappearing.​ New​political​things,​around​which​citizens​associate,​come​into​being,​ and​previously​active​sites​of​engagement​recede.​Still​other,​future​political​things,​not​yet​having​appeared​on​the​horizon​of​intelligibility,​may​ at​present​be​unimaginable.​Finally,​the​objects​at​the​center​of​democratic​struggles​are​not​the​same​for​all​relevant​actors;​(re)naming​and​ (re)defin​ing​them​are​crucial​tools​of​persuasion​and​mobilization​by​competing​constituencies.​Still,​such​disputed​objects​serve​as​common​terms,​ both​relating​and​separating​those​who​associate​around​them.​Appreciating​the​pivotal​role​played​by​such​third​terms​moves​us​closer​to​an​ethics​ of​democratic​care,​in​which​care​is​enacted​neither​for​a​self​nor​selves​ but​for​worldly​things.

subject verb object? Questioning the relationship between humans and things Does​the​outlook​articulated​above,​which​highlights​the​importance​of​ worldly​ things​ in​ associative​ democratic​ action,​ reinscribe​ a​ problematic​subject/object​divide?​Does​this​account​posit​human​actors​alone​as​ agents​who​collectively​organize,​both​with​and​against​one​another,​in​ order​to​act​upon​mere​matter?​Are​activity​and​passivity​assigned​oppositionally​and​absolutely?​Is​there​a​danger​that​the​worldly​perspective​ offered​here​celebrates​the​human​capacity​to​shape​conditions​in​ways​

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that​may​deny​efficacy​to​other​entities​or​potentially​collude​with​fantasies​of​human​mastery? ​ The​ work​ of​ Latour​ and​ Jane​ Bennett​ raises​ the​ question​ of​ “thing-​ power”​and​suggests​that​“things—edibles,​commodities,​storms,​metals”— regularly​ act​ as​ “quasi-​agents​ or​ forces.”43​ In​ their​ respective​ writings,​ Latour​and​Bennett​call​for​acknowledgment​of​a​“wider​distribution​of​ agency”​than​is​usually​recognized.44​Human​beings​do​not​have​a​monopoly​on​agency;​a​more​accurate​picture​of​agency​is​a​“distributive”​one​ in​which​effects​are​produced​by​a​“human-​nonhuman​working​group,”​ never​by​humans​alone.45​Actants​is​the​term​Latour​introduces​to​break​up​ the​subject/object​dichotomy​and​name​the​coparticipants,​both​human​ and​nonhuman,​in​a​collective​responsible​for​generating​effects.46 ​ Both​Latour​and​Bennett​offer​an​array​of​examples​to​support​their​ claims​ that​ agency​ is​ diffuse​ and​ shared​ among​ an​ “association​ of​ actants.”47​Latour​writes​that​one​should​see​the​act​of​a​person​shooting​a​ gun​as​the​doing​of​a​“hybrid​actor​comprising​gun​and​gunman.”​According​to​Latour,​“It​is​neither​people​nor​guns​that​kill.​Responsibility​for​ action​must​be​shared​among​the​various​actants.”48​Bennett​cites​many​ instances,​ both​ ordinary​ and​ extraordinary,​ of​ assemblages​ of​ humans​ and​nonhumans​producing​effects.​The​very​process​of​writing​reveals,​ she​says,​that​agency​is​“distributed​across​an​ontologically​heterogenous​ field,​rather​than​being​a​capacity​localized​in​a​human​body​or​in​a​collective​produced​(only)​by​human​efforts.”​The​book​Bennett​wrote​“emerged​ from​the​confederate​agency​of​.​.​.​memories,​intentions,​contentions,​ intestinal​bacteria,​eyeglasses​and​blood​sugar,​as​well​as​from​the​plastic​ computer​keyboard,​the​bird​song​from​the​open​window,​or​the​air​and​ particulates​in​the​room,​to​name​only​a​few​of​the​participants.”49​Bennett​offers​an​extended​analysis​of​the​blackout​that​occurred​in​North​ America​in​2003​as​a​highly​illustrative​example​of​the​agency​of​an​assemblage:​“The​elements​of​this​assemblage,​while​they​include​humans​ and​their​(social,​legal,​linguistic)​constructions,​also​include​some​very​ active​and​powerful​nonhumans:​electrons,​trees,​wind,​fire,​electromagnetic​fields.”50 ​ The​ assemblage​ approach​ to​ agency​ challenges​ the​ tendency​ to​ see​ human​beings​alone​as​agents​who​act​upon​an​externalized​material​environment.51​In​place​of​this​traditional​subject/object​division,​Latour​and​ Bennett​encourage​people​to​embrace​a​messier,​more​entangled​view​of​

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human​and​nonhuman​interaction,​one​in​which​agency​is​shared​among​ an​array​of​entities.​This​view​is​especially​provocative​when​it​comes​to​ thinking​about​politics.​What​would​it​mean​to​envision​democratic​activity​from​the​perspective​opened​up​by​Latour​and​Bennett?​Bennett​ articulates​what​is​at​stake:​“The​appropriate​unit​of​analysis​for​democratic​theory​is​neither​the​individual​human​nor​an​exclusively​human​ collective​but​the​(ontologically​heterogenous)​‘public’​coalescing​around​ a​ problem.”​ In​other​ words,​ to​ think​ meaningfully​about​ agency​ in​the​ context​of​contemporary​democracy​requires​taking​seriously​the​“interactions​between​human,​viral,​animal​and​technological​bodies.”52​One​ must​relinquish​the​view​that​humans​alone​are​agents​who​impose​their​ designs​on​inert​objects. ​ How​ does​ Latour’s​ and​ Bennett’s​ perspective​ bear​ on​ the​ account​ I​ have​given​of​worldly​things​as​the​focal​points​of​associative​democratic​ action?​Does​the​idea​of​a​democratic​ethos​centered​on​care​for​the​world​ align​with​their​efforts​to​challenge​anthropocentrism?​Or​does​the​view​ I​am​articulating​rely​on​a​conception​of​agency—or​an​understanding​of​ the​relationship​between​human​beings​and​things—that​the​notion​of​a​ generative​assemblage​is​meant​to​challenge? ​ There​are​at​least​two​ways​in​which​Latour’s​and​Bennett’s​writings​ complement​ and​ converge​ with​ my​thinking​ here.​ First,​ although​ they​ would​likely​challenge​my​conceptual​vocabulary,​namely,​the​distinction​ between​an​association​of​human​beings​and​the​worldly​things​they​seek​ to​affect,​their​arguments​do​lend​support​to​the​conception​of​world​I​ advance​here.​World,​as​I​have​imagined​it,​involves​a​vast​array​of​relations,​places,​practices,​organisms,​material​goods,​and​so​on​that​coexist​ with​one​another​in​complex​webs,​defying​any​neat​nature/culture​divide​ and​exceeding​the​category​of​human​being.​World​refers​to​the​sum​total​ of​conditions​of​life​on​earth.​The​rich​heterogeneity​I​ascribe​to​world​ resonates​with​Latour’s​and​Bennett’s​interest​in​assemblages,​the​diverse,​ interactive​entities​that​collaboratively​produce​effects.​One​might​even​ say​that​world​is​the​meta-​assemblage​out​of​which​any​particular​assemblage​can​emerge. ​ The​critical​perspective​offered​by​Latour​and​Bennett​helps​illuminate​ something​that​remains​too​concealed​in​the​account​I​have​given​so​far​ of​ worldly​ things.​ Although​ they​ emphasize​ what​ Bennett​ calls​ “thing-​ power,”​that​is,​the​capacity​of​nonhumans​to​produce​effects,​their​work​ stresses​that​no​actant,​thing​or​otherwise,​ever​exists​in​isolation​or​acts​ Chapter 3

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alone.​This​insight​implies​that​what​I​have​been​calling​a​worldly​thing— the​focal​point​of​democratic​organizing—is​never​a​truly​singular​object.​ Indeed,​it​is​always​a​more​complex,​heterogenous​entity​than​this.53​In​ the​examples​mentioned​earlier,​the​worldly​things​at​issue—new​road​ construction​in​the​United​Kingdom,​land​use​on​Hoeksche​Waard,​and​ the​ evaluation​ of​ fossil​ fuel​ projects​ contained​ in​ the​ eir—are​ themselves​far​from​simple,​involving​diverse​human​and​nonhuman,​organic​ and​nonorganic​forces.​It​is​important​to​recognize​worldly thing​as​shorthand​for​what​is​actually​a​constellation​rather​than​a​unitary​object.​It​ is​useful​shorthand​for​thinking​about​democratic​politics,​however,​because​worldly thing​helps​denote​that​a​particular​issue​has​been​successfully​politicized,​has​been​named​and​identified​as​a​focal​point​of​attention,​transformed​from​a​matter​of​fact​into​a​matter​of​concern. ​ On​the​other​hand,​I​do​not​embrace​Latour’s​and​Bennett’s​shift​to​ ascribing​agency​to​actants.​This​move​expands​the​conception​of​agency​ but​also​runs​the​risk​of​erasing​distinctions​between​the​entities​that​participate​in​an​effect-​generating​assemblage.​As​my​terminology​indicates,​ I​retain​a​focus​on​the​ways​in​which​human​beings​collectively​affect​the​ world​of​which​they​are​a​part.54​While​it​is​true,​as​Latour​and​Bennett​ insist,​that​the​power​to​build​the​world​does​not​belong​to​humans​alone,​ it​would​be​a​mistake​for​this​insight​to​cover​over​meaningful​differences​ in​the​agentic​capacities​of​entities.​For​this​reason​I​do​not​take​up​the​ vocabulary​of​actants​and​assemblages,​preferring​to​mark​a​distinction​ between​the​human​power​to​shape​existential​conditions,​whether​for​ good​or​ill,​and​the​contributions​made​by​other​bodies,​matter,​or​energy. ​ Latour​and​Bennett​believe​that​seeing​and​thinking​in​terms​of​actants​ and​assemblages​is​a​necessary​corollary​to​acknowledging​interdependence​between​humans​and​nonhumans.​They​maintain​that​the​acknowledgment​ of​ coexistentialism—deep​ interconnectedness​ between​ all​ living​and​nonliving​things—requires​letting​go​of​conventional​notions​ of​agency.55​Attributing​effects​to​assemblages​rather​than​to​human​subjects,​they​claim,​honors​the​basic​truth​of​coexistence​while​also​undermining​ dangerous​ norms​ of​ instrumentality​ and​ fantasies​ of​ mastery.​ They​contend​that​if​humans​see​actants​all​around​them,​they​will​be​ less​inclined​to​assume​a​controlling​posture​toward​nonhuman​entities​ and​more​interested​in​nourishing​the​relational​webs​and​ecosystems​in​ which​they​participate. ​ It​is​possible,​however,​indeed,​desirable,​to​achieve​awareness​of​and​ Democratic Ethics of Care

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respect​ for​ complex​ interdependency​ without​ leveling​ distinctions​ between​ actants.​ One​ can​ acknowledge,​ for​ example,​ that​ human​ beings​ never​truly​act​alone:​whatever​effects​they​produce​always​depend​upon​ the​involvement​of​multiple​nonhumans,​and​humans​themselves​are​vulnerable​to​forces​and​processes​they​cannot​control.​Yet​one​can​simultaneously​acknowledge​the​special​capacities​and​responsibilities​of​human​ beings​in​particular. ​ Refusing​to​equalize​all​actants​need​not​mean​attributing​potency​to​ humans​alone​or​sanctioning​a​settled​hierarchy​of​being.​Singling​out​the​ human​capacity​to​collaboratively​shape​the​world​is​valid​and​important​ because​humans​are​capable​of​exercising​care​in​ways​that​other​actants​ are​not.​They​are​able​to​coordinate​with​one​another​through​joint​action​ that​strives​to​shape​social​conditions.​This​capacity​is​integral​to​democratic​citizenship.​That​this​ability​to​engage​in​reflective,​purposeful​collective​projects​can​lead​to​disaster​is​no​reason​to​deny​the​specifically​ human​capacity​to​shape​the​world​by​collapsing​it​into​the​generic​category​of​actant.​Indeed,​doing​so​may​unintentionally​diminish​humans’​ sense​of​responsibility​for​worldly​conditions. ​ There​is​real​value​in​an​intervention​like​Bennett’s​that​draws​attention​ to​ the​ powerful​ influence,​ for​ example,​ that​ worms​ have​ had​ on​ human​history.​Quoting​ Darwin,​ Bennett​ writes​that​worms​ make​history​by​producing​“vegetable​mold,​which​makes​possible​‘seedlings​of​all​ kinds,’​which​makes​possible​an​earth​hospitable​to​humans,​which​makes​ possible​the​cultural​artifacts,​rituals,​plans,​and​endeavors​of​human​history.”56​Bennett’s​account​challenges​the​tendency​to​see​human​beings​ alone​as​the​actors​on​history’s​stage​and​alerts​us​to​the​ways​in​which​our​ doings​are​never​ours​alone.​At​the​same​time,​it​would​be​absurd​to​say​ that​humans​and​worms​are​both​actants​and​leave​it​at​that.57​Both​creatures​make​vital​contributions​to​the​world​in​which​humans​and​worms​ live.​But​they​do​not​do​so​in the same way.​To​ignore​the​unique​power​and​ corresponding​responsibility​of​human​actants​is​as​unrealistic​as​believing​in​the​dream​of​human​mastery​over​brute​matter​that​Bennett​and​ Latour​challenge. ​ Acknowledging​the​fact​of​coexistence​should​not​rule​out​recognition​ of​human​beings’​potent​effect-​producing​capacities.​Human​beings​are​ agents​in​a​special​sense.​They​may​be​fallible,​nonsovereign,​and​regularly​ unable​to​predict​or​even​adequately​respond​to​the​results​of​their​ac-

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tions.​But​that​does​not​mean​they​are​simply​one​participant​among​many​ in​an​assemblage.​While​it​is​true,​for​example,​as​I​pointed​out​earlier,​ that​the​British​Petroleum​oil​spill​illustrates​the​complicated​interplay​of​ material​and​immaterial,​natural​and​cultural,​human​and​nonhuman​factors,​it​would​be​absurd​to​deny​that​human​beings​played​a​role​in​that​ devastating​event​unlike​the​role​played​by​other​actants.​While​the​leak​ was​impossible​in​the​absence​of​the​actant,​oil,​for​example,​it​makes​no​ sense​to​ignore​that​human​beings,​with​their​world-​building​capacities,​ are​the​most​significant​contributing​actants​involved. ​ Bennett​states​that​her​account​of​“vibrant​matter”​is​not​an​argument​ for​the​“radical​equalization”​of​all​matter,​yet​there​is​no​concept​within​ her​ actant/assemblage​ framework​ that​ specifies​ the​ human​ capacity​ to​ produce​effects,​especially​by​acting​in​concert.58​Nonetheless,​there​are​at​ least​two​ways​in​which​Bennett,​I​think,​acknowledges​a​special​standing​ for​humans​among​actants,​granting​a​basic​distinction​between​specifically​human​associations​and​the​worldly​things​they​aim​to​affect.​First,​ in​a​discussion​of​why​it​is​important​to​perceive​actions​as​the​results​of​ assemblages,​she​says​that​by​doing​so​people​are​better​able​to​interrogate​ the​assemblages​in​which​they​participate.​This​implies​that​human​beings​ are​able​to​reflect​upon​the​contributions​they​make​to​assemblages​of​ which​they​are​a​part​in​ways​that,​say,​worms​or​steel​cannot.​If​this​is​ so,​why​resort​to​an​overly​broad​notion​of​actant​that​detracts​from​this​ important​human​capacity​to​make​judgments​about​our​conduct?​Second,​Bennett​states​that​becoming​aware​of​the​power​of​nonhumans​can​ contribute​to​human​survival​and​happiness.​More​specifically,​she​says​ that​if​we​pay​attention​to​the​effects​of​vibrant​matter,​we​are​able​to​ask,​ “How​is​this​food​or​worm​or​aluminum​contributing​to​a​problem​affecting​me?​How​might​these​nonhumans​contribute​to​its​solution?”59​The​ perspective​Bennett​articulates​here​is​one​in​which​human​beings​are​ able​to​shape​their​world​better​by​understanding​the​workings​of​certain​ nonhuman​entities.​Though​not​strictly​instrumentalist,​since​it​is​rooted​ in​attentiveness​to​the​liveliness​of​these​nonhumans,​the​vantage​point​ Bennett​invites​us​to​occupy​is​nonetheless​one​in​which​human​beings​ are​in​a​position​of​trying​to​collectively​solve​a​worldly​problem.​All​actants​are​not​equal​here​because​it​is​human​beings,​not​food​or​worms​or​ aluminum,​who​are​in​the​position​of​trying​to​solve​problems​they​face,​ many​of​which​they​are​specially​responsible​for.

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the art of association: solidarities and Publics If​democratic​politics​involves​a​distinctive​object​of​care,​who​is​it​that​ cares​for​this​worldly​thing?​I​have​stressed​that​an​association​of​individuals,​not​a​single​actor,​strives​to​address​what​was​once​a​matter​of​ fact​and​now​appears​as​a​contentious​matter​of​concern.​Two​clarifications​are​crucial.​First,​the​associations​that​coalesce​around​a​worldly​ thing​do​not​necessarily​exist​in​advance;​they​emerge​in​relation​to​that​ third​term.​There​is​a​specific,​limited​kind​of​commonality​at​work​here,​ a​commonality​not​of​identity​but​of​a​shared​object.​Second,​association​is​ a​term​that​broadly​captures​both​relations​among​those​working​together​ on​behalf​of​a​project​and​the​antagonistic​struggles​that​take​place​between​constituencies​who​aim​to​define​and​treat​worldly​things​in​divergent​ways.​Association​takes​the​form​of​both​solidaristic​groups​and​ conflictual​publics. ​ On​this​first​point,​John​Dewey’s​treatment​of​what​he​calls​the​public​ contains​an​insightful​description​of​how​communities​come​into​being​ in​relation​to​specific​worldly​things.​By​the​end​of​The Public and Its Problems​Dewey​seems​to​embrace​a​communitarian​and​statist​conception​of​ the​public,​but​the​earlier​part​of​this​famous​text​speaks​of​publics​in​the​ plural​and​traces​their​origins​not​to​any​organic​sense​of​unity​among​a​ people​but​to​a​problem​that​prompts​a​contingent​collective​formation.​ As​Marres​points​out,​before​the​“U​Turn”​toward​the​“Great​Community”​ that​Dewey​makes​in​the​text,​he​provides​a​very​different​and​distinctive​ conceptualization​of​the​public​as​emerging​in​response​to​a​problem,​defined​as​a​transaction​that​not​only​has​“extensive​and​enduring​indirect​ consequences”​that​“affect​the​welfare​of​many”​but​also​requires​attention​and​action​of​some​kind.60​According​to​this​account,​a​public​comes​ into​being​by​virtue​of​a​specific​matter;​“the​source​of​a​public”​is​a​set​of​ consequences​brought​about​by​“conjoint​action”​of​one​kind​or​another,​ consequences​whose​effects​are​so​critical​and​widespread​as​to​give​rise​ to​a​new​collectivity,​a​public,​made​up​of​those​affected.61​Most​striking​ about​Dewey’s​account,​apart​from​the​importance​he​grants,​albeit​inconsistently,​to​the​worldly​things​that​serve​to​generate​a​public,​is​the​ vocabulary​of​care​he​uses​to​describe​the​emergent​public’s​activity.​According​to​Dewey,​the​public​that​“comes​into​existence”​around​a​pressing​problem​does​so​because​the​“indirect​consequences”​to​which​they​ are​subject​must​be​“systematically​cared​for.”62​It​is​in​response​to​perChapter 3

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ceived​neglect​that​the​public​forms,​seeking​to​institute​“measures​and​ means​of​caring​for​these​consequences.”63 ​ Dewey’s​suggestive​account​of​the​formation​of​“caring”​publics​in​response​to​specific,​mutually​recognized​problems​seems​to​imply,​however,​that​such​formation​is​inevitable.​Yet​the​constitution​of​organized​ collectivities​seeking​to​address​a​perceived​common​concern​is​far​from​ automatic.​Indeed,​in​some​political​science​circles​it​is​a​matter​of​consensus​that​citizens’​participation​in​collective​action,​not​their​apparent​ apathy​ or​ inaction,​ amounts​ to​ the​ mystery​ standing​ in​ need​ of​ explanation.64​While​it​is​true​that​associations​do​not​form​easily​or​readily​ around​the​sorts​of​issues​Dewey​labels​problems,​they​nonetheless​do​ form.​And​substantial​research​shows​that​it​is​a​mistake​to​dismiss​these​ forms​of​collective​action​as​being​irrational,​given​the​multiple,​complex​ factors​that​seem​to​play​a​role​in​motivating​citizens’​participation.65​Despite​the​narrow​model​of​self-​interest​and​cost-​benefit​calculation​made​ famous​by​Mancur​Olson,​people​who​take​part​in​associative​democratic​ politics​appear​to​be​motivated​by​an​array​of​incentives,​some​of​which​ are​“purposive,”​that​is,​related​to​a​commitment​to​“suprapersonal”​organizational​goals,​understood​as​collective​goods,​and​some​“solidary,”​or​ related​to​the​pleasure​derived​from​coming​together​to​work​on​behalf​of​ a​shared​project.66 ​ When​democratic​associations​form,​against​considerable​odds,​they​ take​shape​around​objects​of​mutual​attention.​Following​Patchen​Markell,​ one​might​accurately​cast​such​associative​action​as​a​“second​step​rather​ than​a​first,”​in​recognition​of​the​worldly​phenomena​that​“occasion,​provoke​or​summons”​the​collective​response.​Though​such​responsiveness​ is​never​assured,​Markell​notes​that,​pace​Arendt,​“if​we​can​never​quite​ lose​our​capacity​to​act​altogether,​this​is​because​there​never​ceases​to​ be​ a​ fund​ of​ doings​ and​ happenings—beginnings—to​ which​ we​ might​ respond.”​Worldly​phenomena​are​the​“points​of​departure”​for​associative​ democratic​ endeavors.67​ Interpreted​ as​ publicly​ consequential​ and​ worthy​of​organized​response,​specific​worldly​matters​lie​at​the​center​ of​both​solidaristic​ associations​among​plural​individuals​acting​on​behalf​of​shared​ends​and​antagonistic​associations​involving​diverse​solidaristic​communities​who​advocate​competing​ends.​Third​terms,​worldly​ things,​mediate​relations​between​democratic​actors​in​both​cooperation​ and​struggle. ​ When​democratic​association​takes​the​form​of​solidarity​among​indiDemocratic Ethics of Care

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viduals,​a​worldly​thing​serves​as​a​bond​among​participants.​Members​of​ a​solidaristic​group​are​connected​to​one​another​by​this​thing​and​by​the​ action​they​seek​to​undertake​on​its​behalf.​This​portrait​of​solidarity​resembles​what​Sally​Scholz​has​designated​as​“political​solidarity”​and​distinguished​from​“social​solidarity,”​in​which​group​members​are​united​by​ a​shared​characteristic​or​identity.​Here​what​makes​solidarity​possible​is​ less​a​common​identity​than​a​“common​goal.”68​The​linchpin​of​political​ solidarity​is​a​singular​project​directed​at​worldly​conditions.​Therefore​ membership​in​solidaristic​forms​of​association​is​open​to​those​who​are​ most​directly​affected​by​a​specific​practice,​law,​or​custom​as​well​as​to​ those​who​are​less​so.​As​Scholz​puts​it,​political​solidarity​involves​oppressed​and​nonoppressed​people​working​collaboratively.69​What​connects​members​are​not​exclusively​shared​identity​markers​or​similar​experiences​but​common​commitment​to​a​goal—a​goal,​I​would​add,​that​ concerns​ a​ worldly​ thing.​ Recent​ prominent​ examples​ of​such​ project-​ related​ solidarity​ are​ the​ many​ coalitions​ of​ lesbian,​ gay,​ bisexual,​ and​ transgender​people​and​their​allies​working​on​behalf​of​antidiscrimination​measures​in​localities​throughout​the​United​States.70 ​ An​extraordinary​example​of​solidarity​enacted​by​“advantaged”​and​ “disadvantaged”​ people​ connected​ by​ a​ common​ goal​ can​ be​ found​ in​ Danish​resistance​to​Nazism​during​the​Second​World​War.​Amy​Allen,​ writing​ about​ what​ she​ calls​ “Arendtian​ solidarity,”​ cites​ this​ example​ from​Arendt’s​writings​as​a​paradigmatic​case​in​which​citizens’​action​ in​concert​is​rooted​not​in​shared​identity​but​in​a​shared​object​of​concern.​While​Danish​people​resisted​“in​terms​of​the​Jewish​identity​under​ attack,”​such​solidarity​did​not​require​being​a​“member​of​that​group.”​ For​example,​when​the​Nazis​approached​Danish​officials​about​distributing​the​yellow​star​to​be​worn​by​Jews,​the​king​of​Denmark​announced​ that​he​would​be​the​first​to​wear​it,​although​he​was​not​a​Jew.​As​Allen​ shows,​the​varied​strategies​undertaken​by​the​Danish​resistance​illuminates​Arendt’s​view​that​“collective​political​movements​are​held​together​ not​by​a​shared​identity,​but​by​the​shared​commitment​of​distinct​individuals​to​work​together​for​the​attainment​of​a​common​goal.”71 ​ This​concept,​however,​is​missing​from​many​accounts​of​solidarity.​ Jodi​Dean’s​work,​for​example,​posits​two​primary​types​of​solidarity​that​ she​aims​to​challenge.​“Affectional​solidarity”​refers​to​bonds​of​friendship​ and​love​among​individuals​while​“conventional​solidarity”​extends​“beyond​those​to​whom​we​are​immediately​connected​through​our​mutual​ Chapter 3

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feelings​to​include​those​to​whom​we​are​mediately​connected​.​.​.​to​something​standing​beyond​us​to​construct​us​as​a​group.”​While​the​reference​ to​“something​beyond​us”​is​evocative,​what​Dean​is​actually​referring​to​is​ an​identity​category,​for​example,​women​or​African​Americans.72​The​typology​Dean​constructs​misses​a​form​of​solidaristic​association​in​which​ “mutual​feelings”​are​not​about​love​and​friendship​among​members,​as​ they​are​in​her​definition​of​“affectional​solidarity,”​but​about​collective​ feelings​of​concern​for​shared​conditions.73​Dean’s​model​of​conventional​ solidarity​ further​ assumes​ that​ the​ mediating​ force​ connecting​ participants​is​always​an​identity​category.​Dean’s​work​does​not​acknowledge​a​ form​of​solidarity​that​is​defined​not​by​identity​but​by​identification​with​ a​project.74 ​ The​conception​of​solidarity​advanced​here​also​departs​from​the​“universal​solidarity”​that​Dean​defends​as​an​alternative​model​of​association.​ She​praises​this​third​approach​to​solidarity​as​one​that​overcomes​the​ us/them​distinctions​at​work​in​affectional​and​conventional​solidarity.​ Yet​ project-​oriented​ solidarity,​ which​ revolves​ around​ a​ worldly​ thing​ that​binds​individuals​together,​is​never​universal;​it​does​not​envisage​ an​all-​inclusive​we.​Solidarities​are​plural​and​vie​with​one​another​over​ the​worldly​things​they​aim​to​affect.​The​second​form​of​democratic​association,​therefore,​is​more​contentious​than​cooperative.​Here,​too,​a​ worldly​thing​is​pivotal,​but​rather​than​acting​as​a​bond​among​coactors​ organized​in​solidarity​with​one​another,​it​divides​citizens,​serving​as​a​ disputed​object​between​them.​Solidarity,​in​other​words,​exists​within​a​ broader​context​of​democratic​association,​one​marked​by​disagreement​ and​contest. ​ Public​refers​to​the​expansive​mode​of​association​that​takes​place​in​ relation​to​a​specific,​contested​worldly​thing.​This​type​of​association,​ like​the​solidarity​discussed​above,​is​oriented​toward​a​particular​object,​ what​Marres​calls​an​issue.​But​unlike​the​solidaristic​pursuit​of​a​common​ goal,​a​public​is​defined​by​competing,​antagonistic​perspectives​on​the​ issue.​Borrowing​from​Dewey,​Marres​contends​that​“issues​call​publics​ into​being”;​a​public​emerges,​if​and​when​it​does,​only​in​relation​to​a​ practical​problem​that​has​been​successfully​“public-​ised.”75​Such​a​public,​however,​bears​no​resemblance​to​the​Public​that​Dewey​invokes​in​ his​most​communitarian​vein.​Though​a​particular​issue​lies​at​the​center​of​Marres’s​public,​it​is​always​an​“object​of​contention.”76​There​is​no​ “shared​interest”​among​members​of​a​public,​only​“joint​and​antagonistic​ Democratic Ethics of Care

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attachments”​to​the​object​in​question.77​By​“joint,”​Marres​means​to​highlight​that​the​relevant​constituencies​are​connected​to​each​other​by​a​specific​issue​without​sharing​a​common​perspective​or​agenda.​Indeed,​the​ public​is​defined​by​“irreconcilable​attachments”;​actors​“come​together​ in​controversy.”78 ​ This​view​of​a​public​as​connected​by​a​divisive​object​complements​ my​earlier​description​of​worldly​things​as​being​unsettled.​As​I​argued,​ worldly​things​are​never​fixed,​unitary​objects;​they​are​dynamic​entities,​ subject​to​competing​constructions​and​significations.​Though​they​are​ contentious​and​unstable,​worldly​things​nonetheless​mediate​relations​ among​ the​ competing​ constituencies​ that​ constitute​ a​ public;​ they​ act​ as​third​terms,​joining​adversaries​in​disagreement.​Marres’s​analysis​of​ the​“near-​public”​that​developed​around​the​eir​demonstrates​a​distinctive​mode​of​association​in​which​diverse​actors,​from​nongovernmental​ organizations​focused​on​the​environment​to​international​banks,​were​ “bound​ together​ by​ mutual​ exclusivities​ between​ their​ various​ attachments.”79​As​Latour​suggested​with​the​notion​of​Dingpolitik,​a​public​is,​ paradoxically,​constituted​as​a​collective​by​what​divides​them. ​ Worldly​things,​then,​play​a​critical​role​in​democratic​politics,​serving​ as​the​focal​points​of​both​cooperative​and​competitive​modes​of​association.​In​solidarity​with​one​another,​democratic​citizens​work​on​behalf​of​ a​common​goal,​attempting​to​tend​to​a​worldly​thing​in​a​particular​way.​ At​ the​ same​ time,​ such​ solidarities​ exist​ within​ broader​ publics​ whose​ participants​struggle​to​define​and​shape​worldly​things​in​incompatible​ ways.​Worldly​things,​in​their​capacity​both​to​unite​and​to​divide,​are​indispensable​to​democratic​politics.

an Ethos for democracy? I​offer​here​a​world-​centered​account​of​associative​democratic​politics​ and​begin​to​make​the​case​for​a​distinctive​ethics​centered​on​collaborative​care​for​worldly​things.​Rather​than​accept​the​false​choice​sometimes​offered​between​traditional,​universalist​morality,​on​the​one​hand,​ and​an​ethics​focused​on​the​self​or​the​Other,​my​book​explores​competing​ethe​and​draws​attention​to​the​limits​of​Foucauldian​and​Levinasian​approaches​to​democratic​theory​and​practice.80​The​worldly​ethics​ advocated​in​this​chapter​and​the​next​centers​on​a​relation​of​care,​yet,​ as​I​have​shown,​such​care​involves​agents—associations,​in​the​form​of​

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solidarities​and​publics—and​recipients​of​care—public​matters​of​concern—that​differ​from​those​that​define​therapeutic​and​charitable​ethics. ​ An​example​will​help​to​illustrate​what​distinguishes​democratic​care​ for​the​world​from​other​practices​of​care.​The​problem​of​hunger​is​a​ widely​recognized​(which​is​not​to​say,​adequately​addressed)​problem,​ both​domestically​and​globally.81​Supposing​that​a​contemporary​U.S.​citizen​is​alert​to​this​problem,​that​is,​already​cares​about​it,​what​kind​of​response,​what​kind​of​active​caring​for​might​follow?​A​certain​intrasubjective​strategy​or​care​for​the​self​is​one​possibility.​The​person​might​work​ on​herself​with​the​aim​of​cultivating​new​personal​habits​that​embody​ her​concern.​She​might,​through​so-​called​arts​of​the​self,​strive​to​diminish​her​desire​to​eat​meat​or​to​cultivate​pleasure​in​a​vegetarian​diet,​in​ recognition​of​the​extent​to​which​animal-​based​food​production​contributes​to​the​problem​of​global​hunger.82​On​the​other​hand,​responding​to​ the​fact​of​hunger​might​take​the​form​of​caring​for​the​immediate​hunger​ of​an​Other,​directly​addressing​her​material​need.83​Here,​the​concerned​ actor​may​become​more​alert​and​responsive​to​those​she​encounters​in​ everyday​life,​providing​for​them​rather​than​turning​away.​Caring​for​the​ needy,​singular​Other​is​one​admirable​way​of​taking​up​the​problem​of​ hunger.​But​what​might​it​mean​to​approach​the​phenomenon​of​hunger​ from​the​perspective​of​caring​for​the​world?​To​address​the​phenomenon​of​hunger​in​this​way​means​something​different.​It​requires​tending,​ together​with​others,​to​the​conditions​that​helped​to​produce​hunger​in​ its​many​forms​in​the​first​place. ​ Caring​for​the​world,​which​is​to​say,​tending​to​a​specific​worldly​thing​ together​with​others,​requires​a​shift​in​perspective,​one​which​involves​ decentering​ both​ oneself​ and​ suffering​ Other(s)​ in​ order​ to​ bring​ into​ view​ the​ collective​ conditions,​ including​ worldly​ practices,​ habits,​ and​ laws,​out​of​which​hunger​is​born.​There​are​many​contributing​conditions​ that​might​become​specific​matters​of​concern,​among​them​inequitable​ international​trade​policies,​patterns​of​uncompensated​resource​extraction​in​developing​countries,​agricultural​subsidies,​wasteful​consumption​among​the​world’s​most​well-​off,​paltry​social​services​in​the​United​ States,​ and​ so​ on.​ And​ there​ are​ a​ range​ of​ possible​ contestations​ that​ could​be​pursued,​such​as​campaigning​for​debt​relief​in​developing​countries,​promoting​new​microfinancing​initiatives,​organizing​on​behalf​of​ domestic​food​programs​or​subsidy​reform,​and​many​others.​Yet​what​

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distinguishes​these​pursuits​from​other​laudable​forms​of​care​is​a​shared​ orientation​toward​a​third​term,​that​is,​a​feature​of​the​world​in​which​ we​live,​and​a​collective​effort​to​shape​it.​Such​care​is​integral​to​a​democratic​ethos. ​ How​compelling​is​the​account​given​so​far​of​this​ethical​sensibility?​ Is​care​for​the​world​a​meaningful​alternative​ethos,​potentially​invigorating​of​democratic​association?​Or​is​care​for​the​world​too​open-​ended​of​ a​notion​to​carry​ethical​weight?​If​care​for​worldly​things​refers​to​associative​efforts​to​tend​to​a​specific​matter​of​fact​reconstituted​as​a​matter​of​concern,​can​one​say​that​every​time​citizens​organize​themselves​ collectively​to​affect​social​conditions​they​are​enacting​such​care?​Surely​ this​is​too​broad.​But​if​one​wants​to​say​that​care​for​the​world,​in​its​fullest​ethical​sense,​characterizes​some​efforts​but​not​others,​on​what​basis​ can​this​distinction​be​made?​A​democratic​ethos​centered​on​care​for​ worldly​things​is​not​only​descriptive​but​normative;​not​every​collaborative​citizen​project​embodies​this​spirit.​What,​then,​supplies​the​critical​ vantage​ point​ for​ identifying​ those​ democratic​ endeavors​ that​ aim​ not​ only​to​build​a​world​but​also​to​care​for​it?

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ChaPter​Four –​ ​— –​

Partisansh i P for thE W orld Tending​to​the​World​as​Home​and​In-​Between

Admire​ the​ world​ for​ never​ ending​ on​ you​ as​ you​ would​ admire​ an​ opponent,​without​taking​your​eyes​off​him,​or​walking​away.

—annie​DiLLarD I’ve​begun​so​late,​really​only​in​recent​years,​to​truly​love​the​world.

—hannah​arenDt

I​have​examined​the​central​role​played​by​worldly​things​in​ practices​of​democratic​association.​In​both​solidarities​and​ publics,​ a​ contentious​ object​ of​ concern​ serves​ as​ the​ focal​ point​of​relations​among​citizens,​relations​ranging​from​cooperative​to​antagonistic.​This​third​term,​obscured​by​both​ Foucauldian​and​Levinasian​ethical​dyads,​is​integral​to​democratic​politics​and​to​its​animating​ethos.​Indeed,​I​have​argued​ that​care​for​the​world,​expressed​as​collaborative​care​for​a​ specific​worldly​thing,​is​definitive​of​democratic​ethics. ​ One​might​wonder,​however,​whether​the​account​of​care​ for​the​world​I​have​given​is​too​thin​to​carry​ethical​force.​ After​all,​the​thing-​centered​portrait​of​associative​democratic​ politics​ presented​ in​ chapter​ 3​ is​ largely​ (re)descriptive;​ it​ makes​a​claim​about​the​structure​of​collective​action​rather​ than​prescribing​action​of​a​certain​kind.​Does​this​mean​that​ care​ for​ the​ world​ is​ enacted​ whenever​ democratic​ citizens​

organize​collectively​to​address​a​matter​of​concern,​regardless​of​the​specific​goals​or​ends​they​seek?​Surely​not.​From​the​perspective​of​an​impassioned​democratic​ethics,​all​associative​activity​is​not​equal.​But​if​ care​for​the​world​in​its​fullest​sense​characterizes​some​citizen​efforts​but​ not​others,​more​needs​to​be​said​about​its​substantive​aims. ​ Put​differently,​one​must​ask,​what​is​the​difference​between​building​ the​ world​ and​ caring​ for​ it?​ Building​ the​ world​ is​ open-​ended;​ human​ beings​ cannot​ help​ but​ shape​ the​ world​ of​ which​ they​ are​ a​ part,​ purposefully​as​well​as​unintentionally,​with​consequences​ranging​from​the​ benign​to​the​glorious​to​the​disastrous.​But​what​special​kinds​of​action​ exhibit​democratic​care​of​the​world?​What​normative​ends​are​specific​ to​it?​If​human​action​and​speech​as​such​are​world-​constituting​and​if​all​ forms​of​association​aspire​to​affect​worldly​things​in​some​way,​what​does​ it​mean​to​truly​care​for​the​world?​Which​kinds​of​action​express​amor mundi​and​which​do​not? ​ This​chapter​develops​the​normative​valence​of​care​for​the​world​by​refining​it​to​mean​care​for​the​world​as​world.​This​move​relies​upon​a​more​ substantive​conception​of​world​than​has​been​advanced​so​far,​one​which​ stresses​the​world’s​status​as​common.1​In​what​follows​I​explain​that​the​ claim​to​commonality​should​be​understood​as​prescriptive​rather​than​ descriptive,​and​I​specify​two​dimensions​of​the​world’s​commonality:​the​ world​as​a​shared​home​for​human​beings​and​the​world​as​a​mediating​ entity​that​connects​and​also​separates​individuals.2​Democratic​care​for​ the​world​involves​coordinated​coaction​by​citizens​that​tends​to​the​world​ both​as​a​collective​home​and​as​an​in-​between.​These​ends​are​integral​to​ the​democratic​ethos​I​advocate​here.

the World as a shared home Arendt’s​notion​of​world​has​served​as​a​touchstone​in​this​project,​even​ as​it​has​been​challenged​and​reworked.​I​have​affirmed​her​placement​ of​the​tangible​and​intangible​world,​irreducible​to​human​beings,​at​the​ center​of​politics​even​as​I​have​refused​her​boundary​between​world​and​ earth.​And​in​place​of​her​tendency​to​depict​the​world​as​either​present​or​ absent,​I​have​emphasized​a​multitude​of​dynamic,​contested,​and​slippery​ worldly​things​acting​as​third​terms​among​democratic​con​stituencies. ​ A​central​attribute​of​the​Arendtian​world​is​its​commonality.​Arendt’s​ references​to​the​world​are​often​modified​by​the​word​common,​and​she​ describes​the​world​as​being​“common​to​all​people”​and​“common​to​all​ Chapter 4

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of​us.”3​I​think​there​are​two​important​dimensions​to​commonality​that,​ taken​together,​specify​what​it​means​to​care​for​the​world​as​world​and​ thereby​imbue​democratic​ethos​with​its​particular​normative​aims.​In​ one​sense,​for​the​world​to​be​common​means​that​it​mediates​between​ us,​both​connecting​and​separating​individuals.​(This​sense​of​commonality​was​introduced​in​chapter​3’s​theorization​of​worldly​things.)​But​to​ describe​the​world​as​common​means​something​else​too,​something​distinct​from​its​potential​status​as​an​in-​between.​To​say​that​the​world​is​ “common​to​all​of​us”​indicates​that​the​world​is​our​shared​home. ​ To​claim​that​the​world​is​a​shared​home​is​not​to​make​the​unsupportable​assertion​that​the​world​is​shared​at​all​equitably.​Rather,​it​is​to​ say​that​the​world,​conceptualized​as​a​tangible​and​intangible,​organic​ and​inorganic​web,​partially​given​to​human​beings​and​partially​made​by​ them,​ought​to​provide​hospitable​conditions​for​all,​not​just​some,​human​ beings.​The​world’s​commonality,​both​as​a​mediating​presence​and​as​a​ collective​home,​is​something​to​be​achieved​or​sought​after;​it​is​far​from​ assured. ​ I​want​to​defend​a​normative​conception​of​the​world​as​common​in​ the​sense​of​being​a​home​for​all​people.4​More​specifically,​I​argue​that​in​ order​for​humans​to​be​at​home​in​the​world,​certain​of​their​basic​needs​ must​be​met.​Collaborative​pursuit​of​this​aim​of​universal​provision​of​ basic​needs​is​part​of​what​it​means​to​care​for​the​world​as​world.​This​ approach​to​the​world’s​commonality​may​seem​like​a​considerable​departure​from​Arendt,​whose​apparent​hostility​toward​material​needs​and​ desire​to​empty​political​life​of​the​so-​called​social​question​have​been​targets​of​substantial​criticism.​It​is​true​that​my​construction​of​the​world​ as​home​and​of​the​corresponding​importance​of​basic​needs​should​not​ be​attributed​to​Arendt.​Yet​her​work,​as​we​will​see,​alerts​one​to​the​ profound​harms​wrought​by​poverty​and​gives​reason​to​believe​that​its​ alleviation​is​of​great​importance,​even​as​she​mistakenly​identifies​that​ project​as​prepolitical.​Far​more​than​is​usually​recognized,​Arendt​makes​ clear​that​material​deprivation​inflicts​more​than​bodily​injury.​If​read​in​ conversation​with​contemporary​advocates​of​economic​and​social​rights​ and​human​capabilities,​Arendt’s​work​encourages​one​to​think​about​how​ material​conditions​affect​personhood​in​general​and​democratic​citizenship​in​particular.​This​insight​in​turn​affirms​the​importance​of​a​democratic​ethos​that​involves​struggling​to​make​the​world​a​better​home​for​ all​human​beings. Partisanship for the World

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​ Activists,​theorists,​and​state​actors​have​counted​economic​and​social​ rights​among​the​human​rights​demanded,​conceptualized,​and​ratified​ over​the​past​several​decades.​Linking​basic​needs​to​the​concept​of​human​ rights​is​unmistakably​powerful.​To​speak​of​a​right​not​to​be​hungry​challenges​the​limits​of​more​conventional​conceptions​of​human​rights​(such​ as​the​eighteenth-​century​rights​of​man​to​personal​liberty​and​political​ freedom),​but​it​also​redefines​hunger​to​be​not​merely​a​problem​or​a​ pity​but​a​fundamental​violation.​Still,​as​in​the​case​of​any​human​rights​ claim,​the​very​definition​of​welfare​rights,​let​alone​the​question​of​their​ institutionalization​and​enforcement,​is​a​matter​of​ongoing​debate.​Even​ among​those​who​endorse​the​existence​of​such​rights​it​can​be​difficult​ to​render​them​“clearly​specifiable.”5​Amartya​Sen’s​capabilities​approach,​ for​example,​includes​what​others​would​label​economic​rights​among​the​ “substantive​opportunities”​people​are​held​to​require​to​be​really,​and​not​ only​formally,​free.​Sen​acknowledges​that​there​is​no​fixed,​absolute​list​ of​these​requirements.​He​does​not​see​this​absence​as​cause​for​lament,​ however,​and​maintains​that​the​question​of​rights​or​capabilities​must​remain​open​to​democratic​discussion​and​contestation.​What​is​necessary​ for​real​freedom​cannot​be​delineated​and​settled​once​and​for​all.​This​ point—that​no​set​of​rights​or​capabilities​is​beyond​“the​reach​of​democracy”—is​critically​important,​especially​in​light​of​the​dangers​of​paternalistic,​hierarchical​care​(see​chapter​2).6 ​ Nonetheless,​it​is​also​the​case​that​those​marshaling​the​language​of​ economic​rights​and​human​capabilities,​including​Sen,​regularly​identify​ some​specific​provisions​with​those​concepts,​and​there​is​considerable​ overlap​between​working​definitions.​A​minimum​set​of​material​needs— adequate​nutritional​food,​clean​water​and​sanitation,​shelter,​clothing,​ basic​medical​care,​and​at​least​primary​education—forms​the​basis​of​ the​majority​of​economic​rights​claims​and​also​constitutes​what​Sen​calls​ “elementary​capabilities.”7​This​list,​while​imperfect​and​debatable,​captures​the​basic​needs​that​I​argue​must​be​satisfied​if​the​world​is​to​be​a​ collective​home​for​human​beings. ​ The​capabilities​approach,​as​developed​by​Sen​and​Martha​Nussbaum,​ proffers​two​ways​of​thinking​ about​why​the​fulfillment​ of​basic​needs​ matters.8​These​insights​contribute​to​the​account​I​develop​here,​in​conversation​with​Arendt,​of​what​it​means​to​care​for​the​world​by​tending​ to​it​as​a​home​for​all​people.​First,​capabilities,​though​spelled​out​with​ varying​ specificity​ by​ Sen​ and​ Nussbaum,​ is​ a​ concept​ meant​ to​ name​ Chapter 4

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the​range​of​“substantive​opportunities”​that​people​require​to​live​a​fully​ human​life:​not​only​familiar​civil​and​political​liberties,​for​example,​but​ also​access​to​adequate​nutrition​and​health​care.9​Some​measure​of​subsistence,​on​this​view,​is​necessary​though​not​sufficient​for​persons​to​live​ with​human​dignity​at​all.​Their​very​status​as​persons​depends​on​certain​ of​their​basic​needs​being​fulfilled. ​ Material​needs​are​vitally​important,​according​to​the​capabilities​perspective,​for​a​second​reason​as​well:​their​fulfillment​makes​possible​certain​other,​widely​recognized​rights​and​liberties.10​Because​the​capabilities​framework​emphasizes​“what​people​are​actually​able​to​do​or​be,”​it​ interrogates​whether​certain​freedoms​are​in​fact​exercisable.11​From​this​ vantage​point,​unless​basic​needs​are​met,​conventional​political​rights,​ for​example,​rights​against​government​interference​and​rights​to​political​ participation,​are​merely​nominal.​Nussbaum​explains,​“In​short,​liberty​is​ not​just​a​matter​of​having​rights​on​paper,​it​requires​being​in​a​position​ to​exercise​those​rights.”​Without​certain​“material​preconditions,”​there​ is​only​a​“simulacrum”​of​“liberties​of​choice.”12​The​distinction​between​ formal​freedom​and​real​freedom,​central​to​capabilities​theory​though​ not​unique​to​it,​captures​this​insight.​In​this​spirit,​none​other​than​Isaiah​ Berlin​was​at​pains​to​point​out​that​certain​“minimum​conditions”​are​required​so​that​“any​degree​of​significant​‘negative’​liberty​can​be​exercised​ .​.​.​without​which​it​is​of​little​or​no​value​to​those​who​may​theoretically​ possess​it.”13 ​ What​does​this​all​mean​with​regard​to​a​democratic​ethos​of​care​for​ the​ world?​ I​ am​ suggesting​ that​ one​ way​ of​ honoring​ the​ world’s​ commonality,​of​tending​to​it​properly,​as​common,​is​by​working​with​others​ to​make​the​world​or,​more​accurately,​certain​places,​laws,​customs,​and​ practices​ within​ it,​ more​ hospitable​ for​ every​ human​ being.​ The​ arguments​I​sketch​above​are​valuable​because​they​direct​attention​toward​ the​basic​human​needs​that​must​be​addressed​if​the​world​is​to​be​a​home.​ Arendt’s​work​can​potentially​further​heighten​awareness​of​what​is​materially​required​for​the​world​to​be​a​place​in​which​human​beings​are​ able​to​live​as​persons​and​citizens.​I​read​with​and​against​Arendt​in​order​ to​argue​that​the​alleviation​of​poverty,​through​the​collective​transformation​of​existential​conditions,​is​essential​if​the​world​is​to​be​a​home​for​ all​human​beings. ​ Arendt’s​writings​often​convey​indifference​at​best​and​disdain​at​worst​ for​ “the​ predicament​ of​ poverty.”14​ Most​ notably,​ The Human Condition​ Partisanship for the World

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and​On Revolution​depict​human​bodily​needs​as​a​perpetual​threat​to​free​ political​life.​According​to​Arendt,​a​hallmark​of​modernity​is​the​invasion​ of​the​public​realm,​the​site​of​free​self-​government​among​citizens,​by​the​ demands​of​necessity​or​humanly​bodily​needs,​the​management​of​which​ was​once​assigned​to​the​private​household.​The​story​Arendt​tells​is​one​ of​the​creation​of​“nationwide​administration​of​housekeeping,”​which​destroyed​the​Greek​boundaries​between​the​private​sphere,​in​which​men​ were​“driven​by​wants​and​needs,”​and​the​political​sphere,​“the​sphere​ of​freedom.”15​The​Greeks,​Arendt​says,​understood​there​to​be​a​special​ connection​between​the​household,​where​“necessity​ruled​over​all​activities,”​and​the​polis,​where​citizens​engaged​in​the​two​highest​human​ capacities,​action​and​speech:​“It​was​a​matter​of​course​that​the​mastering​of​the​necessities​of​life​in​the​household​was​the​condition​for​freedom​in​the​polis.”16​Arendt’s​account​acknowledges​the​profound​costs​of​ such​arrangements.​The​logic​that​served​to​justify​slavery​and​eliminate​ “life’s​burden”​for​citizens​was​more​than​a​“violent​injustice”​for​the​enslaved.​It​constituted​a​deprivation​for​citizens​as​well,​who,​by​ridding​ themselves​almost​completely​of​responsibility​for​their​bodily​needs,​substituted​“vicarious​life​for​real​life.”17​Yet​when​Arendt​explains​that​the​ Greeks​understood​necessity​as​“a​prepolitical​phenomenon,”​it​is​hard​not​ to​hear​her​affirming​this​insight,​especially​when​read​together​with​her​ depictions​of​a​modern,​ravenous​society​that​admits​housekeeping​activities​into​public.​In​the​face​of​the​social​realm’s​“irresistible​tendency​to​ grow,​to​devour,”​Arendt​warns,​“the​private​and​the​intimate,​on​the​one​ hand,​and​the​political,​on​the​other,​have​proved​incapable​of​defending​ themselves.”18 ​ This​ dramatic​ scene,​ part​ invasion,​ part​ infection,​ reappears​ in​ Arendt’s​ narrative​ of​ the​ French​ Revolution.​ Here,​ too,​ the​ politics​ of​ freedom​is​threatened​by​“the​social​question,”​or​“what​we​may​better​ and​more​simply​call​the​existence​of​poverty.”19​As​Arendt​describes​it,​ “When​the​poor,​driven​by​the​needs​of​their​bodies,​burst​on​to​the​scene​ of​the​French​Revolution,”​freedom​“had​to​be​surrendered​to​necessity.”​ In​other​words,​the​“urgent​needs​of​the​people​.​.​.​unleashed​the​terror​and​sent​the​Revolution​to​its​doom.”20​Mark​Reinhardt​explains​that​ Arendt’s​account​“offers​a​cautionary​tale​about​the​consequences​of​modern,​ radical​ struggles​ that​ take​ up​ inappropriate​ objects.”21​ The Human Condition,​Reinhardt​notes,​does​not​identify​the​precise​reason​for​the​ inappropriateness​of​human​needs.​But​two​central​worries​are​clear.​In​ Chapter 4

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both​texts,​human​bodily​needs​are​represented​as​threats​to​plurality​and​ freedom,​themselves​arguably​definitive​of​the​political​for​Arendt.​On​the​ one​hand,​needs​are​homogeneous​because​the​“life​process​which​permeates​our​bodies”​is​the​same​for​all​human​animals:​“In​so​far​as​we​all​ need​bread,​we​are​indeed​all​the​same,​and​may​as​well​unite​into​one​ body.”22​This​is​a​dilemma​for​pluralistic​politics​because​“the​public​preoccupation​with​matters​that​.​.​.​cannot​account​for​difference”​stands​ in​the​way​of​speech​and​action​among​individuals​who​disclose​to​one​ another​“who”​they​are,​which​is​never​“the​same​as​anyone​who​has​ever​ lived,​lives,​or​will​live.”23​On​the​other​hand,​Arendt​continues​to​oppose​ necessity​to​freedom.​When​it​comes​to​basic​life​processes,​humans​are​ subject​to​them;​life​is​a​“driving​force”​that​rules​over​them.​All​men​experience​the​“absolute​dictate​of​necessity,”​and,​though​universal​and​unavoidable,​this​dictate​is​so​powerful,​Arendt​implies,​that​it​undermines​ the​freedom-​as-​spontaneity​which​she​identifies​with​politics.24​As​Reinhardt​observes,​in​Arendt’s​view​the​French​peasants​who​made​the​problem​of​basic​needs​a​matter​of​political​concern,​“brought​coercion​into​ the​one​sphere​in​which​the​experience​of​freedom​is​possible.”25 ​ Arendt’s​well-​known​response​to​the​threats​she​associates​with​the​ entry​of​the​life​process​into​public​is​to​defend​a​politics​that​seems​to​ be​ emptied​ of​ the​ social​ question​ altogether.​ This​ puzzling​ image​ of​ a​ “purified”​politics​is​so​striking​and​exasperating​that​it​is​easy​to​misread​ Arendt​as​being​unconcerned​with​the​plight​of​impoverished​people​and​ the​provision​of​basic​needs.​She​is​not.​Arendt​does​continually​locate​the​ social​question​in​a​category​that​she​regards​as​nonpolitical,​whether​“the​ private”​(ancient)​or​“administration”​(modern),​but​she​never​dismisses​ the​importance​of​material​conditions. ​ In​fact,​Arendt​theorizes​poverty​as​deeply​harmful​in​ways​that​exceed​ the​physical.​The​pain​and​deprivation​caused​by​unfulfilled​basic​needs​go​ beyond​the​agony​experienced​by​a​hungry​body​or​the​suffering​wrought​ by​untreated​disease.​Poverty,​Arendt​suggests,​inflicts​grave​injuries,​both​ to​personhood​and​to​citizenship.​In​On Revolution,​just​after​describing​ the​needs​of​the​French​peasants​as​having​brought​the​Revolution​to​ruin,​ Arendt​cites​at​some​length​the​words​of​John​Adams,​words​that​capture​ the​devastating​effects​that​poverty​has​on​personhood,​on​one’s​sense​ of​being​seen,​heard,​and​recognized​as​a​fellow​human​being​by​others.​ What​Adams​understood,​Arendt​says,​is​that​“darkness​rather​than​want​ is​the​curse​of​poverty.”​That​is,​poverty​entails​ “the​insult​of​oblivion”​ Partisanship for the World

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and​occasions​the​“crippling​consequences​of​obscurity.”​Writing​of​“the​ poor​man,”​Adams​observed,​“He​feels​himself​out​of​the​sight​of​others,​ groping​in​the​dark.​Mankind​takes​no​notice​of​him.​.​.​.​In​the​midst​of​a​ crowd,​at​church,​in​the​market​.​.​.​he​is​in​as​much​obscurity​as​he​would​ be​in​a​garret​or​a​cellar.​He​is​not​disapproved,​censured​or​reproached;​ he is only not seen.”​These​harms​are​less​obvious​than​the​“obvious​ruin”​of​ physical​want,​but​they​are​no​less​significant.26​As​Cristina​Beltrán​notes,​ Arendt​understands,​like​Adams,​that​“the​poor​lack​more​than​bread— they​lack​voice​and​visibility.”27 ​ In​addition​to​the​grave​consequences​poverty​has​on​personhood​as​ such,​Arendt​points​to​its​meaning​for​citizenship​in​particular.​In​a​late​ speech​she​describes​citizenship​as​a​“kind​of​second​life”​that​a​person​ can​experience​in​addition​to​her​personal,​private​life.​This​“second​life​ in​the​common,”​however,​which​Arendt​sees​as​especially​imperiled​in​ 1975,​depends​upon​the​satisfaction​of​basic​needs.​As​she​explains,​“Indeed,​freedom,​political​life,​the​life​of​the​citizen—this​‘public​happiness’​ I’ve​been​speaking​of—is​a​luxury,​it​is​an​additional​happiness​that​one​is​ made​capable​of​only​after​the​requirements​of​life​process​have​been​fulfilled.”​Lest​one​wonder​whether​the​“luxury”​of​political​life​is​something​ to​be​enjoyed​only​by​those​with​adequate​means,​Arendt​continues,​“How​ much​have​we​to​change​the​lives​of​the​poor?​In​other​words,​how​much​ money​do​we​have​to​give​them​to​make​them​capable​of​enjoying​public​ happiness?​Education​is​very​nice,​but​the​real​thing​is​money.​Only​when​ they​can​enjoy​the​public​will​they​be​willing​and​able​to​make​sacrifices​ for​the​public​good.​To​ask​sacrifices​of​individuals​who​are​not​yet​citizens​ is​to​ask​them​for​an​idealism​which​they​do​not​have​and​cannot​have​in​ view​of​the​urgency​of​the​life​process.​Before​we​ask​the​poor​for​idealism,​we​must​first​make​them​citizens:​and​this​involves​so​changing​the​ circumstances​of​their​private​lives​that​they​become​capable​of​enjoying​ the​‘public.’”28 ​ This​passage​posits​that​poverty​effectively​denies​citizenship​to​those​ who​suffer​it.​Indeed,​Arendt​says​that​poor​people​must​be​made​citizens​ and​that​this​requires​access​to​enough​money​to​ensure​that​they​are​not​ consumed​by​the​struggle​for​survival.​Although​Arendt’s​remarks​are​of​ a​general​nature​and​do​not​specify​how​such​a​financial​remedy​might​be​ instituted,​there​is​no​question​that​she​believes​the​practices​of​citizenship​have​as​their​condition​of​possibility​the​elimination​of​poverty. ​ Arendt’s​thinking​about​the​consequences​of​poverty​echoes​the​arguChapter 4

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ments​made​by​others​in​support​of​social​and​economic​rights.​The​provision​of​basic​needs,​she​implies,​is​required​for​personhood,​or​what​Nussbaum​refers​to​as​human​dignity.​In​addition,​material​conditions​are​of​ special​importance​to​the​practices​of​citizenship;​if​there​is​any​hope​that​ the​notion​of​“public​happiness”​through​political​participation​might​be​ revived,​it​requires,​among​other​things,​that​all​people​be​“made​capable,”​ as​Arendt​says,​of​its​pursuit,​namely,​by​ensuring​that​their​basic​needs​ are​ met.​ Arendt’s​ stress​ on​ capability​ here​ is​ not​ unusual.​ Throughout​ her​writings​she​endorses​an​understanding​of​freedom​that​is​a​“predicate​of​ability​rather​than​volition,”​a​matter​of​the​I-​can.29​Like​Sen’s​and​ Nussbaum’s​capabilities​approach,​Arendt​invites​one​to​think​about​how​ poverty​affects​what​people​are​actually​“able​to​do​or​be,”​both​as​persons​ and​as​citizens. ​ What​is​troubling​about​Arendt’s​thinking​on​the​subject​of​material​ need​is​not​that​she​discounts​its​significance​or​is​oblivious​to​the​harms​ of​poverty—far​from​it.​Rather,​the​difficulty​lies​with​Arendt’s​repeated​ efforts​to​assign​the​social​question​to​a​domain​marked​nonpolitical.​For​ the​ ancients,​ Arendt​ says,​ the​ “maintenance​ of​ life”​ was​ confined,​ for​ better​or​worse,​to​the​private​realm;​in​modernity,​the​social​has​assumed​ this​task​through​practices​of​administration.​Although​Arendt​worries​ about​the​increasing​presence​of​bureaucratic​management​and​its​normalizing​ effects,​ she​ believes​ that​ in​ the​ modern​ era​ there​ is​ no​ going​ back​to​the​prior​public–private​division.​The​provision​of​basic​needs,​she​ thinks,​should​be​handled​by​administration,​which​Arendt​identifies​with​ technical​expertise​and​instrumental​reason.​Why?​According​to​Arendt,​ “There​are​things​where​right​measures​can​be​figured​out.​These​things​ can​really​be​administered​and​are​not​then​subject​to​public​debate.​Public​debate​can​only​deal​with​things​which—if​we​want​to​put​it​negatively—we​cannot​figure​out​with​certainty.​Otherwise,​if​we​can​figure​it​ out​with​certainty,​why​do​we​all​need​to​get​together?”​Tellingly,​Arendt​ cites​the​provision​of​adequate​housing​as​just​such​a​matter:​it​can​be​ “figure[d]​out​with​certainty”​and​therefore​ought​to​be​subject​to​administrative​decision​making,​not​to​political​debate​and​contestation.​Indeed,​ she​distinguishes​the​social​problem​of​adequate​housing​from​the​political​problem​of​whether​housing​should​be​integrated,​the​former​standing​for​what​is​nondebatable.​She​asserts,​“There​shouldn’t​be​any​debate​ about​the​question​that​everybody​should​have​decent​housing.”30​This​ statement​makes​plain​that​Arendt​believes​both​that​there​is​a​public​obliPartisanship for the World

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gation​to​provide​for​basic​needs​and​that​this​obligation​is​so​self-​evident​ that​it​ought​not​to​be​subject​to​political​debate​but​merely​administered​ effectively. ​ The​problem​is​not​that​Arendt​does​not​care​about​human​needs,​but​ that​she​mistakenly​(wishfully?)​supposes​that​such​needs​enjoy​a​status​ akin​to​universally​agreed​upon​rights.​She​believes​that​poverty​deprives​ people​of​more​than​food,​clothing,​shelter,​and​health​care.​It​plunges​ them​ into​ a​ painful​ obscurity​ and​ effectively​ robs​ them​ of​ citizenship.​ Yet​she​somehow​imagines​that​the​declaration​“Everybody​should​have​ decent​housing”​is​not​a​political​claim. ​ Arendt’s​ rather​ sanguine​ attitude​ about​ the​ self-​evidence​ of​ human​ needs​and​their​related​assignment​to​the​practice​of​administration​must​ be​countered​by​a​view​which​instead​regards​needs​as​objects​of​ongoing​ political​struggle.​Nancy​Fraser​argues​convincingly​that​“needs​talk,”​that​ is,​discussion​and​dispute​over​what​various​people​need​and​how​those​ needs​should​be​fulfilled,​is​precisely​a​“medium​for​the​making​and​contesting​ of​ political​ claims.”31​ Needs,​ including​ the​ basic​ needs​ invoked​ here,​ are​ “irreducibly​ interpretive,”​ never​ simply​ given​ ends​ that​ await​ technical​means.32 ​ Arendt​illuminates​the​harms​wrought​by​poverty​and​encourages​us​ to​think​about​how​people​become​materially​capable​of​participating​in​ political​life.​One​should​take​these​insights​seriously,​yet​one​need​not​ accept​Arendt’s​indefensible​supposition​that​all-​important​basic​needs​ are​recognized​and​secure​and​somehow​beyond​public​contestation.​It​is​ all​too​easy​to​see​that​in​fact​no​agreement​about​the​need​for​adequate​ housing​or​its​provision​by​government​exists.​Instead​there​is​what​Fraser​ describes​as​a​“struggle​where​groups​with​unequal​discursive​(and​nondiscursive)​resources​compete​to​establish​as​hegemonic​their​respective​ interpretations​of​legitimate​social​needs.”33​If​we​follow​Arendt​in​appreciating​the​enabling​and​disabling​effects​of​material​conditions,​then​we​ ought​to​express​that​appreciation​by​engaging​in​just​this​struggle. ​ When​members​of​the​Chicago​Anti-​Eviction​Campaign​(aeC)​organize​to​“stop​all​economically-​motivated​evictions​in​Chicago”​they​participate​in​this​kind​of​political​contest​over​needs.​Their​efforts,​some​of​ which​have​been​quite​successful,​center​on​halting​evictions​in​the​city​ as​well​as​defending​the​right​of​homeless​people​to​live​in​“people-​less”​ foreclosed​properties.34​Their​ongoing​political​action​is​rooted​in​the​conviction​that​“housing​is​a​human​right,”​a​declaration​that​echoes​Arendt’s​ Chapter 4

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statement​that​“everybody​should​have​decent​housing.”35​Yet​the​actions​ undertaken​by​aeC,​including​public​pressure​campaigns,​human​blockades,​and​legal​support,​should​also​remind​one​that​democratic​care​for​ the​world,​in​the​form​of​making​the​world​a​better​home​for​all​people,​ takes​place​in​relation​to​particular,​identifiable​matters​of​concern.​The​ assertion​of​a​general​human​right​to​housing​is​usually​not​articulated​ in​the​abstract​but​is​tethered​to​specific​worldly​things,​such​as​those​ around​which​members​of​aeC​associate.​They​have​mobilized​to​defend,​ both​legally​and​publicly,​specific​persons​and​families​in​Chicago​who​ are​threatened​with​eviction,​whether​from​homes​they​own,​rent​(public​and​private),​or​occupy​(which​would​otherwise​be​“people-​less”).​In​ mobilizing​on​behalf​of​these​residents,​aeC​tries​to​persuade​its​fellow​ Chicagoans​that​these​incidents​are​not​isolated​but​shaped​by​changeable​worldly​practices,​including​a​systemic​pattern​of​unchecked​racialized​gentrification​in​Chicago​and​local​and​national​economic​policies​ favoring​the​well-​off.​The​group’s​rallying​cry​is,​“The​rich​got​bailed​out,​ we​will​not​be​put​out!”36​These​activists​have​done​an​impressive​job​of​ building​a​solidaristic​association​across​racial​and​class​lines,​in​part​by​ articulating​the​harms​that​forced​eviction​and​displacement​create,​not​ just​for​certain​individuals​but​for​entire​communities​and​neighborhoods​ made​up​of​public​and​private​renters,​homeowners,​and​the​homeless.​ They​have​worked​to​define​foreclosures​and​displacements​as​a​shared​ problem,​an​object​of​common​concern.​Although​I​suggested​above​that​ Arendt’s​assertion​that​everybody​should​have​decent​housing​ought​to​ be​understood,​contra​Arendt​herself,​as​a​political​claim,​rather​than​as​ the​expression​of​an​incontrovertible​fact,​it​is​more​accurate​to​describe​ it​ as​ a​ partial​ or​ incomplete​ political​ claim,​ one​ which​ can​ come​ fully​ to​life​only​if​it​is​connected​to​a​specific​demand​about​how​particular​ worldly​arrangements​need​to​be​transformed.​This​is​the​kind​of​claim​ aeC​makes​when​it​declares,​“The​Chicago​Anti-​Eviction​Campaign​will​ continue​struggling​to​stop​all​economically-​motivated​evictions​in​Chicago.​We​are​no​longer​willing​to​wait​for​any​authority​to​institute​our​ human​right​to​housing.”37 ​ Care​for​the​world—a​democratic​ethos—is​enacted​in​part​through​ collaborative​efforts​directed​at​creating​material​conditions​that​make​ the​world​a​home​to​all​people.​Minimally,​such​home​making​requires​ transforming​collective​arrangements​so​as​to​secure​basic​needs.38​These​ needs,​ defined​ and​ sought​ on​ the​ shaky​ ground​ of​ politics,​ affect​ both​ Partisanship for the World

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personhood​and​citizenship​and​are​integral​to​the​experience​of​being​ at​home​on​this​planet.​This​account​of​caring​for​the​world​as​a​collective​home​overlaps​with​arguments​made​on​behalf​of​economic​rights​ and​capabilities.​Yet​the​emphasis​placed​on​tending​to​the​world​by​seeking​to​collectively​affect​a​specific​thing​in​order​to​create​more​hospitable​circumstances​rightly​puts​conditions​and​contexts​at​the​center​of​ concern.​Privileging​the​world—the​complex​assemblage​within​which​ human​beings​exist​but​which​is​irreducible​to​them—instead​of​focusing​ strictly​on​humans’​rights​or​capabilities​orients​one​toward​features​of​ milieus​rather​than​characteristics​of​persons.​The​capabilities​approach,​ by​directing​one​toward​substantive​opportunities,​does​raise​the​problem​ of​enabling​conditions,​but,​as​a​glance​at​the​growing​literature​in​this​ area​shows,​the​emphasis​on​human​capabilities​also​invites​fixation​on​ identifying​and​cataloging​the​capabilities​themselves.​This​distracts​from​ the​vital​question​of​how​to​transform​worldly​environments​to​actualize​capabilities,​however​defined.39​While​the​task​of​caring​for​the​world​ necessarily​involves​thinking​and​arguing​about​what​needs​must​be​met​ for​the​world​to​become​a​genuine​home,​it​nonetheless​makes​a​difference​whether​political​thought​and​action​are​focused​on​the​capacities​of​ human​beings​or​on​the​world​in​which​they​live.​It​is​crucially​important,​ as​I​have​tried​to​show,​that​a​democratic​ethos​be​animated​by​a​specific​ kind​of​care:​not​for​oneself​or​an​Other​or​even​for​many​others,​but​for​ the​world​in​which​those​many​selves​and​others​live. ​ Tending​to​the​world​as​a​collective​home​does​not​exhaust​the​meaning​of​a​world-​centered​democratic​ethos,​however.​It​is​not​enough,​from​ the​ perspective​ of​ caring​ for​ the​ world,​ that​ one​ strives,​ together​ with​ others,​to​ensure​people’s​basic​needs​are​met.​Caring​for​the​world​involves​paying​attention​to​and​being​concerned​about​another​dimension​ of​the​world’s​commonality:​its​mediating​power.​As​we​will​see,​caring​for​ the​world​in​this​respect​entails​creating​and​protecting​opportunities​for​ the​world​to​serve​as​an​in-​between,​connecting​and​separating​people.

the World as in-between If​the​first​element​of​the​world’s​commonality​concerns​its​status​as​a​ home​for​all​people,​the​second​element​pertains​to​its​role​as​an​intermediary​between​individuals.​Earlier​I​theorized​that​the​world​was​the​ sum​total​of​the​conditions​of​life​on​earth​(see​chapter​3),​consisting​of​a​ cultural​artifice,​intangible​webs​of​relation,​and​natural​phenomena,​the​ Chapter 4

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last​of​which​Arendt​excludes​from​her​conception.​I​argued​that​associative​democratic​politics​always​revolves​around​worldly​things,​features​of​ this​dense,​complex​entity​that​are​constituted​as​matters​of​concern.​This​ prior​account​provides​a​basis​for​thinking​about​the​second​dimension​of​ the​world’s​commonality,​namely,​its​capacity​to​serve​as​an​in-​between.​ But​more​still​needs​to​be​said.​What​does​it​mean​to​say​that​the​world​ should​be​tended​to,​or​fostered​and​cultivated,​as​an​intermediary?​What​ is​involved​in​properly​caring​for​the​world​as​an​“interspace”?40 ​ Although​human​beings​are​in​and​of​the​world​and​never​wholly​apart​ from​ it,​ Arendt’s​ persistent​ attention​ to​ the​ world’s​ mediating​ properties​is​nonetheless​apt.​Without​assuming​a​radical​separation​between​ human​beings​and​other​worldly​phenomena,​one​can​appreciate​how​the​ world,​as​a​sum​total​of​conditions,​exists​around​and​between​humans,​ potentially​ establishing​ distance​ between​ selves​ as​ well​ as​ a​ bond​ between​them.41​To​Arendt,​the​world​is​common​by​virtue​of​performing​a​ critical​task:​it​“gathers​us​together​and​yet​prevents​us​from​falling​over​ each​other.”42​The​world​mediates​between​people​in​this​double​sense:​it​ establishes​a​connection​that​preserves​distinction;​it​is​the​simultaneous​ antidote​to​isolation​and​massification.​As​Reinhardt​notes,​this​emphasis​on​the​world​as​in-​between​is​striking​in​its​claim​to​a​form​of​political​ commonality​that​is​not​subject​centered;​what​is​common​here​is​extrasubjective,​between​us,​not​in​us.43 ​ Such​ mediation​ is​ by​ no​ means​ assured,​ however,​ as​ any​ reader​ of​ Arendt​knows;​the​threat​of​worldlessness​looms​large.44​The​seemingly​ solid​table​between​people,​Arendt​warns,​may​vanish.​This​does​not​signify​for​Arendt​that​the​world​has​literally​ended​but​that​it​has​lost​“its​ power​to​gather​them​together,​to​relate​and​separate​them.”45​But​what​is​ the​source​of​this​power?​What​allows​the​world​to​perform​this​gathering,​ to​simultaneously​assure​distance​and​connection​between​people? ​ As​I​have​suggested,​such​gathering​occurs​by​way​of​specific,​politicized​worldly​things,​objects​of​debate​and​dispute​that​link​citizens​to​ one​ another​ in​ both​ agreement​ and​ controversy​ (see​ chapter​ 3).​ Such​ objects​ are​ shared,​ even​ though,​ contra​ Arendt,​ they​ are​ not​ precisely​ the​same​for​all​involved.​Worldly​things​are​fluctuating,​contested​third​ terms.​They​are​called​by​different​names,​tied​to​incompatible​projects,​ rejected​by​some​as​insignificant.​Yet​these​slippery,​inconstant​matters​ of​concern​nonetheless​mediate​relations​between​people,​enabling​both​ their​separation​from​and​connection​to​one​another.​The​public​expresPartisanship for the World

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sion​of​“innumerable​perspectives”​preserves​distinction​while​the​fact​ that​divergent​voices​refer​to​and​speak​about—even​disagree​about—a​ specific,​identifiable​object​of​dispute​fosters​a​sense​of​connection.​For​ the​world​to​be​felt​as​a​mediating​presence,​Arendt​contends,​depends​ upon​“our​speaking​with​one​another”​in​“public​political​space,”​where​ “things​can​first​be​recognized​in​their​many-​sidedness.”46​It​is​when​citizens​engage​with​each​other​in​this​way,​voicing​and​hearing​a​“plurality​of​ standpoints”​on​a​particular,​contested​thing,​that​“the​world​thrusts​itself​ between​them.”47 ​ Arendt​believes​that​democratic​politics,​characterized​by​the​exchange​ of​opinions​and​ideas​among​diverse​citizens,​is​the​primary​activity​that​ generates​the​world’s​power​to​relate​and​separate.48​Why​is​this?​According​to​Arendt,​when​people​participate​in​associative​politics​with​their​ peers,​they​engage​in​an​exchange​of​opinions​that​is​about​the​world​at​ present,​about​the​action​to​be​taken,​and​about​how​the​world​will​look​ in​the​future.49​The​world​is,​quite​simply,​“that​about​which​we​speak”​as​ citizens.​And​it​is​through​our​“speaking​with​one​another​about​it”​that​ the​world​can​appear​as​something​common,​in​the​specific​sense​of​existing​between​us.50 ​ The​ world-​as-​intermediary​ is,​ to​ a​ large​ extent,​ produced​ through​ this​exchange;​it​is​not​simply​there​prior​to​it.​As​Arendt​explains,​“The​ world​comes into being only if​there​are​perspectives;​it​exists​as​the​order​ of​worldly​things​only​if​it​is​viewed​this​way,​now​that,​at​a​given​time.”51​ The​world​can​inter-est​only​if​it​is​“talked​about​by​human​beings”​who​ make​it​a​shared​“object​of​discourse.”52​More​specifically,​it​is​in​political​ space,​ “an​ area​ where​ there​ are​ many​ voices”​ discussing​ “affairs​ of​ the​world,”​that​this​special​kind​of​commonality​is​forged.53​To​express​ one’s​doxa​in​the​presence​of​other​citizens​is​to​reveal​“the​world​as​it​ opens​itself​to​me.”​This​revelation​affirms​distance,​on​the​one​hand,​because​the​world​“opens​itself”​differently​to​every​individual.​At​the​same​ time,​the​expression​of​“what​appears​to​me”​also​affirms​the​existence​of​ a​world​which​“opens​to​everyone”​and​thus​links​us​together.54​For​the​ world​to​act​as​an​intermediary​requires​“the​presence​of​others​in​a​politically​organized​sphere,”​something​which​cannot​be​taken​for​granted.55​ It​is​on​a​“meeting​ground”​of​citizens,​of​“men​in​all​their​variety”​who​ “see​and​hear”​from​different​positions,​that​the​world​can​emerge,​however​briefly,​as​something​common,​in​the​specific​sense​of​lying​between​ people.56 Chapter 4

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​ Returning​to​the​account​I​presented​in​chapter​3,​one​can​appreciate​that​when​citizens​associate​with​one​another​in​relation​to​a​specific​ worldly​thing,​whether​in​cooperative​solidarities​or​antagonistic​publics,​ the​world’s​mediating​qualities​are​thereby​intensified.​Public​discussion​ and​contestation​over​a​particular​matter,​which​has​a​mutual​claim​on​ participants’​attention,​heightens​awareness​of​an​in-​between.​Indeed,​the​ world​appears​as​an​intermediary​by​way​of​many​particular​things​or​matters​of​concern​that​serve​as​third​terms,​connecting​and​dividing​citizens.​ This​means​that​although​democratic​action​in​concert​is​motivated​in​the​ first​place​by​the​desire​to​affect​the​conditions​under​which​humans​live,​ it​is​also​through​association​with​others​that​the​world’s​status​as​an​in-​ between​is​elicited​and​reinforced. ​ Now​an​answer​to​the​question,​What​does​it​mean​to​care​for​the​world​ as​an​in-​between?,​becomes​clearer.​What,​in​connection​with​caring​for​ the​world​as​a​collective​home,​does​a​democratic​ethos​entail?​Caring​for​ the​world​as​a​potential​intermediary​means​fostering​practices​and​building​institutions​that​provide​as​many​citizens​as​possible​with​meaningful​ opportunities​to​articulate​their​innumerable​perspectives​in​the​presence​ of​one​another​and​to​influence​the​conditions​under​which​they​live.​This​ is​the​way​that​“commonness​of​the​world”​is​cultivated​and​realized.​Put​ plainly,​this​dimension​of​care​for​the​world​calls​for​broad​efforts​of​democratization:​the​expansion​of​the​power​of​ordinary​citizens​to​participate​in​their​own​government​through​multiple​and​accessible​sites​for​ the​exchange​of​opinions​and​decision​making. ​ This​project​involves​creating​sources​of​citizen​power​that​are​as​inclusive​as​possible,​for​the​absence​or​marginalization​of​any​individual​ counts​as​a​loss​to​the​world​itself,​the​“manifold”​character​of​which​is​ compromised​ if​ it​ is​ not​ subject​ to​ a​ broad​ range​ of​ viewpoints.57​ The​ world’s​richness​and​complexity​are​diminished​in​the​absence​of​opportunities​for​it​to​become​an​“object​of​discourse”​among​diverse​equals.​ As​Kimberley​Curtis​has​written,​it​is​critically​important​that​the​“being-​ in-​the-​world”​of​those​who​have​been​left​out​of​public​affairs​be​illuminated:​“They​must​be​seen,​noticed​and​taken​account​of.”58​Expansive​ and​accessible​practices​of​self-​government​are​vital​to​the​full​inclusion​ of​all​democratic​citizens;​they​are​also​essential​if​the​world​is​to​be​common​at​all,​if​it​is​to​acquire​mediating​power.​Caring​for​the​world,​then,​ is​expressed​in​part​by​creating​opportunities​for​citizens​to​interact​with​ one​another​in​ways​that​allow​aspects​of​the​world​to​come​into​focus​as​ Partisanship for the World

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shared,​disputed​objects​between​them,​sites​of​contentious​commonality.​ Arendt’s​beloved​council​system​exemplifies​the​style​of​democratization​ that​is​central​to​this​ethos,​but,​as​we​will​see​later​in​this​chapter,​there​ are​many​possible​forms​this​democratizing​care​for​the​world​can​take. ​ Stated​negatively,​in​the​absence​of​regular​opportunities​for​citizens​ to​gather​as​equals​and​to​debate​and​decide​upon​matters​of​concern,​ the​common​world​may​be​eclipsed.​As​Arendt​warns​in​her​assessment​ of​American​political​culture,​“The​booth​in​which​we​deposit​our​ballots​ is​much​too​small,​for​this​booth​has​only​room​for​one.”59​It​is​too​small​ because​it​precludes​the​kind​of​exchange​among​plural​individuals​that​ would​ allow​ for​ the​ mutual​ recognition​ of​ an​ intermediary,​ not​necessarily​the​world​writ​large​but​a​worldly​thing,​a​third​term​that​both​links​ and​separates.​The​lack​of​democratic​spaces​and​practices​that​enable​the​ articulation​of​diverse​perspectives​on​a​shared,​yet​disputed,​matter​of​ concern​means​people’s​experience​of​the​world​as​common,​in​the​sense​ of​lying​between​them,​may​be​lost. ​ I​have​been​outlining​two​kinds​of​commonality​that​inform​the​normative​ aims​ integral​ to​ the​ democratic​ ethos​ advocated​ here.​ The​ first​ concerns​ the​ world’s​ status​ as​ a​ home​ for​ all​ people,​ while​ the​ second​ concerns​the​world’s​mediating​power.​If​the​ethos​of​democracy​entails​ caring​for​the​world​as​world,​such​a​spirit​is​exemplified​by​associative​ projects​ that​ respect​ and​ foster​ the​ world’s​ commonality.​ Care​ for​ the​ world​involves​specific​normative​aspirations,​intertwined​with​a​caring,​ regardful​affect:​making​the​world​a​better​home​by​ensuring​that​basic​ needs​are​met​and​creating​and​sustaining​democratic​practices​that​enable​the​world​to​emerge​as​an​in-​between.

interlude: self-interested care? If​ caring​ for​ the​ world​ means​ caring​ for​ the​ world​ as​ humans’​ collective​home​and​caring​for​the​world​as​a​mediating​force​between​human​ beings,​is​this​ethos​susceptible​to​the​charge​of​anthropocentrism?​Does​ it​imply​that​the​world​is​for​humans​and​humans​alone?​If​so,​does​this​ ethics​too​readily​tolerate​or​even​promote​harm​to​nonhuman​elements​ of​the​world? ​ Although​“anthropocentrism”​carries​multiple​meanings,​most​relevant​ here​is​the​term’s​reference​to​a​myopic​outlook​focused​on​human​interests​at​the​expense​of​all​other​possible​interests.60​The​worry​lies​with​a​ sort​of​“human​chauvinism,”​“speciesism,”​or​egocentrism​that​shows​inChapter 4

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sufficient​concern​for​nonhumans.61​In​particular,​critics​of​anthropocentrism​object​to​the​tendency​to​ascribe​only​instrumental,​not​intrinsic,​ value​to​nonhumans,​which​in​turn​supports​a​dominating​stance​toward​ nonhuman​life. ​ Is​the​ethos​of​care​for​the​world—refined​to​mean​care​for​the​world​ as​home​and​as​in-​between—guilty​of​promoting​such​anthropocentrism?​ Since​ both​ normative​ ends​ discussed​ above​ direct​ attention​ to​ human​ beings’​relation​to​the​world,​this​is​surely​a​legitimate​question.​Yet​the​ ethos​developed​here​does​not​reflect​an​anthropocentric​outlook,​if​by​ that​is​meant​a​view​that​licenses​exploitation​of​nonhuman​elements​of​ the​world​on​the​grounds​that​human​interests,​whatever​they​may​be,​ trump​all​others.62​At​the​same​time,​however,​the​ethos​of​care​for​the​ world​does​not,​as​the​notions​of​home​and​in-​between​attest,​disavow​ concern​for​the​fates​of​human​beings​in​particular.​What​is​at​stake,​then,​ is​the​possibility​of​enlightened​anthropocentrism,​of​transformed​self-​ interest​that​heeds​the​insights​of​coexistentialism. ​ Coexistentialism​refers​to​an​ecological​perspective​that​takes​the​interconnectedness​of​all​worldly​entities,​humans​and​nonhumans,​organic​ and​inorganic​matter,​as​its​starting​point​(see​chapter​3).​Latour’s​and​ Bennett’s​ work​ helped​ reveal​ the​ interdependent​ webs​ of​ relation​ that​ characterize​what​I​call​world​but​that​are​obscured​by​traditional​dichotomies​between​human​agents,​who​are​exalted,​and​inert​matter,​which​is​ denigrated.​ Coexistentialism​ locates​ human​ beings​ within​ this​ worldly​ “mesh”​rather​than​above​it.63​Such​an​ecological​awareness​challenges​ fantasies​of​mastery​by​reminding​people​of​the​extent​to​which​they​are​ affected​by​the​doings​of​nonhumans. ​ Our​understandings​of​human​well-​being​and​self-​interest​are​susceptible​to​transformation​by​the​coexistentialist​perspective.​The​choice​is​ not​between​the​domineering,​shortsighted​pursuit​of​human​interests,​on​ the​one​hand,​and​the​rejection​of​self-​interest​altogether,​on​the​other.​Indeed,​the​recognition​of​deep​interconnectedness​can​shape​and​nurture​ “new​self-​interest,”​as​Bennett​suggests.64​Although​Vibrant Matter​aims​to​ question​conventional​human/nonhuman​hierarchies,​the​book,​Bennett​ explains,​is​motivated​by​a​self-​interested​“concern​for​human​survival​and​ happiness.”65​In​place​of​“fantasies​of​conquest​and​consumption”​Bennett​ encourages​a​chastened​form​of​self-​interest.​It​is​in​people’s​own​interest,​ she​argues,​to​understand​the​ways​in​which​nonhumans​and​humans​are​ bound​to​one​another,​generating​effects​in​parliament​rather​than​in​isoPartisanship for the World

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lation​from​one​another.​The​purpose​of​the​coexistentialist​view​is​not​to​ reject​self-​interest​as​hopelessly​chauvinistic​or​destructive​but​to​foster​ “new​self-​interest”​that​is​guided​by​an​ecological​sensibility. ​ Bennett’s​reimagined​self-​interest​resonates​with​notions​of​enlightened,​ weak,​ or​ broad​ anthropocentrism​ in​ the​ field​ of​ environmental​ ethics,​which​emerged​originally​as​a​challenge​to​anthropocentrism​and​ the​ tendency​ to​ assign​ only​ instrumental​ value​ to​ nonhuman​ entities.​ Indeed,​ the​ enterprise​ of​ environmental​ ethics​ was​ initially​ defined​ as​ an​attempt​to​develop​a​thoroughly​nonanthropocentric​worldview​that​ renders​ nonhumans​ morally​ considerable.​ A​ strand​ of​ recent​ environmental​thought,​however,​is​concerned​not​with​forgoing​anthropocentrism​altogether,​a​project​it​questions​on​both​metaphysical​and​practical​ grounds,​but​with​transforming​the​understanding​of​human​interest​so​ that​it​is​enlightened.66 ​ This​broad​form​of​anthropocentrism​does​not​accept​dominant​economistic​notions​of​human​well-​being​but​instead​redefines​well-​being​to​ include​a​fuller​range​of​values,​for​example,​aesthetic​and​spiritual,​that​ reflect​and​further​an​ecological​sensibility.​Andrew​Light​and​Bryan​Norton​advocate​this​approach​from​a​pragmatist-​pluralist​perspective.​Light​ argues​that​if​contemporary​environmental​ethicists​wish​to​take​on​environmental​problems​in​policy​contexts,​this​is​best​accomplished​not​by​attempting​to​“overcome”​human​interests​but​by​“redirecting​them​toward​ environmental​concerns.”67​He​contends​that​if​we​are​concerned​with​ the​ “moral​ motivation​ of​ humans​ to​ respond​ to​ environmental​ issues,”​ focusing​on​reconstructing​the​sense​of​what​is​in​our​own​interest​is​more​ likely​to​succeed​than​an​attempt​to​reject​anthropocentrism​wholesale.68​ Light’s​pragmatic​approach​counsels​that​in​many​situations​anthropocentric​values​are​best​suited​to​motivate​nonenvironmentalists.​For​example,​studies​show​that​concern​for​future​human​generations​is​a​highly​ significant​value​that​encourages​efforts​to​protect​nonhuman​entities.69​ In​other​situations,​“nonanthropocentric​claims​will​be​more​appealing.”​ Light​writes​that​“what​appeals​best​is​an​empirical​question,”​and​he​links​ this​pragmatic​outlook​to​a​“pluralist​ethic”​that​accepts​a​range​of​arguments,​ anthropocentric​ and​ nonanthropocentric​ and​ involving​ instrumental​and​intrinsic​values​claims,​against​doing​harm​to​ecosystems.70​ Philosophical​purity​matters​less​than​ethico-​political​resonance. ​ Where​does​this​leave​the​democratic​ethos​I​advance​here?​Care​for​

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the​world​is​a​way​of​caring​for​human​beings;​it​is​neither​neutral​nor​ disinterested.​ It​is​an​ethos​meant​to​generate​benefits​for​people.​But​ these​benefits​are​linked​to​self-​interest​properly​understood,​that​is,​they​ are​born​of​the​coexistentialist​insight.​Caring​for​the​world​involves​not​ owning,​ruling,​or​enjoying​dominion​over​but​collaboratively​tending​to​ the​world,​an​entity​that​is​bigger,​richer,​and​more​varied​and​lively​than​ human​life​alone.​Such​care​should​be​guided​by​awareness​of​the​webs​of​ relation​that​link​human​beings​across​borders​and​time​not​only​to​one​ another,​but​also​to​other​“vibrant​matter”​as​well.​Such​awareness​does​ not,​however,​require​that​one​attempt​(in​vain?)​to​thoroughly​equalize​ one’s​concern​for​humans​with​concern​for​nonhumans.​Genuinely​ecologically​minded​self-​interest​is​enough​to​aspire​to. ​ Political​struggles​to​fulfill​basic​needs,​which,​I​have​argued,​express​ care​for​the​world​as​a​collective​home​for​human​beings,​must​be​continually​informed​by​this​sense​of​interdependency.​Making​the​world​a​ home​for​human​beings​cannot​be​a​matter​of​blind​chauvinism​that​treats​ human​interests,​enlightened​or​not,​as​unquestionably​the​highest​good.​ Rather,​coexistentialism​will​sometimes​require​skepticism​about​needs​ claims,​especially​in​the​context​of​capitalist​materialism,​where​they​may​ mask​problematic​and​grossly​unequal​consumption​practices.​More​demanding​still,​claims​about​needs​provision,​even​worthwhile​basic​needs,​ that​minimize​or​ignore​interdependencies​must​be​challenged​and​supplanted​with​more​soundly​ecological​arguments​and​strategies.​For​example,​the​widespread​use​of​pesticides,​monocultural​farming​methods,​ and​genetic​engineering​in​agriculture​are​often​defended​as​ways​of​addressing​unmet​basic​needs​by​increasing​the​global​supply​of​inexpensive​ food​but​are​now​thought​to​contribute​to​global​colony​collapse​disorders​ among​bees.71​The​potentially​catastrophic​harms​associated​with​the​decline​ of​ bee​ populations,​ including​ but​ not​ limited​ to​ the​ human​ food​ supply,​should​warn​against​policies​that​fail​to​consider​human​needs​in​ the​ context​ of​ ecological​ complexity.​ This​ example,​ though​ cautionary,​ also​points​toward​the​possibility​of​a​reimagined​form​of​self-​interest,​ one​that​begins​with​recognition​of​human​dependency​on​the​pollination​ practices​of​bees. ​ Caring​for​the​world​as​a​collective​human​home​and​as​a​mediating​ power​between​human​beings​is​not​a​cover​for​domination​of​all​that​is​ nonhuman.​If​we​humans​come​to​know​the​world​for​the​dense​inter-

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play​that​it​is,​we​can​appreciate​the​extent​to​which​our​fates​are​bound​ up​ with​ the​ doings​ of​ all​ sorts​ of​ matter.​ A​ coexistentialist​ perspective​ can​and​should​guide​the​way​we​care​for​the​world,​as​both​home​and​ ​in-​between.

Pursuing the dual Ends of care for the World The​democratic​ethos​of​care​for​the​world​centers​on​two​normative​ends.​ But​what​is​the​relationship​between​them?​To​what​extent​does​making​ the​world​a​home,​through​the​struggle​to​provide​basic​human​needs​for​ all,​converge​with​the​project​of​increasing​opportunities​for​democratic​ discussion​and​decision​making​and​thereby​fostering​the​world’s​status​as​ an​in-​between?​Are​these​aims​compatible?​Put​somewhat​differently,​can​ a​democratic​ethos​meaningfully​combine​concern​for​distribution​with​ concern​with​procedure? ​ From​a​certain​perspective,​these​ends​can​be​seen​as​mutually​reinforcing,​ or​at​least​ potentially​ so.​ As​we​have​ seen,​ advocates​ of​economic​ and​social​rights,​unexpectedly​allied​with​Arendt,​alert​us​to​the​ways​ in​which​adequate​ material​ conditions​ may​be​prerequisites​ for​democratic​citizenship.​Making​the​world​a​home​in​the​sense​of​providing​for​ basic​needs​may​be​bound​up​with​the​expansion​of​democratic​practice​ to​those​presently​disenfranchised.​Additionally,​creating​more​sites​and​ opportunities​for​democratic​self-​governance​by​ordinary​people​may​contribute​to​the​creation​of​policies​that​are​better​at​addressing​the​needs​of​ nonelites​as​they​come​to​have​a​greater​voice​in​decision​making.72 ​ Yet​making​the​world​a​better​home​is​not​the​same​as​helping​the​world​ to​emerge​as​an​in-​between.​Neither​end​entails​the​other,​nor​is​there​ any​guarantee​that​they​will​support​one​another.​Material​outcomes​can​ be​achieved​nondemocratically,​as​when​the​needy​are​objects​of​hierarchical​and​private​charity​(see​chapter​3),​and​the​democratic​structure​ of​decision​making​does​not,​on​its​own,​assure​that​basic​needs​will​be​ met.​Critiques​of​welfare​paternalism,​such​as​Julie​Anne​White’s​Democracy, Justice and the Welfare State,​point​to​the​ways​in​which​citizens’​basic​ needs​are​often​managed​in​ways​that​position​recipients​of​welfare​as​objects​rather​than​subjects.​Rather​than​participating​in​“needs​interpretation,”​they​are​administered​to.​In​the​United​States​the​meeting​of​needs​ is​ usually​ regarded​ as​ “a​ domain​ of​ expertise​ rather​ than​ [of]​ politics”​ and​in​practice​is​largely​divided​between​professionals​and​recipients,​a​ dynamic​that​replicates​the​hierarchical​authority​structure​of​the​tradiChapter 4

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tional​family.73​While​welfare​provision​of​this​sort​may​meet​some​basic​ needs,​it​typically​does​so​in​a​nondemocratic​way.​This​example​makes​ clear​the​fact​that​addressing​basic​needs,​a​central​component​of​caring​ for​the​world,​is​not​identical​with​the​other​element​of​this​ethos,​namely,​ supporting​the​expansion​of​democratic​power. ​ Similarly,​democratization​may​or​may​not​cohere​with​the​aim​of​providing​for​basic​needs.​It​is​a​well-​recognized​and​oft-​lamented​truth​of​ democratic​politics​that​democratic​structures​and​procedures,​however​ inclusive​and​accessible,​do​not​assure​that​particular​substantive​decisions​will​be​arrived​at.​The​classic​illustration​of​this​problem​in​the​context​of​the​United​States​is​the​fact​that​democratic​majorities​fairly​regularly​ decide​ matters​ in​ ways​ that​ contradict​ established​ constitutional​ protections.​For​example,​democratically​elected​state​legislatures​in​Virginia​and​Texas​passed​laws​prohibiting,​respectively,​interracial​marriage​ and​consensual​homosexual​activity.​Yet​in​the​landmark​cases​Loving v. Virginia​(1967)​and​Lawrence v. Texas​(2003)​the​U.S.​Supreme​Court​struck​ down​those​laws​on​the​grounds​that​they​violated​constitutional​guarantees​of​substantive​due​process​and​equal​protection.​The​Committee​on​ Economic,​Social​and​Cultural​Rights​at​the​United​Nations​has​recognized​this​dilemma​as​well,​explaining​that​“there​is​no​basis​whatsoever​ to​assume​that​the​realization​of​economic,​social,​and​cultural​rights​will​ necessarily​result​from​the​achievement​of​civil​and​political​rights.”74 ​ One​response​to​this​persistent​difficulty​is​to​sacrifice​either​the​commitment​to​material​outcomes​or​democratic​decision​making,​a​step​that​ would​resolve​the​dilemma.​Nussbaum,​for​example,​asserts​that​the​capabilities​she​outlines,​which​require​the​provision​of​certain​material​needs,​ are​so​important​that​their​realization​ought​not​to​be​left​to​democratic​ procedures​of​debate​and​decision.​Indeed,​she​maintains​that​people’s​desires​are​often​so​distorted​that​they​cannot​be​counted​on​to​even​want​ the​capabilities​she​identifies.​Because​of​this,​the​creation​of​just​institutional​arrangements​cannot​be​entrusted​to​them:​“A​habituated​preference​not​to​have​any​one​of​the​items​on​the​[capabilities]​list​will​not​ count​in​the​social​choice​function.”​Philosophers​thus​have​a​special​part​ to​play​in​constitutional​design;​only​the​properly​“informed​desire”​of​affected​citizens​will​be​permitted​to​play​a​role​in​this​endeavor​and​even​ then​only​a​“limited​and​ancillary”​one.75​Nussbaum​tries​to​mitigate​the​ paternalism​of​this​view​by​conceptually​dividing​the​task​of​constitution​ creation​from​subsequent​decision​making​that​takes​place​within​that​ Partisanship for the World

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order.​ It​ is​ mistaken,​ she​ says,​ to​ rely​ on​ peoples’​ actual​ desires​ when​ establishing​ a​ constitution​ that​ protects​ the​ capabilities.​ Here​ what​ is​ needed​is​a​“normative​basis​that​desire​reliably​fails​to​provide.”76​But​ within​this​rightly​ordered​society,​which​does​not​yet​exist​anywhere,​ “spheres​of​choice”​are​protected​so​that​citizens​can​“pursue​their​own​ desires”​and​participate​in​self-​government,​activities​that​are​included​in​ Nussbaum’s​list​of​protected​capabilities.77 ​ Sen,​the​originator​of​the​capabilities​approach,​rejects​this​view​wholeheartedly,​refusing​even​to​compose​a​definitive​list​of​the​capabilities,​as​ Nussbaum​does,​because​he​believes​such​a​task​should​be​undertaken​ democratically,​through​deliberation​and​debate,​rather​than​by​a​theorist.78​The​same​is​true​when​it​comes​to​the​question​of​how​to​create​ more​ just,​ that​ is,​ capabilities​ enhancing,​ political​ orders.​ As​ David​ A.​ Crocker​has​noted,​“The​role​that​Nussbaum​gives​to​the​philosopher​and​ the​constitution,​Sen​gives​to​the​society​or​group​itself.”79​From​Sen’s​perspective​Nussbaum​effectively​bypasses​those​people​her​theory​is​meant​ to​apply​to​in​practice.80​Indeed,​for​Nussbaum,​the​goal​of​providing​for​ human​ capabilities​ effectively​ trumps​ Sen’s​ commitment​ to​ “plurality,​ agency​and​choice.”81​But​Sen​is​especially​attuned,​and​rightly​so,​to​the​ dangers​of​charitable​paternalism,​something​Nussbaum​seems​unfazed​ by.​ Sen​ is​ alert​ to​ the​ sizable​ costs​ of​ treating​ the​ satisfaction​ of​ basic​ needs​as​the​highest​good:​social​arrangements,​he​maintains,​should​be​ evaluated​in​terms​of​their​contribution​to​enhancing​and​guaranteeing​ the​capabilities​of​“individuals​seen​as​agents​of​change,​rather​than​passive​recipients​of​benefits.”82​This​statement​folds​together​concern​for​the​ enrichment​of​capabilities​with​concern​for​people’s​standing​as​full​participants​in​decision​making.​Sen​can​be​understood​to​defend​the​importance​of​democratic​practices​of,​in​Fraser’s​words,​“needs​interpretation.”​ Although​imperfect​and​indeterminate,​Sen’s​view​reflects​a​compelling​ dual​commitment​that​Nussbaum’s​theory​evades​by​regarding​needs​as​ being​largely​predetermined​and​allowing​for​their​provision​to​be​orchestrated​from​above​by​those​who​know​best.​Nussbaum’s​approach​aims​ to​avoid​the​dilemma​posed​by​the​simultaneous​concern​for​improved​ material​conditions​and​insistence​on​democratic​forms​of​authority.​But​ that​avoidance​comes​at​a​price:​some​subjects​are​regarded​as​objects,​a​ move​that​threatens​to​undermine​even​the​circumscribed​role​Nussbaum​ grants​to​democratic​politics​(after​a​constitution​has​been​correctly​designed​so​that​people​are​equipped​with​“informed​desire”).​Unlike​NussChapter 4

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baum,​ who​ restricts​ democratic​ decision​ making​ to​ those​ who​ enjoy​ a​ proper​constitution​created​by​experts,​Sen​maintains​a​commitment​to​ two​coequal​and​tensely​related​aims:​the​fulfillment​of​human​capabilities​and​the​protection​and​expansion​of​democratic​power. ​ The​general​dilemma​to​which​both​Sen​and​Nussbaum​respond,​albeit​ in​very​different​ways,​is​usually​framed​by​political​theorists​in​terms​of​ a​vexed​relationship​between​process​and​outcome​or​between​procedural​and​substantive​rights.​In​the​United​States​this​problem​often​has​to​ do​with​the​dynamic​between​legislatures​and​courts​and​the​so-​called​ counter-​majoritarian​difficulty.​Most​thinkers​working​within​the​liberal-​ democratic​tradition​broadly​construed​regard​both​process​and​outcome,​ procedure​ and​ substance,​ as​ vital​ to​ political​ legitimacy,​ even​ as​ they​ strongly​dispute​which​procedural​and​substantive​guarantees​are​desirable​and​how​best​to​address​conflicts​between​them.​Often​this​duality​ is​expressed​as​a​commitment​to​democracy,​on​the​one​hand,​which​is​ aligned​with​certain​procedures​or​processes,​and​a​commitment​to​liberalism,​constitutionalism,​or​individual​rights,​on​the​other,​any​of​which​ serve​as​shorthand​for​a​set​of​substantive​goods​or​outcomes.​The​sense​ that​both​sides​are​integral​to​the​legitimacy​of​a​political​order​is​widely​ shared,​and​potential​differences​between​the​two​are​often​depicted​as​ conflicts​between​democracy​and​something​else​that​is​also​valuable​but​ is​not​itself​held​to​be​part​and​parcel​of​democracy. ​ My​ argument​ identifies​ the​ pursuit​ both​ of​ substantive​ ends​ and​ of​ democratic​processes​as​integral​to​a​specifically​democratic​ethos.​This​ ethos​is​committed​to​making​the​world​a​better​home​by​creating​conditions​that​fulfill​everyone’s​basic​needs​and​to​increasing​the​chances​ for​the​world​to​serve,​via​practices​of​the​exchange​of​opinions​and​decision​making​by​ordinary​citizens,​as​a​mediating​presence.​Worldly​ethics​ combines​substantive​and​procedural​ends,​which​together​define​what​it​ means​to​actively​and​democratically​care​for​the​world.​These​two​aims,​ though​neither​entails​the​other,​are​nonetheless​equally​important​to​the​ democratic​spirit​I​envision​and​endorse. ​ The​pairing​of​the​two​kinds​of​aims​within​a​democratic​ethos​resonates​with​Corey​Brettschneider’s​position​that​one​should​understand​ democracy​to​involve​a​dual​commitment​to​procedures​and​outcomes.83​ I​do​not​aim​to​present​a​definitive,​analytical​account​of​democracy​as​ such,​and​my​book​is​quite​different​from​Brettschneider’s​project.​Nonetheless,​Brettschneider’s​approach​invites​one​to​consider​the​possibility​ Partisanship for the World

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that​ plural​ and​ sometimes​ conflicting​ commitments​ lie​ at​ the​ heart​ of​ democracy​itself,​an​insight​that​is​important​to​the​democratic​ethos​I​ advocate. ​ Although​ Brettschneider’s​ book,​ in​ the​ end,​ tends​ to​ cover​ over​ the​ tragic​dimensions​of​democracy​that​his​theory​opens​up,​it​contains​two​ kernels​of​insight​that​are​relevant​to​my​argument​for​democratic​ethos.84​ In​relation​to​the​worldly​ethics​I​elaborate​here,​Brettschneider’s​conception​of​democracy​is​suggestive​because​it​recognizes,​first,​that​procedural​and​substantive​goods​alike​are​vital​dimensions​of​democracy,​as​both​ an​ ideal​ and​ an​ ongoing​ practice.​ This​ conception​ is​ perhaps​ less​ contrarian​than​it​appears​to​be;​as​Brettschneider​notes,​people​ordinarily​ understand​democracy​to​involve​both​rule​by​and​rule​for​the​people,​ a​formulation​that​places​a​dual​commitment​and​also​a​potential​conflict​at​the​very​center​of​democratic​politics.85​Such​a​dual​commitment,​ I​submit,​is​enacted​by​constituencies​who​strive​to​care​for​the​world​as​ world.​Second,​Brettschneider’s​view​aims​to​“embrace​the​tension”​between​these​two​kinds​of​ends.86​That​is,​he​affirms​a​complex​picture​of​ democracy,​according​to​which​there​may​be​friction​between​the​goods​ it​involves,​friction​that​cannot​be​resolved​without​remainder.​This​does​ not​mean​there​will​always​be​a​contradiction​between​procedural​and​ substantive​rights​in​practice,​as​they​may​very​well​align,​but​that​there​ sometimes​will​be.​And​in​these​cases,​a​“loss​to​democracy”​is​unavoidable.87​Extending​this​insight​in​order​to​reflect​on​the​ethos​envisioned​ here,​I​note​that​the​pursuit​of​either​of​its​two​primary​ends​at​the​expense​of​the​other​entails​a​genuine​loss:​a​loss​to​democracy​and​to​its​ distinctive​spirit​of​care​for​the​world. ​ The​democratizing​aim​that​is​integral​to​the​democratic​ethos​of​care​ for​the​world​is​not​necessarily​enabling​of—and​indeed,​in​practice,​could​ undermine—the​ethos’s​other​normative​aim:​the​establishment​of​material​conditions​that​support​the​lives​of​all,​not​just​some,​human​beings.​ One​need​only​consider​some​of​the​results​of​the​California​initiative​and​ referendum​system—in​particular​Proposition​13​in​1978​and​the​since-​ overruled​Proposition​187​in​1994—to​appreciate​how​citizens’​majoritarian​decision​making​can​fail​to​address​the​problem​of​basic​needs​and,​ even​ more​ problematically,​ may​ institute​ measures​ that​ make​ it​ more,​ not​less,​difficult​for​people​to​access​public​education,​health​care,​and​ other​vital​provisions​like​food​stamps​and​housing​assistance.​(It​is​arguable​whether​the​referendum​system​fosters​the​kind​of​exchange​of​opinChapter 4

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ions​and​interaction​that​encourages​the​apprehension​of​common​but​ contentious​worldly​things​between​participants.)​This​example​is​a​reminder​that​expanding​the​sites​in​which​democratic​power​is​exercised​ cannot,​in​and​of​itself,​assure​that​the​world​will​be​made​a​more​hospitable​place.​At​the​same​time,​many​charitable​initiatives​meant​to​address​ human​needs​do​so​in​ways​that​are​unlikely​to​foster​democratic​forms​of​ exchange​in​which​worldly​things​can​come​into​view​as​objects​of​shared​ attention,​controversy,​and​action​(see​chapter​3).​Organizations​like​food​ banks​are​defined​by​hierarchical​relations​between​citizens​and​by​predefined,​relatively​narrow​tasks​executed​by​those​at​the​top.​These​features​tend​to​divert​attention​from​the​broader,​worldly​arrangements​that​ contribute​to​widespread​hunger​and​that​could​serve​potential​objects​of​ criticism​and​transformation​by​coactors​in​association​together.​Efforts​ to​respond​to​the​“needy”​do​not​necessarily​advance​and​may​even​limit​ democratic​relations​in​which​citizens​aim​to​collectively​define​and​address​worldly​matters​of​concern. ​ In​the​end​the​democratic​ethos​advanced​in​this​book​directs​us​toward​ two​important​but​distinct​modalities​of​care​for​the​world.​Tending​to​the​ world​as​a​collective​home​and​as​an​in-​between​are​not​interchangeable​ activities,​and​one​of​these​aims​may​be​sought​in​the​absence​of​the​other,​ as​the​examples​above​reveal.​Yet​acknowledging​the​tension​that​can​exist​ between​outcome-​related​goals​and​process-​related​goals​does​not​require​ people​to​choose​one​aspect​of​care​for​the​world​over​the​other.​Indeed,​ the​best​examples​of​associative​care​for​the​world​reveal​that​these​normative​ends,​though​they​do​not​entail​one​another,​can​be​sought​simultaneously.​The​most​compelling​expressions​of​democratic​ethos​aspire​to​ make​the​world​a​better​home​for​all​people​by​addressing​basic​needs​at​ the​same​time​that​they​endeavor​to​extend​democratic​forms​of​governance​that​allow​the​world​to​acquire​its​mediating​power. ​ Various​efforts​have​been​undertaken​to​reorganize​social​services​in​ the​United​States​in​ways​that​provide​for​people’s​needs​through​processes​called​community​needs​assessment​that​include​not​only​policymakers​and​direct​providers​but​also​those​in​need.​Attempts​to​create​ alternative​ institutions​ that​ include​ the​ voices​ of​ the​ needy,​ as​ White​ shows,​pose​a​“fundamental​challenge​to​the​professional-​client​relationship”​that​dominates​institutions​of​public​care​at​present.​Organizations​ such​as​the​Beacons​project​in​New​York​City,​a​network​of​school-​based​ community​centers,​model​mutual​rather​than​paternalistic​relations​in​ Partisanship for the World

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their​approach​to​meeting​needs.​Beacons​programs​are​located​in​public​ schools​throughout​the​city​and​offer​a​range​of​important​services​to​both​ adults​and​children,​including​adult​education​classes​in​computer​literacy​ and​ English​ conversational​ skills,​ safe​ youth​ after-​school​ activities,​ counseling​services,​and​tutoring.​Although​the​programs​are​funded​by​ the​city,​they​are​designed,​implemented,​and​maintained​by​community​ organizations​geographically​located​in​the​areas​of​the​Beacons​schools.​ This​unusual​structure​“broke​down​any​permanent​distinction​between​ caregivers​and​those​cared​for,”​as​those​who​organize​and​run​the​programs​use​the​facilities,​live​in​the​community,​and​have​family​members​ who​use​the​programs.​The​Beacons​programs​have​explicitly​“rejected​a​ division​of​labor​in​which​governance​of​services​was​done​by​one​class​of​ providers​for​a​separate​class​of​recipients.”88​Most​significant,​the​Beacons​do​not​assume​“that​those​unable​to​meet​their​own​material​needs​ in​the​marketplace​are​also​unable​to​be​democratic​citizens.”89​In​light​ of​this​commitment,​the​programs​enact​a​“more​participatory​politics​of​ needs​interpretation”​and​a​more​egalitarian​distribution​of​the​work​of​ caretaking.90​Efforts​like​this​enact​collaborative​care​for​the​world​in​a​ double​sense,​endeavoring​to​address​people’s​basic​needs​(for​education​ and​safety​especially)​while​democratizing​conventionally​hierarchical​relations. ​ A​very​different​form​of​democratic​association,​No​More​Deaths,​or​ No​Más​Muertes,​enacts​care​for​the​world​in​ways​that​pursue​its​dual​ normative​aims.​This​organization,​formed​as​a​coalition​of​social​activist​ as​well​as​diverse​faith-​based​groups,​including​Catholic,​Jewish,​and​Unitarian,​in​2004,​works​to​prevent​the​deaths​of​migrants​on​the​Mexico– Arizona​ border.​ Participants​ model​ solidaristic​ association,​ as​ they​ are​ bound​together​not​by​a​shared​identity​but​by​a​common​goal:​no​more​ deaths.​Various​strategies​ are​used​in​pursuit​of​this​goal:​direct​provision​of​water,​food,​and​medical​aid​in​the​Arizona​desert​through​the​use​ of​a​fixed​base​camp​and​mobile​camps,​monitoring​of​U.S.​border​control​operations,​advocating​a​change​in​U.S.​immigration​policies​that​use​ the​language​of​militarizing​and​criminalizing,​and​publicizing​the​plight​ of​migrants.​The​efforts​of​No​Más​Muertes,​which​now​has​chapters​in​ Tucson,​Flagstaff,​and​Phoenix,​are​informed​by​the​idea​of​civil​initiative,​ which​was​central​to​the​Sanctuary​movement​of​the​1980s​and​is​defined​ as​the​community​practice​of​acting​together​on​behalf​of​human​rights,​ even​when​such​action​conflicts​with​local​law.91​No​Más​Muertes​offers​ Chapter 4

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a​striking​example​of​care​for​the​world​in​practice.​Working​to​make​the​ world​ a​ more​ hospitable​ place​ for​ human​ beings,​ members​ struggle​ to​ ensure​ that​ no​ undocumented​ persons​ trying​ to​ cross​ the​ U.S.-​Mexico​ border​die​because​of​a​lack​of​water,​food,​or​medical​care.​In​addition​ to​addressing​basic​needs,​the​organization,​through​weekly​open​meetings,​relies​on​forms​of​democratic​discussion​and​decision​making​in​its​ own​governance​and​works​to​build​a​grass-​roots​movement​in​Arizonan​ communities​through​coordinated​house-​by-​house​and​business​outreach​ to​organize​public​resistance​to​S.B.​1070,​an​Arizona​bill​that​at​the​time​ of​its​passage​was​the​most​restrictive​immigration​law​in​the​country.92​ Members​of​No​Más​Muertes​exhibit​their​love​for​the​world​by​simultaneously​seeking​to​transform​the​material​conditions​faced​by​people​in​ the​border​region​and​by​generating​new​forms​of​democratic​power. ​ A​final​example​of​care​for​the​world​can​be​found​in​the​burgeoning​ Right​to​the​City​movement,​which​was​initiated​in​2007​in​Los​Angeles​ and​consists​of​the​activities​of​allied​community​organizations​in​eight​ urban​regions​of​the​United​States.​The​Right​to​the​City​takes​its​name​ from​Henry​Lefebvre’s​book​of​1967,​which​stipulated​the​right​of​all​city​ inhabitants​to​a​fair​distribution​of​such​urban​resources​as​transportation,​housing,​and​public​parks​as​well​as​control​over​the​decision-​making​ processes​that​shape​cities.93​From​the​beginning​the​right​to​the​city​has​ been​understood​in​a​way​that​combines​concern​for​material​needs​with​ concern​for​democratic​governance.​When​David​Harvey,​the​critical​geographer,​began​reviving​the​term​in​2003,​he​defined​it​as​“not​merely​a​ right​of​access​to​what​the​property​speculators​and​state​planners​define,​ but​an​active​right​to​make​the​city​different,​to​shape​it​more​in​accord​ with​our​desires,​and​to​re-​make​ourselves​thereby​in​a​different​image.”94​ While​the​Right​to​the​City​struggles​to​secure​housing,​health​care,​and​ public​space,​it​also​aims​to​increase​the​power​of​city​residents,​especially​ the​disenfranchised,​to​engage​in​the​design​and​development​of​cities.​ Participants​aim​at​the​equitable​distribution​of​urban​resources​together​ with​the​empowerment​of​a​city’s​inhabitants​to​determine​the​conditions​ under​which​they​live.​For​example,​Right​to​the​City​initiated​a​campaign​ titled​We​Call​These​Projects​Home:​Solving​the​Housing​Crisis​from​the​ Ground​Up.​As​part​of​this​program,​the​organization​published​a​report​ that​foregrounded​the​voices​of​public​housing​residents​in​seven​cities​ across​the​United​States​in​an​effort​to​draw​attention​to​the​importance​ of​available,​safe​public​housing.​The​purpose​of​the​report​was​twofold:​ Partisanship for the World

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to​advocate​the​expansion​and​maintenance​of​public​housing​that​is​inadequate​and​greater​resident​participation,​that​is,​opportunities​for​residents​to​be​decision​makers​in​the​public​housing​communities​in​which​ they​live.​The​Right​to​the​City​advocates​“the​right​for​all​people​to​produce​the​living​conditions​that​meet​their​needs.”95​In​so​doing,​participants​in​the​movement​exhibit​care​for​the​world​as​both​home​and​in-​ between. ​ A​democratic​ethos​centered​on​caring​for​the​world​is​not​a​formula.​ It​does​not​spell​out​exactly​how​to​proceed​or​prescribe​a​program​for​ enacting​such​care.​It​does,​however,​reframe​the​question​of​ethics​and​ democracy,​urging​us​to​think​differently​about​the​spirit​of​democratic​ citizenship.​It​privileges​a​form​of​care​undertaken​by​associations​whose​ participants​ actively​ tend​ to​ specific​ features​ of​ their​ material​ and​ immaterial​environment.​An​ethos​that​animates​democratic​engagement​ is​one​which​orients​citizens’​attention​and​concern​toward​conditions​ rather​than​particular​individuals.​The​ethos​I​have​been​advancing​departs​ from​ the​ approaches​ taken​ by​ Foucault,​ Levinas,​ and​ their​ interpreters,​because​it​involves​a​particular​modality​of​care​that​is​not​intra-​ or​intersubjective​but​extrasubjective. ​ Care​for​the​world​as​world​is​explicitly​affective​and​normative​in​character.​This​ethos​is​dispositional​insofar​as​it​involves​feelings​and​activities​of​care​directed​toward​worldly​things.​But​it​also​incorporates​a​normative​perspective,​specifying​that​such​care​respects​the​world’s​status​as​ common,​in​the​dual​sense​of​home​and​in-​between.​The​ethos​of​democracy,​as​I​formulate​it,​is​expressed​in​and​fostered​by​some​movements​ and​not​others;​not​every​collective​endeavor​aiming​to​affect​a​worldly​ thing​embodies​its​spirit. ​ Care​for​the​world​as​world​provides​a​perspective​from​which​to​think​ and​ act.​ It​ is​ a​ democratic-​ethical​ vantage​ point​ that​ encourages​ us​ to​ question​ the​meaning​ of​our​activities​and​those​ of​others.​The​ethical​ vision​presented​here​invites​the​question,​To​what​extent​am​I​participating​in​associative​projects​that​exhibit​care​for​a​worldly​thing,​a​feature​of​ existential​conditions?​Do​my​efforts,​together​with​those​of​others,​aim​to​ make​the​world​in​some​way​more​hospitable​to​all?​Do​they​strive​to​create​democratic​spaces​in​which​the​world​can​emerge,​however​fleetingly,​ as​something​between​us?

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ePiLogue –​ ​— –​

sE lf/oth E r/W orld Forging​Connections​and​Fostering​Democratic​Care

The​ preceding​ pages​ have​ conceptualized​ and​ advocated​ a​ democratic​ethos​focused​on​collaborative​care​for​the​world.​ This​argument​was​developed​largely​by​distinguishing​care​ for​the​world​from​the​sorts​of​dyadic​care​relations—care​for​ the​self​and​care​for​the​Other—that​define​Foucauldian​and​ Levinasian​ ethics.​ In​ particular,​ I​ have​ contended​ that​ this​ democratic​modality​of​care​involves​unique​practitioners,​recipients,​and​aims,​all​of​which​set​care​for​the​world​apart​ from​even​the​most​admirable​forms​of​self-​care​or​active​concern​for​another.​Indeed,​the​claim​has​been​one​not​only​of​ distinction​ but​ also​ of​ tension:​ the​ orientations​ encouraged​ by​Foucauldian​and​Levinasian​ethics,​the​most​prominent​in​ the​turn​to​ethics,​may​need​to​be​resisted,​even​overcome,​if​ democratic​care​is​to​be​enacted. ​ Without​abandoning​this​claim,​I​want​to​muddy​these​lines​ a​bit.​If​the​earlier​analysis​often​sought​to​keep​care​for​the​ self,​Other,​and​world​separate​in​order​to​illuminate​the​contours​ of​ a​ world-​centered​ democratic​ ethos,​ this​ depiction​ runs​ the​ risk​ of​ overdrawing​ those​ distinctions,​ suggesting​ that​an​unbridgeable​divide​separates​different​ethical​practices​of​care​from​one​another.​It​is​wrong,​I​have​argued,​to​ collapse​these​modes​of​care,​to​conflate​therapeutic,​charitable,​and​democratic​relations,​as​though​care,​of​whatever​

sort,​ were​ sufficient​ to​ establish​ a​ common​ identity.​ And​ it​ is​ likewise​ mistaken​ to​assume​ that​ one​ kind​ of​care​ necessarily​ leads​ to​another.​ But​are​Foucauldian​self-​care​and​Levinasian​care​for​the​Other​only​obstacles​to​the​flourishing​of​a​democratic​ethos?​If​the​caring​orientation​ that​defines​therapeutic​and​charitable​ethics​must​be​largely​overcome​in​ order​for​a​new​actor​(an​association​of​human​beings)​and​a​new​object​ (a​worldly​thing)​to​emerge,​is​it​nonetheless​possible​that​those​dyadic​ relations​of​care​may​also​contain​a​seed​that,​if​cultivated​in​certain​ways,​ can​support​democratic​care?​In​other​words,​does​self-​care​or​care​for​the​ Other​ever​offer​resources​that​can​be​marshaled​for​this​overcoming​and​ ultimately​lend​support​to​collective​care​for​worldly​conditions? ​ I​argued​in​chapter​1​against​the​supposition​that​simply​taking​care​ of​oneself​fosters​or​enhances​citizens’​democratic​engagement.​If​Foucauldian​practices​of​self-​care​are​to​have​any​macropolitical​significance,​ helping​to​constitute​selves​who​are​suited​for​the​demands​of​associative​ democratic​action,​those​arts​of​the​self​must​be​activated​and​continually​guided​by​concern​for​a​worldly​thing,​an​object​of​public​attention,​ and​by​the​self’s​desire,​however​inchoate,​to​participate​more​effectively​ in​collective​efforts​to​affect​that​matter​of​concern.​That​is,​care​for​the​ self​may​have​a​part​to​play​in​nourishing​democratic​care​for​the​world,​ but​only​if​practices​of​self-​care​are​oriented,​from​the​start,​toward​associative​endeavors​that​aim​to​affect​worldly​conditions.​A​virtuous​circle​ may​be​possible,​one​in​which​care​for​the​self​and​care​for​the​world​reciprocally​interact,​but​there​is​little​reason​to​hope​that​care​for​the​self​ per​se,​susceptible​as​it​is​to​egoist​temptations,​will​generate​or​enhance​ associative​democratic​politics. ​ If​work​on​the​self​is​initially​prompted​by​collective​efforts​to​publicize​ a​matter​of​concern​and​mobilize​democratic​support​on​its​behalf,​then​ there​is​reason​to​believe​this​reflexive​labor​may​eventually​feed​back​into​ that​democratic​movement.​Indeed,​some​associative​democratic​projects​ aim​ explicitly​ to​ jar​ addressees​ into​ processes​ of​ self-​examination​ and,​ ideally,​self-​transformation,​processes​that​can​perhaps​serve​the​association’s​worldly​goals.​The​Welcoming​Tennessee​Initiative​(wti)​is​one​example.​This​collaborative​project,​started​in​2005​by​the​Tennessee​Immigrant​ and​ Refugee​ Rights​ Coalition​ (tirrC),​ focuses​ on​ challenging​ stereotypes​and​dispelling​myths​about​immigration​and​immigrants​in​ the​state,​which​has​one​of​the​highest​rates​of​immigration​in​the​country.​To​do​so,​participants​created​opportunities​for​recent​immigrants​and​ Epilogue

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long-​time​Tennessee​residents​to​come​into​direct​contact​with​one​other​ in​a​variety​of​settings,​including​community​meetings,​film​screenings,​ and​church​gatherings,​designed​to​facilitate​dialogue;​they​also​undertook​a​media​campaign​to​reach​more​of​the​population.1​The​media​outreach​included​fifty​billboards​throughout​the​Nashville​area,​which​were​ meant​to​grab​the​attention​of​viewers,​potentially​disrupting​their​current​ habits​ of​ thought​ and​ encouraging​ deeper​ reflection​ on​ the​ question​of​immigration.​One​billboard​featured​the​biblical​passage,​“I​was​ a​stranger​and​you​welcomed​me”;​another​stated,​“Welcome​the​immigrant​you​once​were.”2​The​varied​strategies​of​the​wti​were​intended​to​ help​spark​individuals​to​reexamine​their​beliefs​and​opinions​in​order​to​ promote​“empathy,​hospitality,​and​neighborly​treatment​of​immigrants​ in​Tennessee.”3​It​is​difficult​to​know​how​many​people​who​attended​a​ wti​event​or​saw​a​billboard​were​prompted​to​engage​in​the​reflexive​ relation​of​questioning​and​experimentation​that​William​Connolly​and​ others​celebrate​as​democratically​significant.​There​was,​however,​a​measurable​shift​in​public​opinion​in​Tennessee​toward​supporting​routes​to​ legal​citizenship​ in​the​period​wti​undertook​ its​campaign.4​It​is​even​ more​difficult​to​determine​whether​any​of​wti’s​addressees​engaged​in​ micropolitics​of​the​self​that​in​turn​inspired​them​to​participate​in​collective​democratic​action.​Nonetheless,​there​is​reason​for​hope​here,​since​ wti​is​but​one​element​of​tirrC’s​larger,​more​comprehensive​movement​ and​the​wti​projects​all​provided​information​on​tirCC’s​multipronged​ efforts​to​improve​the​conditions​faced​by​immigrants​in​Tennessee.​The​ community​education​efforts​of​wti​referenced​and​publicized​the​work​ of​ tirrC,​ a​ “statewide​ immigrant​ and​ refugee​ led​ collaboration”​ using​ grass-​roots​organizing​to​seek​local​and​national​legislative​reform,​promote​two-​way​immigrant​integration​processes,​combat​racial​profiling,​ hold​so-​called​Justice​Schools,​and​mobilize​against​English-​only​initiatives,​ among​ other​ programs.5​ Within​ this​ configuration,​ work​ on​ the​ self​triggered​by​wti’s​campaigns​may​help​prepare​some​individuals​to​ join​in​these​associative​democratic​struggles.​The​prospect​of​a​mutually​ supportive​dynamic​between​care​for​the​self​and​care​for​the​world​depends​here,​as​in​other​cases,​on​whether​an​individual’s​work​on​herself​ is​spurred​by​a​democratic​movement​urging​care​for​a​worldly​thing.​This​ link​is​crucial.​Without​such​an​anchor,​work​on​the​self​can​take​many​ forms—self-​indulgent​consumerism​or​the​reinforcement​of​a​fundamentalist​identity,​for​example—that​do​little​to​foster​associative​endeavors​ Self/Other/World

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to​make​the​world​a​better​home​and​in-​between.​If,​however,​the​self’s​ reflexive​relationship​is​inspired​by​democratic​action​that​enacts​care​for​ the​world,​then​it​can​potentially​serve​as​a​resource​for​those​worldly​endeavors. ​ What​about​care​for​the​Other?​Might​a​charitable​ethical​outlook​or​ activity​focused​on​tending​to​another’s​needs​harbor​elements​that​can​ be​drawn​upon​to​serve​collaborative​care​for​the​world?​In​chapter​2​I​ insisted​that​the​provision​of​charity​not​be​mistaken​for​the​practice​of​ democracy.​Yet​it​is​hard​to​agree​with​Arendt​when​she​declares,​“Politics​are​concerned​with​the​world​as​such​and​not​with​those​who​live​in​ it.”6​Surely​it​is​unlikely​that​one​would​be​concerned​with​the​world​and​ willing​to​expend​energy​engaging​in​politics​in​the​absence​of​any​concern​for​that​world’s​inhabitants.​If​“the​world”​and​“those​who​live​in​it”​ cannot​be​as​neatly​cordoned​off​from​one​another​as​Arendt’s​remark​suggests,​then​one​would​do​well​to​consider​whether​feelings​of​concern​for​ particular​others​may​bear​democratic​potential.​Can​a​dyadic​relation​in​ which​a​self​is​moved​to​respond​to​the​summons​of​the​Other​be​transformed​into​a​relation​of​mutual​care​for​worldly​conditions?​If​so,​how?​ When​can​a​sense​of​personal​responsibility​to​an​Other​serve​as​an​opening​for​the​cultivation​of​a​democratic​ethics?​What​kinds​of​appeals​and​ practices​can​aid​in​effecting​such​a​shift? ​ Two​examples​are​helpful​here.​First,​a​video​advertisement​from​2010​ by​the​Courage​Campaign​that​aired​on​television​in​California​and​was​ viewed​by​more​than​a​million​people​online,​is​worth​consideration.​It​ was​designed​to​elicit​viewers’​concern​for​particular​individuals,​couples,​ and​ families​ yet​ seeks​ to​ direct​ that​ concern​ toward​ participation​ in​ democratic​action.7​The​ad​was​created​after​the​passage​of​Proposition​8,​ which​made​same-​sex​marriage,​previously​permitted​under​state​law,​illegal​in​California.​The​ad,​titled​“Fidelity”​(after​the​song​it​features)​and​ also​known​as​the​“Don’t​Divorce​.​.​.”​video,​consists​almost​entirely​of​a​ series​of​low-​tech​snapshots​set​to​a​moving,​piano-​heavy,​indie​pop​song​ by​Regina​Spektor.​About​half​of​the​snapshots​are​of​same-​sex​couples— at​their​weddings,​on​vacation,​in​familiar​portrait​poses.​The​other​half​ of​the​photographs​are​of​people​holding​a​various​handmade​signs​that​ read,​ “Don’t​ Divorce​ My​ Moms,”​ “Don’t​ Divorce​ My​ Son​ and​ Son-​in-​ Law,”​“Don’t​Divorce​Us,”​“Don’t​Divorce​My​Friends,”​“Don’t​Divorce​My​ Uncles,”​“Don’t​Divorce​My​Co-​Workers,”​and​so​on.​Each​of​these​images​ features​one​to​five​people​who​all,​with​one​exception,​look​directly​into​ Epilogue

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the​camera​while​holding​a​sign​that​specifies​how​they​or​those​close​to​ them​would​be​affected—divorced—by​Proposition​8.8​The​cumulative​ effect​of​these​amateur​portraits​and​homemade​signs,​in​which​specific​ individuals​make​personal​pleas​on​behalf​of​specific​marriages,​is​quite​ arresting.​It​is​difficult​not​to​be​struck​by​the​immediacy​of​the​appeal:​ this​ person,​ this​ couple​ will​ lose​ something​ significant​ if​ Proposition​ 8​ stands.​ The​ ad​ is​ clearly​ structured​ so​ as​ to​ elicit​ an​ emotional,​ caring​ response​toward​particular​individuals​and​families.​Indeed,​it​draws​on​ some​familiar​techniques​used​in​print​and​television​ads​for​charitable​organizations,​which​regularly​feature​images​of​specific,​suffering​people,​ usually​children,​as​part​of​their​call​for​financial​support.​What​the​“Don’t​ Divorce​.​.​.”​video​seeks​to​do​is​not​new,​then:​it​tries​to​evoke​viewers’​ compassion​for​particular​human​beings​and​uses​carefully​crafted​visual​ representations​ to​ do​ so.​ Yet​ the​ ad​ is​ designed​ to​ direct​ that​ compassionate​response​into​avenues​of​collective​democratic​action.​When​the​ series​of​snapshots​concludes,​the​words​“Love​will​prevail”​appear​on​the​ screen,​a​statement​that​can​seem​apolitical,​implying​that​love​is​an​extrahuman​force​that​will​ultimately​win​out,​whatever​human​beings​do.​But​ the​words​that​follow​reveal​the​statement​to​be​an​incitement​to​action:​ “Tell​the​Supreme​Court​not​to​divorce​18,000​California​couples.”​This​ instruction​ is​ followed​ by​ the​ web​ address​ for​ the​ Courage​ Campaign,​ a​ site​ which​ contains​ information​ on​ several​ actions​ in​ which​ one​ can​ participate,​ranging​from​petition-​signing​and​letter-​writing​campaigns​ to​public​protests​and​attendance​at​Camp​Courage,​an​activist​training​ program.​There​is​no​guarantee​that​viewers​of​“Don’t​Divorce​.​.​.”​will​ be​persuaded​to​join​these​efforts.​Yet​the​video​serves​as​an​important​ example​of​how​concern​for​particular​others​might​be​activated​and​directed​toward​collaborative​world-​centered​projects. ​ A​second,​quite​different​example​takes​professed​concern​for​the​suffering​of​the​world’s​poor​as​its​starting​point​but​seeks​to​transform​it​ into​democratic​demands​for​the​reorganization​of​global​institutions.​The​ powerful​work​of​Thomas​Pogge,​who​has​written​extensively​in​academic​ as​well​as​policy​contexts,​is​driven,​first,​by​a​charge​of​hypocrisy:​Americans​and​others​pay​lip​service​to​morality,​purporting​to​care​about​the​ alleviation​of​human​suffering,​but​they​actually​do​little​to​address​the​ profound​harms​poverty​causes​throughout​the​world.9​Pogge’s​next​move​ is​notably​resonant​with​the​questions​I​discuss​here.​In​Politics as Usual,​ briefs​written​for​the​Comparative​Research​Programme​on​Poverty,​and​ Self/Other/World

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other​writings,​Pogge​does​more​than​simply​allege​that​existing​charitable​ responses​to​poverty​are​inadequate.​He​also​tries​to​develop​a​sense​of​ shared,​democratic​responsibility​for​the​transformation​of​global​institutions.​ He​desires​ to​replace​ a​charitable​ outlook,​ according​ to​which​ the​affluent​give​aid​to​the​needy,​with​a​democratic​one,​according​to​ which​the​citizens​of​the​g7​countries​(Canada,​France,​Germany,​Italy,​ Japan,​the​United​Kingdom,​and​the​United​States)​are​accountable​for​the​ global​order​their​governments​have​built.​As​Pogge​convincingly​shows,​ that​order’s​institutional​design​“systematically​produces”​deprivation​for​ some​and​affluence​for​others.10​Citizens​of​the​g7​countries,​which​are​ all​“reasonably​democratic,”​are​responsible​for​this​state​of​affairs​and​ should​collectively​insist​upon​“structural​reform.”11​While​Pogge’s​argument​does​not​focus​primarily​on​eliciting​care​for​a​particular​Other,​as​ in​the​previous​example,​his​work​tries​to​tap​into​and​radically​reshape​ the​concern​we​already,​routinely​claim​to​have​for​others​(a​concern​that​ seems​to​drive​relatively​high​rates​of​charitable​giving,​including​internationally,​among​Americans).12​Pogge​tries​to​show​that​if​we​really​do​ care​about​the​lives​damaged​and​lost​because​of​poverty,​charitable​giving​ will​not​suffice;​ a​collective​ democratic​ response​ aimed​at​redesigning​ global​institutions​and​policies​is​needed.​His​work​aims​to​mobilize​citizen​sentiments​toward​the​transformation​of​institutions​and​away​from​ what​he​terms​generous​charity. ​ The​efforts​of​the​Courage​Campaign’s​visual​media​and​Pogge’s​activist​scholarship​are​connected​by​the​fact​that​each​project​aims​to​define​ and​elicit​a​collectivity​of​citizens,​cast​as​the​responsible​agent,​and​to​ specify​features​of​worldly​conditions​as​the​appropriate​objects​of​their​ care.​In​both​cases​an​appeal​that​draws​on​but​also​attempts​to​rework​ the​viewer’s​or​reader’s​sense​of​compassion​or​concern​for​others​is​made.​ These​approaches​suggest​that​the​charitable​ethical​outlook​conceptualized​and​criticized​in​this​book​is​not​entirely​opposed​to​a​democratic​ ethos.​It​contains​a​kernel​of​possibility.​Care​for​others​may​be​invoked​ and​built​upon​in​ways​that​are​politicizing,​but​only​if​felt​concern​can​ be​broadened​and​directed​toward​worldly​conditions​and​avenues​of​collective​action​to​address​them. ​ But​ if​ the​ democratic​ ethos​ advocated​ here​ can​ sometimes​ draw​ strength​from​modalities​of​care​that​are​not​yet​collaborative​or​world-​ centered,​it​is​also​important​to​challenge​the​sequencing​implied​by​this​ formulation,​a​sequencing​that​is​also​crucial​to​arguments​made​by​proEpilogue

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ponents​of​therapeutic​and​charitable​ethics.​As​we​saw​earlier,​work​defending​Foucauldian-​and​Levinasian-​inspired​ethics​for​democracy​tends​ to​suppose​that​care​for​the​self​or​for​the​Other​is​necessarily​prior​to​and​ preparatory​for​what​I​have​called​care​for​the​world.​But​this​chronology​ and​the​seamlessness​it​hints​at​are​part​of​what​this​book​calls​into​question.​Notwithstanding​the​examples​given​above,​which​gesture​toward​ the​possibility​of​politicizing​care​for​the​Other(s),​a​different​connection​ must​be​contemplated:​how​collaborative​care​for​the​world​can​enable​ and​support​dyadic​practices​of​care.​In​other​words,​rather​than​assume​ that​an​individual​must​start​by​caring​for​herself​or​an​Other​in​order​ to​subsequently​move​outward​into​participation​in​collective​action,​we​ should​be​alert​to​the​ways​in​which​collective​action,​animated​by​care​ for​the​world,​enables​other​practices​of​care. ​ For​example,​supposing​one​believes​that​the​creation​of​what​Foucault​ calls​“new​forms​of​subjectivity”​is​an​important​project​today,​perhaps​ even​a​strategy​for​countering​contemporary​workings​of​power.13​It​is​ not​necessarily​the​case​that​the​cultivation​of​more​varied​and​less​normalized​individuals​is​best​pursued​directly,​by​engaging​in​arts​of​the​self.​ That​is,​if​one​accepts​what​Richard​Flathman​calls​“complementarism”— the​view​that​“robust​and​widely​distributed​individualities​are​productive​ of​group​and​institutional​life,​and​the​latter​support​and​stimulate​individualities”—the​focus​should​not​be​exclusively​on​the​first​half​of​this​ insight.14​Also​requiring​exploration​is​the​possibility​that​the​multiplication​of​styles​of​subjectivity​may​depend​to​a​great​extent​on​collaborative​ world-​centered​projects. ​ That​is​to​say,​one​ought​to​ask​whether​associative​democratic​politics,​ guided​by​the​spirit​of​care​for​worldly​things,​can​help​provide​the​institutional​and​cultural​supports​that​foster​the​emergence​of​new​subjectivities.​Michael​Warner’s​astute​analysis​of​queer​counterpublics​emphasizes​ the​indispensable​role​such​publics​play​in​enabling​the​development​of​ non-​normative​selves.​“The​world-​making​project​of​queer​life”​involves​ the​elaboration​of​“knowledges,​places,​practices,​languages​and​learned​ modes​of​feeling”​that​make​possible​new,​queer​styles​of​subjectivity.15​ The​power​of​Warner’s​analysis​lies​in​his​insistence​on​the​public​quality​ of​even​that​dimension​of​identity​that​is​often​taken​to​be​the​most​personal​and​private,​namely,​sexuality.​Sexual​freedom,​Warner​argues,​involves​more​than​freedom​of​choice;​it​requires​“access​to​pleasures​and​ possibilities,​since​people​commonly​do​not​know​their​desires​until​they​ Self/Other/World

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find​them.”16​The​emergence​of​diverse​individualities,​sexual​and​otherwise,​Warner​notes,​depends​on​shared​cultures​that​can​nurture​those​ individualities​into​existence.​The​project​of​pluralizing​forms​of​subjectivity​depends​largely​on​the​existence​of​public​supports.17 ​ Foucault​himself​articulated​this​insight,​though​without​fully​pursuing​ it.​In​a​late​interview​he​clarified​that​the​care​of​the​self,​through​which​ an​individual​attempts​to​craft​a​distinctive​way​of​being,​is​not​without​ its​enabling​conditions​and​constraints.​The​techniques,​models,​and​aspirations​ that​ characterize​ the​ ethics​ of​ self-​care​ are​ themselves​ cultural​ products:​“I​would​say​that​if​I​am​now​interested​in​how​the​subject​constitutes​itself​in​an​active​fashion​through​practices​of​the​self,​these​practices​are​nevertheless​not​something​invented​by​the​individual​himself.​ They​are​models​he​finds​in​his​culture,​and​are​proposed,​suggested,​imposed​on​him​by​his​culture,​his​society,​his​social​group.”18​What​Foucault​ seems​to​recognize​in​this​moment—that​the​conditions​of​possibility​for​ the​ethical​practice​of​self-​care​are​publicly​constituted—allows​one​to​ appreciate​that​practices​that​aspire​to​care​for​the​world​are​potentially​ enabling​of​“new​subjectivities.”​Self-​constitution​can​be​helpfully​conceived​of​as​an​indirect​enterprise,​one​practiced​not​only​by​conscious​ focus​on​oneself​as​an​object​of​care,​but​also​through​engagement​with​ others​that​is​directed​at​changing​worldly​conditions​in​ways​that​make​ them​more​amenable​to​individual​experimentation​and​flourishing.19 ​ One’s​ capacity​ to​ respond​ openly​ and​ generously​ to​ others​ depends​ upon​broader​sociocultural​conditions​that​facilitate​and​encourage​responsiveness​and​concern—conditions​that​are​shaped​less​by​any​particular​self​than​by​collective​efforts​to​alter​the​terms​under​which​humans​ live.​The​quality​of​the​dyadic​relation​between​self​and​other​may​hinge,​ importantly,​upon​the​worldly​context​within​which​this​encounter​occurs.​Butler​offers​this​insight​but​backs​away​from​it​when​she​acknowledges​that​the​capacity​to​respond​nonviolently,​even​hospitably,​to​the​ Other​depends​upon​the​frames​and​norms​that​govern​that​encounter.​As​ discussed​in​chapter​2,​this​attention​to​schemas​of​intelligibility​would​ seem​to​prioritize​associative​struggles​to​reshape​norms​and​schemas,​ recognizing​that​such​efforts​are​essential​to​establishing​the​conditions​ of​possibility​for​a​dyadic​encounter​characterized​by​responsiveness​and​ concern.​As​I​argued​there,​Butler​tends​to​evade​the​political​project​this​ attention​to​frames,​norms,​and​schemas​opens​up​by​instead​positing​an​ ethical​truth​that​brings​with​it​an​injunction​for​action.​Yet​her​attention​ Epilogue

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to​the​way​in​which​every​ethical​scene​is​embedded​in​a​set​of​norms​that​ systematically​“derealize”​some​lives,​rendering​them​ungrievable,​should​ alert​one​to​the​importance​of​challenging​and​reworking​shared​cultural​ frames​so​that​more​lives,​including​foreign,​Muslim,​impoverished,​nonwhite​ lives,​ appear​ as​ real​ and​ injurable,​ thereby​ making​ a​ responsive,​ caring​encounter​between​self​and​Other​more​likely. ​ One​example​of​this​kind​of​world-​centered​project​is​Iraq​Body​Count,​ a​web-​based​collaborative​effort​to​document​the​civilian​deaths​caused​ by​the​war​in​Iraq.​The​project,​as​Maja​Zehfuss​shows,​is​determined​to​ be​more​than​a​“counting​tool.”20​The​attitude​the​website​conveys​toward​ the​information​it​provides​is​important:​“It​is​to​these​all​too​easily​disregarded​victims​of​violence​that​Iraq​Body​Count​is​dedicated​and​we​ are​resolute​that​they,​too,​shall​have​their​memorials.”21​As​Zehfuss​argues,​“The​point​of​Iraq​Body​Count​is​not​merely​to​count​the​dead​but​ to​provide​memorials,​to​highlight​the​grievability​of​the​lives​that​have​ been​destroyed.”​Toward​this​end,​the​site​posts​as​much​detail​as​possible​on​“named​and​identified​victims​of​the​war​on​Iraq,”​specifying​the​ name,​age,​sex,​place​of​death,​date,​and​source​of​information.​The​site​ reports,​for​example,​that​“Zahraa​Husien​Khzaieer,​a​ten-​year-​old​girl,​ died​of​gashes​in​the​chest​at​‘Nassriaa/Baghdad​Street’​in​2003​and​Hashim​Kamel​Radi,​a​22-​year-​old​man,​died​due​to​an​airstrike​on​the​bus​ from​Baghdad​to​Nasiriyah​in​March​2003.”​Iraq​Body​Count,​despite​its​ name,​is​resolved​to​offer​more​than​a​tally;​its​list​is​offered​“in​remembrance”​and​is​prefaced​by​the​words,​“To​those​who​knew​and​loved​them,​ we​add​our​sorrow​and​condolences.”22​It​proposes​to​“interrupt”​dominant​“frames​of​war”​such​as​those​supplied​by​the​U.S.​Department​of​ Defense,​which​records​and​publicizes​only​coalition​deaths,​primarily​by​ challenging​the​differentiation​between​grievable​and​ungrievable​lives​ that​structures​mainstream​American​representations​of​the​Iraqi​war.23​ The​project,​Zehfuss​suggests,​“intends​to​subvert​the​distinction​between​ grievable​coalition​lives​and​the​Iraqi​dead.”24​Iraq​Body​Count,​whose​ work​ has​ received​ worldwide​ attention,​ endeavors​ to​ shift,​ however​ slightly,​reigning​schemas​that​affect​“who​counts​as​human”​and​“whose​ lives​count​as​lives.”25​This​ambition—to​create​and​circulate​an​alternative​cultural​frame​that​disrupts​the​dominant​Western​perceptual/normative​field—should​refocus​our​attention​on​the​powerful​but​malleable​ social​context​within​which​every​dyadic​encounter​occurs.​The​chances​ for​a​genuinely​ethical​response​to​the​Other​depend​at​least​as​much​on​ Self/Other/World

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that​contextual​environment​as​on​the​attributes​of​the​specific​self​who​ faces​the​Other​in​need​of​help.​Again,​it​is​important​not​to​assume​that​ the​lines​of​influence​run​only​one​way:​rather​than​emphasize,​as​so​many​ thinkers​do,​that​a​more​responsive,​giving​relation​to​the​Other​can​enhance​democratic​politics,​we​should​concern​ourselves​with​how​world-​ centered​democratic​practices​can​help​to​create​conditions​that​facilitate​ more​generous​relations​between​particular​selves​and​others. ​ Finally,​another​critical​connection​concerns​not​the​linkages​between​ diverse​ethical​practices​of​care,​but​the​relationship​between​ethos​and​ institutions.​The​very​question​of​a​democratic​ethos​presupposes​that​the​ spirit​of​a​regime,​not​only​its​formal​features,​matters.​The​argument​presented​here​has​defended​a​specific​spirit,​one​characterized​by​care​for​ the​world​as​world,​as​being​highly​important​to​and​enlivening​of​associative​democracy.​Moreover,​as​I​showed​in​chapter​4,​this​ethos​is​already​ present​in​some​forms​of​democratic​organizing​today,​though​it​deserves​ to​be​more​explicitly​elaborated​and​purposefully​pursued. ​ But​one​may​still​wonder​how​this​ethical​sensibility​can​be​sustained,​ much​less​extended,​when​so​many​features​of​contemporary​politics​in​ the​United​States​seem​inhospitable,​if​not​hostile,​to​democratic​action​ that​embodies​care​for​the​world.​Official​channels​of​government​offer​ few​opportunities​for​ordinary​citizens​to​gather​for​the​purpose​of​discussing​ and​ deciding​ public​ matters,​ while​ associational​ activities​ that​ take​ place​ outside​ of​ the​ state​ apparatus​ are​ continually​ threatened​ by​ vigilant​policing​practices.26​Corporate​power​continues​to​grow,​exerting​ever​more​influence​on​supposedly​democratic​institutions.​And​the​ dominant​rhetoric​of​mass-​mediated​electoral​politics​in​this​country​appeals​persistently​to​citizens’​self-​interest,​doing​little​to​bring​into​view​ the​public​world​as​common​object​or​to​cultivate​a​sense​of​concern​for​ this​entity.​How​might​worldly​ethics​find​expression,​here​and​now? ​ Such​an​ethics​would​seem​to​depend​largely​on​the​existence​of​institutional​spaces​and​practices​that​allow​democratic​actors​to​assume​and​ enact​collective​responsibility.​Doesn’t​an​ethics​oriented​toward​care​of​ the​world​require​political​structures​that​foster​such​care​and​afford​opportunities​for​its​exercise?​Yet​don’t​the​very​institutions​that​might​serve​ to​cultivate​care​of​the​world​depend​on​such​an​ethics​already​being​in​ existence​if​they​are​to​come​into​being? ​ We​are​in​the​midst​of​a​powerful​paradox​famously​identified​by​Jean-​ Jacques​Rousseau​in​The Social Contract.​Rousseau’s​theorization​of​politiEpilogue

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cal​founding​stresses​the​extent​to​which​ethics​and​institutions​are​mutually​dependent​upon​one​another;​each​one​seems​to​presuppose​the​other​ as​its​condition​of​possibility.​The​establishment​of​a​sound​democratic​ system​of​self-​rule,​Rousseau​explains,​seems​to​require​individuals​who​ exhibit​a​“social​spirit”​already​oriented​toward​the​common​good.​Yet​that​ orientation​would​itself​seem​to​be​the​result​of​democratic​organization:​ “For​a​newly​formed​people​to​understand​the​wise​principles​of​politics​ and​to​follow​the​basic​rules​of​statecraft,​the​effect​would​have​to​become​ the​cause;​the​social​spirit​which​must​be​the​product​of​social​institutions​ would​have​to​preside​over​the​setting​up​of​those​institutions;​men​would​ have​to​have​already​become​before​the​advent​of​law​that​which​they​become​as​a​result​of​the​law.”27 ​ Does​this​bind​admit​of​an​escape?​Translated​into​the​terms​of​this​ project,​ if​ an​ ethics​ of​ care​ for​ the​ world​ might​ help​ to​ inspire​ and​ strengthen​ associative​ democratic​ politics,​ doesn’t​ such​ an​ ethics​ also​ emerge​in​and​through​that​very​politics?​Where​does​this​leave​us?​Although​Rousseau’s​paradox,​I​would​argue,​cannot​be​resolved,​it​can​be​ attenuated.​The​impasse​he​describes,​while​genuine,​rarely​if​ever​confronts​ us​ so​ starkly.​ The​ mutual​ dependence​ of​ ethics​ and​ institutions​ colors​every​creative​political​act,​every​attempt​to​begin​anew,​but​it​is​ not​ the​fatal​ trap​ Rousseau’s​ rendering​ might​ imply.​We​are​ not​ in​the​ position​of​performing​a​political​founding​ex​nihilo.​The​situation​evoked​ by​Rousseau​gains​much​of​its​drama​from​the​fact​that​it​is​depicted​as​ one​in​which​new​laws,​practices,​and​procedures​must​be​invented​from​ scratch,​ in​the​absence​ of​any​preexisting​ supports,​ whether​ethical​or​ institutional.​We,​thankfully​or​not,​do​not​live​in​such​a​vacuum. ​ Finding​ourselves​in​the​midst​of​things​means​we​can​do​more​than​ wish​for​a​Rousseauvian​Legislator​who​will​set​things​in​motion​for​us.28​ In medias res,​Rousseau’s​riddle​loosens​its​grip​a​bit.​For​we​do​not​face​ an​empty​political​landscape​that​forces​us​to​make​an​impossible​choice​ between​ethics​and​institutions.​Even​if​it​is​a​minority​feature​of​contemporary​politics​in​the​United​States,​we​nonetheless​can​find​worldly​ ethics​already​expressed​in​institutional​life.​It​is​evident​in​the​Beacons​ Programs,​No​Más​Muertes/No​More​Deaths,​and​the​Right​to​the​City​ organizations​and​projects​(see​chapter​4).​Efforts​to​care​for​the​world​as​ world—to​make​the​world​a​more​hospitable​place​for​all​human​beings​ and​to​promote​democratic​practices​through​which​the​world​can​emerge​ as​an​in-​between—are​already​happening.​One​can​locate​this​spirit,​for​ Self/Other/World

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example,​in​the​work​of​United​for​a​Fair​Economy,​a​national​organization​that​raises​awareness​of​the​harms​of​concentrated​wealth​and​power,​ especially​in​relation​to​the​racial​wealth​divide,​and​advocates​progressive​ taxation​policies.​It​does​so​largely​through​community-​based​“participatory​education”​in​English​and​Spanish,​which​helps​to​create​“popular​ educators”​who​can​help​foster​democratic​mobilization​on​behalf​of​economic​justice.29​Justice​Now,​based​in​California​(home​to​the​two​largest​ women’s​ prisons​ in​ the​ world),​ works​ to​ improve​ the​ conditions​ faced​ by​women​in​prison,​documenting​and​challenging​human​rights​abuses​ against​inmates,​especially​sexual​abuse​and​the​denial​of​health​care.30​ At​the​same​time​they​aim​to​improve​prisoners’​lives​in​the​present,​the​ group​promotes​alternatives​to​policing​and​prisons,​working​toward​a​ long-​term​goal​of​the​abolition​of​prisons.​The​organization​works​with​ women​inmates​rather​than​simply​providing​services​for​them:​“It’s​imperative​that​the​prisoners​themselves​drive​the​agenda.”31​By​cultivating​ leadership​and​activism​among​inmates,​who​serve​on​the​group’s​board​ and​steer​policy​and​strategy,​Justice​Now​strives​not​only​to​address​prisoners’​ basic​ needs​ but​ also​ to​ create​ new​ avenues​ for​ political​ participation​for​some​of​society’s​most​disenfranchised​members.​Our​Water​ Commons,​based​in​Minneapolis,​is​an​activist​organization​working​to​ bring​about​“participatory,​democratic,​community-​centered​systems”​of​ water​distribution​worldwide.​In​cooperation​with​other​global​water​justice​movements,​many​of​which​have​successfully​challenged​governmental​privatization​efforts,​participants​advocate​the​principle​that​water​is​a​ “commons​that​belongs​to​everyone​and​no​one.”​They​seek​legal​reform​ that​ simultaneously​ provides​ greater​ control​ of​ water​ by​ local​ citizens​ while​strengthening​the​limits​on​privatization,​pricing,​and​use,​in​recognition​not​only​of​a​human​right​to​water​but​also​of​the​importance​of​ fair​water​distribution​for​the​ecosystems​of​which​all​humans​are​a​part.32​ In​these​cases​and​many​others,​the​ethical​and​the​institutional​cannot​ be​detached​from​one​another;​care​for​the​world​as​both​a​home​and​an​ in-​between​is​enacted​in​and​through​democratic​counter-​institutions.33​ They​are​already​imperfectly​combined. ​ Whether​we​join​in​the​activities​of​these​organizations​or​take​inspiration​from​them​to​create​new​ventures,​we​are​far​from​the​abstract,​ empty​ space​ of​ Rousseauvian​ political​ beginnings.​ That​ we​ are​ already​ located​within​a​messy​universe​of​ethical-​institutional​entities​means​we​ do​ not​ need​ to​ imagine​ the​ task​ before​ us​ as​ one​ of​ radical​ invention,​ Epilogue

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confronting​us​with​an​irresolvable​riddle:​ethics​or​institutions?​We​are​ in​the​middle​of​things,​and​this​might​turn​out​to​be​a​good​place​to​be.​ While​collaborative​efforts​to​care​for​the​world​may​be​muted​features​ of​contemporary​political​life,​they​nonetheless​exist.​It​is​surely​easier​ to​lament​or​despair​over​present​conditions,​but​a​commitment​to​associative​democratic​politics​calls​for​something​else.​It​requires​us​to​take​ sustenance​from​the​supports​that​already​exist,​so​that​we​might​begin​ where​we​are.

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introduction

​ 1.​See​The Turn to Ethics,​ed.​Garber,​Hanssen,​and​Walkowitz.​Leading​examples​ of​this​development​include​Anderson,​The Way We Argue Now;​Bennett,​The Enchantment of Modern Life​and​Vibrant Matter;​Butler,​Giving an Account of Oneself​ and​Precarious Life;​Coles,​Rethinking Generosity;​Connolly,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​Pluralism,​and​A World of Becoming;​Critchley,​The Ethics of Deconstruction​and​ Infinitely Demanding;​Orlie,​Living Ethically, Acting Politically;​White,​The Ethos of a Late Modern Citizen;​and​Ziarek,​An Ethics of Dissensus. ​ 2.​William​Connolly​frequently​refers​to​ethics​as​being​indispensable​to​democracy.​ See,​for​example,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​13,​170,​187. ​ 3.​For​example,​many​media​representations​of​the​Occupy​Wall​Street​(ows)​movement​in​late​2011​emphasized​its​enactment​of​an​ethos,​alternately​identified​as​ nonviolent​(nPr),​leaderless​(Huffington​Post),​do-​it-​yourself​(Jewish​Week),​and​ no-​demands​(Salon.com)​in​character.​Supporters​often​depicted​this​ethos​as​a​ valuable​resource​for​reinvigorating​American​democracy.​For​more​theoretical​ reflections​on​ows’s​ethos,​see​Wendy​Brown​on​its​“populist​ethos”​in​“Occupy​ Wall​Street:​Return​of​a​Repressed​Res-Publica”​and​Richard​Grusin​on​the​movement’s​ fostering​ of​ a​ “revolutionary​ counter-​mood”​ in​ “Premediation​ and​ the​ Virtual​Occupation​of​Wall​Street.”​But​see​also​George​Shulman,​“Interpreting​ Occupy,”​which​argues​that​academics​have​mostly​interpreted​ows​in​ways​that​ validate​“our​own​preferred​frameworks​of​analysis.”​Shulman’s​question,​“Must​ any​effort​to​understand​ows​make​it​evidence​to​confirm​what​we​already​(want​ to)​believe?”​could​easily​be​raised​in​relation​to​the​ethos​many​have​attributed​ to​the​movement. ​ 4.​One​might​object​that​what​is​lacking​in​the​U.S.​polity​is​not​the​requisite​spirit​ but​the​institutional​arrangements​that​ensure​the​exercise​of​genuinely​democratic​power.​The​influence​of​corporations​on​U.S.​elections,​expanded​by​Citizens United v. Federal Election Committee​(2010),​might,​for​example,​support​the​claim​ that​citizens​act​rationally​when​they​decline​to​participate​in​democratic​politics.​Lacking​effective​sites​of​democratic​decision​making,​citizens​may​simply​ opt​out.​Yet​it​is​insufficient​to​insist​that​structural​reform,​rather​than​ethos,​is​ the​real​issue.​This​is​so​not​only​because​of​the​old​but​apt​Rousseauvian​insight​ regarding​the​circular​relationship​between​a​society’s​spirit​and​its​institutions.​ More​ pointedly​ still,​ the​ institutional​ problems​ that​ might​ explain​ citizen​ dis-

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engagement—growing​corporate​power,​an​expanded​executive​branch,​an​entrenched​two-​party​system,​and​so​on—do​not​put​to​rest​the​question​of​ethos.​ Indeed,​they​may​raise​it​anew:​might​the​absence​of​effective​collective​action​ in​response​to​these​conditions​lead​one​back​to​the​problem​of​a​spirit​that​is​ missing​but​that​could​help​mobilize​citizens,​rendering​these​mere​facts​sites​of​ democratic​contestation​and​resistance? 5.​As​Nikolas​Kompridis​says,​Habermas​employs​“a​very​sharp​form/content​distinction​to​distinguish​a​universalistic​concept​of​justice​from​particular​conceptions​of​the​good​life”​(“From​Reason​to​Self-​Realisation?,”​333).​The​moral​point​ of​view,​according​to​Habermas,​properly​guides​questions​about​what​is​right,​ while​questions​about​what​is​good​can​be​answered​only​within​the​context​of​a​ specific​form​of​life. 6.​Some​of​the​most​powerful​objections​to​both​Habermas’s​and​Rawls’s​accounts​ of​public​reason​contend​that​their​approaches​to​democratic​deliberation​unwittingly​reinforce​existing​power​relations​and​specifically​disadvantage​marginalized​groups,​whose​forms​of​expression​may​not​conform​to​the​normative​models​ of​communication​they​advance.​See​Young,​“Communication​and​the​Other,”​and​ Deveaux,​Cultural Pluralism and the Dilemmas of Justice. 7.​Rawls,​Political Liberalism,​220. 8.​Anderson’s​The Way We Argue Now​is​an​exception.​She​states​that​ethos​has​become​a​“valorized​ term”​in​contemporary​ political​theory​ but​says​it​has​been​ wrongly​juxtaposed​with​reason​and​aligned​with​affect​(11–12).​Anderson​challenges​this​framing​(and​Foucauldian​ethics​in​particular,​which​she​casts​as​incoherent)​in​support​of​Habermasian​discourse​ethics,​which​she​claims​unites​ ethics​and​rationality. 9.​The​contrast​between​morality​and​ethics​corresponds​roughly​to​the​Hegelian​ distinction​between​formal,​universal​Moralität​and​the​more​particular,​customary​Sittlichkeit. 10.​This​is​not​to​say​that​those​involved​in​the​turn​to​ethics​advocate​an​anything​ goes​approach​to​political​life.​Connolly,​for​example,​questions​the​exclusions​ generated​by​Rawlsian​public​reason,​which​restrict​“new​drives​of​pluralization”​ (Connolly,​Ethos of Pluralization,​xiv).​Yet​he​also​notes​that​“exclusions,​restrictions,​ and​ boundaries”​ are​ necessary,​ particularly​ to​ restrain​ fundamentalism.​ Similarly,​Chantal​Mouffe​argues​that​“total​pluralism”​is​not​possible​or​desirable​ and​that​“some​limits​need​to​be​put​to​the​kind​of​confrontation​that​is​going​to​ be​seen​as​legitimate​in​the​public​sphere.​But​the​political​nature​of​these​limits​ should​be​acknowledged​instead​of​being​presented​as​requirements​of​morality​ or​rationality,”​as​they​are​for​Habermas​and​Rawls​(Mouffe,​The Democratic Paradox,​93). 11.​Connolly​ maintains​ that​ secularist​ positions​ that​ eschew​ comprehensive​ conceptions​in​politics​make​it​difficult​for​partisans​to​engage​in​issues​of​the​day​ because​most​participants​actually​do​draw​on​their​metaphysical​and​religious​ perspectives.​Thus​the​desire​to​rid​political​life​of​such​perspectives​may​be​strategically​ineffective.​See​Connolly,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​chapter​1.​In​this​regard,​the​discovery—an​apparent​surprise​to​many​Democrats—that​a​majority​ Notes to Introduction

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of​citizens​who​voted​for​George​W.​Bush​in​2004​cited​moral​values​as​the​single​ most​ important​ issue​ of​ the​ election,​ is​ instructive.​ See​ Katharine​ Q.​ Seelye,​ “Moral​Values​Cited​as​a​Defining​Issue​of​the​Election,”​New York Times,​November​4,​2004.​Several​years​later​Barack​Obama’s​often​moving,​morally​infused​ rhetoric​leading​up​to​the​election​of​2008​seemed​to​express​his​criticism​of​the​ tendency​to​cede​values​talk​to​the​right:​“In​reaction​to​religious​overreach,​we​ equate​tolerance​with​secularism,​and​forfeit​the​moral​language​that​would​help​ infuse​our​policies​with​a​larger​meaning”​(Obama,​The Audacity of Hope,​48). ​ 12.​Oxford English Dictionary​(2d​ed.,​1989).​Chamberlain,​“From​‘Haunts’​to​‘Character,’”​102.​Both​the​oed​and​Chamberlain​identify​Aristotle’s​Rhetoric​as​a​primary​ text​ in​ establishing​ this​ meaning​ of​ ethos.​ Chamberlain​ explains​ that​ “in​ most​ writers​of​the​fifth​century​BC​and​later,​ethos​can​usually​be​understood​and​translated​as​‘character,’”​with​the​caveat​that​such​character​is​understood​in​collective​ and​not​strictly​individualist​terms​(101–2). ​ 13.​Chamberlain,​“From​‘Haunts’​to​‘Character,’”​102. ​ 14.​Thomas​Corts​notes​that​there​has​been​“confusion​of​two​Greek​terms”​which​ are​similar​in​English:​ἔθος,​meaning​simply​“custom”​or​“habit,”​and​ἦθος,​meaning​“custom,​disposition,​character.”​The​latter​term​is​the​one​used​by​Aristotle,​ and​it​is​presented​as​a​complement​to​nomos​in​the​ancient​Greek​tradition.​The​ latter​term,​Corts​notes,​also​carries​a​positive​connotation,​indicating​a​“good​ disposition,”​while​the​former​is​“morally​neutral​and​refers​to​behavioral​traits.”​ Corts​recommends​that​scholars​transliterate​ ἔθος​as​ethos​and​ ἦθος​as​ēthos​in​ order​to​reflect​this​distinction.​In​addition,​“They​might​also​emphasize​the​positive​moral​quality​of​ἦθος,​rather​than​the​behavioral​neutrality​of​its​sister​term”​ (“The​Derivation​of​Ethos,”​201–2).​This​book,​however,​follows​the​contemporary​ convention​among​democratic​theorists​(and​the​oed)​of​using​ethos​to​refer​to​ “the​characteristic​spirit,​prevalent​tone​of​sentiment,​of​a​people​or​a​community.”​See​also​Chamberlain,​“From​‘Haunts’​to​‘Character,’”​where​he​notes​that​ the​Nicomachean Ethics​“explains​the​connection​between​ethos​and​ēthos”​insofar​ as​human​virtue​is​“habituable,”​that​is,​susceptible​to​training​and​habit​(102–3). ​ 15.​Chamberlain,​ “From​ ‘Haunts’​ to​ ‘Character,’”​ 102.​ He​ notes​ that​ “orators​ can​ speak​to​their​audience​of​‘your’​or​‘our’​ēthē,”​indicating​a​shared​moral​sensibility. ​ 16.​Tocqueville,​Democracy in America,​volume​1,​part​2,​chapter​9. ​ 17.​Work​ that​ highlights​ the​ significance​ of​ virtue​ in​ contemporary​ liberalism​ includes​Macedo,​Liberal Virtues,​and​Galston,​Liberal Purposes. ​ 18.​Berkowitz,​Virtue and the Making of Modern Liberalism. ​ 19.​Button,​Contract, Culture, and Citizenship. ​ 20.​Berkowitz,​Virtue and the Making of Modern Liberalism,​x–xii.​Button​describes​this​ as​“the​paradox​of​civic​virtue​for​liberalism”:​“Liberal​societies​presuppose​and​ rely​on​a​range​of​important​moral​qualities​and​virtues​for​their​very​identity​and​ stability,”​yet​it​is​hard​for​liberals​to​conceive​“how​those​qualities​could​legitimately​be​the​objects​of​cultivation,”​given​their​commitment​to​individual​freedom​and​an​“overriding​concern​to​limit​coercive​government”​(Contract, Culture, and Citizenship,​16). Notes to Introduction

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​ 21.​Chamberlain,​“From​‘Haunts’​to​‘Character,’”​103.​Or​at​least​they​are​“closely​connected”​when​a​society​is​stable.​Both​Plato​and​Aristotle​are​alert​to​the​difficulties​that​arise​when​ethe​and​nomoi​are​no​longer​mutually​reinforcing. ​ 22.​A​partial​exception​to​this​characterization​is​Machiavelli’s​portrait​of​republicanism,​ which,​ as​ Maurizio​ Viroli​ argues,​ follows​ prior​ republican​ thought​ by​ emphasizing​the​rule​of​law,​the​principle​of​civic​equality,​and​the​importance​ of​civic​virtue​but​parts​company​with​the​humanist​and​Ciceronian​traditions​by​ challenging​the​value​of​concord.​Viroli,​“Machiavelli​and​the​Republican​Idea​of​ Politics.” ​ 23.​This​question​suggests​a​project​different​from​Robert​Bellah’s​well-​known​coauthored​ book,​ which​ borrows​ Tocqueville’s​ phrase​ in​ support​ of​ a​ communitarian,​arguably​nostalgic​vision​of​American​life.​Bellah​et​al.,​The Habits of the Heart. ​ 24.​Raymond​Geuss​has​argued​strongly​against​“ethics-​first”​forms​of​political​theory.​ But​he​characterizes​ethics​quite​narrowly​as​a​form​of​Kantian​moral​absolutism​ that​regards​politics​as​derivative​of​an​ideal​(a​view​he​identifies​with​Rawls’s​ work).​Geuss’s​criticisms​are​worth​consideration,​but​he​defines​ethics​in​a​very​ limited​and​sometimes​even​caricatured​way​that​does​not​begin​to​capture​the​diverse​conceptualizations​of​the​term​by​political​theorists,​many​of​whom​cannot​ reasonably​be​charged​with​the​simple-​minded​idealism​Geuss​portrays​in​order​ to​dramatize​the​merits​of​his​own​realism.​See​Geuss,​Philosophy and Real Politics. ​ 25.​Laclau,​“Deconstruction,​Pragmatism,​Hegemony,”​58,​60,​54. ​ 26.​Mouffe,​“Which​Ethics​for​Democracy?,”​91.​Elsewhere,​however,​Mouffe​is​far​ from​ dismissive​ of​ ethics:​ “To​ secure​ allegiance​ and​ adhesion​ to​ [democratic]​ principles​what​is​needed​is​the​creation​of​a​democratic​ethos​.​.​.​the​mobilization​of​passions​and​sentiments,​the​multiplication​of​practices,​institutions​and​ language​games​that​provide​conditions​of​possibility​for​democratic​subjects​and​ democratic​forms​of​willing”​(“Deconstruction,​Pragmatism,​and​the​Politics​of​ Democracy,”​6). ​ 27.​Apostolidis,​“Politics​and​Connolly’s​Ethics.”​Although​his​main​argument​here​ is​that​the​“complementarities​of​ethical​and​political​action”​are​revealed​when​ Connolly’s​ethical​work​is​read​in​connection​with​the​experiences​and​narratives​ of​immigrant​workers,​the​article​nonetheless​ends​on​a​cautionary​note,​warning​ that​theorists​should​renew​their​“enthusiasm​for​interrogating​the​structural​dynamics​of​power​that​help​order​the​terrain​where​ethical​practices​are​deployed.” ​ 28.​Brown,​“Moralism​as​Anti-​Politics.”​See​also​Dean,​“The​Politics​of​Avoidance,”​ which​depicts​the​turn​to​ethics​as​a​form​of​naïve​idealism​that​detracts​attention​ from​the​critical​and​oppositional​politics​in​which​democratic​citizens​ought​to​ be​engaged.​In​a​related​move,​Jacques​Rancière’s​“The​Ethical​Turn​of​Aesthetics​and​Politics”​casts​the​ethical​turn​as​an​evasion​of​judgment​and​distinction​ making,​though​this​claim​is​suggested​more​than​fully​argued. ​ 29.​Shulman,​“Acknowledgment​and​Disavowal​as​an​Idiom​for​Theorizing​Politics.” ​ 30.​“Action​in​concert”​is​Arendt’s​phrase,​which​appears​throughout​her​writings​and​ is​especially​prominent​in​The Human Condition. ​ 31.​Ibid.​Honig,​“The​Politics​of​Ethos,”​also​advances​this​hypothesis.​In​a​more​hisNotes to Introduction

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torical​reading​of​the​turn​to​ethics​in​the​French​context,​Julian​Bourg’s​From Revolution to Ethics​documents​a​paradigm​shift​following​May​1968,​in​which​a​ new​emphasis​on​ethics​(one​which​persists​to​this​day)​appeared​in​response​to​ the​apparent​impossibility​of​political​revolution.​Although​he​does​not​label​this​ development​a​signal​of​despair,​he​does​present​the​shift​to​the​ethical​register​as​ a​consequence​of​the​failure​of​institutional​overthrow​in​1968. ​ 32.​On​ the​ question​ of​ absolutism,​ Myers,​ “From​ Pluralism​ to​ Liberalism,”​ demonstrates​that​the​indeterminate​ethical​outlook​articulated​by​Berlin—that​of​ value​ pluralism—is​ misinterpreted​ and​ appropriated​ by​contemporary​ liberals​ who​seek​to​turn​it​into​a​moral​foundation​sanctioning​liberalism.​Myers,​“Resisting​Foucauldian​Ethics,”​shows​that​the​turn​to​ethics​also​has​the​potential​to​ distract​from​more​pressing​questions​of​how​to​generate​collective​power.​Some​ of​Foucault’s​influential​readers​have​wrongly​emphasized​his​later​work​on​the​ ethics​of​“care​for​the​self”​as​a​strategy​for​resisting​disciplinary​power​and​biopower.​This​approach,​I​argue,​minimizes​Foucault’s​astute​analyses​of​how​discipline​and​biopower​function​by​“individualizing”​and​“massifying,”​respectively,​ and​his​related​but​underappreciated​account​of​the​“counter-​power”​born​out​of​ associative​activity​that​can​potentially​contend​with​these​forces.​This​neglected​ but​central​Foucauldian​insight​should​alert​us​to​the​limits​of​care​of​the​self​as​ a​means​of​reworking​existing​power​relations​and​redirect​our​attention​to​associative​strategies​instead. ​ 33.​Honig​observes,​“Still,​it​seems​to​me,​although​ethos​may​be​an​important​part​ of​preparation​and​receptivity​for​would-​be​political​actors​(themselves​already​ politicized​as​constituted​subjects),​it​is​no​match​for​the​worldliness​of​political​ engagement”​(“The​Politics​of​Ethos,”​428).​This​claim​echoes​my​earlier​argument​in​“The​Turn​to​Ethics​and​Its​Democratic​Costs,”​which​conceptualizes​the​ quest​for​ethos​primarily​as​an​evasion​of—and​threat​to—democratic​politics. ​ 34.​This​understanding​of​politics​serves​as​a​counterpoint​to​what​has​been​termed​ the​“democratic​deficit”​in​contemporary​theory,​that​is,​the​tendency​in​recent​ political​thought​to​emphasize​the​liberal​side​of​liberal​democracy​by​focusing​ primarily​on​questions​of​individual​rights​and​safeguards​against​the​state​at​the​ expense​of​pursuing​questions​that​concern​the​distribution​of​political​power​ and​the​existence​of​meaningful​opportunities​for​citizen​participation​in​self-​ government.​ I​ borrow​ the​ term​ “democratic​ deficit”​ from​ Mouffe,​ Democratic Paradox​(3–4),​though​it​was​in​wide​circulation​during​the​debates​over​the​design​of​the​European​Union. ​ 35.​Alexis​de​Tocqueville​famously​credits​associational​activity​with​saving​the​“independent​and​weak”​citizens​of​democracy​from​helplessness.​The​“art​of​association”​ in​ which​ men​ “combine​ for​ great​ ends”​ enables​ individual​ citizens​ to​ produce​effects​they​could​not​otherwise.​Tocqueville,​Democracy in America,​volume​2,​part​2,​chapters​5–7. ​ 36.​Hannah​Arendt​refers​to​“co-​acting”​when​she​states​that​action​is​“never​possible​ in​isolation”​(The Human Condition,​189). ​ 37.​Although​the​existence​of​certain​legal​protections​such​as​the​right​to​assemble​ can​help​to​support​the​emergence​of​collective​movements,​examples​of​associaNotes to Introduction

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tive​democratic​politics​among​dissidents,​as​in​the​Solidarity​movement​of​the​ 1980s​in​Poland,​indicate​that​it​would​be​a​mistake​to​rule​out​the​appearance​of​ associative​action​even​in​regimes​with​very​limited​rights​protections.​Equally​ mistaken​is​the​idea​that​the​existence​of​constitutional​rights​to​speech​and​assembly,​for​example,​is​proof​that​American​political​culture​is​hospitable​to​the​ creation​and​preservation​of​associational​relations.​As​Michael​Rogin​has​demonstrated,​ aggressive​ governmental​ efforts​ throughout​ American​ history​ have​ effectively​suppressed​associative​activities​and​collective​forms​of​life​thought​ to​threaten​state​power.​What​Rogin​calls​the​“countersubversive​tradition”​in​the​ United​States​involves​the​state’s​valorization​of​“private​freedom”​and​a​routine​ denial​of​“public​freedom,”​or​“the​freedom​of​community​members​to​speak​and​ act​together”​(“Political​Repression​in​the​United​States,”​65). ​ 38.​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​182. ​ 39.​“Art​of​association”​is​Tocqueville’s​well-​known​phrase,​which​appears​in​Democracy in America,​volume​2,​part​2,​chapter​5. ​ 40.​Held,​ Models of Democracy.​ Of​ the​ eight​ variants​ of​ democracy​ Held​ analyzes,​ seven​grant​a​prominent​place​to​citizens’​associative​activity.​Although​the​institutional​locations​and​meanings​assigned​to​associations​vary,​ranging​from​the​ citizen​councils​of​classic​republicanism​to​the​pressure​groups​of​midcentury​ pluralism,​only​the​model​of​democratic​elitism​grants​little​to​no​importance​to​ associational​activity. ​ 41.​The​purpose​and​meaning​ascribed​to​associational​activity​vary​according​to​the​ particular​framework​within​which​it​is​interpreted.​Archon​Fung’s​“Associations​ and​Democracy”​contains​a​very​useful​mapping​of​the​different​arguments​advanced​in​support​of​associational​activity.​Fung​shows​that​democratic​association​is​credited​with​making​six​kinds​of​contributions,​not​all​of​them​compatible.​ (For​example,​according​to​some,​association​is​an​intrinsic​good,​but​liberals​tend​ to​see​it​as​an​expression​of​personal​freedom​while​participatory​democrats​regard​it​as​a​mode​of​collective​self-​determination.​Still​other​theories​see​the​practice​of​association​in​more​instrumental​terms,​whether​as​a​means​of​developing​ certain​skills​and​capacities​or​as​a​mechanism​for​improving​the​representation​ of​interests.)​This​diversity​should​not​be​surprising,​given​that​the​contributions​ ascribed​to​associational​activity​are​generated​by​competing​“background​ideals,”​ which​Fung​labels​classical​liberalism,​representative​democracy,​and​participatory​democracy. ​ 42.​See,​for​example,​Robert​F.​Worth,​“Yemen​on​the​Brink​of​Hell,”​New York Times,​ July​20,​2011,​and​Simon​Sebag​Montefiore,​“Every​Revolution​Is​Revolutionary​ in​Its​Own​Way,”​New York Times,​March​23,​2011. ​ 43.​In​ “A​ Brief​ Introduction​ to​ Phenomenology​ and​ Existentialism”​ Wrathall​ and​ Dreyfus​ include​ Arendt,​ Levinas,​ and​ Foucault​ in​ their​ short​ list​ of​ thinkers​ strongly​influenced​by​phenomenology​and​existentialism. ​ 44.​Although​phenomenology​and​existentialism​originally​appeared​as​two​distinct​ strands​of​twentieth-​century​European​thought,​they​have​“largely​merged​into​a​ common​canon​of​works​and​ways​of​doing​philosophy”​(ibid.,​5).​See​this​same​

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text​ for​ an​ account​ of​ the​ primary​ features​ of​ “merged”​ existential​ phenomenology. ​ 45.​Foucault’s​and​Levinas’s​works​feature​much​more​prominently​than​Arendt’s​in​ the​recent​turn​to​ethics,​perhaps​because​Arendt​does​not​embrace​an​explicitly​ ethical​vocabulary.​She​is​also​sometimes​misread​as​a​thoroughly​amoral​thinker,​ though,​as​I​will​show,​the​beginnings​of​a​powerful​ethical​sensibility—care​for​ the​world—run​throughout​her​writings. ​ 46.​Kruks,​Retrieving Experience,​6. ​ 47.​This​is​Wrathall’s​and​Dreyfus’s​description​of​Heidegger’s​shift​away​from​Husserl​ (“A​Brief​Introduction​to​Phenomenology​and​Existentialism,”​3). ​ 48.​Ibid.,​5. ​ 49.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​298. ​ 50.​My​project​explores​how​the​understanding​of​ethics​might​productively​shift​by​ adopting​what​Linda​Zerilli​has​called​a​“world-​centered​frame.”​She​too​identifies​this​frame​with​Arendt,​though​her​intervention​focuses​on​the​importance​ of​reconceiving​freedom​as​a​“world​question”​rather​than​a​“subject​question”​for​ feminist​theory​and​politics.​See​Zerilli,​Feminism and the Abyss of Freedom,​introduction. ​ 51.​I​borrow​the​distinction​between​a​“matter​of​fact”​and​a​“matter​of​concern”​from​ Latour,​“From​Realpolitik​to​Dingpolitik,”​16. ​ 52.​Scholem​and​Arendt,​“Eichmann​in​Jerusalem.” ​ 53.​Ibid.,​51. ​ 54.​Ibid.,​54. 1. crafting a dEMocratic subjEct?

​ 1.​For​example,​the​antiwar​group​Code​Pink​was​criticized​by​some​for​their​activities,​which​included​interrupting​and​heckling​during​speeches​by​officials,​including​President​George​W.​Bush.​Ewen​MacAskill,​“Debate​over​US​Healthcare​ Takes​an​Ugly​Turn,”​The Guardian,​August​12,​2009;​Ian​Urbina,​“Beyond​Beltway,​ Health​Debate​Turns​Hostile,”​New York Times,​August​7,​2009.​Popular​attention​ to​questions​of​civility​in​politics​peaked​in​January​2011​after​the​assassination​ attempt​on​Rep.​Gabrielle​Giffords​and​the​murder​of​six​others​at​a​public​Congress​on​Your​Corner​event​at​a​shopping​center​in​Tucson.​Helene​Cooper​and​ Jeff​Zeleny,​“Obama​Calls​for​Civility​in​New​Era​of​American​Politics,”​New York Times,​January​12,​2011. ​ 2.​Myers,​ “Resisting​ Foucauldian​ Ethics.”​ I​ argue​ that​ contemporary​ theory​ that​ champions​Foucauldian​self-​care​as​a​privileged​mode​of​resistance​often​neglects​ Foucault’s​analysis​of​disciplinary​power​and​biopower,​which,​if​read​carefully,​ should​alert​one​to​the​limits​of​the​care​of​the​self​as​a​strategy​for​reshaping​ power​relations. ​ 3.​William​Connolly​is​the​most​influential​proponent​of​this​view.​See​Connolly,​The Ethos of Pluralization,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​and​Pluralism.​See​also​Dumm,​ Michel Foucault and the Politics of Freedom;​Orlie,​Living Ethically, Acting Politically;​ Simons,​Foucault and the Political.

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​ 4.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​263. ​ 5.​See​especially​Detel,​Foucault and Classical Antiquity;​Hadot,​“Reflections​on​the​ Notion​of​‘the​Cultivation​of​the​Self,’”;​O’Leary,​Foucault and the Art of Ethics.​But​ Hadot​also​grants​that​Foucault​knowingly​“glosses​over”​some​elements​of​Stoicism,​for​example,​even​though​he​was​“well​aware​of​them,”​because​his​account​ of​practices​of​the​self​is​“not​only​a​historical​study;​it​was​meant​to​offer​contemporary​man​a​model​of​life”​(226). ​ 6.​Dreyfus​and​Rabinow,​Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics,​119. ​ 7.​Foucault,​“An​Aesthetics​of​Existence,”​49. ​ 8.​Peter​Dews​contends​that​there​is​a​problem​with​the​“reflexive​account​of​self-​ construction”​that​appears​in​Foucault’s​work​on​the​ancients​and​in​“What​Is​ Enlightenment?”​He​argues​that​it​seems​to​require​an​already-​existing​self​to​ perform​ the​ construction,​ a​ requirement​ that​ conflicts​ with​ Foucault’s​ understanding​of​the​subject​“as​a​construction​of​power​and​discourse”​(Dews,​“The​ Return​ of​ the​ Subject​ in​ Late​ Foucault,”​ 155).​ But​ this​ claim​ of​ contradiction​ ignores​Foucault’s​analysis​of​subjectivation​(discussed​later​in​this​chapter).​A​ slightly​different​way​of​countering​Dews’s​claim​is​offered​by​Robert​Strozier,​ who​says​that​Foucault​consistently​theorizes​a​subject​who​is​“historically​constituted”​as​“self-​reflexive”​and​thereby​capable​of​“using​this​very​constitution​as​ a​means​to​dismantle​the​strategies​of​that​constitution.”​A​foundational,​a​priori​ subject​is​not​the​only​way​to​understand​the​possibility​of​reflexivity.​See​Strozier,​ Foucault, Subjectivity, and Identity,​chapter​2. ​ 9.​“An​Aesthetics​of​Existence”​is​the​title​of​an​interview​with​Foucault​in​which​ he​speaks​about​the​importance​of​an​ethics​that​aims​to​“give​one’s​life​a​certain​ form”​(49).​In​The History of Sexuality,​vol.​1,​Foucault​sought​to​show​that​sexuality,​understood​as​the​epitome​of​interiority,​is​itself​produced​by​and​in​turn​ furthers​discursive​practices​that​seek​to​uncover​a​true​self​hidden​beneath​appearances.​The​idea​of​an​ethics​that​does​not​focus​on​a​realm​of​interiority​but​ is​manifest​in​a​visible​mode​of​existence​may​appeal​to​Foucault​as​an​alternative​ to​that​hermeneutic​understanding​of​the​self. ​ 10.​O’Leary,​Foucault and the Art of Ethics,​38. ​ 11.​Foucault,​The Use of Pleasure,​11. ​ 12.​Foucault,​“On​the​Genealogy​of​Ethics,”​261. ​ 13.​Bernstein,​“Foucault’s​Aesthetic​Decisionism”;​Hadot,​“Reflections​on​the​Notion​ of​‘the​Cultivation​of​the​Self.’” ​ 14.​Flynn,​“Truth​and​Subjectivation​in​the​Later​Foucault,”​535;​O’Leary,​Foucault and the Art of Ethics,​53–57. ​ 15.​O’Leary​ argues​ in​ Foucault and the Art of Ethics​ that​ Foucault’s​ account​ of​ the​ Greeks​tends​to​overemphasize​the​aesthetic​motivation​and​neglect​the​crucial​ link​between​self-​mastery​and​political​rule​over​others. ​ 16.​Foucault,​“The​Hermeneutic​of​the​Subject,”​94–95. ​ 17.​Foucault,​The Use of Pleasure,​91;​Foucault,​The Care of the Self,​249. ​ 18.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​287. ​ 19.​Foucault,​The Use of Pleasure,​91. ​ 20.​Ibid.,​65–67. Notes to Chapter 1

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​ 21.​Ibid.,​68–69. ​ 22.​Ibid.,​70. ​ 23.​The​Greek​distinction​between​outer​and​inner​freedom​is​examined​in​part​2​of​ Orlando​Patterson’s​Freedom,​Volume​1:​Freedom in the Making of Modern Culture,​ and​in​Arendt,​“What​Is​Freedom?”​Patterson​quotes​Philo’s​Every Good Man Is Free,​which​captures​this​dualism:​“Slavery​then​is​applied​in​one​sense​to​bodies,​ in​another​to​souls;​bodies​have​men​for​masters;​souls​their​vices​and​passions.​ The​same​is​true​of​freedom;​one​freedom​produces​security​of​the​body​from​men​ of​superior​strength,​the​other​one​sets​the​mind​at​liberty​from​the​domination​of​ the​passions”​(197). ​ 24.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​284. ​ 25.​Foucault​distinguishes​between​liberation​and​freedom,​noting​that​most​understandings​of​liberation​wrongly​imply​an​escape​from​power​relations.​Foucault​ recognizes​that​there​are​events​that​can​be​considered​acts​of​liberation​in​some​ sense—as​ “when​ a​ colonized​ people​ attempts​ to​ liberate​ itself​ from​ its​ colonizers”—but​he​claims​that​what​such​liberation​enables​is​the​creation​of​“new​ power​relationships,”​not​an​escape​from​power​altogether​(“The​Ethics​of​the​ Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​282–83).​Moreover,​Foucault​insists​ that​freedom,​understood​as​an​activity​rather​than​a​state​of​affairs,​is​practiced​ within​that​field​of​power​relations.​See​esp.​Foucault,​“The​Subject​and​Power.” ​ 26.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​284. ​ 27.​Ibid.,​286. ​ 28.​One​extreme​is​represented​by​Eric​Paras,​who​claims​that​in​his​late​work​Foucault​abandons​his​“fire-​eating​antihumanism”​and​embraces​a​“prediscursive,”​ “independent​and​freestanding​subject”​(Paras,​Foucault 2.0.,​4,​14,​101).​Dews​ makes​a​similar​argument​in​“The​Return​of​the​Subject​in​Late​Foucault.”​My​ reading​is​closer​to​those​of​Nealon,​Foucault beyond Foucault,​and​Ransom,​Foucault’s Discipline.​They​both​interpret​Foucault’s​work​on​the​care​of​the​self​as​ being​an​extension​of​his​earlier​scholarship​rather​than​a​clear​departure​from​it. ​ 29.​Foucault,​“Technologies​of​the​Self,”​225. ​ 30.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​281–82;​ Foucault,​“An​Aesthetics​of​Existence,”​50–51. ​ 31.​Foucault,​“The​Return​of​Morality,”​243. ​ 32.​Jane​Bennett,​for​example,​says​of​Foucault’s​late​work​on​ethics,​“A​moment​of​ ‘freedom’​survives​within​subjectivity​after​all,​it​seems”​(“‘How​Is​It​Then​That​ We​Still​Remain​Barbarians?,’”​656).​Thomas​Osborne​notes​that​the​aesthetics​ of​existence​attracts​interest​because​it​is​regarded​as​“one​of​the​few​things​that​ Foucault​is​avowedly​in​favor​of”​(Osborne,​“Critical​Spirituality,”​60). ​ 33.​Foucault,​The History of Sexuality,​vol.​1,​60.​See​also​Foucault,​“The​Subject​and​ Power,”​331. ​ 34.​Butler,​The Psychic Life of Power,​17.​For​a​thoughtful​examination​of​this​dynamic​ in​both​Foucault​and​Butler,​see​Allen,​The Politics of Our Selves,​chapters​3,​4. ​ 35.​Butler,​The Psychic Life of Power,​12,​10.​Jon​Simons​makes​this​point​when​he​explains​that​“all​subjectifying​power​endows​subjects​with​some​capacities​to​be​ agents.”​Thus,​power​“enables​subjects”​(Foucault and the Political,​82). Notes to Chapter 1

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​ 36.​Foucault,​“An​Aesthetics​of​Existence,”​50–51. ​ 37.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​291. ​ 38.​Bernauer​and​Mahon,​“The​Ethics​of​Michel​Foucault,”​154. ​ 39.​Foucault,​ The Use of Pleasure,​ 25–32.​ See​ also​ Foucault,​ “On​ the​ Genealogy​ of​ Ethics,”​263. ​ 40.​Foucault,​The Use of Pleasure,​29–30.​Foucault​explains​that​all​morality​entails​a​ relationship​to​the​self​and​that​this​relationship​can​be​examined​via​four​major​ categories:​ethical​substance,​mode​of​subjectivation,​ethical​work,​and​telos. ​ 41.​Ibid.,​30.​He​argues,​for​example,​that​Greek​ethics​approached​sexual​activity​ not​primarily​as​a​domain​of​prescriptive​and​proscriptive​rules​that​applied​to​all​ but​focused​instead​on​the​question​of​how​an​individual​might​stylize​his​sexual​ practice​in​a​way​that​controlled​and​limited​the​possible​excesses​of​aphrodisia:​ “The​laws​against​sexual​misbehavior​were​very​few​and​not​very​compelling.​.​.​.​ Their​theme​.​.​.​was​an​aesthetics​of​existence”​(255). ​ 42.​Foucault,​“On​the​Genealogy​of​Ethics,”​254. ​ 43.​Ibid.,​260. ​ 44.​Foucault,​The Use of Pleasure,​21. ​ 45.​Foucault,​“On​the​Genealogy​of​Ethics,”​255,​271. ​ 46.​Foucault,​The Use of Pleasure,​21. ​ 47.​Foucault,​“On​the​Genealogy​of​Ethics,”​253.​Although​the​ethics​of​self-​care​was​ practiced​almost​exclusively​in​“privileged​circles,”​Foucault​notes​the​exception​ of​early​Epicurean​groups​in​Greece​whose​members​were​“artisans,​small​shopkeepers,​and​poor​farmers.”​Although​self-​care​in​this​case​was​still​limited​to​a​ minority​of​the​population,​it​had​a​democratic​rather​than​aristocratic​character​ (The Hermeneutics of the Subject,​115). ​ 48.​Foucault,​The Use of Pleasure,​21,​23.​In​“The​Return​of​Morality,”​when​asked​what​ he​thought​of​the​Greeks,​Foucault​remarked,​“Not​very​much”​and​commented,​ with​laughter,​“All​of​antiquity​seems​to​me​to​have​been​a​‘profound​error’”​(244). ​ 49.​Foucault,​“On​the​Genealogy​of​Ethics,”​255. ​ 50.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​294–95.​ He​also​insists​that​his​inquiry​into​ancient​care​of​the​self​not​be​interpreted​as​ the​rediscovery​of​a​lost​foundation.​Foucault​explains,​“Nothing​is​more​foreign​ to​me​than​the​idea​that,​at​a​certain​moment,​philosophy​went​astray​and​forgot​ something,​that​somewhere​in​its​history​there​is​a​principle,​a​foundation​that​ must​be​recovered.”​He​also​remarks​in​“On​the​Genealogy​of​Ethics,”​“You​can’t​ find​the​solution​of​a​problem​in​the​solution​of​another​problem​raised​at​another​ moment​by​other​people”​(256). ​ 51.​In​“What​Is​Enlightenment?”​Foucault​describes​the​“attitude”​of​modernity​in​ terms​that​echo​his​depiction​of​ancient​arts​of​the​self.​Citing​Baudelaire,​Foucault​says​this​attitude​involves​“a​mode​of​relationship​that​must​be​established​ with​ oneself.”​ Modernity​ entails​ an​ “indispensable​ asceticism.”​ Indeed,​ “to​ be​ modern​is​to​take​oneself​as​object​of​a​complex​and​difficult​elaboration.”​This​ project​is​one​of​enlightenment,​or​a​“way​out,”​Foucault​says,​because​it​releases​ us​from​a​status​of​“immaturity,”​in​which​we​accept​“someone​else’s​authority​to​ lead​us”​(309,​311,​305). Notes to Chapter 1

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​ 52.​Foucault,​The Use of Pleasure,​30. ​ 53.​Foucault,​“An​Aesthetics​of​Existence,”​49. ​ 54.​Foucault​also​claims​that​it​is​a​mistake​to​suppose​that​the​dissolution​of​traditional​moral​codes​and​prohibitions​“solved​the​problem​of​ethics.”​The​“problem​ of​an​ethics​as​a​form​to​be​given​to​one’s​behavior​and​life”​remains​(“The​Concern​for​Truth,”​263). ​ 55.​In​contrast​to​his​assertion​elsewhere​that​we​are​beyond​rule-​governed​morality,​ Foucault​says,​“We​.​.​.​inherit​a​secular​tradition​that​sees​in​external​laws​the​ basis​for​morality.​.​.​.​We​seek​the​rules​for​acceptable​behavior​in​relations​with​ others.”​Foucault’s​suggestion​nonetheless​is​that​we​should​question​this​attachment,​not​maintain​it​(“Technologies​of​the​Self,”​228). ​ 56.​Veyne,​“The​Final​Foucault​and​His​Ethics,”​7. ​ 57.​Foucault,​“On​the​Genealogy​of​Ethics,”​255–56. ​ 58.​Bernauer​and​Mahon,​“The​Ethics​of​Michel​Foucault,”​147. ​ 59.​Foucault,​“The​Subject​and​Power,”​336. ​ 60.​Foucault​invites​this​reading​in​part​because​he​depicts​ancient​ethics​precisely​as​ non-​normalizing​in​character. ​ 61.​Schwartz,​“Repetition​and​Ethics​in​Late​Foucault,”​113;​Oksala,​Foucault on Freedom,​168. ​ 62.​Flathman,​Freedom and Its Conditions,​13. ​ 63.​Ibid.,​33. ​ 64.​Smart,​“Foucault,​Levinas​and​the​Subject​of​Responsibility,”​82. ​ 65.​Grimshaw,​“Practices​of​Freedom.” ​ 66.​Myers,​“Resisting​Foucauldian​Ethics.” ​ 67.​Foucault​mentions​both​a​“politics​of​ourselves”​as​a​counter​to​the​traditional​ hermeneutics​of​the​self​and​the​notion​of​“politics​as​an​ethics,”​phrases​which​ hint—without​doing​much​more—at​the​political​significance​of​care​for​the​self​ (“About​the​Beginnings​of​the​Hermeneutics​of​the​Self,”​222–23;​“Politics​and​ Ethics:​An​Interview,”​375). ​ 68.​In​The Care of the Self​Foucault​argues​that​the​exercise​of​such​care​was​not​a​practice​of​solitude​but​“a​true​social​practice”​involving​more​or​less​institutionalized​ structures,​including​organized​communities,​schools,​and​the​guidance​of​teachers,​advisors,​and​counselors​(51–52).​See​also​Foucault,​Hermeneutics of the Self,​ especially​the​lectures​of​January​20​and​27,​in​which​Foucault​addresses​the​role​ of​“sectarian​groups”​in​ancient​ethics​as​well​as​the​specific​others​who​facilitated​ care​of​the​self. ​ 69.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​284. ​ 70.​Ibid.,​287. ​ 71.​Ibid.,​288. ​ 72.​Foucault,​The Hermeneutics of the Subject,​252. ​ 73.​Ibid.,​298. ​ 74.​Ibid.,​292.​See​“The​Subject​and​Power,”​346,​where​Foucault​also​relies​on​a​contrast​between​mobility​and​fixity​to​differentiate​power​and​domination. ​ 75.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​292. ​ 76.​Foucault,​“Sex,​Power​and​the​Politics​of​Identity,”​167. Notes to Chapter 1

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​ 77.​Foucault,​The Use of Pleasure,​73.​Although​Foucault​spends​considerable​time​on​ this​ theme​ in​ his​ writings​ and​ lectures,​ he​ also​ speaks​ of​ Greek​ self-​care​ in​ a​ more​ purely​ aesthetic​ sense,​ as​ though​ it​ were​ primarily​ about​ creating​ a​ self​ that​exhibits​kalos​(goodness/beauty).​This​has​led​O’Leary,​for​example,​to​argue​ that​Foucault​“downplays”​the​Greek​emphasis​on​self-​and​political​mastery.​See​ O’Leary,​Foucault and the Art of Ethics,​esp.​chapter​2. ​ 78.​Foucault,​The Use of Pleasure,​80–81. ​ 79.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​287. ​ 80.​In​addition​to​the​loosening​of​the​tie​between​self-​care​and​political​rule,​Foucault​says​that​in​the​first​two​centuries​aD​care​of​the​self​was​“freed​from​its​ privileged​connection​to​pedagogy”​and​was​no​longer​seen​as​a​requirement​valid​ at​a​particular​moment​in​one’s​life.​Instead​“‘caring​about​the​self’​is​a​rule​coextensive​with​life”​(The Hermeneutics of the Subject,​83,​112,​247). ​ 81.​Foucault,​“Technologies​of​the​Self,”​235. ​ 82.​Foucault,​“On​the​Genealogy​of​Ethics,”​260. ​ 83.​Ibid.,​267. ​ 84.​Ibid.;​Foucault,​The Care of the Self,​95. ​ 85.​Flathman,​Freedom and Its Conditions,​22–24. ​ 86.​Foucault,​The Hermeneutics of the Subject,​177;​see​also​83,​126,​192. ​ 87.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​287. ​ 88.​Simons,​Foucault and the Political,​123. ​ 89.​Dumm,​Michel Foucault and the Politics of Freedom,​3. ​ 90.​On​the​admission​of​competing​comprehensive​views​into​the​public​realm,​see​ especially​Connolly,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​chapter​1.​The​task​of​“pluralization”​is​closely​tied​to​what​Connolly​calls​the​“politics​of​becoming,”​in​which​ “new​and​unforeseen​things​surge​into​being,”​such​as​a​new​cultural​identity,​an​ unprecedented​rights​claim,​or​an​alternative​religious​faith.​Commitment​to​pluralization​requires​an​attitude​of​“agonistic​respect”​and​“critical​responsiveness”​ toward​instances​of​the​politics​of​becoming,​rather​than​the​simple​affirmation​ of​diversity​as​it​currently​appears​(Pluralism,​121–27). ​ 91.​In​“Agonized​Liberalism,”​Antonio​Y.​Vázquez-​Arroyo​provides​a​powerful​critique​ of​this​dimension​of​Connolly’s​work,​arguing​that​his​focus​on​“democracy​as​an​ ethos”​overemphasizes​ the​question​ of​civility​and​fails​ to​consider​ “structural​ and​institutional​aspects​of​power​in​contemporary​capitalist​liberal​democracies”​ (10).​Connolly’s​“strong​emphasis​on​therapeutic​strategies”​of​self-​artistry​reveals​ another​serious​problem,​according​to​Vásquez-​Arroyo:​“It​seems​that​these​practices​of​the​self​are​hardly​intended​for​those​who​do​not​share​in​power,​for​the​ dispossessed.​.​.​.​Rather,​the​strong​emphasis​placed​on​forbearance​seems​directed​at​those​already​sharing​power,​privilege​and​status:​they​are​asked​to​practice​forbearance​to​the​forces​unleashed​by​the​disadvantaged​members,​to​react​ more​generously​to​new​constituencies​seeking​parity​of​status​and​social​capital”​ (15).​Although​I​do​not​believe​that​the​idea​of​democratic​ethos​or​democratic​ culture​is​necessarily​a​dead​end​that​forecloses​inquiry​into​things​like​“constitutional​principles,​democratic​institutions,​political​economy,”​as​Vásquez-​Arroyo​

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does,​I​am​concerned​that​the​identification​of​ethics​with​self-​care​occludes​the​ worldly​contexts​that​are​the​sites​and​objects​of​democratic​action. ​ 92.​Connolly,​Pluralism,​4. ​ 93.​Ibid.,​122–27. ​ 94.​Ibid.,​126–27. ​ 95.​Ibid.,​311;​Connolly,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​146. ​ 96.​Connolly,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​145. ​ 97.​Ibid.,​141. ​ 98.​Connolly,​ The Ethos of Pluralization,​ 69.​ Graham​ Longford​ describes​ Foucault’s​ ethics​as​“an​art​of​the​contingent​self​that​heightens​awareness​of​the​contingencies​and​differences​cross-​cutting​all​identities,​thereby​helping​militate​against​ the​indifference,​resentment​and​cruelty​toward​others​which​sometimes​flow​ from​aggressive​attempts​to​universalize,​glorify​and​defend​them.”​Yet​Longford​ does​not​address​the​fact​that​Foucault​never​speaks​of​self-​care​in​this​way​nor​ does​he​explain​how​this​portrait​squares​with​the​ideal​of​mastery​that​lies​at​the​ center​of​Foucault’s​ancient​ethics​(Longford,​“Sensitive​Killers,​Cruel​Asthetes,​ and​Pitiless​Poets,”​574). ​ 99.​Connolly,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​145–46.​In​Pluralism​in​particular​Connolly​ casts​work​upon​the​self​as​critical​for​warding​off​the​tendency​to​evil​in​all​faiths​ (14,​19,​27).​This​tendency​consists​in​the​desire​to​“punish,​correct,​exclude,​or​ terrorize”​those​whose​beliefs​challenge​one’s​own. ​100.​Connolly,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​144. ​101.​Schoolman​and​Campbell,​“An​Interview​with​William​Connolly,”​311. ​102.​Connolly,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​146–47. ​103.​Connolly​acknowledges​that​the​“occasion”​for​arts​of​the​self​“often”​arises​in​ political​contexts,​when​a​“new​and​surprising​movement​.​.​.​disturbs​dimensions​ of​your​identity”​(Why I Am Not a Secularist,​151).​Although​this​statement​is​more​ attenuated​than​I​think​it​ought​to​be,​it​recognizes​that​self-​care​is​at​least​often​ dependent​upon​political​mobilizations​for​its​initiation.​I​would​add,​however,​ that​the​disturbance​of​one’s​identity​is​unlikely​to​foster​participation​in​democratic​action​unless​it​is​accompanied​by​felt​concern​for​a​specific​public​matter.​ This​is​vital​if​the​arts​of​the​self​have​any​hope​of​being​politically,​and​not​just​ personally,​meaningful. ​104.​Connolly,​The Ethos of Pluralization,​xxvii,​66,​73. ​105.​“Self-​artistry,”​he​notes,​may​be​“spurred​into​action​by​specific​movements​in​the​ politics​of​becoming”​(Connolly,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​146). ​106.​Connolly,​The Ethos of Pluralization,​73. ​107.​In​this​same​discussion​Connolly​states​that​the​macropolitical​question​“How​ might​the​social​conditions​from​which​crime​emanates​be​transformed?”​should​ be​set​aside​to​ask​what​might​be​done​through​micropolitics​to​“honor​desire​and​ resist​the​flow​of​revenge”​in​individuals.​He​declares​this​latter​question​to​be​ “preliminary”​to​the​other​(The Ethos of Pluralization,​66). ​108.​See​chapter​3​for​a​discussion​of​Bruno​Latour’s​portrait​of​politicization,​which​ involves​the​transformation​of​a​“matter​of​fact”​into​a​“matter​of​concern.”

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​109.​Both​quotes​taken​from​interviews​with​Foucault,​cited​in​Paras,​Foucault 2.0,​107,​ 109. ​110.​Foucault,​ for​ example,​ distinguishes​ his​ thinking​ on​ the​ arts​ of​ the​ self​ from​ Sartre’s​notion​of​authenticity.​He​says​he​rejects​the​idea​of​a​“true​self”​by​emphasizing​creativity​rather​than​authenticity.​The​ancient​belief​that​the​“self​had​ to​be​created​as​a​work​of​art”​is​“diametrically​opposed”​to​the​idea​of​discovering​ one’s​true​self​(“On​the​Genealogy​of​Ethics,”​263,​271). ​ 111.​Foucault,​The Hermeneutics of the Subject,​98. ​112.​Bernauer​and​Mahon​repeat​this​assumption​in​their​reading​of​Foucault’s​ethics,​ declaring​that​commitment​to​the​task​of​self-​creation​“will​inaugurate​new​experiences​of​the​self​and​human​solidarity,”​without​any​accounting​of​how​solidarity​is​generated​out​of​individual​practices​of​the​arts​of​the​self​(Bernauer​and​ Mahon,​“The​Ethics​of​Michel​Foucault,”​155–56). ​113.​Zerilli,​Feminism and the Abyss of Freedom,​15. ​114.​Otherwise​sympathetic​readers​of​Foucault​have​challenged​the​priority​granted​ to​the​self’s​reflexive​relation​in​the​name​of​ethical​responsibility​to​the​Other.​ See​Oksala,​Foucault on Freedom,​chapter​9,​and​Smart,​“Foucault,​Levinas​and​the​ Subject​of​Responsibility.” ​115.​See,​most​famously,​Lasch,​The Culture of Narcissism. ​116.​The Secret,​a​wildly​popular​DvD​and​book​(the​book​sold​nineteen​million​copies​ in​the​United​States​and​has​been​translated​into​forty​languages),​centers​on​the​ claim​that​an​individual’s​beliefs​produce​material​reality.​This​profoundly​depoliticizing​philosophy,​touted​repeatedly​by​Oprah​Winfrey​and​other​influential​ celebrities,​ contends​ that​ one’s​ thoughts​ are​ the​ sole​ determinant​ of​ one’s​ experience.​See​Allen​Salkin,​“Shaking​Riches​Out​of​the​Cosmos,”​New York Times,​ February​25,​2007;​Christopher​Chabris​and​Daniel​Simons,​“Fight​‘The​Power,’”​ New York Times,​September​24,​2010.​A​more​disturbing​example​of​the​tendency​ to​overlook​social​and​political​practices​in​favor​of​a​myopic​focus​on​individual​ disposition​can​be​found​in​the​U.S.​Department​of​Defense’s​recent​foray​into​ positive​psychology​(Gary​Greenberg,​“The​War​on​Unhappiness,”​Harper’s,​September​2010).​The​goal​of​this​endeavor​is​to​help​veterans​“learn​optimism”​(34)​ and​therefore​be​better​equipped​to​cope​with​combat​and​its​aftermath.​Rather​ than​examine​how​recent​wars​have​been​conducted​(e.g.,​the​use​of​torture,​repeated​deployments,​ill-​defined​missions)​or​the​social​service​system​available​ to​returning​veterans,​the​army’s​embrace​of​positive​psychology​implies​that​the​ problems​facing​soldiers​and​veterans​are​not​worldly​in​character​and​therefore​ are​best​remedied​through​work​on​one’s​inner​self. ​117.​Micropolitics​ sometimes​ names​ small-​scale​ intersubjective​ relations​ (Connolly,​ Why I Am Not a Secularist,​148)​while​at​other​points​it​denotes​more​specifically​ “action​on​the​self”​(Connolly,​The Ethos of Pluralization,​68). ​118.​Schoolman​and​Campbell,​“An​Interview​with​William​Connolly,”​329. ​119.​Connolly,​A World of Becoming,​91. ​120.​Heyes,​Self-Transformations,​112. ​121.​Ibid.,​116.

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2. lEvinasian Ethics and dEMocracy

​ 1.​Oksala,​Foucault on Freedom,​195.​Oksala​argues​that​Foucault​is​wrong​to​assume​ that​desirable​intersubjective​relations​will​follow​from​the​proper​care​of​the​self​ and​insists​that​Levinas’s​work​is​a​necessary​supplement​to​Foucault.​It​is​not​ clear​to​me,​however,​that​Foucault’s​and​Levinas’s​views​can​be​integrated​to​the​ degree​Oksala​thinks. ​ 2.​Smart,​ “Foucault,​ Levinas,​ and​ the​ Subject​ of​ Responsibility,”​ 84,​ 87.​ There​ is​ some​structural​similarity​between​Smart’s​argument​and​my​own,​since​I​claimed​ in​chapter​1​that​in​order​for​care​of​the​self​to​be​democratically​significant,​it​ must​be​guided​from​the​start​by​concern​for​a​public​problem.​But​I​disagree​with​ Smart’s​conclusion​that​concern​for​the​Other​is​an​adequate​supplement​to​Foucault’s​ethical​approach. ​ 3.​Simon​Critchley​refers​to​a​“motivational​deficit”​when​posing​the​question​of​ democratic​ethics​in​Infinitely Demanding,​discussed​later​in​this​chapter. ​ 4.​Levinas’s​portrait​of​ethics​also​seems​to​offer​an​alternative​to​the​formalism​and​ proceduralism​of​Rawls’s​and​Habermas’s​Kantian-​inspired​approaches​by​stressing​a​primordial​structure​of​responsibility​that​escapes​formulation​in​precepts​ or​rules. ​ 5.​Critchley,​Infinitely Demanding,​8. ​ 6.​Ziarek,​An Ethics of Dissensus,​5.​Although​Ziarek​states​that​the​ethics​she​develops​out​of​Levinas​should​not​be​understood​as​a​“recovery​of​ethics​as​a​new​ ‘ground’​of​politics,”​she​does​not​provide​the​theoretical​resources​that​might​enable​an​understanding​of​the​unconditional​as​something​other​than​a​ground. ​ 7.​Levinas,​Totality and Infinity,​21. ​ 8.​Levinas,​“The​Trace​of​the​Other,”​346. ​ 9.​Levinas,​ “Transcendence​ and​ Height,”​ 16,​ 18.​ Levinas​ uses​ “I”​ and​ “the​ Same”​ interchangeably​when​speaking​of​the​encounter​between​self​and​Other​(15).​Although​some​of​Levinas’s​terminology​is​inconsistent​(making​translation​all​the​ more​difficult),​he​repeatedly​identifies​Autrui​as​the​“human​Other.”​In​general,​ he​distinguishes​between​two​forms​of​otherness,​autre​and​autrui,​although​he​ sometimes​capitalizes​them​and​sometimes​does​not,​in​keeping​with​his​“rather​ unsystematic​prose​style.”​Autre,​however,​designates​anything​that​is​other,​including​objects,​and​autrui​is​reserved​for​human​beings​(Critchley,​“Introduction,”​16). ​ 10.​Levinas,​Totality and Infinity,​50. ​ 11.​Although​Levinas​tends​to​refer​to​physical​being​when​talking​about​the​face,​he​ does​not​restrict​the​reference​to​the​literal​face​of​a​person.​See,​for​example,​his​ many​references​to​a​scene​from​Grossman’s​Life and Fate,​which​Levinas​uses​as​ an​example​of​the​way​the​face​can​signify​through​the​“neck​and​the​back,”​“the​ shoulder​blades,”​and​the​“nape”​of​the​neck​(Levinas,​“Peace​and​Proximity,”​140).​ Elsewhere​Levinas​cautions​against​understanding​“the​word​face​.​.​.​in​a​narrow​ way”​and​refers​to​“the​bare​arm​sculpted​by​Rodin”​as​an​instance​of​the​human​ “signifying​in​its​uniqueness”​(Levinas,​“The​Other,​Utopia,​and​Justice,”​232). ​ 12.​Levinas,​“The​Other,​Utopia,​and​Justice,”​231. Notes to Chapter 2

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13.​Levinas,​“Transcendence​and​Height,”​21. 14.​Levinas,​“Philosophy​and​Transcendence,”​29. 15.​Morgan,​Discovering Levinas,​70. 16.​Levinas,​“The​Proximity​of​the​Other,”​101. 17.​Levinas​ describes​ the​ self/Other​ encounter​ as​ a​ “relation​ without​ relation”​ (Totality and Infinity,​80).​As​Colin​Davis​explains,​“It​is​a​relation​because​an​encounter​does​take​place;​but​it​is​‘without​relation’​because​that​encounter​does​ not​establish​parity​or​understanding,​the​Other​remains​resolutely​Other”​(Levinas,​45). ​ 18.​Levinas,​“Difficult​Freedom,”​251.​These​biblical​figures​are​often​cited​by​Levinas​ when​he​characterizes​the​Other.​See​also​Levinas,​“Transcendence​and​Height,”​ 17. ​ 19.​Levinas,​Totality and Infinity,​213–14.​ ​ 20.​Levinas​refers​to​the​self/Other​relation​as​one​of​charity​throughout​his​work,​but​ see​esp.​Levinas,​Entre Nous,​and​Robbins,​Is It Righteous to Be?​He​also​characterizes​this​relation​as​one​of​“total​altruism”​(“Transcendence​and​Height,​18). ​ 21.​Levinas,​Difficult Freedom,​xiv.​Annabel​Herzog​agrees:​“Hunger​or​destituteness​ are​not​formal​structures​to​signify​the​radical​and​elusive​alterity​of​the​Other;​ they​are​not​metaphors”​(“Is​Liberalism​‘All​We​Need’?,”​210). ​ 22.​Robbins,​Is It Righteous to Be?,​52.​Levinas​returns​to​the​topic​of​fulfilling​material​ needs​in​a​discussion​of​Heidegger’s​work,​contrasting​his​own​conception​of​responsibility​to​the​Other​with​Heidegger’s​concept​of​Fürsorge:​“I​don’t​believe​he​ thinks​that​giving,​feeding​the​hungry​and​clothing​the​naked​is​the​meaning​of​ being​or​that​it​is​above​the​task​of​being,”​a​statement​that​implies​this​is​Levinas’s​ view​(Levinas,​“Philosophy,​Justice​and​Love,”​116). ​ 23.​Levinas,​Otherwise Than Being,​55–56,​64,​72,​74,​77,​79. ​ 24.​For​a​thoughtful​reading​of​Levinas’s​treatment​of​Grossman’s​book,​see​Morgan,​ Discovering Levinas,​chapter​1. ​ 25.​In​an​interview​Levinas​affirms​that​to​“be​for​the​other”​entails​being​responsible​ even​for​someone​who​is​considered​an​enemy.​More​pointedly,​he​declares​that​ the​“ss​man”​has​what​he​“means​by​a​face.”​This,​he​acknowledges,​is​a​“very​painful”​truth​(Robbins,​Is It Righteous to Be?,​55,​208).​Yet​in​an​infamous​discussion​ in​1982​after​Israel’s​occupation​of​Beruit​and​the​massacres​in​Sabra​and​Chatila,​ Levinas​denied​that​“for​the​Israeli”​the​Other​is​“the​Palestinian.”​Here,​Levinas,​ in​seeming​contradiction​to​much​of​his​work,​specifies​that​the​Other​is​“the​ neighbor,​one​who​is​not​necessarily​kin,​but​who​can​be.”​Moreover,​he​claims​ that​“in​alterity​we​can​find​an​enemy”​(“Ethics​and​Politics,”​294). ​ 26.​Robbins,​Is It Righteous to Be?,​55. ​ 27.​Levinas,​“Substitution,”​94. ​ 28.​Levinas,​“Transcendence​and​Height,”​17. ​ 29.​Levinas​repeats​throughout​his​work​this​quote​from​Dostoevsky:​“Each​of​us​is​ guilty​before​everyone​for​everyone,​and​I​more​than​the​others.”​See,​for​example,​ Levinas,​Otherwise Than Being,​146. ​ 30.​Levinas,​“Substitution,”​90. ​ 31.​The​most​provocative​element​of​Levinas’s​notion​of​infinite​responsibility,​which​ Notes to Chapter 2

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does​not​appear​until​Otherwise Than Being,​expands​the​sense​of​responsibility​ one​has​for​the​Other​to​include​responsibility​for​what​the​Other​himself​has​ done.​(In​this​formulation,​the​responsibility​that​belongs​to​the​Other​but​is​assumed​by​the​I​is​a​more​traditional​responsibility​for​particular​deeds​that​have​ been​committed.)​Here,​“if​the​other​does​something​I​am​the​one​who​is​responsible.”​This​means​that​“I​am​responsible​for​the​other​even​when​he​bothers​me,​ even​when​he​persecutes​me”​(“The​Proximity​of​the​Other,”​105).​This​idea—that​ the​“persecuted​one​is​liable​to​answer​for​the​persecutor”—is​controversial,​to​ say​the​least.​For​the​purposes​of​this​chapter​I​do​not​examine​this​idea​in​any​ depth,​ focusing​ instead​ on​the​ “responsibility​ for​the​ other”​ that​is​a​constant​ throughout​Levinas’s​writings:​an​unending​responsibility​for​the​Other’s​needs,​ the​responsibility​I​bear​to​alleviate​suffering.​This​is​also​the​conception​of​responsibility​that​animates​efforts​to​craft​a​Levinasian​democratic​ethos. ​ 32.​Robbins,​Is It Righteous to Be?,​55. ​ 33.​Levinas,​Totality and Infinity,​215. ​ 34.​Levinas,​Otherwise Than Being,​118. ​ 35.​Morgan,​Discovering Levinas,​173. ​ 36.​Levinas,​God, Death, and Time,​175;​Levinas,​“Transcendence​and​Height,”​17. ​ 37.​Robbins,​Is It Righetous to Be?,​117. ​ 38.​Ibid.,​182. ​ 39.​Levinas,​“Violence​of​the​Face,”​175. ​ 40.​See​Bernasconi​“Rereading​Totality and Infinity,”​and​Morgan,​Discovering Levinas,​ chapter​2,​for​illuminating​discussions​of​this​question. ​ 41.​Levinas,​“Philosophy​and​Transcendence,”​32. ​ 42.​Critchley,​“Introduction,”​27. ​ 43.​Levinas,​“Transcendence​and​Height,”​23. ​ 44.​The​dedication​to​Otherwise Than Being​reads​as​follows:​“To​the​memory​of​those​ who​were​closest​among​the​six​million​assassinated​by​the​National​Socialists,​ and​of​the​millions​on​millions​of​all​confessions​and​all​nations,​victims​of​the​ same​ hatred​ of​ the​ other​ man,​ the​ same​ anti-​semitism.”​ For​ Levinas,​ who​ described​his​life​and​work​as​“dominated​by​the​presentiment​and​the​memory​of​ the​Nazi​horror,”​the​devastating​disasters​of​the​twentieth​century​and​Western​ philosophy​bear​a​secret​affinity:​“The​visage​of​being​that​shows​itself​in​war​is​ fixed​in​the​concept​of​totality,​which​dominates​Western​philosophy”​(Totality and Infinity,​21). ​ 45.​Levinas’s​most​extreme​formulation​claims​that​even​“the​extermination​of​living​ beings”​does​not​affect​the​face,​because​the​face​is​“not​of​the​world”​(Totality and Infinity,​198).​As​Davis​comments,​“His​reference​to​extermination​is​uncomfortably​reminiscent​of​the​Holocaust​and​other​modern​atrocities.​So​the​belief​that​ the​face,​in​Levinas’s​very​specific​philosophical​sense,​is​unharmed​seems​disturbingly​reticent​about​the​countless​people​who​were​harmed.​Bluntly,​the​fact​ that​the​Other​survived​Auschwitz​unscathed​seems​incalculably​less​important​ than​the​murder​of​those​who​did​not”​(Davis,​Levinas,​51). ​ 46.​Perpich,​The Ethics of Emmanuel Levinas,​3. ​ 47.​Critchley,​“Introduction,”​27. Notes to Chapter 2

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​ 48.​Ibid.,​12. ​ 49.​Davis,​Levinas,​49. ​ 50.​Responsibility​cannot​be​evaded​entirely​because​while​murder​is​always​a​possibility,​even​the​killing​of​another,​according​to​Levinas,​does​not​destroy​the​ Other,​who​in​some​sense​remains​inviolable.​See​note​45​for​this​chapter​concerning​the​immortality​of​the​face. ​ 51.​Critchley,​“Introduction,”​28. ​ 52.​Morgan,​Discovering Levinas,​278,​282. ​ 53.​Robbins,​Is It Righteous to Be?,​47.​Conversely,​evil​is​defined​as​indifference​to​the​ Other​(55). ​ 54.​Levinas,​ “Philosophy,​ Justice​ and​ Love,”​ 109.​ As​ Diane​ Perpich​ points​ out,​ although​there​is​disagreement​concerning​the​degree​to​which​Levinas’s​ethics​can​ be​described​as​normative,​the​vast​majority​of​secondary​work​aims​to​use​Levinas’s​work​precisely​to​support​particular​normative​ends​or​projects​(Perpich,​ The Ethics of Emmanuel Levinas,​9). ​ 55.​Robbins,​Is It Righteous to Be?,​225,​235. ​ 56.​Ibid.,​231. ​ 57.​Enrique​Dussel​writes​that​Levinas​advances​“an​anti-​politics​of​the​Totality,​yet​he​ says​nothing​about​a​politics​of​liberation”​(Dussel,​“‘The​Politics’​by​Levinas,”​81). ​ 58.​Levinas,​Totality and Infinity,​21.​The​specter​of​Hobbes​looms​large​in​Levinas’s​ thought​ and​ largely​ defines​ the​ understanding​ of​ politics​ that​ he​ juxtaposes​ to​ ethics.​ But​ Levinas​ also​ questions​ whether​ it​ might​ be​ possible​ to​ refuse​ Hobbesian​egoism​in​the​name​of​another​political​possibility.​In​the​closing​to​ Otherwise Than Being,​Levinas​writes,​“It​is​then​not​without​importance​to​know​ if​the​egalitarian​and​just​State​in​which​man​is​fulfilled​(and​which​is​to​be​set​up,​ and​especially​to​be​maintained)​proceeds​from​a​war​of​all​against​all,​or​from​the​ irreducible​responsibility​of​the​one​for​all,​and​if​it​can​do​without​friendship​and​ faces”​(159–60). ​ 59.​Levinas,​“Transcendence​and​Height,”​23. ​ 60.​Levinas,​“Uniqueness,”​195. ​ 61.​Levinas,​“Dialogue​on​Thinking-​of-​the-​Other,”​202. ​ 62.​Robbins,​Is It Righteous to Be?,​133. ​ 63.​Levinas,​Otherwise Than Being,​157.​Here​Levinas​seems​to​describe​the​appearance​ of​the​third​party​in​chronological​terms,​as​though​it​comes​after​the​face-​to-​face​ encounter,​disrupting​it.​But​Levinas​also​denies​that​such​a​division​exists,​indicating​that​the​third​party​is​actually​there​from​the​start​(Totality and Infinity,​213).​ Robert​Bernasconi​argues,​“If​Levinas,​perhaps​somewhat​clumsily,​attempted​at​ times​to​express​the​relation​of​the​ethical​to​the​political​by​according​a​chronological​priority​of​the​face​of​the​Other​over​the​third​party,​his​more​careful​formulations​avoided​casting​it​within​a​narrative​idiom”​(Bernasconi,​“The​Third​ Party,”​80). ​ 64.​Levinas,​“Peace​and​Proximity,”​168. ​ 65.​Levinas,​“The​Other,​Utopia,​and​Justice,”​229;​Levinas,​“Uniqueness,”​195.​See​ also​ Levinas,​ Otherwise Than Being,​ 157–58;​ Levinas,​ “Philosophy,​ Justice​ and​ Love,”​104–5;​and​Levinas,​“The​Proximity​of​the​Other,”​101. Notes to Chapter 2

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​ 66.​Peperzak,​To the Other,​168. ​ 67.​Levinas,​Totality and Infinity,​213. ​ 68.​Levinas,​Otherwise Than Being,​158.​At​one​point​in​Totality and Infinity,​Levinas​ also​positions​the​third​party,​another​Other,​in​a​slightly​more​specific​sense,​as​ he​“whom​in​the​midst​of​his​destitution​the​Other​already​serves”​(157).​This​indicates​that​the​Other​who​obliges​me​is​also​under​an​infinite​obligation​because​ he​too​is​faced​by​another​Other.​The​third​party​is​Other​to​“my”​Other. ​ 69.​Levinas,​“The​Proximity​of​the​Other,”​107. ​ 70.​Levinas,​Otherwise Than Being,​159. ​ 71.​Levinas,​“The​Other,​Utopia,​and​Justice,”​229. ​ 72.​Levinas,​“Philosophy,​Justice,​and​Love,”​104. ​ 73.​Robbins,​Is It Righteous to Be?,​67. ​ 74.​Levinas,​“The​Proximity​of​the​Other,”​101–2.​See​also​Levinas,​“Peace​and​Proximity,”​142. ​ 75.​Levinas,​ “Uniqueness,”​ 195.​ See​ also​ Levinas,​ “Dialogue​ on​ Thinking-​of-​the-​ Other,”​202–3,​concerning​the​task​of​comparison​ushered​in​by​the​third. ​ 76.​See​Levinas,​“Philosophy,​Justice​and​Love,”​105,​and​Levinas,​“Uniqueness,”​195,​ among​others. ​ 77.​Robbins,​Is It Righteous to Be?,​67. ​ 78.​Caygill,​Levinas and the Political,​3. ​ 79.​Herzog,​“Is​Liberalism​‘All​We​Need’?,”​211–13. ​ 80.​Bernasconi,​“The​Third​Party,”​83;​Morgan,​Discovering Levinas,​24. ​ 81.​Herzog,​“Is​Liberalism​‘All​We​Need’?” ​ 82.​Levinas,​“Useless​Suffering,”​94. ​ 83.​Levinas,​“Philosophy,​Justice,​and​Love,”​105. ​ 84.​Robbins,​Is It Righteous to Be?,​100. ​ 85.​Ibid.,​132. ​ 86.​Levinas,​“Peace​and​Proximity,”​144. ​ 87.​Levinas,​“The​Proximity​of​the​Other,”​108. ​ 88.​Alford,​“Levinas​and​Political​Theory,”​157. ​ 89.​Ibid.,​164. ​ 90.​Simmons,​“The​Third,”​98. ​ 91.​Wingenbach,​“Refusing​the​Temptation​of​Innocence,”​230;​Davis,​Levinas,​53. ​ 92.​As​Tocqueville​famously​worried,​the​existence​of​an​“immense​protective​power”​ that​“foresees​and​supplies​[citizens’]​necessities”​may​constitute​a​novel​form​of​ despotism,​within​which​citizens​are​a​flock​of​“timid​and​hardworking​animals”​ and​the​government​is​“the​shepherd”​(Tocqueville,​Democracy in America,​vol.​2,​ part​4,​chapter​6). ​ 93.​Critchley,​Infinitely Demanding,​8. ​ 94.​Critchley,​however,​seems​to​mis-​ascribe​this​element​of​approval​to​Levinas​himself​(ibid.,​57,​61). ​ 95.​Ibid.,​49,​51. ​ 96.​Ibid.,​62. ​ 97.​Ibid.,​11. ​ 98.​Ibid.,​113.​Critchley​also​cites​mobilizations​against​intervention​in​Iraq​by​the​ Notes to Chapter 2

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United​Kingdom​and​the​United​States,​protests​at​the​Republican​National​Convention​in​2004,​and​groups​like​Pink​Bloc​and​Billionaires​for​Bush​as​examples​ of​“direct​democratic​action.” ​ 99.​Ibid.,​93. ​100.​Ibid.,​125–26. ​101.​Rancière,​“Does​Democracy​Mean​Something?,”​esp.​59–61. ​102.​Critchley,​Infinitely Demanding,​94,​119,​120.​To​Critchley,​democratization​refers​ to​a​mobile,​ongoing​struggle​for​“true​democracy.”​It​involves​“working​in​common​at​a​certain​distance​from​the​state,​working​toward​control​of​the​place​from​ which​one​acts​and​speaks,​working​together​in​a​situation​as​a​political​subject​ committed​to​a​plan,​a​place,​a​space,​a​process”​(115,​118). ​103.​In​ earlier​ writing​ Critchley​ tended​ to​ characterize​ Levinasian​ ethics​ in​ these​ terms.​See​Critchley,​“Five​Problems​in​Levinas’s​View​of​Politics.”​In​Infinitely Demanding,​ethics​has​not​lost​its​disruptive​power,​but​it​is​bound​up​with​a​kind​of​ politics​and​is​not​only​the​hiatus​of​politics. ​104.​Critchley​ borrows​ the​ phrase​ “true​ democracy”​ from​ Marx​ to​ signify​ “a​ truth​ that​ no​ state​ incarnates”​ but​ toward​ which​ “democratization”​ forever​ aspires​ (Critchley,​Infinitely Demanding,​115).​He​characterizes​“the​ethical​experience​of​ infinite​responsibility​at​the​heart​of​subjectivity”​as​“metapolitical”​(119). ​105.​Critchley​claims​that​metapolitical​should​not​be​construed​as​prepolitical​or​nonpolitical,​but​he​provides​no​defense​of​this​supposed​distinction​(Infinitely Demanding,​120). ​106.​Poppendieck,​Sweet Charity?,​253.​Poppendieck​envisions​the​possibility​of​“turning​ kitchens​ and​ pantries​ into​ free​ spaces,​ places​ where​ people​ can​ meet​ and​ interact​across​the​gulf​of​social​class​and​the​divisions​of​race​and​ethnicity,​not​as​ givers​and​receivers​.​.​.​but​as​.​.​.​fellow​citizens.”​She​cites​rare​efforts​to​transform​ charitable​food​giving​into​cooperative​endeavors​of​self-​determination​(316–17). ​107.​Ibid.,​5. ​108.​Ibid.,​270. ​109.​Ibid.,​290. ​110.​Ibid.,​5. ​ 111.​Ibid.,​12,​296. ​112.​This​term,​from​Tocqueville,​looms​large​in​the​political​science​literature​on​civic​ education​and​civic​skills​in​relation​to​political​participation. ​113.​Putnam’s​Bowling Alone​forwards​a​rather​amorphous​notion​of​social​capital,​inconsistently​used​both​descriptively​and​normatively​and​identified​with​participation​in​community​organizations​such​as​the​Rotary​and​Elks​clubs,​bowling​ leagues,​and​choirs​as​well​as​with​conventional​forms​of​political​participation​ such​as​voting​and​petition​signing.​Putnam’s​book​purports​to​track​the​decline​ in​American​social​capital​since​1965,​which​he​claims​is​evident​on​these​social​ and​political​fronts.​Among​many​problems​with​Putnam’s​argument,​his​basic​ contention​ that​Americans​ became​less​ engaged​ in​collective​ life​after​ 1965​is​ deeply​suspect​since​that​date​marks​the​advent​of​some​of​the​most​important​ social​movements​in​U.S.​history.​By​focusing​on​bridge​clubs​and​dinner​parties,​ on​the​one​hand,​and​voting​and​petition​signing,​on​the​other,​Putnam​arguably​ Notes to Chapter 2

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misses​the​most​interesting​forms​of​American​civic​engagement​of​the​last​century.​Moreover,​if​we​take​those​excluded​social​movements​and​forms​of​direct​ democratic​action​seriously,​Putnam’s​suggestion​that​a​decline​in​certain​kinds​ of​localized​group​memberships​is​mirrored​by​and​even​contributes​to​political​ disaffection​is​thrown​into​question. ​114.​Brady,​ Verba,​ and​ Schlozman,​ “Beyond​ ses.”​ See​ also​ Verba,​ Schlozman,​ and​ Brady,​Voice and Equality.​“Civic​skills,”​according​to​the​authors,​are​a​resource​ (along​with​time​and​money)​that​can​explain​differing​levels​of​political​activity​ among​citizens,​especially​activities​requiring​time,​such​as​working​on​a​campaign,​contacting​government​officials,​protesting,​engaging​in​informal​community​activity,​and​serving​on​local​governing​boards​or​attending​board​meetings.​ Civic​skills,​they​say,​are​partly​“acquired​and​honed”​in​the​nonpolitical​institutions​of​adult​life,​including​the​workplace,​voluntary​associations,​and​churches​ (“Beyond​ses,”​273).​For​such​skills​to​be​developed​in​nonpolitical​organizations,​ however,​specific​opportunities​to​learn,​improve,​and​maintain​skills​must​be​ available:​“Simply​being​involved​with​nonpolitical​institutions​does​not​foster​ political​ activity”​ (280–81).​Thus,​ the​ type​ of​involvement​ is​key.​Only​certain​ “skill-​acts”​such​as​writing​a​letter,​going​to​a​meeting​where​decisions​are​made,​ planning​or​chairing​a​meeting,​or​giving​a​presentation​or​speech​develop​“competencies”​that​can​help​explain​political​participation.​Many​forms​of​participation​in​charitable​organizations,​in​which​volunteers​execute​predefined​tasks,​are​ unlikely​to​involve​such​skill-​acts. ​115.​Eliasoph,​ Avoiding Politics.​ Eliasoph’s​ three​ case​ studies—of​ volunteer​ groups,​ recreational​groups,​and​activist​groups—reveal​what​she​calls​a​“shrinking​circle​ of​concern”​among​citizens.​Although​the​volunteers,​members​of​an​antidrug​ organization​and​a​parents’​group​supporting​a​local​high​school,​sometimes​revealed​“deeper​political​awareness”​when​“backstage,”​in​their​work​together​they​ continued​to​focus​attention​on​tasks​that​they​defined​as​unpolitical​and​as​“close​ to​home,”​unconnected​to​the​broader​world.​Eliasoph​shows​that​their​participation​was​often​limited​to​“lending​a​hand​to​pre-​set​projects”​(50)​(such​as​fund-​ raising)​rather​than​engaging​in​discussion​about​what​ends​should​be​pursued.​ Activity​ focused​ on​ helping​ individuals​ “one​ person​ at​ a​ time”​ rather​ than​ on​ transforming​institutions​of​group​life​(55).​In​fact,​“in​group​meetings,​volunteers​never​drew​connections​between​their​everyday​acts​of​charity​and​public​ issues”​(24).​Her​persuasive​account​of​“political​evaporation”​raises​a​significant​ challenge​to​volunteering​as​the​“hegemonic​image​of​good​citizenship”​(25).​See​ also​Eliasoph,​Making Volunteers,​which​is​also​rooted​in​participant​research​and​ confirms​the​earlier​analysis​of​the​depoliticizing​character​of​volunteer​activity.​ Here​ the​ focus​ is​ on​ so-​called​ Empowerment​ Projects,​ hybrid​ entities​ funded​ by​government,​nonprofit,​and​private​funds​which​aim​to​“transform​people”​ and​cure​social​ills​by​“empowering”​those​who​are​currently​marginalized​(by​ including​them,​however​unequally,​in​volunteer​organizations).​The​provision​ of​narrow,​hierarchical​aid​to​the​needy​is​combined​with​an​emphasis​on​self-​ transformation​as​the​route​to​collective​social​change,​a​mixture​that​seems​to​ blend​what​I​have​called​therapeutic​ethics​with​charitable​ethics. Notes to Chapter 2

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​116.​See​esp.​Eliasoph,​Making Volunteers,​chapter​5. ​117.​Ibid.,​92–94. ​118.​Theda​Skocpol​notes​that​volunteer​efforts​are​often​“professionally​coordinated​ or​one-​shot​sporadic​undertakings”​that,​though​worthy,​involve​people​“‘doing​ for’​others—feeding​the​needy​at​church​soup​kitchens,​tutoring​children​at​an​ after-​school​clinic,​or​guiding​visitors​at​a​museum​exhibit—rather​than​‘doing​ with’​fellow​citizens​as​ongoing​members​of​a​shared​group”​(Diminished Democracy,​227).​In​addition,​even​in​charitable​volunteer​organizations​that​explicitly​ aim​to​include​disadvantaged​as​well​as​more​privileged​people​among​their​participants,​social​inequality​continues​to​materialize​and​structure​the​relations​between​them,​as​Eliasoph​shows.​For​example,​among​youth​volunteers​who​were​ supposed​to​be​working​together​as​equals​in​civic​engagement​projects,​disadvantaged​youth,​constantly​exposed​to​public​speeches​about​them,​often​“spoke​of​ themselves​as​outcomes​and​variables;​they​understood​that​they​were​the​main​ problem​to​solve,”​while​nondisadvantaged​youth​assumed​“they​were​supposed​ to​solve​the​problems”​of​others​(Eliasoph,​Making Volunteers,​20). ​119.​Poppendieck,​Sweet Charity,​19. ​120.​Butler​and​Connolly,​“Politics,​Power​and​Ethics.”​Butler​has​also​written,​“I​have​ worried​that​the​return​to​ethics​has​constituted​an​escape​from​politics,​and​I’ve​ also​worried​that​it’s​meant​a​certain​heightening​of​moralism​and​this​has​made​ me​cry​out,​as​Nietzsche​cried​out​about​Hegel,​‘Bad​air!​Bad​air!’”​(“Ethical​Ambivalence,”​15).​Among​those​who​identify​an​ethical​turn​in​Butler’s​own​oeuvre,​ though​with​quite​varied​assessments​of​its​meaning,​are​Mills,​“Normative​Violence,​Vulnerability,​and​Responsibility”;​Dean,​“Change​of​Address:​Butler’s​Politics​at​Sovereignty’s​Deadlock”;​Boucher,​“The​Politics​of​Performativity.” ​121.​Lloyd,​Judith Butler,​esp.​chapter​6,​and​Chambers​and​Carver,​Judith Butler and Political Theory,​esp.​chapter​4. ​122.​Butler,​“1999​Preface,”​vii–xxviii. ​123.​Lloyd,​Judith Butler,​134. ​124.​See​Mills,​“Normative​Violence,​Vulnerability​and​Responsibility,”​for​an​interesting​reading​of​Butler​that​posits​a​contradiction​between​her​earlier​analysis​of​ subjectification​as​a​process​involving​“normative​violence”​and​her​later​call​for​a​ “nonviolent​ethics.”​Mills​argues​that​Butler’s​explicitly​ethical​work,​by​celebrating​nonviolence​as​such,​departs​from​her​previous​conceptualization​of​normative​violence​without​addressing​this​shift.​According​to​Butler’s​earlier​work,​all​ norms,​which​“we​cannot​do​without,”​are​constraining​and​exclusionary​(as​well​ as​enabling).​Mills​claims​that​Butler’s​nonviolent​ethics​is​at​odds​with​this​account​of​norms​as​being​necessarily​violent.​I​think​Mills​is​right​about​the​further​ question​this​insight​begs:​Are​there​perhaps​two​different​modes​or​types​of​violence​at​issue​here?​What​exactly​is​normative​violence​and​“can​it​be​thought​in​ a​way​that​allows​for​a​nonviolence​in​its​midst”?​(152).​Though​Mills​articulates​ this​important​question,​she​does​not​pursue​it. ​125.​Butler,​Precarious Life,​134.​See​also​Butler,​Giving an Account of Oneself,​100,​on​ “common​vulnerability.” ​126.​Butler’s​focus​on​common​vulnerability​is​echoed​by​Stephen​K.​White’s​emphaNotes to Chapter 2

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sis​on​mortality—or​“our​subjection​to​death”—as​a​source​of​connection​and​ equality​among​human​beings​that​can​support​a​modern​ethos.​He​argues​that​ an​appreciation​of​our​universal​mortality​can​enhance​the​“presumptive​generosity”​we​show​toward​others.​Like​Butler,​White​tends​to​present​mortality​as​an​ absolute​universal,​without​exploring​how​mortality​is​figured,​signified,​or​variously​politicized​in​ways​that​encourage​or​discourage​the​egalitarian​democratic​ politics​he​supports.​See​White,​The Ethos of a Late Modern Citizen.​See​also​Honig,​ “Antigone’s​Two​Laws,”​for​an​insightful​conceptualization​of​“mortalist​humanism”​as​a​key​dimension​of​the​“ethical​turn.”​She​identifies​this​resurgent​form​of​ humanism​with​the​work​of​Butler,​White,​and​Nicole​Loraux. ​127.​Butler,​Frames of War,​54. ​128.​Butler,​Precarious Life,​xii.​Interdependency​means​“the​subject​that​I​am​is​bound​ up​with​the​subject​that​I​am​not”​(Butler,​Frames of War,​40). ​129.​Butler,​Precarious Life,​31. ​130.​Ibid.,​22–27. ​131.​Ibid.,​22. ​132.​Vázquez-​Arroyo,​“Responsibility,​Violence,​and​Catastrophe,”​102,​101. ​133.​Shulman,​“Acknowledgement​and​Disavowal​as​an​Idiom​for​Theorizing​Politics.” ​134.​Butler,​Frames of War,​25.​The​distinction​between​precariousness​and​precarity​ is​also​conceptualized​by​Butler​as​a​distinction​between​universal​and​differential​vulnerability​(Precarious Life,​39,​32,​44).​Vázquez-​Arroyo​charges​Butler​with​ disavowing​“any​socio-​political​analysis​of​vulnerability”​which​would​involve​addressing​“the​various​degrees​of​vulnerability​that​political​subjects​experience​in​ scenes​of​power​that​are​mediated​by​structural​inequalities​of​class,​gender,​and​ status”​(“Responsibility,​Violence,​and​Catastrophe,”​102).​He​does​not​address​ Butler’s​notion​of​precarity​or​explain​whether​the​distinction​she​draws​between​ precariousness​and​precarity​is​at​all​useful​in​this​regard. ​135.​Butler,​Frames of War,​22. ​136.​Ibid.,​14. ​137.​Ibid.,​2;​see​also​22,​where​precariousness​“imposes​.​.​.​ethical​obligations.”​In​a​ different​formulation,​precariousness​“grounds”​positive​social​obligations​(22). ​138.​Ibid.,​180. ​139.​Ibid.,​179. ​140.​On​the​notion​of​derealization,​see​esp.​Butler,​Precarious Life,​33–34. ​141.​Other​readers​of​Butler​affirm​a​chronology​according​to​which​Butler’s​ethics​are​ preparatory​for​politics.​For​example,​although​Sara​Rushing​asserts​that​Butler​ does​not​prioritize​ethics​over​politics,​she​claims​in​“Preparing​for​Politics”​that​ Butler​conceptualizes​ an​ethics​ of​generosity,​ humility,​ patience,​ and​restraint​ that​“precedes​and​informs”​political​interactions. ​142.​Shulman,​“Acknowledgment​and​Disavowal​as​an​Idiom​for​Theorizing​Politics.” ​143.​Butler,​Frames of War,​23. ​144.​Lloyd,​Judith Butler,​154–55.​The​phrase​“struggles​against​the​norm”​is​from​Butler,​Undoing Gender,​13. ​145.​Lloyd,​“Toward​a​Cultural​Politics​of​Vulnerability,”​103–4. ​146.​Honig​makes​a​similar​point​when​she​wagers​that​“only​in​a​world​as​seemingly​ Notes to Chapter 2

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bereft​as​our​own​of​meaningful​political​engagement,​a​world​in​which​way​too​ much​time​is​spent​in​the​(proverbial)​gym,​could​ethos​seems​such​a​promising​ alternative​way”​to​the​lessons​of​self-​decentering​supplied​by​political​participation​(“The​Politics​of​Ethos,”​428).​Despair​figures​somewhat​differently​but​also​ prominently​in​the​“reversal​of​the​flow​of​time”​that​Rancière​attributes​to​the​ ethical​turn.​He​alleges​that​recent​work​focused​on​the​category​of​ethics​is​not​ “turned​towards​an​end​to​be​accomplished”​but​is​“turned​towards​the​catastrophe​behind​us,”​the​Holocaust​(“The​Ethical​Turn​of​Aesthetics​and​Politics,”​192). ​147.​Shulman,​“Acknowledgment​and​Disavowal​as​an​Idiom​for​Theorizing​Politics.”​ Shulman​ is​ here​ contrasting​ James​ Baldwin’s​ conceptualization​ of​ disavowal​ and​acknowledgment,​which​he​interprets​as​thoroughly​political,​with​Butler’s.​ Noting​that​Baldwin​understood​that​only​collective​action​“could​force​whites​ to​count​blacks​as​real,”​Shulman​argues,​“Community​originates,​if​at​all,​when​ public​performance​of​‘no​justice,​no​peace’​compels​a​response;​ethical​‘acknowledgement’​might​follow​such​a​political​moment​but​rarely​(ever?)​precedes​it.” ​148.​Critchley,​Infinitely Demanding,​40,​56. ​149.​Shulman,​“Acknowledgment​and​Disavowal​as​an​Idiom​for​Theorizing​Politics.”​ Shulman​argues​that​Butler​does​not​avow​the​politics​of​her​own​definition​of​vulnerability,​which​conceives​of​it​almost​exclusively​in​terms​of​state​violence​and​ not,​say,​of​climate​change​or​economic​dispossession.​He​further​points​out​that​ Butler​fails​to​recognize​“that​acknowledgment​of​mortal​precariousness​does​not​ yield​only​one​outcome.”​The​meaning​of​precariousness​is​politically​contingent,​ as​any​reading​of​Hobbes​will​show. ​150.​The​adoption​of​a​world-​centered​vocabulary​is​not,​on​its​own,​enough​to​shift​ one​from​the​intimacy​of​the​charitable​dyad​to​the​complexity​of​associational​ activity​among​coactors​who​aim​to​affect​the​conditions​of​their​lives.​Luce​Irigaray,​for​example,​uses​the​language​of​world​in​Sharing the World​to​describe​a​ (potentially​hospitable)​self/Other​relation​that​involves​a​confrontation​between​ two​utterly​unique​worlds.​Thus,​despite​the​title​of​her​book,​Irigaray’s​approach​ privileges​a​dyadic​encounter​between​two​beings​understood​to​occupy​entirely​ distinct,​singular​worlds​(1,​3,​63,​68,​86,​70).​Save​for​one​fleeting​reference​to​ “a​new​world”​that​might​exist​between​otherwise​wholly​separate​subjects​(23),​ there​is​no​account​in​this​work​of​the​world​as​something​which​exceeds​any​ particular​subject​or​subjects​and​which​can​both​link​and​separate​persons​(see​ chapters​3​and​4). 3. dEMocratic Ethics of carE

​ 1.​The​democratic​ethos​defended​here​involves​turning​from​“the​question​of​the​ subject”​to​“the​question​of​the​world.”​This​is​Linda​Zerilli’s​description​of​the​ reorientation​she​pursues​in​relation​to​the​meaning​of​feminist​freedom​(Feminism and the Abyss of Freedom,​introduction).​The​question​of​the​subject​in​ethical​ thought,​as​I’ve​tried​to​show,​actually​takes​two​forms,​depending​on​whether​the​ self​or​the​Other​is​cast​as​the​focal​point.​But​in​both​cases,​the​significance​of​the​ extrasubjective​world,​which​I​argue​is​the​recipient​of​a​distinctively​democratic​ practice​of​care,​is​obscured. Notes to Chapter 3

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​ 2.​Regarding​the​title​of​the​book,​see​the​letter​written​to​Karl​Jaspers​by​Arendt​on​ August​6,​1955,​in​Arendt​and​Jaspers,​Correspondence 1926–1969,​263–64.​The​idea​ of​amor mundi,​though​not​always​referred​to​by​this​name,​is​especially​important​ to​Arendt’s​arguments​concerning​“world-​alienation”​in​chapter​6​of​The Human Condition​and​to​her​distinction​between​conscience​as​a​form​of​concern​for​the​ self​and​political​action​as​a​form​of​concern​for​the​world​in​“Civil​Disobedience”​ and​in​the​essays​collected​in​Responsibility and Judgment. ​ 3.​For​other​efforts​to​expand​on​Arendt’s​conception​of​amor mundi,​though​quite​ different​ from​ this​ project,​ see​ Biskowski,​ “Practical​ Foundations​ for​ Political​ Judgment”;​ Breen,​ “Agonism,​ Antagonism,​ and​ the​ Necessity​ of​ Care”;​ Chiba,​ “Hannah​Arendt​on​Love​and​the​Political.”​Although​all​three​articles​claim​to​ interpret​and​develop​Arendt’s​notion​of​“love​for​the​world,”​only​Biskowski​carefully​theorizes​the​second​half​of​the​term,​mundi,​so​as​to​specify​what​is​distinctive​about​care,​love,​or​concern​directed​at​the​world​rather​than​at​other​persons. ​ 4.​Arendt​praises​Gotthold​Ephraim​Lessing​for​“always​taking​sides​for​the​world’s​ sake”​ (“On​ Humanity​ in​ Dark​ Times,”​ 7–8).​ Her​ account​ of​ civil​ disobedience​ stresses​that​such​associative​activity​expressed​concern​for​the​fate​of​the​world.​ Arendt​ uses​ the​ examples​ of​ individual​ conscientious​ objection​ and​ collective​ civil​disobedience​(in​response​to​the​Vietnam​War)​to​illustrate​her​distinction​ between​moral​and​political​action,​identified​with​care​for​the​self​and​care​for​ the​world,​respectively.​Thoreau​serves​as​the​representative​of​a​moral​outlook​ directed​at​keeping​one’s​hands​clean​and​maintaining​personal​integrity​by​abstaining​from​conduct​that​would​offend​one’s​conscience.​Arendt​contrasts​this​ type​of​moral​action​with​political​action​undertaken​by​a​group​that​aims​to​transform​a​worldly​practice,​policy,​or​law​(“Civil​Disobedience,”​58–68). ​ 5.​Arendt​does​not​present​an​ethics​as​such,​yet​the​argument​I​make​here,​which​ engages​with​Arendt’s​thought​to​conceptualize​a​worldly​ethics,​challenges​readings​which​allege​that​Arendt’s​conception​of​politics​is​simply​amoral.​Benhabib,​ The Reluctant Modernism of Hannah Arendt,​ and​ Kateb,​ Hannah Arendt,​ for​ example,​criticize​Arendt​for​failing​to​provide​any​moral​foundations​to​guide​and​ constrain​politics.​While​it​is​true​that​Arendt​rejects​the​notion​of​an​absolute​ normative​ground​that​sanctions​political​life,​her​work​as​a​whole,​I​believe,​is​ animated​by​a​distinctive​ethical​outlook—amor mundi—which​is​too​often​overlooked.​ Though​ this​ idea​ cannot​ provide​ the​ universal​ “metanorms”​ Benhabib​ seeks​or​the​transcendent​moral​principles​Kateb​desires,​it​is​important​to​appreciate​that​a​powerful​ethical​sensibility​informs​Arendt’s​account​of​politics. ​ 6.​For​example,​in​Noddings’s​Caring,​a​mother’s​care​for​her​child​is​treated​as​paradigmatic​of​caring​as​such​and​serves​as​a​model​for​the​ethics​of​Eros,​or​feminine​ spirit,​she​advances. ​ 7.​Nel​Noddings,​who​helped​inaugurate​the​inquiry​into​care​ethics,​explicitly​rejected​the​extension​of​such​ethics​to​political​life,​claiming​that​“nonrational”​ care​cannot​survive​institutionalization.​Although​many​other​care​theorists​have​ criticized​this​view,​the​model​of​an​individual​caregiver​(implicitly​or​explicitly​ gendered​as​feminine)​and​a​particularly​dependent​person​(a​baby,​an​elderly​ Notes to Chapter 3

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parent)​continues​to​dominate.​For​example,​Virginia​Held​argues​for​the​political​relevance​of​care​but​does​so​largely​by​analogizing​the​state​to​a​caregiver/ mother.​Her​theory​does​not​address​the​possibility​of​care​for​conditions​enacted​ by​citizens​in​association​with​one​another​and,​indeed,​barely​addresses​whether​ the​welfare​state​she​defends​involves​or​requires​democratic​participation​of​any​ kind​(Held,​The Ethics of Care). ​ 8.​Tronto,​Moral Boundaries,​103. ​ 9.​Ibid.,​107. ​ 10.​Ibid.,​175. ​ 11.​Ibid.,​x. ​ 12.​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​52.​The​language​of​world​is​prominent​in​Martin​ Heidegger’s​work​as​well.​Arendt​gives​Heidegger​credit​for​his​central​conception​of​human​ existence​ as​being-​in-​the-​world,​ noting​ that​ this​ understanding​ seems​to​challenge​the​philosophical​tradition’s​concern​with​“man​in​the​singular”​and​disregard​for​human​plurality.​Heidegger’s​idea​of​being-​in-​the-​world​has​ the​merit,​Arendt​thinks,​of​pointing​toward​the​reality​of​our​life​“together​with​ others”​and​thereby​decentering​the​singular​subject​(Arendt,​“Concern​with​Politics​in​Recent​European​Philosophical​Thought,”​443).​The​promise​of​this​innovation​goes​unfulfilled,​however,​according​to​Arendt,​because​Heidegger’s​hostile​portrait​of​Das Man​supports​“an​ideal​of​the​self​that​measured​authenticity​ in​terms​of​a​withdrawal​from​social​relations”​(Villa,​Arendt and Heidegger,​232).​ Arendt​charges​that​“the​most​essential​character​of​the​[Heideggerean]​Self​is​ its​absolute​Self-​ness,​its​radical​separation​from​all​its​fellows”​(Arendt,​“What​ Is​Existential​Philosophy?,”​181).​According​to​this​view,​Heidegger’s​thought,​despite​its​ostensibly​this-​worldly​character,​paradoxically​expresses​modern​worldlessness. ​ 13.​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​2. ​ 14.​Pitkin,​The Attack of the Blob,​303n93. ​ 15.​Arendt,​The Origins of Totalitarianism,​ 301.​The​concept​of​world​building​challenges​ Mary​ Dietz’s​ claim​ that​ political​ instrumentality​ is​ “always​ formulated​ negatively”​by​Arendt​(Dietz,​“The​Slow​Boring​of​Hard​Boards,”​885n25). ​ 16.​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​9.​See​also​Arendt,​“Introduction​into​Politics,”​107. ​ 17.​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​257–73. ​ 18.​Matt​Richtel,​“Hooked​on​Gadgets​and​Paying​a​Mental​Price,”​New York Times,​ June​6,​2010. ​ 19.​Timothy​Morton,​for​example,​rejects​the​language​of​world,​along​with​that​of​ Nature​and​the​environment,​on​the​grounds​that​these​terms​connote​an​“alien​ and​alienated”​out​there,​separate​from​human​beings,​and​thereby​betray​the​ “ecological​thought”—the​total​interconnection​of​everything​(Morton,​The Ecological Thought,​5;​see​also​30). ​ 20.​In​this​respect​world​is​not​entirely​unlike​Sartre’s​understanding​of​the​milieu,​ described​by​Iris​Young​as​“the​already-​there​set​of​material​things​and​collectivized​ habits​ against​ the​ background​ of​ which​ any​ particular​ action​ occurs”​ (Young,​“Gender​as​Seriality,”​726). ​ 21.​Tocqueville,​Democracy in America,​vol.​2,​510. Notes to Chapter 3

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​ 22.​Arendt,​“Introduction​into​Politics,”​128. ​ 23.​Arendt,​“What​Is​Freedom?,”​156.​The​uncertainty​of​outcomes​is​emphasized​by​ Arendt’s​conception​of​action​as​being​irreversible​and​unpredictable.​On​changing​the​world,​see​esp.​The Human Condition,​chapter​5,​and​Arendt,​“Civil​Disobedience,”​77. ​ 24.​Heidegger,​“The​Thing,”​174.​See​also​Oxford English Dictionary,​2d​ed.,​first​sense:​ “a​meeting,​assembly,​esp.​a​deliberative​or​juridical​assembly,​a​court,​a​council.” ​ 25.​Heidegger,​“The​Thing,”​165–86. ​ 26.​Coles,​“Moving​Democracy,”​234. ​ 27.​Ibid.,​229–35. ​ 28.​Latour,​“From​Realpolitik​to​Dingpolitik,”​16. ​ 29.​Pitkin,​“Justice:​On​Relating​Private​and​Public,”​329. ​ 30.​Rancière,​Disagreement,​55.​He​sometimes​presents​this​“assertion​of​a​common​ world”​as​an​act​that​occurs​in​connection​with​the​collision​of​two​incommensurable​orders​or​worlds​(42–43). ​ 31.​Ibid.,​51. ​ 32.​Ibid.,​52. ​ 33.​Ibid.,​12,​xii. ​ 34.​Ibid.,​58,​53. ​ 35.​Ibid.,​50. ​ 36.​Ibid.,​58. ​ 37.​Rancière,​Lecture,​Northwestern​University,​April​1,​2003. ​ 38.​Barr,​Political Machines,​chapter​8. ​ 39.​Rancière,​ Disagreement,​ 56–58,​ and​ Rancière,​ “Does​ Democracy​ Mean​ Something?,”​60. ​ 40.​Gomart​and​Hajer,​“Is​That​Politics?,”​46–47. ​ 41.​Marres,​“No​Issue,​No​Public,”​chapter​4. ​ 42.​Latour​writes,​“We​don’t​assemble​because​we​agree,​look​alike,​feel​good,​are​ socially​compatible,​or​wish​to​fuse​together,”​but​“because​we​are​drawn​together​ by​divisive​matters​of​concern”​(“From​Realpolitik​to​Dingpolitik,”​23). ​ 43.​Bennett,​Vibrant Matter,​viii. ​ 44.​Ibid.,​122. ​ 45.​Ibid.,​xvii. ​ 46.​On​the​term​actant,​see​Latour,​Pandora’s Hope,​180.​Collective​is​his​term​for​a​confederation​of​actants​that​generate​effects​(Politics of Nature,​61).​Latour​argues​ that​the​idea​of​the​collective​should​replace​the​“civil​war”​expressed​in​the​subject/object​opposition​with​a​more​accurate​portrait​of​“civil​collaboration”​between​humans​and​nonhumans​(ibid.,​73). ​ 47.​Latour,​Pandora’s Hope,​182.​See​also​Latour,​Politics of Nature,​237,​on​association. ​ 48.​Latour,​Pandora’s Hope,​180. ​ 49.​Bennett,​Vibrant Matter,​23. ​ 50.​Ibid.,​24. ​ 51.​Bennett​argues​against​the​tendency​to​depict​the​array​of​nonhuman​entities​as​a​ structure,​a​representation​that​suggests​a​“stolid​whole”​that​acts​either​as​a​constraint​on​human​agency​or​as​an​enabling​background​for​it​(Vibrant Matter,​29,​ Notes to Chapter 3

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35).​She​asks​what​would​happen​if​we​saw​nonhuman​materialities​as​“bona​fide​ participants​rather​than​as​recalcitrant​objects,​social​constructs,​or​instrumentalities”​(62). ​ 52.​Bennett,​Vibrant Matter,​108.​She​pushes​this​point​further,​arguing​that​the​“scope​ of​democratization​can​be​broadened​to​acknowledge​more​nonhumans​in​more​ ways,​in​something​ like​the​ways​ in​which​ we​have​ come​to​hear​the​political​ voices​of​other​humans​formerly​on​the​outs”​(109). ​ 53.​Bennett​makes​this​point​when​she​amends​her​account​of​“thing-​power,”​noting​ that​it​lends​itself​to​“an​atomistic​rather​than​congregational​understanding​of​ agency”​(Vibrant Matter,​20). ​ 54.​I​am​using​the​category​human​in​a​relatively​uncritical​way​throughout,​though​ I​ believe​ one​ should​ be​ cautious​ about​ treating​ present-​day​ divisions​ between​ humans​and​nonhumans​as​fixed​and​immovable.​For​a​consideration​of​the​historically​variable​construction​of​the​category​human,​see​Fernandez-​Armesto,​ Humankind: A Brief History. ​ 55.​I​take​the​term​coexistentialism​from​Timothy​Morton.​It​captures​the​insight​that​ “existence​is​always​co-​existence”:​we​live​in​a​condition​of​“radical​intimacy”​ (The Ecological Thought,​ 47).​ This​ outlook​ is​ shared​ by​ Morton,​ Bennett,​ and​ Latour,​even​though​the​term​is​not. ​ 56.​Bennett,​Vibrant Matter,​95–96.​Although​Bennett,​following​Darwin,​acknowledges​that​worms’​contributions​to​human​history​and​culture​are​unplanned,​ she​cites​Darwin’s​claim​that​worms​do​not​simply​follow​impulse​but​make​what​ seem​to​be​free,​unpredictable​decisions​(96). ​ 57.​Bennett​at​times​suggests​that​anthropomorphism,​though​problematic,​is​an​important​way​of​challenging​anthropocentrism,​so​that​a​“chord​is​struck​between​ person​and​thing​(Vibrant Matter,​120).​Steven​Shaviro​echoes​this​point:​“A​certain​cautious​anthropomorphism​is​necessary​in​order​to​avoid​anthropocentrism”​ (“The​Universe​of​Things”​online,​unpaginated). ​ 58.​Bennett,​Vibrant Matter,​104,​108. ​ 59.​Ibid.,​103. ​ 60.​Marres,​“No​Issue,​No​Public,”​54.​See​also​Marres,​“Frontstaging​Nonhumans,”​ esp.​191–99.​See​Dewey,​The Public and Its Problems,​47,​13. ​ 61.​Dewey,​The Public and Its Problems,​39.​Dewey​does​not​acknowledge​any​difference​between​those​who​are​affected​by​an​action​and​those​who​form​as​a​public​ seeking​redress​for​that​problem.​He​seems​to​conflate​“the​affected”​with​those​ who​insist​that​a​matter​be​“cared​for,”​eliding​the​fact​that​many​may​be​affected​ by​a​problem​(and​thus​amount​to​a​certain​kind​of​collectivity)​without​there​ being​any​organized​response​to​it. ​ 62.​Ibid.,​16. ​ 63.​Ibid.,​21. ​ 64.​The​most​influential​text​in​this​regard​is​Olson,​The Logic of Collective Action. ​ 65.​See,​for​example,​Seyd​and​Whitely,​Labour’s Grass Roots;​Schlozman,​Verba,​and​ Brady,​“Participation’s​Not​a​Paradox”;​Wilson,​Political Organizations.​These​texts​ all​expand​the​category​of​incentives​that​are​held​to​influence​citizen​participation​in​collective​action​and​thereby​challenge​rational​choice​approaches. Notes to Chapter 3

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​ 66.​Wilson,​Political Organizations,​chapter​3.​His​understanding​of​purposive​incentives​ is​ echoed​ by​ Seyd’s​ and​ Whitely’s​ conceptualization​ of​ “collective​ incentives,”​according​to​which​individuals​not​only​assess​their​immediate​personal​ costs​and​benefits​but​also​think​about​group​welfare​and​collective​goods.​Although​Seyd​and​Whitely​acknowledge​that​these​sorts​of​motivations​are​susceptible​to​the​“free​rider”​problem​formulated​by​Olson,​they​argue​that,​contra​ Olson,​people​regularly​“think​collectively​rather​than​individually”​and​therefore​ may​“rationally”​choose​to​work​with​others​if​associative​action​appears​more​ capable​ of​ achieving​ the​ outcomes​ they​ identify​ as​ collective​ goods​ (Seyd​ and​ Whitely,​Labour’s Grass Roots,​chapter​4). ​ 67.​Markell,​“The​Rule​of​the​People,”​12,​7.​Markell’s​analysis​emphasizes​events​in​ particular​as​occasions​for​democratic​response,​building​on​his​interpretation​ of​Arendt’s​notion​of​beginning​as​a​way​of​marking​the​irrevocability​of​actual​ events.​Without​disputing​this​very​compelling​account​of​Arendtian​beginning,​ I​think​it​makes​sense​to​extend​Markell’s​insight​regarding​action​as​a​“second​ rather​than​a​first​step”​to​a​range​of​worldly​phenomena,​not​all​of​which​are​specific,​episodic​events​but​which​can​and​do​serve​as​“occasions​for​response.” ​ 68.​Scholz,​Political Solidarity,​21–27,​33–38.​Scholz​cites​a​particular​goal​as​the​source​ of​the​bond​among​participants​in​political​solidarity,​but​she​also​specifies​that​ the​goal​must​involve​challenging​injustice​(21).​Scholz’s​“political​solidarity”​is​restricted​to​projects​with​social​justice​as​their​end​(54).​Identifying​the​practice​of​ solidarity​with​certain​substantive​ends​may​be​worthwhile​(I​do​something​similar​in​chapter​4​when​I​elaborate​upon​care​for​the​world​as​a​normative​project).​ Yet​Scholz​tends​to​write​as​though​social​justice​is​a​self-​evident​end​that​allows​ one​to​distinguish​good​from​bad​forms​of​collective​organizing. ​ 69.​Ibid.,​125. ​ 70.​The​term​project-related​is​from​Rippe,​“Diminishing​Solidarity,”​355. ​ 71.​Allen,​“Solidarity​after​Identity​Politics,”​112.​Other​modes​of​resistance​practiced​ by​the​Danish​people​included​the​government’s​refusal​to​hand​over​German​ Jews​who​had​sought​refuge​in​Denmark​(on​the​grounds​that​they​were​no​longer​ German​citizens),​widespread​hiding​of​Jews​by​non-​Jewish​Danes,​and​the​payment​by​wealthy​Danish​citizens​for​Jews​to​enter​Sweden,​where​they​could​receive​work​permits.​Allen​argues​that​this​case​exemplifies​a​form​of​solidarity​that​ is​especially​relevant​to​feminism,​according​to​which​“one​need​not​‘be’​a​woman​ to​join​in​the​collective​effort​to​resist​women’s​subordination”​(ibid.). ​ 72.​Dean,​Solidarity of Strangers,​17–22. ​ 73.​Dean’s​“affectional”​solidarity​misses​the​possibility​of​shared​rather​than​reciprocal​emotions​among​participants.​James​Jasper​distinguishes​between​reciprocal​ emotions,​or​“participants’​ongoing​feelings​toward​each​other,”​to​which​Dean​ refers,​and​shared​emotions,​which​are​held​by​a​group​at​the​same​time.​These​ shared​emotions​do​not​have​other​group​members​as​their​object,​but,​as​I​would​ put​it,​a​worldly​thing​(Jasper,​“The​Emotions​of​Protest,”​417). ​ 74.​Dean​does​briefly​dismiss​what​she​regards​as​“tactical​solidarity”​in​which​a​coalition​forms​in​pursuit​of​certain​goals,​claiming​that​solidarity​is​thereby​“reduced​ to​a​means”​(Solidarity of Strangers,​27). Notes to Chapter 3

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​ 75.​Marres,​“No​Issue,​No​Public,”​47,​29.​See​also​Marres,​“Issues​Spark​a​Public​into​ Being.” ​ 76.​Marres,​“No​Issue,​No​Public,”​98,​129,​for​the​World​Bank’s​eir​as​an​example​ of​such​a​disputed​object.​Although​Marres​cites​Dewey​for​his​insights​into​how​ publics​are​generated​in​response​to​issues,​her​account​stresses​the​contentious​ character​of​publics​in​ways​that​defy​Dewey’s​theory.​She​puts​it​mildly:​“Dewey​ did​not​sufficiently​appreciate​that​actors​are​likely​to​be​antagonistically​implicated​in​an​issue”​(89).​See​also​Marres,​“Issues​Spark​a​Public​into​Being,”​215–16. ​ 77.​Marres,​“No​Issue,​No​Public,”​58,​130. ​ 78.​Ibid.,​133,​128.​According​to​Marres,​a​public​must​entail​open​disagreement—the​ expression​of​“exclusive​attachments”—or​it​is​not​a​genuine​public.​For​an​issue​ such​as​climate​change​to​be​publicized,​for​example,​means​that​“the​oil​company​can’t​be​ignored​or​downplayed;​the​constraints​it​puts​on​addressing​climate​ change​must​be​taken​seriously,​and​vice​versa”​(130).​There​is​an​unacknowledged​ tension,​ however,​ between​ the​ stress​ Marres​ places​ on​ controversy​and​ antagonism​as​defining​features​of​a​public​and​her​emphasis​on​the​“settlement”​ of​issues​as​the​very​purpose​of​democratic​struggle.​If​settlement​is​the​telos​of​ democratic​action,​how​is​this​end​to​be​combined​with​the​desire​to​keep​issues​ open​to​the​widest​possible​range​of​perspectives? ​ 79.​Marres,​“No​Issue,​No​Public,”​129.​She​says​that​the​issue​networks​that​formed​ on​the​Internet​around​the​eir​were​“publics-​in-​the-​making”​(133).​The​eir​was​ “framed​as​an​object​of​concern​in​accessible​media​such​as​the​web”​and​the​“divergences​between​actors’​various​attachments,​and​indeed​their​mutual​exclusivity,​were​made​manifest”​(129).​Yet​Marres​does​not​think​a​genuine​public​ came​into​existence​because​of​the​relatively​limited​involvement​of​“lay​citizens”​ in​a​controversy​in​which​corporations​and​ngos​played​the​key​roles​(133). ​ 80.​The​suggestion​that​failure​to​endorse​a​particular​model​of​ethics​on​offer​is​tantamount​to​endorsing​a​Kantian​command​morality​can​be​found​in​Bennett,​The Enchantment of Modern Life,​152,​and​Connolly,​Why I Am Not a Secularist,​150. ​ 81.​According​to​the​United​Nations,​more​than​one​billion​people​are​hungry—or,​in​ bureaucratic​parlance,​suffer​from​food​insecurity—throughout​the​world.​In​the​ United​States,​thirty-​six​million​people​suffer​from​hunger,​according​to​the​usDa. ​ 82.​Namely,​grains​are​disproportionately​grown​to​make​feed​for​animals​(to​be​consumed​by​the​world’s​wealthy)​rather​than​to​be​used​as​food​for​humans. ​ 83.​As​I​pointed​out​in​chapter​2,​hunger​appears​regularly​in​Levinas’s​writings​as​a​ characteristic​of​the​Other​to​whom​I​am​called​to​respond. 4. PartisanshiP for thE World

​ 1.​Lawrence​Biskowski​believes​that​Arendt’s​notion​of​world​is​endowed​with​“substantive​moral​content”​and​that​amor mundi​is​meant​to​serve​as​an​“ethical​foundation”​for​action​and​judgment.​Although​I​think​Biskowski​relies​on​an​overly​ foundational​vocabulary​that​is​at​odds​with​Arendt’s​account​of​judging,​his​core​ claim,​namely,​that​Arendt​believes​amor​mundi​can​and​should​orient​politics,​is​ apt​(Biskowski,​“Practical​Foundations​for​Political​Judgment,”​870). ​ 2.​As​I​will​argue,​when​Arendt​refers​to​the​world​as​being​common,​she​too​is​ Notes to Chapter 4

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making​a​normative​claim,​to​the​effect​that​the​world​should​serve​to​connect​and​ separate​us. 3.​Arendt,​“On​Humanity​in​Dark​Times,”​16;​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​52. 4.​The​very​idea​of​home​has​been​persuasively​challenged​by​feminist​critics,​including​Bonnie​Honig​in​“Difference,​Dilemmas,​and​the​Politics​of​Home.”​Honig​ draws​on​De​Lauretis,​“Eccentric​Subjects,”​and​Reagon,​“Coalition​Politics,”​to​ challenge​the​“phantasmatic​imaginary​of​home”​(“Difference,​Dilemmas,​and​the​ Politics​of​Home,”​270).​Honig​says​that​the​“dream​of​home”​conceals​the​extent​ to​which​home​is​in​many​cases​not​a​site​of​safety​where​“life​is​preserved”​and​ “people​are​fed.”​Indeed,​the​idealized​vision​of​home​not​only​neglects​the​realities​of​conflict​and​suffering​that​often​characterize​experiences​of​home​life​but​ may​support​the​drive​to​violently​bring​“the​dream​of​unitariness​or​home​into​ being,”​at​the​level​of​both​individual​and​nation​(268,​270).​Despite​the​problems​ that​attend​the​concept​of​home,​I​use​it​here​in​relation​to​world​in​ways​that​are​ intended​to​challenge​its​privatized​and​exclusionary​connotations.​In​addition,​ theorizing​the​world​as​simultaneously​a​shared​home​and​in-​between,​as​a​potential​site​of​nurturance​as​well​as​a​space​of​contestation,​resonates​with​Honig’s​ persuasive​call​for​home​to​be​“recast​in​coalitional​terms​as​the​site​of​necessary​ nurturing​but​also​strategic,​conflicted,​and​temporary​alliances”​(269). 5.​As​ David​ Beetham​ notes,​ three​ criteria​ are​ often​ used​ to​ evaluate​ any​ human​ rights​ claim:​ Is​ the​ invoked​ right​ “fundamental,​ universal,​ and​ clearly​ specifiable?”​(Democracy and Human Rights,​210). 6.​Amartya​Sen​referred​to​“freezing​a​list​of​capabilities​for​all​societies”​as​a​“denial​ of​the​reach​of​democracy,”​quoted​in​Srivivasan,​“No​Democracy​without​Justice,”​ 457. 7.​This​is​the​list​provided​by​Beetham,​Democracy and Human Rights,​116.​As​Beetham​notes,​this​list​offers​“a​minimum​agenda​of​economic​and​social​rights”​ which​is​narrower​than​the​array​laid​out​in​the​un’s​International​Covenant​on​ Economic,​Social​and​Cultural​Rights​(1976).​Beetham’s​list​is​very​similar​to​what​ Sen​calls​“elementary​capabilities”:​“being​able​to​avoid​such​deprivations​as​starvation,​under-​nourishment,​escapable​morbidity​and​premature​mortality.”​These​ elementary​capabilities​are​part​of​a​more​comprehensive​set​of​“substantive​freedoms”​that​include,​for​example,​literacy,​which​is​part​of​Beetham’s​minimum​ (Sen,​Development as Freedom,​36). 8.​These​two​claims​do​not​provide​an​exhaustive​account​of​the​implications​or​consequences​of​needs​deprivation.​For​example,​these​arguments​center​the​effects​ deprivation​has​on​those​who​directly​experience​it.​But​a​growing​body​of​research​documents​the​significant,​though​indirect,​effects​of​severe​poverty​in​ the​context​of​concentrated​wealth,​as​in​the​United​States.​Here,​the​effects​are​ on​the​democratic​regime​itself,​as​economic​inequality​threatens​to​undermine​ political​equality.​The​widening​economic​gap​in​the​United​States,​for​example,​ has​been​shown​repeatedly​to​generate​oligarchic​forms​of​government​and​to​ distort​political​decision​making​in​favor​of​the​richest​citizens.​See​Bartels,​Unequal Democracy;​Gilens,​“Inequality​and​Democratic​Responsiveness”;​Winters​ and​Page,​“Oligarchy​in​the​U.S.?” Notes to Chapter 4

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​ 9.​For​discussion​of​the​notion​of​a​fully​human​life,​see​esp.​Nussbaum,​Women and Human Development,​70–74. ​ 10.​Proponents​of​the​capabilities​approach​echo​advocates​of​social​and​economic​ rights​who​insist​that​these​rights​must​be​included​in​a​comprehensive​set​of​ human​rights​if​more​conventional,​widely​acknowledged​political​rights​are​to​ be​truly​exercisable.​From​this​viewpoint,​it​is​somewhat​ironic​that​welfare​rights​ are​referred​to​as​second-​generation​rights​(in​reference​to​having​been​added​ relatively​recently​to​an​expanding​domain​of​human​rights)​when​they​appear​to​ name​the​very​precondition​for​the​realizability​of​first-​generation​rights. ​ 11.​Capabilities,​which​concern​what​someone​is​able​to​do​or​be,​are​distinct​from​ functions.​As​Nussbaum​explains,​“We​shoot​for​capabilities,​and​those​alone.​Citizens​must​be​free​to​determine​their​own​course​after​that”​(Women and Human Development,​87).​This​insistence​on​capabilities​as​the​proper​goal​rests​uneasily​ with​Nussbaum’s​skepticism​toward​people’s​actual,​often​“mistaken”​desires,​expressed​in​the​same​book,​135–61​passim. ​ 12.​Ibid.,​53–54. ​ 13.​Berlin,​“Introduction,”​xlvi. ​ 14.​Arendt,​On Revolution,​63,​68. ​ 15.​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​28,​30. ​ 16.​Ibid.,​30,​25,​30–31. ​ 17.​Ibid.,​119–20.​See​also​83,​where​Arendt​argues​that​the​Greeks​“felt​it​necessary​ to​possess​slaves​because​of​the​slavish​nature​of​all​occupations​that​served​the​ needs​for​the​maintenance​of​life.” ​ 18.​Ibid.,​45,​47. ​ 19.​Arendt,​On Revolution,​60. ​ 20.​Ibid.,​60–61. ​ 21.​Reinhardt,​The Art of Being Free,​153. ​ 22.​Arendt,​On Revolution,​94. ​ 23.​Reinhardt,​The Art of Being Free,​151;​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​8. ​ 24.​Arendt,​On Revolution,​60. ​ 25.​Reinhardt,​The Art of Being Free,​153.​The​language​of​dictate​and​rule​also​contrasts​ with​Arendt’s​depiction​of​political​equality​as​a​matter​of​isonomy,​or​no-​rule.​See​ Arendt,​On Revolution,​30,​and​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​220–30. ​ 26.​Arendt,​On Revolution,​69.​Arendt​is​quoting​John​Adams,​Discourses on Davila. ​ 27.​Beltrán,​“Going​Public,”​605. ​ 28.​Arendt,​“Public​Rights​and​Private​Interests,”​106–7. ​ 29.​Arendt,​“Freedom​and​Politics,”​202.​See​also​Arendt,​“What​Is​Freedom?”​and​ The Life of the Mind,​esp.​195–217. ​ 30.​Arendt,​“On​Hannah​Arendt,”​317–18. ​ 31.​Fraser,​Unruly Practices,​161. ​ 32.​Ibid.,​160.​Fraser​challenges​the​view​that​Arendt​often​seems​to​hold,​of​needs​as​ “self-​evident​and​beyond​dispute”​(ibid.,​145).​Honig​argues,​however,​in​“Toward​ an​Agonistic​Feminism,”​that​because​resistability​is​the​sine​qua​non​of​Arendt’s​ politics,​her​work​supplies​resources​for​challenging​the​boundaries​she​herself​ tries​to​establish,​such​as​those​between​the​private​and​the​public. Notes to Chapter 4

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​ 33.​Fraser,​Unruly Practices,​166. ​ 34.​For​information​on​aeC,​see​www.chicagoantieviction.org​and​Don​Terry,​“Foreclosed​Home​Is​a​Risky​Move​for​Homeless​Family,”​New York Times,​June​25,​2011. ​ 35.​aeC’s​definition​of​housing​as​a​human​right​is​linked​to​its​advocacy​of​the​idea​ of​adverse​possession,​ which​holds​that​land​should​belong​to​the​people​who​ live​and​work​there.​This​concept​is​used​by​aeC​to​challenge​foreclosures​and​ evictions​and​to​argue​that​those​occupying​and​tending​to​a​residence​(even​if​ not​legal​owners​or​renters)​are​entitled​to​live​there.​See​Yana​Kuchinoff,​“The​ Chicago​Anti-​Conviction​Campaign:​Building​a​Movement​from​the​Ground​Up,”​ truthout,​November​17,​2010,​available​at​www.truthout.org.​aeC​is​also​affiliated​ with​Take​Back​the​Land,​a​national​network​of​organizations​working​to​“elevate​ housing​to​the​level​of​a​human​right”;​it​endorses​breaking​“immoral​laws​which​ allow​banks​to​gain​billions​in​profit​while​human​beings​are​made​homeless.”​See​ www.takebacktheland.org. ​ 36.​www.chicagoantieviction.org. ​ 37.​Ibid. ​ 38.​I​would​suggest,​for​example,​that​making​the​world​a​home​also​requires​treating​ and​protecting​certain​goods​as​collective,​not​privately​owned,​assets.​Although​ the​commons​is​used​to​refer​to​quite​different​sorts​of​potentially​communally​ shared​ goods,​ including​ parks,​ the​ Internet,​ libraries,​ minerals,​ airwaves,​ and​ patents​(some​of​which​are​rather​more​finite​than​others),​the​general​idea​of​ the​commons​is​valuable​for​specifying​resources​that​are​best​regarded​as​a​form​ of​shared​wealth​or​common​property,​which​ought​to​be​protected​from​market​ enclosure.​For​a​general—and​polemical—defense​of​the​commons,​see​Bollier,​ Silent Theft.​For​a​discussion​of​the​importance​of​protecting​public​space​in​particular​from​privatization,​see​Kohn,​Brave New Neighborhoods. ​ 39.​John​Alexander​writes​that​Sen’s​readers​tend​to​neglect​the​“institutional​emphasis”​of​his​thought,​focusing​on​capabilities​as​“individual​benefits”​without​paying​adequate​attention​to​the​problem​of​“creating​and​sustaining​the​right​type​of​ institutions​for​the​development​of​human​capabilities”​(Alexander,​“Ending​the​ Liberal​Hegemony,”​19–20). ​ 40.​Arendt,​“On​Humanity​in​Dark​Times,”​13. ​ 41.​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​53. ​ 42.​Ibid.,​52. ​ 43.​Reinhardt,​The Art of Being Free,​144.​In​The Human Condition​Arendt​contrasts​the​ commonality​she​traces​to​a​mediating​world​with​accounts​that​locate​commonality​in​the​nature​of​men​(57–58). ​ 44.​See​esp.​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​chapter​6,​where​“world-​alienation”​defines​the​modern​age. ​ 45.​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​53. ​ 46.​Arendt,​“Introduction​into​Politics,”​128,​167. ​ 47.​Ibid.,​175,​106. ​ 48.​Although​some​readers​question​Arendt’s​commitment​to​democratic​politics​(see,​ for​example,​Wolin,​“Hannah​Arendt”),​interpreters​such​as​Jeffrey​Isaac​and​Alan​ Keenan​have​persuasively​defended​Arendt’s​democratic​commitments.​Against​ Notes to Chapter 4

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the​charge​of​elitism​leveled​at​Arendt​by​Wolin,​for​example,​Isaac’s​“Oases​in​the​ Desert”​demonstrates​that​the​categories​of​mass​and​elite​in​Arendt’s​work​correspond​to​two​different​kinds​of​democratic​politics​rather​than​to​two​discrete​ classes​ of​ people—one​ large-​scale​ and​ representative,​ the​ other​ localized​ and​ direct—and​that​the​elite​Arendt​endorses​in​her​celebration​of​the​council​system​is​best​read​as​an​example​of​grass-​roots​democratic​politics.​See​also​Keenan,​ Democracy in Question. ​ 49.​Arendt,​“The​Crisis​in​Culture,”​223. ​ 50.​Arendt,​“Introduction​into​Politics,”​128–29.​Arendt​also​declares​here​that​“living​ in​a​real​world​and​speaking​with​one​another​about​it​are​basically​one​and​the​ same.” ​ 51.​Ibid.,​175. ​ 52.​Arendt,​“On​Humanity​in​Dark​Times,”​24. ​ 53.​Ibid.,​26,​30. ​ 54.​Arendt,​“Philosophy​and​Politics,”​80–82. ​ 55.​Arendt,​“Freedom​and​Politics,”​197. ​ 56.​Arendt,​The Human Condition,​57,​and​“On​Humanity​in​Dark​Times,”​31. ​ 57.​Arendt,​“Introduction​into​Politics,”​128. ​ 58.​Curtis,​Our Sense of the Real,​91. ​ 59.​Arendt,​“Thoughts​on​Politics​and​Revolution,”​232. ​ 60.​As​Tim​Hayward​points​out​in​“Anthropocentrism,”​the​term​is​sometimes​used​ to​describe​a​feature​of​human​being-​in-​the-​world​that​seems​unavoidable.​Insofar​as​humans​are​engaged​in​thinking​and​judgment,​they​necessarily​think​and​ judge​as​humans;​they​cannot​escape​this​perspective.​This​means​that​even​if,​say,​ humans​extend​moral​concern​to​nonhumans​(as​many​do),​they​inevitably​rely​ on​human​reference​points​to​do​so.​Thus,​anthropocentrism​in​this​sense​refers​ more​precisely​to​the​anthropogenic​character​of​our​concepts​and​values. ​ 61.​Human​chauvinism​refers​to​the​tendency​to​specify​relevant​differences​between​ beings​in​ways​that​invariably​favor​humans.​See​Routley​and​Routley,​“Against​ the​Inevitability​of​Human​Chauvinism.”​Speciesism,​akin​to​racism​and​sexism,​ refers​to​arbitrary​discrimination​on​the​basis​of​species​(Hayward,​“Anthropocentrism,”​52).​Hayward​makes​the​important​point​that​it​is​a​mistake​to​define​ anthropocentrism​ as​ “excessive​ concern​ with​ humans”​ (the​ real​ problem,​ he​ says,​is​lack​of​concern​with​nonhumans),​because​the​practices​that​are​usually​ thereby​criticized​(hunting​a​species​to​extinction,​destroying​a​forest​to​build​a​ road,​etc.)​actually​are​in​the​interests​of​“one​quite​narrowly-​defined​group”​and​ do​not​benefit​humans​as​such​(57–58). ​ 62.​There​ is​ extensive​ debate​ among​ environmental​ ethicists​ over​ whether​ nonhumans​can​be​said​to​have​interests.​Peter​Singer,​for​example,​argues​that​the​ capacity​to​experience​pleasure​or​pain​is​the​criterion​for​ascribing​interests​to​ a​being​and​thus​that​all​mammals,​birds,​and​probably​vertebrates​have​interests,​while​other​animals​are​dubious​and​plants​are​excluded​(“Not​for​Humans​ Only”). ​ 63.​Mesh​ is​ Timothy​ Morton’s​ term,​ used​ in​ The Ecological Thought​ to​ capture​ the​

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totality​in​which​humans​and​nonhumans,​organic​and​inorganic​matter​are​entangled.​ Although​ Morton​ rejects​ the​ terminology​ of​ world​ and​ life​ world​ for​ problematically​distancing​humans​from​a​habitat​or​environment,​I​nonetheless​ use​mesh​here​as​a​rough​synonym​for​world​in​my​sense. ​ 64.​This​approach​is​at​odds​with​Morton’s​The Ecological Thought,​in​which​he​contends​that​“we​need​reasons​for​acting​that​aren’t​bound​up​with​self-​interest”​ (119).​On​the​other​hand,​Morton​writes,​“Since​everything​depends​upon​everything​else,​we​have​a​very​powerful​argument​for​caring​about​things.​The​destruction​of​some​things​will​affect​other​things”​(35).​Despite​the​vagueness​of​ this​statement,​it​seems​to​leave​room​for​the​possibility​that​concern​for​human​ survival​might​lead​people​to​care​about​nonhuman​entities. ​ 65.​Bennett,​Vibrant Matter,​ix–x. ​ 66.​For​example,​critics​of​the​strongly​nonanthropocentric​view​question​the​fruitfulness​of​ongoing​metaphysical​debates​about​the​possibility​of​proving​the​existence​of​intrinsic​value​(a​major​preoccupation​among​environmental​ethicists)​ and​also​wager​that​purely​nonanthropocentric​arguments​are​unlikely​to​be​persuasive​in​policy​contexts.​See​Light,​“Contemporary​Environmental​Ethics.” ​ 67.​Ibid.,​436. ​ 68.​Ibid.,​441. ​ 69.​Ibid.,​444–45. ​ 70.​Ibid.,​ 446,​ 434.​ In​ “Convergence​ and​ Contextualism,”​ Bryan​ Norton​ argues​ in​ a​ similar​ vein​ that​ there​ is​ “convergence”​ among​ environmentalists​ who​ hold​ anthropocentric​and​nonanthropocentric​views.​In​most​policy​contexts,​consensus​among​environmentalists,​despite​disagreement​in​basic​values,​is​possible,​ according​to​Norton.​For​a​critique​that​charges​Norton​with​neglecting​the​most​ difficult​cases​in​which​an​anthropocentric​argument​in​favor​of​environmental​ protection​is​not​possible​(for​example,​concerning​the​fate​of​the​Delhi​Sands​ fly​in​California),​see​Rolston,​“Converging​versus​Reconstituting​Environmental​ Ethics.” ​ 71.​There​is​a​growing​consensus​that​problems​of​global​hunger​are​best​understood​ not​as​ a​ function​ of​ inadequate​ supply​ but​ as​ the​ result​ of​political​ and​ social​ arrangements.​See​Lappé,​Collins,​and​Rosset,​World Hunger;​Patel,​Stuffed and Starved;​Thurow​and​Kilman,​Enough.​Concerning​declining​bee​populations​and​ possible​causes,​see​Elizabeth​Kolbert,​“Stung:​Where​Have​All​the​Bees​Gone?,”​ The New Yorker,​August​6,​2007;​Alison​Benjamin,​“Why​Bees​Matter,”​The Guardian,​August​14,​2008;​“Pesticides​Linked​to​Bee​Decline,​Say​Green​Groups,”​The Guardian,​August​6,​2010.​In​2010​a​major​study​found​that​two​infections​seemed​ to​be​working​together​in​cases​of​colony​collapse,​but​it​still​appears​that​there​ are​“complex​interactions​between​a​number​of​factors,​pathogens,​environmental,​beekeeping​practices​and​other​stressors,​which​are​causing​honey​bee​losses”​ (Ian​ Douglas,​ “Study​ Finds​ Causes​ of​ Colony​ Collapse​ Disorder​ in​Bees,”​ Telegraph,​October​8,​2010). ​ 72.​This​view​has​been​most​famously​articulated​in​the​context​of​U.S.​politics​by​ Peter​ Bachrach,​ whose​ work​ argues​ that​ the​ surest​ route​ to​ the​ alleviation​ of​

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poverty​is​through​changes​in​the​structure​of​power​and​the​ability​of​poor​people​ to​participate​in​decision-​making​institutions.​See​Bachrach​and​Baratz,​Power and Poverty. ​ 73.​White,​Democracy, Justice and the Welfare State,​5.​White​borrows​the​term​“needs​ interpretation”​from​Fraser,​Unruly Practices. ​ 74.​From​un​Doc.​e/C.12/1992/2,​quoted​in​Beetham,​Democracy and Human Rights,​ 107. ​ 75.​Nussbaum,​Women and Human Development,​149,​152​(emphasis​added).​To​my​ mind,​the​tactic​of​conceptual​separation​does​not​avoid​paternalism;​it​merely​ attempts​to​console​people​with​a​false,​idealized​vision​of​ex​nihilo​constitution​ making​according​to​which​philosophers​set​things​right,​so​that​ordinary​people​ can​then​be​permitted​to​“pursue​their​own​desires”​(which​will​now​be​“more​ adequately​informed”)​(161). ​ 76.​Ibid.,​ 144.​ Nussbaum​ states​ that​ “an​ independently​ justified​ list​ of​ substantive​ goods”​is​required​to​establish​a​“foundation”​for​society​(155,​160). ​ 77.​Ibid.,​160,​159. ​ 78.​Some​interpreters​criticize​Sen​on​this​point,​arguing​on​behalf​of​Nussbaum’s​ “philosophical​ position”​ rather​ than​ in​ support​ of​ Sen’s​ “democratic​ position.”​ Those​terms​are​from​Claassen,​“Making​Capability​Lists,”​which​endorses​the​ “philosophical​position.”​See​also​Srivivasan,​“No​Democracy​without​Justice.” ​ 79.​Crocker,​Ethics of Global Development,​305. ​ 80.​Claassen​says​this​is​the​“predominant​objection”​raised​by​Sen’s​democratic​position​to​the​philosophical​position​articulated​by​Nussbaum​(Claassen,​“Making​ Capability​Lists,”​3). ​ 81.​This​is​Srivivasan’s​gloss​on​Sen’s​commitments​(Srivivasan,​“No​Democracy​without​Justice,​457),​which​lead​Sen​to​“stand​up​against​any​proposal​of​a​grand​mausoleum​to​one​fixed​and​final​list​of​capabilities”​(Sen,​“Human​Rights​and​Capabilities,”​160). ​ 82.​Sen,​Development as Freedom,​xiii. ​ 83.​Brettschneider​argues​most​forcefully​against​conceptions​of​democracy​that​are​ either​strictly​outcome-​oriented​or​procedural,​represented​by​Ronald​Dworkin​ and​Jeremy​Waldron,​respectively.​Brettschneider​wavers,​however,​on​whether​ Waldron’s​procedural​account​of​democracy​is​pure​or​impure​(Brettschneider,​ Democratic Rights,​146n12). ​ 84.​Although​Brettschneider​claims​to​advance​an​account​of​democracy​that​“embraces​ the​ tension”​ between​ procedure​ and​ substance,​ he​ also​ minimizes​ the​ sense​of​friction​and​loss​his​own​theory​seems​to​point​toward​by​advocating​a​ balancing​technique​for​addressing​conflicts​between​procedural​and​substantive​ goods.​Such​balancing​is​made​possible,​in​Brettschneider’s​theory,​by​the​fact​ that​the​same​three​values—equality​of​interests,​political​autonomy,​and​reciprocity—are​ held​ to​ be​ the​ source​ of​ democracy’s​ procedural​ and​ substantive​ commitments.​Brettschneider​conceives​of​the​balancing​operation​as​an​objective​ calculation​which​determines​whether​more​or​less​of​the​same​value-​set​is​lost​in​ competing​scenarios.​Balancing​thereby​involves​assessing​fully​commensurable​ options,​ according​ to​ a​common​ measure.​This,​ in​ turn,​ allows​ Brettschneider​ Notes to Chapter 4

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to​imply​that​there​is​a​single​correct​answer​in​cases​of​conflict:​one​need​only​ choose​ the​route​ that​ “minimizes​ loss.”​ Though​ there​is​a​“loss​ to​ democracy”​ here,​it​is​not​a​tragic​loss,​on​Brettschneider’s​view,​since​one​can​be​assured​one​ has​simply​retained​more​of​a​good​thing​than​if​an​alternative​decision​had​been​ made.​Although​neither​author​puts​the​problem​in​quite​these​terms,​Thomas​ Christiano​and​Alex​Zakaras​offer​criticisms​of​Brettschneider’s​view​that​speak​to​ this​tendency​to​assume​that​there​is​a​right​answer​in​all​cases​in​which​democracy’s​procedural​and​substantive​requirements​collide.​See​Thomas​Christiano’s​ review​ of​ Brettschneider’s​ book​ in​ The Journal of Politics,​ which​ charges​ Brettschneider​ with​ ignoring​ the​ real​ disagreements​ that​ can​ attend​ specific​ cases,​ even​if​one​accepts​his​three​core​values​as​definitive.​See​also​Zakaras,​“Against​ Democratic​Contractualism,”​which​posits​that​Brettschneider​is​able​to​offer​this​ neat​and​tidy​account​of​conflict​resolution​only​by​relying​on​a​troubling​notion​ of​what​is​a​“reasonable”​interpretation​of​democratic​values,​a​maneuver​Zakaras​ alleges​fails​to​respect​“real​people”​(56–57). ​ 85.​Brettschneider’s​approach​has​the​merit​of​confirming​some​basic​intuitions​most​ people​have​about​what​democracy​involves—for​example,​it​seems​to​affirm​the​ conviction​that​harm​is​done​to​democracy​and​not​to​some​other​value​or​good​ if,​say,​a​majority​acts​so​as​to​disenfranchise​some​percentage​of​the​citizen​population​(Democratic Rights,​12–13). ​ 86.​Ibid.,​158. ​ 87.​Brettschneider​conceptualizes​this​loss​most​clearly​in​his​reflections​on​judicial​ review​in​chapter​7​of​Democratic Rights.​Here​a​loss​to​democracy​may​be​owing​ to​a​democratically​made​decision​that​violates​a​substantive​right​or​to​a​nondemocratic​decision,​such​as​one​issued​by​a​high​court,​which​overturns​a​majoritarian​decision​in​order​to​protect​a​substantive​right. ​ 88.​White,​ Democracy, Justice, and the Welfare State,​ 37–46.​ White’s​ work​ draws​ on​ Nancy​Fraser’s​idea​of​the​“politics​of​needs​interpretation”​as​well​as​on​Joan​ Tronto’s​efforts​to​develop​a​democratic​ideal​of​care​that​does​not​succumb​to​ paternalism.​For​a​critical​account​of​the​fate​of​similar​efforts​during​the​War​on​ Poverty,​see​Nancy​Naples,​“From​Maximum​Feasible​Participation​to​Disenfranchisement.” ​ 89.​White,​Democracy, Justice, and the Welfare State,​164. ​ 90.​Ibid.,​138. ​ 91.​See​ Corbett,​ “The​ Civil​ Initiative.”​ Jim​ Corbett​ was​ a​ leader​ in​ the​ Sanctuary​ movement,​along​with​John​Fife,​a​cofounder​of​No​Más​Muertes.​Although​the​ idea​of​civil​initiative,​like​many​arguments​on​behalf​of​civil​disobedience,​invokes​the​notion​of​a​higher​law​that​trumps​positive​law,​practitioners​of​civil​ initiative​stress​that​it​is​primarily​concerned​with​upholding​“the​Law,”​not​with​ disobedience​to​positive​law.​Nonetheless,​many​members​of​No​Más​Muertes​ have​ been​ ticketed​ and​ some​ arrested​ for​ littering​ because​ they​ left​ drinking​ water​along​known​migrant​trails​in​the​Arizona​desert.​Two​other​activists​were​ charged​with​human​trafficking​for​leading​two​ailing​migrants​to​the​organization’s​medical​base​camp.​(The​charges​were​dismissed.)​See​Stephen​Lemmons,​ “Blood’s​Thicker​Than​Water:​As​Thousands​Die​in​the​Arizona​Desert​as​a​Result​ Notes to Chapter 4

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of​U.S.​Border​Policy,​an​Army​of​Activists​Intervenes,”​Phoenix New Times,​February​25,​2010,​and​www.nomoredeaths.org. ​ 92.​In​Arizona et al. v. United States​(2012),​the​Supreme​Court​upheld​the​centerpiece​ of​Arizona’s​immigration​law—the​“show​me​your​papers”​provision—while​declaring​three​of​its​provisions​unconstitutional. ​ 93.​Lefebvre,​“The​Right​to​the​City.”​See​Soja,​Seeking Social Justice,​for​discussion​of​ Lefebvre’s​idea​as​well​as​its​recent​reappropriation.​For​a​diagnosis​of​the​antidemocratic​effects​of​contemporary​city-​building​practices,​see​Bickford,​“Constructing​Inequality.” ​ 94.​Harvey,​“The​Right​to​the​City,”​International Journal of Urban and Regional Research.​See​also​Harvey,​“The​Right​to​the​City,”​New Left Review. ​ 95.​See​www.righttothecity.org. EPiloguE

​ 1.​www.welcomingtn.org​and​Michael​Jones​Correa,​“All​Immigration​Is​Local:​Receiving​Communities​and​Their​Role​in​Successful​Immigrant​Integration,”​September​2011.​Available​at​www.americanprogress.org. ​ 2.​Travis​Loller,​“Group​Hopes​to​Temper​Debate​with​Billboards,”​The Tennessean,​ July​28,​2006. ​ 3.​www.welcomingtn.org.​The​site​describes​a​range​of​techniques​used​by​wti​to​ make​Tennessee​a​more​“welcoming​state.” ​ 4.​Janell​Ross,​“Group​Seeks​Straight​Talk​on​Immigrants,”​The Tennessean,​June​16,​ 2009. ​ 5.​See​ www.tnimmigrant.org.​ More​ detailed​ information​ on​ these​ projects​ and​ others​can​be​found​there. ​ 6.​Arendt,​“Freedom​and​Politics,”​200. ​ 7.​The​ video​ is​ available​ through​ YouTube​ and​ the​ Courage​ Campaign’s​ website:​ www.couragecampaign.org/page/s/divorce. ​ 8.​This​exceptional​image​is​very​striking:​two​male​firefighters​in​uniform,​with​ their​backs​to​the​camera,​stand​in​front​of​a​fire​engine,​and​a​small​child​between​ them​holds​each​of​their​hands.​Text​on​the​windshield​of​the​fire​engine​reads,​ “Please​don’t​divorce​us!​We​have​a​beautiful​thing​here.​In​fact,​everyone​should​ be​so​lucky.” ​ 9.​Pogge’s​argument​echoes​in​part​Norman​Geras’s​claim​that​the​contemporary​ sociopolitical​world,​marked​by​the​hegemony​of​liberal​capitalism,​is​defined​by​ a​“contract​of​mutual​indifference,”​according​to​which​there​is​a​shared​expectation​among​human​beings​neither​to​give​nor​receive​aid.​Suffering​is​acceptable,​ Geras​argues,​within​this​(distorted)​“moral​logic”​(Geras,​The Contract of Mutual Indifference,​41,​74).​Though​Geras​is​less​focused​than​Pogge​on​the​heightened​ and​unique​responsibility​of​citizens​of​developed​countries​and​on​the​specific​ global​institutional​changes​that​they​ought​to​seek​in​order​to​alleviate​needless​ suffering,​his​central​idea​of​generalized​indifference​supports​Pogge’s​opening​ salvo​in​Politics as Usual:​that​widespread,​preventable​suffering​and​death​are​routinely​tolerated​even​by​those​who​profess​to​be​moral. ​ 10.​Pogge,​Politics as Usual,​esp.​chapters​1​and​2.​In​chapter​2​Pogge​demonstrates​that​ Notes to Epilogue

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the​World​Trade​Organization,​the​International​Monetary​Fund,​and​the​World​ Bank​are​“designed​so​that​they​systematically​contribute​to​the​persistence​of​ severe​poverty”​(26). 11.​Pogge,​Politics as Usual,​27,​54. 12.​Charitable​ giving​ levels​ as​ a​ percentage​ of​ gDP​ are​ significantly​ higher​ in​ the​ United​States​than​in​other​developed​nations.​See​“CaF​Briefing​Paper:​International​Comparisons​of​Charitable​Giving,”​available​at​www.cafonline.org.​See​ also​“Giving​usa​2010,”​researched​and​published​by​the​Center​on​Philanthropy​ at​Indiana​University,​available​at​www.aafrc.org.​According​to​Pogge,​it​is​more​ rational​for​an​affluent​person​who​wants​to​address​poverty​to​support​structural​ reform​than​to​give​donations​(Politics as Usual,​54). 13.​Foucault,​“The​Subject​and​Power,”​336. 14.​Flathman,​Willful Liberalism,​8.​Flathman​contends​that​complementarism​is​correct;​individuality​and​plurality​are​interwoven​and​“advantage​one​another.”​Yet​ Flathman’s​subsequent​claim​runs​counter​to​my​own,​for​Flathman​asserts​that​ “the​complementarisms​that​dominate​in​liberal​theory​and​practice”​(which​he​ does​not​name​specifically)​tend​to​“too​readily​assume​that​[individualities]​will​ be​taken​care​of​by,​will​themselves​come​along​with,​group​and​associational​ life”​(ibid.).​ My​point,​spurred​on​by​a​commitment​ to​associative​ democratic​ politics​that​Flathman​would​likely​view​with​skepticism,​is​instead​that​it​is​too​ frequently​assumed​that​the​focused​cultivation​of​individualities​will​additively​ result​in​an​invigorated​and​transformed​public​life. 15.​Warner,​The Trouble with Normal,​177,​139. 16.​Ibid.,​7. 17.​George​Kateb,​in​a​decidedly​different​vein,​argues​that​the​self-​conscious​crafting​of​individuality​is​a​project​that​requires​the​support​of​democratic​culture.​ Starting​from​the​position​that​“democracy’s​most​elevated​justification​lies​in​its​ encouragement​of​individuality,”​Kateb​alleges​that​the​exemplary​forms​of​individuality​explored​by​Emerson,​Thoreau,​and​Whitman​are​possible​only​within​ a​democratic​setting:​a​“political​artifice”​sustains​these​thinkers’​admirable​individualities​ (Kateb,​ “Democratic​ Individuality​ and​ the​ Claims​ of​ Politics,”​ 78,​ 105).​Yet​the​individualities​elaborated​by​these​thinkers​would​seem​to​be​self-​ defeating​since​they​often​involve​skepticism​toward,​if​not​withdrawal​from,​the​ very​political​system​that​serves​as​their​condition​of​possibility.​Kateb​does​not​ seem​particularly​worried​about​this​vulnerability,​noting​that​“as​long​as​there​ are​countless​people​willing​to​take​part​[in​democratic​activities],​there​can​be​ no​duty​to​do​so,​no​matter​how​sharply​indebted​one​felt”​(ibid.,​105).​Assuming​ democratic​participation​by​“countless​others”​(who​do​not​come​to​disdain​or​ outgrow​the​democratic​system,​as​do​those​most​honorific​individualists)​allows​ Kateb​to​remain​undisturbed​by​the​prospect​that​the​individuality​he​cites​as​ democracy’s​greatest​achievement​might​also​contribute​to​its​ruin. 18.​Foucault,​“The​Ethics​of​the​Concern​for​Self​as​a​Practice​of​Freedom,”​291. 19.​John​ Dewey​ articulated​ a​ dialogic​ understanding​ of​ self​ and​ society,​ affirming​ the​importance​of​self-​creation​while​stressing​its​indirect​character.​As​Richard​ Schusterman​ argues,​ “Although​ Dewey​ gives​ teleological​ priority​ to​ the​ indiNotes to Epilogue

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vidual,​society​precedes​and​shapes​its​constitution.​.​.​.​This​social​construction​ of​the​self​is​central​to​Dewey’s​argument​that​personal​self-​realization​requires​ an​active​public​life:​If​‘the​mental​and​moral​structure​of​individuals,​the​pattern​ of​their​desires​and​purposes’​depend​largely​on​the​habits,​thoughts,​and​values​ that​society​encourages,​then​improving​our​society​seems​essential​to​improving​ the​quality​of​the​selves​we​realize”​(“Pragmatism​and​Liberalism​between​Dewey​ and​Rorty,”​400,​quoting​Dewey,​Individualism Old and New,​81).​In​this​article​and​ elsewhere,​Schusterman​draws​attention​to​Dewey’s​account​of​self-​creation​as​ largely​an​indirect​undertaking.​See​also​Schusterman,​“Putnam​and​Cavell​on​the​ Ethics​of​Democracy.” ​ 20.​Zehfuss,​“Subjectivity​and​Vulnerability,”​67. ​ 21.​www.iraqbodycount.net.​Quoted​in​Zehfuss,​“Subjectivity​and​Vulnerability,”​67. ​ 22.​Ibid.​ Quotes​ from​ Iraq​ Body​ Count​ can​ be​ found​ at​ www.iraqbodycount.net/ names.htm. ​ 23.​In​an​interview,​Butler​talks​about​the​importance​of​interrupting​the​cultural​ frames​by​which​we​presently​live,​though​she​presents​the​task​in​an​oddly​passive​way:​“We​have​to​come​against​the​limit​of​the​cultural​frames​in​which​we​ live.​.​.​.​We​have​to​let those frames get interrupted​by​other​frames”​(Power,​“The​ Books​Interview:​Judith​Butler”​[emphasis​added]). ​ 24.​Zehfuss,​“Subjectivity​and​Vulnerability,”​68. ​ 25.​Those​quotes​are​posed​as​questions​by​Butler​in​Precarious Life,​20. ​ 26.​“‘Proactive​arrests,’​covert​surveillance,​and​psychological​tactics,”​for​example,​ were​used​by​police​at​nonviolent​demonstrations​that​took​place​at​the​World​ Economic​Forum​in​New​York​in​2002.​FBi​investigations​that​began​in​the​early​ 2000s​targeted​critics​of​the​Bush​administration​and​antiwar​activists​(the​latter​ pursued​in​the​name​of​antiterrorism).​The​violent​and​militarized​response​of​ police​forces​to​peaceful​Occupy​protesters​throughout​the​United​States​in​2011​ and​2012​has​also​been​well​documented.​These​are​just​a​few​contemporary​examples​of​what​Michael​Rogin​calls​the​tradition​of​“political​repression”​in​the​ United​ States,​ that​ is,​ repeated​ and​ coordinated​ efforts​ by​ the​ state​ to​ disrupt​ and​render​ineffectual​citizen​association.​See​“Police​Memos​Say​Arrest​Tactics​ Calmed​Protest,”​New York Times,​March​17,​2006;​Eric​Lichtblau,​“Large​Volume​ of​F.B.I.​Files​Alarms​U.S.​Activist​Groups,”​New York Times,​July​18,​2005;​Colin​ Moynihan,​“F.B.I.​Searches​Antiwar​Activists’​Homes,”​New York Times,​September​24,​2010;​Norm​Stamper,​“Paramilitary​Policing​from​Seattle​to​Occupy​Wall​ Street,”​The Nation,​November​9,​2011;​Michael​Rogin,​“Political​Repression​in​the​ United​States.” ​ 27.​Jean​Jacques​Rousseau,​The Social Contract,​trans.​Maurice​Cranston​(New​York:​ Penguin​Books,​1968),​book​2,​chapter​7. ​ 28.​For​two​provocative​readings​of​the​democratic​significance​of​the​Rousseauvian​ Legislator,​see​Johnston,​Encountering Tragedy,​and​Honig,​Democracy and the Foreigner.​Both​Johnston​and​Honig​portray​the​Legislator​as​the​deus ex machina​in​a​ founding​fiction​that​would​seem​to​threaten​the​“democratic​credentials”​of​the​ order​he​founds​(Johnston,​Encountering Tragedy,​52).​Johnston​reads​this​fiction​ as​disabling​of​democratic​politics​because​it​tends​to​ascribe​the​task​of​mainteNotes to Epilogue

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nance​rather​than​innovation​to​its​citizens​(Johnston,​Encountering Tragedy,​71).​ Yet​Honig​locates​unexpected​potential​in​Rousseau’s​myth,​arguing​that​the​foreignness​of​the​foreign-​founder​might​be​read​as​a​“marker​of​the​law’s​alienness​ to​the​people​who​live​by​it.”​This​sense​of​alienation,​Honig​contends,​might​be​ worth​preserving​insofar​as​“the​positive​side​of​‘alienation’​.​.​.​marks​a​gap​in​ legitimation,​a​space​that​is​held​open​for​future​refoundings,​augmentations,​and​ amendment”​(Honig,​Democracy and the Foreigner,​30–31). ​ 29.​See​www.faireconomy.org. ​ 30.​See​www.jnow.org​and​“A​World​without​Prisons:​Improving​Prisoners’​Lives​and​ Transforming​the​Justice​System,”​available​at​www.leadershipforchange.org. ​ 31.​“A​World​without​Prisons,”​2.​One​of​Justice​Now’s​cofounders,​Cynthia​Chandler,​ describes​a​fundamental​principle​of​the​organization’s​work:​“We​can’t​advocate​ for​anyone​until​they​tell​us​what​they​need”​(2). ​ 32.​See​ www.ourwatercommons.org.​ Several​ global​ populist​ movements​ (involving​some​combination​of​ngos,​unions,​and​political​parties)​have​successfully​ challenged​governmental​privatization​policies​by​insisting​on​the​recognition​of​ water​and​energy​as​specifically​public​goods.​See​Hall,​Lobina,​and​de​la​Motte,​ “Public​Resistance​to​Privatization​in​Water​and​Energy,”​for​a​thorough​discussion​ of​the​struggles​that​have​taken​place​in​a​number​of​countries,​both​developed​ and​developing,​over​attempts​at​privatization. ​ 33.​As​I​use​it​here,​counter-institution​refers​to​an​organization​located​outside​the​ state’s​institutional​matrix​that​serves​as​a​venue​for​the​experiences​of​discussion,​ decision​making,​and​action​among​citizens.​Counter-​institutions​in​this​sense​are​ roughly​synonymous​ with​the​semiautonomous​ associations​ and​organizations​ of​what​is​sometimes​called​democratic​civil​society.​These​counter-​institutions​ have​also​been​conceived​of​as​a​“parallel​polis,”​an​idea​borrowed​from​the​Czech​ Charter​77​movement.​The​notion​of​a​parallel​polis​is​meant​to​signify​“the​cultivation​of​democratized​practices​and​institutions​that​would​shadow​those​of​the​ state:​information​networks,​forms​of​education,​trade​unions,​foreign​contacts,​ and​economy”​(Euben,​“The​Polis,​Globalization,​and​the​Politics​of​Place,”​282).

Notes to Epilogue

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inDex –​ ​— –​

actants,​99–103 Adams,​John,​117–18 agency,​98–103,​132 Ahabath Israel​(love​of​the​Jewish​people),​ 18–19 Alexander,​John,​185n39 Alford,​C.​Fred,​67 Allen,​Amy,​106,​181n71 alterity.​See​the​Other amor mundi​(love​of​the​world),​87–88,​ 112,​177nn2–3,​182n1 Anderson,​Amanda,​154n8 anthropocentrism,​126–28,​180n57,​ 186nn60–61,​187n66,​187n70 anthropomorphism,​180n57 antiroad​protests,​95–96,​101 Apostolidis,​Paul,​156n27 Arendt,​Hannah,​53,​157n36;​on​amor mundi,​87–88,​177nn2–3,​177n5,​ 182n1;​on​democratic​politics,​124–26,​ 185n48;​and​existential​phenomenology,​14–15;​on​mediation,​123–26;​ and​perspectivalism,​97;​on​poverty,​ 112–21;​in​relation​to​care​for​the​ world,​2,​105–6;​on​the​world,​10,​ 17–19,​89–93,​112,​142,​177n4,​178n12,​ 185n43 arts​of​the​self.​See​care​for​the​self assemblages,​99–103 association.​See​associative​democracy associative​democracy,​2,​10,​40,​104–10,​ 140,​157n37,​158n41;​definition​of,​ 11–13;​in​relation​to​charitable​ethics,​ 13–14,​16,​55,​61–62,​71–75,​83–83;​in​ relation​to​therapeutic​ethics,​13–15,​

24,​42–45,​48–52;​in​relation​to​ worldly​ethics,​14,​16–19,​50–52,​86,​ 92–98,​108–10,​135–38;​suppression​of,​ 148,​157n37,​192n26 Bachrach,​Peter,​187n72 Barry,​Andrew,​95–96 Beacons​project,​135–36,​149 Beetham,​David,​183n5,​183n7 Beltrán,​Cristina,​118 Benhabib,​Seyla,​177n5 Bennett,​Jane,​99–103,​127,​161n32,​ 179n51,​180nn52–53,​180nn56–57 Berkowitz,​Peter,​7 Berlin,​Isaiah,​115,​157n32 Bernasconi,​Robert,​66,​170n63 Bernauer,​James,​32,​166n112 Bernstein,​Richard,​26 Biskowski,​Lawrence,​177n3,​182n1 Brady,​Henry,​74,​173n114 Brettschneider,​Corey,​133–34,​188nn83– 84,​189n85 British​Petroleum​oil​spill,​90,​103 Brown,​Wendy,​9,​153n3 Bourg,​Julian,​156n31 Butler,​Judith:​on​frames​and​norms,​76,​ 174n124,​192n23;​on​Levinasian​precariousness​and​politics,​5,​16,​55,​68,​ 76–83,​146–47,​175n134,​176n149;​on​ the​subject,​30;​and​the​turn​to​ethics,​ 76,​174n120 Button,​Mark,​7,​155n20 California​initiative​and​referendum​system,​134–35

capabilities,​113–15,​119,​122,​131–32,​ 183nn6–7,​184nn10–11,​185n39,​ 188n81;​versus​functions,​184n11 care​ethics:​feminist,​88–89,​177nn6–7 care​for​the​Other,​2,​14,​53–62;​as​asymmetrical,​57,​63,​78–79,​168n20;​as​ charitable​ethics,​16,​54–55,​68–75,​ 83–83,​85,​89,​140;​Critchley’s​account​ of,​68–71;​democratic​relevance​of,​ 54–55,​61–62,​70–75,​167n6;​and​intersubjective​relations,​62–68,​167n1;​ Levinas’s​account​of,​56–60,​62–68,​ 70,​168n22,​168n31;​and​“the​third,”​ 62–68,​86;​versus​care​for​the​self,​ 53–54.​See also​the​Other care​for​the​self,​2,​14,​21;​Connolly’s​account​of,​40–52,​164n91,​165n99,​ 165n103;​contemporary​significance​ of​Foucauldian​style​of,​31–39;​democratic​relevance​of,​39–52,​140–42,​ 145–46,​163n67,​165n103;​Foucault’s​ account​of,​23–31,​145–46,​160nn8–9,​ 162nn40–41,​162n50,​165n98,​166n110;​ in​Greco-​Roman​context,​24–32,​ 34–39,​162nn47–48,​164n77,​164n80;​ and​intersubjective​relations,​34–39,​ 163n68,​166n112,​167n1;​as​therapeutic​ethics,​15–16,​45–52,​85;​versus​care​ for​the​Other,​53–54 care​for​the​world,​2,​10–11,​16–19,​51–52,​ 86–89,​149–51,​177n4;​as​care​for​conditions,​11,​24,​55,​73,​109–10,​125;​ as​care​for​the​world​as​in-​between,​ 112–13,​122–26;​as​care​for​the​world​as​ home,​112–22,​126;​as​care​for​worldly​ things,​89–98;​as​enabling​other​forms​ of​care,​145–48,​191n14;​examples​of,​ 109–10,​135–38,​149–50;​and​relationship​between​its​two​normative​aims,​ 130–38 Carver,​Terrell,​76 Chamberlain,​Charles,​155n12,​155n14,​ 156n21 Chambers,​Samuel,​76 charitable​ethics,​173n115;​as​discouraging​associative​democracy,​16,​54–55,​ 68–75,​82–83,​89,​140.​See also​care​for​ the​Other

Chicago​Anti-​Eviction​Campaign​(aeC),​ 120–21,​185n35 Christian​morality,​30–32 Christiano,​Thomas,​188n84 Citizens United v. Federal Election Committee,​153n4 civic​republicanism,​6–8 civil​disobedience,​189n91;​Arendt​on,​88,​ 177n2,​177n4 Claassen,​Rutger,​188n78,​188n80 coaction,​8,​12,​17,​72,​86,​89,​112,​157n36 coexistentialism,​101,​127–30,​178n19,​ 180n55 Coles,​Romand,​94 colony​collapse,​129,​187n71 commonality:​contentious​form​of,​2,​ 14,​19,​96–98,​104,​108,​135,​179n42,​ 182n76,​182n78;​of​political​objects,​ 11,​50,​70,​95,​106–8;​of​the​world,​90,​ 93–95,​112–13,​122–26,​138,​185n43 commons,​the,​150,​185n38,​193n32 compassion,​53 Connolly,​William:​on​Foucauldian​arts​of​ the​self​and​democratic​politics,​15–16,​ 23–24,​40–52,​141,​164nn91,​165n99,​ 165n103,​166n117;​on​pluralization,​5,​ 40–43,​154n10–11,​164n90 Corbett,​Jim,​189n91 Corts,​Thomas,​155n14 Courage​Campaign,​142–44 Critchley,​Simon,​5,​16,​54–55,​60,​68–71,​ 74–76,​82–83,​172nn104–5 Crocker,​David​A.,​132 Curtis,​Kimberley,​125 Danish​Resistance,​106,​181n71 Davis,​Colin,​60–61,​67,​168n17,​169n45 Dean,​Jodi,​106–7,​156n28,​181nn73–74 democracy:​as​ailing,​1–2,​9–10,​54,​ 68–69,​157n34,​175n146;​in​Arendt’s​ thought,​124–26,​185n48;​and​individuality,​145–46,​191n14,​191n17;​pluralist,​ 40–43;​radical,​79,​and​Rousseau,​ 148–51,​192n28;​spirit​of,​3,​10,​16,​22,​ 138,​149–50,​153n4;​as​substantive​versus​procedural,​133–35,​188nn83–84,​ 189n87.​See also​associative​democracy democratic​ethos,​2–17,​22–23,​176n1;​

Index

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208

Foucauldian,​23–24,​39–52;​Levinasian,​53–55,​68–83.​See also​care​for​the​ world democratization,​82,​125–26,​172n102,​ 172n104,​180n52,​180n52;​in​relation​ to​material​conditions,​130–38 Derrida,​Jacques,​70 Dewey,​John,​17,​104–5,​107,​180n61,​ 182n76,​191n19 Dews,​Peter,​160n8,​161n28 Dillard,​Annie,​111 Dingpolitik​(Latour),​97,​108 discipline,​33–34,​48–49,​157n32 Dostoevsky,​Fyodor,​168n29 Dumm,​Thomas,​39–40 Dussel,​Enrique,​170n57 dyadic​ethical​relations,​2,​14,​16,​18,​63,​ 77,​80,​83,​86,​139,​146

157n32,​159n2;​on​subjectivation,​ 28–30,​160n8 foundationalism,​9–10,​54–55,​66,​81–82,​ 157n32,​162n50,​167n6 frames,​80,​82,​146–47,​192n23 Fraser,​Nancy,​94,​120,​132,​184n32 freedom:​care​for​the​self​as​a​practice​ of,​23,​27–30,​35,​46,​48;​inner​versus​outer,​27–28,​161n23;​as​opposed​ to​necessity,​116–17;​as​public,​118–19,​ 157n37;​real​versus​formal,​114–15,​ 183n7;​sexual,​145;​versus​liberation,​ 161n25 French​Revolution,​116–17 Fung,​Archon,​158n41 Geuss,​Raymond,​156n24 God:​as​mediating​object​for​Jewish​community,​18–19 Gomart,​Emilie,​96 Greco-​Roman​ethics.​See​care​for​the​self:​ in​Greco-​Roman​context Grimshaw,​Jean,​34 Grusin,​Richard,​153n3

economic​rights,​113–15,​130,​183n7,​ 184n10 Eliasoph,​Nina,​74,​173n115,​174n118 enlightenment:​Foucault​on,​162n51 ethos:​meaning​of​the​term​in​ancient​ Greek​context,​6,​8,​28,​35,​155n12–15 existential​phenomenology,​14–15,​158n44 Extractive​Industries​Review​(eir),​ 96–97,​101,​108,​182n79

Habermas,​Jürgen,​4–5,​154n5–6 Hajer,​Maarten,​96 Harvey,​David,​137 Hayward,​Tim,​186nn60–61 face,​the​(Levinas):​of​the​enemy,​168n25;​ Heidegger,​Martin,​14,​85,​92,​168n22,​ as​expressing​universal​precariousness,​ 178n12 76–78,​81;​as​indestructible,​169n45;​as​ Held,​David,​13,​158n40 nonliteral,​167n11;​in​relation​to​poliHeld,​Virginia,​177n7 tics,​66;​as​revealing​humanity,​63;​as​ hermeneutics​of​the​self,​25,​160n9,​ revealing​the​Other,​56–59,​62 163n67 Flathman,​Richard,​33,​145,​191n14 Herzog,​Annabel,​66,​168n21 Flynn,​Thomas,​26 Heyes,​Cressida,​48–49 Foucault,​Michel:​as​advocate​of​therahierarchy:​in​charitable​relations,​16,​54,​ peutic​ethics,​2,​15,​45–47;​on​ancient​ 63,​68,​71–72,​78–79,​114,​130,​135,​ care​for​the​self,​23–31,​37–39,​160n9,​ 173n115;​democratic​challenges​to,​ 162nn40–41,​162nn47–48,​162nn50– 135–38 51,​163n68,​164n77,​166n110;​on​care​ Hoeksche​Waard,​96,​101 for​the​self​in​contemporary​contexts,​ Holocaust,​18,​56–57,​106,​169nn44–45,​ 31–39,​145–46,​163nn54–55,​163nn67,​ 175n146 166n112,​167n1;​Connolly’s​reading​ Honig,​Bonnie,​10–11,​157n33,​174n126,​ of,​40–52;​and​existential​phenome175n146,​183n4,​184n32,​192n28 nology,​14–15;​on​freedom,​27–30,​ human​rights,​114,​183n5,​183n7,​184n10,​ 161n25;​on​power,​33–34,​48–49,​ 185n35 Index

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hunger,​57–58,​72,​109–10,​114,​117–18,​ 168n21,​168n22,​182nn81–83,​187n71

relation​to​making​the​world​a​home,​ 113–15,​120–22,​135–38;​and​welfare​ administration,​130–31 institutions:​and​counter-​institutions,​150,​ matter​of​concern,​17,​45,​50,​73,​95,​112,​ 193n233;​in​relation​to​ethos,​148–51 123,​126,​140;​versus​matter​of​fact,​94,​ Iraq​Body​Count,​147–48 101,​104,​110 Irigaray,​Luce,​176n150 mediation:​by​the​world​and​worldly​ Isaac,​Jeffrey,​185n48 things,​12,​17,​50,​86,​104,​107–13,​ 122–26,​185n43 Jasper,​James,​181n73 micropolitics,​47–48,​166n117;​in​relation​ Johnston,​Steven,​192n28 to​macropolitics,​15,​23–24,​42,​46–52,​ justice,​53;​in​Levinas’s​work,​65–67 165n107 Justice​Now,​150 Mills,​Catherine,​174n124 morality,​4,​9;​versus​ethics,​5,​30–32,​ Kateb,​George,​177n5,​191n17 154n9,​162nn40–41,​163nn54–55,​ Kompridis,​Nikolas,​154n5 167n4 Morgan,​Michael,​56–58 Laclau,​Ernesto,​9 Morton,​Timothy,​178n19,​180n55,​186n63,​ Latour,​Bruno,​17,​85,​94,​97,​99–101,​108,​ 187n64 127,​179n42,​179n46 Mouffe,​Chantal,​9,​154n10,​156n26 Lawrence v. Texas,​131 Lefebvre,​Henry,​137 nature,​90,​100,​178n19 Levinas,​Emmanuel,​5,​11,​13–16,​167n11,​ Nazism,​18,​55–57,​106,​169n44 169n44;​as​advocate​of​charitable​ Nealon,​Jeffrey​T.,​161n28 ethics,​2,​71–75,​83;​Butler’s​readneeds.​See​material​needs ing​of,​75–83;​Critchley’s​reading​of,​ needs​interpretation,​120,​130,​132,​136 68–71,​74–75,​83;​on​ethics​in​relation​ nihilism,​54,​68–69 to​politics,​62,​65–68,​170n58;​on​reNo​More​Deaths/No​Más​Muertes,​136– sponsibility​to​the​Other,​53–62,​167n1,​ 37,​149,​189n91 167n4,​167n9,​168n17,​168n22,​168n25,​ Noddings,​Nel,​177nn6–7 170n54;​on​the​third,​62–65,​170n63,​ nonhumans,​91,​179n51,​180n54;​from​an​ 171n68 anthropocentric​perspective,​126–27,​ liberalism:​and​ethics,​7–8 186nn60–62;​from​a​coexistentialist​ Light,​Andrew,​128 perspective,​126–30,​187n64;​as​proLloyd,​Moya,​76,​81 ducing​effects,​98–103,​179n46 Longford,​Graham,​165n98 normalization.​See​discipline Loving v. Virginia,​131 norms,​76,​80–81,​146–47,​174n124 Norton,​Bryan,​128,​187n70 Mahon,​Michael,​32,​166n112 Nussbaum,​Martha:​on​capabilities,​114,​ Markell,​Patchen,​105,​181n67 131–33,​184n11,​188n75,​188n78 Marres,​Noortje,​96–97,​104,​107–8,​ 182n76,​182nn78–79 Obama,​Barack,​154–55n11 material​needs:​Arendt​on,​116–21,​ objects.​See​worldly​things 184n32;​and​charitable​ethics,​68,​72;​ Occupy​Wall​Street​(ows),​154n3,​192n26 and​economic​rights​or​capabilities,​ Oksala,​Johanna,​33,​54,​167n1 113–15,​122,​130–32;​as​enabling​politi- O’Leary,​Timothy,​25–26,​160n15 cal​participation,​115,​117–22,​184n10;​ oligarchy,​183n8 of​the​Other,​57–58,​68,​168n22;​in​ Olson,​Mancur,​105,​181n66 Index

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ontological​priority:​of​care​for​the​self,​21,​ 39;​of​care​for​the​Other,​53–54 Osborne,​Thomas,​161n32 the​Other,​167n9;​as​empirical​versus​ metaempirical,​59–60;​as​enemy,​57,​ 168n25;​as​indestructible,​60,​169n45,​ 170n50;​the​face​of,​56,​59,​66,​76,​ 78,​81,​167n11,​168n25,​169n25;​radical​alterity​of,​55–56,​168n17;​as​revealing​precariousness,​76–78;​self’s​ encounter​with,​53–56,​167n17;​self’s​ failure​to​respond​to,​60–61,​as​source​ of​subjectivity,​58–59;​as​a​summons​to​ responsibility,​56–58.​See also​care​for​ the​Other Our​Water​Commons,​150 Paras,​Eric,​161n28 paternalism:​in​context​of​welfare,​130,​ 189n88;​of​democratic​despotism,​ 171n92;​as​quality​of​charitable​ethics,​ 68,​114;​in​relation​to​human​capabilities,​131–32,​188n75;​as​risk​of​democratic​ethos,​8 People​for​the​Ethical​Treatment​of​Animals,​94 Perpich,​Diane,​60,​170n54 Philo,​161n23 Pitkin,​Hanna,​90,​94 Plato,​27,​38 pluralism,​3–5 pluralization,​5,​40–43,​164n90 Pogge,​Thomas,​143–44,​190nn9–10,​ 191n12 political​participation:​and​decline​ in​civility,​21–22;​lack​of,​3,​9–10,​ 175n146;​material​conditions​of,​115,​ 117–22,​184n10;​motivation​for,​105,​ 180n65,​181n66;​and​relation​to​secondary​associations,​73–74,​172n113,​ 173nn114–15,​174n118.​See also​associative​democracy politicization,​93–95;​of​care​for​the​self​ and​care​for​the​Other,​139–44 Poppendieck,​Janet,​72–75,​172n106 poverty,​115–21,​183n8,​187n72,​191n12.​ See also​material​needs power:​in​Butler’s​work,​30,​80–81;​expan-

sion​of​democratic​forms​of,​125–26,​ 130–31;​in​Foucault’s​work,​28–29,​ 36–37,​157n32,​159n2;​in​relation​to​ compassion,​53 precariousness,​76–82,​146–47,​174n126,​ 175n134,​176n149 public(s),​12,​104,​107–8,​182n76,​ 182nn78–79 Putnam,​Robert,​73–74,​172n113 queer​counterpublics,​145–46 Rancière,​Jacques,​70,​94–96,​156n28,​ 175n146,​179n30 Ransom,​John​S.,​161n28 Rawls,​John,​4–5,​154n6 reflexive​relationship.​See​care​for​the​ self Reinhardt,​Mark,​116–17,​123 responsibility​to​the​Other.​See​care​for​ the​Other Right​to​the​City​movement,​137–38,​149 Rogin,​Michael,​157n37,​192n26 Rousseau,​Jean-​Jacques,​148–50,​192n28 rule:​absence​of,​184n25;​of​the​self,​27;​ over​others,​37–39 Rushing,​Sara,​175n141 Schlozman,​Kay​Lehman,​74,​173n114 Scholem,​Gershom,​18–19 Scholz,​Sally,​106,​181n68 Schusterman,​Richard,​191n19 Schwartz,​Michael,​33 self-​interest,​16,​35,​54,​62;​informed​by​ coexistentialism,​126–30;​187n64 Sen,​Amartya:​on​capabilities,​114,​132–33,​ 183n7,​185n39,​188n78,​188nn80–81 Seyd,​Patrick,​181n66 Shaviro,​Steven,​180n57 Shulman,​George,​9–10,​77,​83,​153n3,​ 176n147,​176n149 Simmons,​William,​67 Simons,​Jon,​39,​161n35 Singer,​Peter,​186n62 Skocpol,​Theda,​174n118 Smart,​Barry,​54 solidarity,​12,​75,​77,​104–8,​181n68,​ 181n71,​181nn73–74

Index

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211

spirit:​of​democracy,​3,​10,​16,​22,​138,​ 149–50,​153n4 subjectivation,​28–30,​160n8 subjectivity:​Foucault​on​new​forms​of,​ 32–34,​145;​Levinasian​view​of,​58

Veyne,​Paul,​32 Viroli,​Maurizio,​156n22 volunteerism,​72,​74,​173nn114–15,​174n118 vulnerability.​See​precariousness Warner,​Michael,​145–46 Welcoming​Tennessee​Initiative,​the​ (wti),​140–41 White,​Julie​Anne,​130,​135,​189n88 White,​Stephen​K.,​174n126 Whitely,​Paul,​181n66 Wingenbach,​Ed,​67 world,​the,​2,​17;​in​Heidegger’s​thought,​ 178n12;​as​in-​between,​112–13,​122–26,​ 185n43;​meaning​of,​89–92,​100,​122;​ as​recipient​of​care,​86–87,​89,​109–10,​ 122,​135–38,​149–51,​176n1;​as​shared​ home,​112–22,​183n4,​185n38.​See also​ worldly​things world-​building,​50,​90,​103,​112,​145,​ 178n15 worldlessness,​123,​178n12 worldly​ethics.​See​care​for​the​world worldly​things,​2,​100–101;​defining​qualities​of,​92–98;​as​mediating​associational​relations,​12,​17,​50,​86,​104,​ 107–9,​111;​as​recipients​of​care,​11,​14,​ 19,​135,​181n73.​See also​world,​the

techniques​of​the​self.​See​care​for​the​self Tennessee​Immigrant​and​Refugee​Rights​ Coalition​(tirrC),​140–41 therapeutic​ethics,​45–47,​140,​145,​ 164n91,​166n116,​173n115;​as​discouraging​associative​democracy,​15–16,​ 47–52,​85,​87,​89.​See also​care​for​the​ self thing:​meaning​of,​92–93.​See also​worldly​ things third,​the​(third​party):​in​Levinas’s​ thought,​62–68,​86,​170n63,​171n68 third​terms.​See​worldly​things Tocqueville,​Alexis​de,​6,​92,​157n35,​ 171n92 totality,​56,​169n44 Tronto,​Joan,​88–89 turn​to​ethics,​1–2,​156n31,​159n45;​in​ Butler’s​work,​76;​criticisms​of,​9–10,​ origins​of,​2–8;​versus​return​to​ethics,​ 8–9 United​for​a​Fair​Economy,​150 United​Nations,​131

Zakaras,​Alex,​188n84 Zehfuss,​Maja,​147 Zerilli,​Linda,​46,​159n50,​176n1 Ziarek,​Ewa,​54,​167n6

Vásquez-​Arroyo,​Antonio,​77,​164n91,​ 175n134 Verba,​Sidney,​74,​173n114

Index

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212

Ella​Myers​is​Assistant​Professor​of​Political​Science​and​ Gender​Studies​at​the​University​of​Utah.

Library​of​Congress​Cataloging-​in-​Publication​Data Myers,​Ella,​1976– Worldly​ethics​:​democratic​politics​and​​ care​for​the​world​/​Ella​Myers. p.​cm. Includes​bibliographical​references​and​index. isBn​978-​0-​8223-​5385-​0​(cloth​:​alk.​paper) isBn​978-​0-​8223-​5399-​7​(pbk.​:​alk.​paper) 1.​Democracy—Moral​and​ethical​aspects.​2.​International​ relations—Moral​and​ethical​aspects.​3.​Citizenship— Moral​and​ethical​aspects.​4.​Political​participation— Moral​and​ethical​aspects.​I.​Title. jC423.m96​2013 172—dc23 2012033712